Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur (книги бесплатно без онлайн txt) 📗

Usually she managed or, she grinned at the thought, mismanaged her own hairstyle.  She had to admit that the girl at Michael john had done a better job.

She considered her reflection in one of the gilt-framed antique mirrors opposite where she sat in the lobby of the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. Not bad, she admitted.  I could pass for a lady at a hundred paces.  She preened her new curls which were fashionably anointed with gel.  It was an uncharacteristic gesture, a symptom of the nervous anticipation with which she regarded the coming meeting.

The female secretary who had arranged the meeting over the telephone had suggested that the car pick her up at her lodgings.

Bonny had shied away from the idea.  She didn't want anybody to see her digs; she was economising and the area of south London where she presently resided was hardly salubrious.

The Ritz was the first alternative rendezvous that came to mind.  It was more the image that she wished to project.  Even though his secretary had arranged the date she had high hopes for what would come out of it. I mean, it just has to be a proposition, doesn't it?  she reassured herself.  There was no doubt about the way he looked at me.

I've never been wrong about that before.  He's got a head of steam for me.

She glanced at her wristwatch.  It was exactly seven-thirty.

He was the type who would make a point of being punctual, she thought, and when she looked expectantly towards the main doors a page was already coming towards her.  She had taken the precaution of tipping the doorman and telling him where to find her.

Your car has arrived, madam, the page informed her.

A Rolls-Royce stood at the kerb.  It was an iridescent pearly grey and the windows were smoked and opaque, giving the magnificent vehicle a surrealistic appearance.

The handsome young chauffeur, who wore a dove-grey uniform and cap with a patent-leather brim, greeted her as she came down the steps.

Miss Mahon?

Good evening.

He opened the rear passenger door and stood aside for her.

Bonny settled into the sensual embrace of the soft grey Connally leather.  Good evening, my dear, Tug Harrison greeted her in that dark-molasses voice that sent a shiver of unease and anticipation up her spine.

The chauffeur closed the door behind her, and sealed her in a cocoon of wealth and privilege.  She inhaled the rich expensive smell of leather and cigar-smoke and some marvelous aftershave, the aroma of power.  Good evening, Sir Peter.  It was so good of you to invite me, she said, and bit her own lip in anger.  it sounded wrong, too gushing and subservient.  She had planned to be cool and unimpressed by his condescension.  Chez Nico, Tug Harrison told the chauffeur, and then touched the button on the arm-rest that operated the soundproof glass division between the driver and passenger seats.

You don't mind my cigar, I hope?  he asked Bonny.  No.  I enjoy the smell of a good cigar.  it's a Davidoff, isn't it?  It wasn't a guess.

She had noticed the discarded hand tucked into the ashtray.  She had an eye for detail; it was the secret of her success as a photographer.

Oh!  Tug Harrison acknowledged.  A connoisseur.  He seemed amused. She hoped he had not noticed her little cheat, and she changed the subject quickly.  I've never been to Chez Nico.

Mind you, that's not surprising.  Even if I could get a reservation, I'd never be able to meet the bill.  They say you have to book weeks in advance.  is that true?  Some people might have to.  Tug Harrison smiled again.  I really don't know.  I'll ask my secretary; she makes my arrangements.

God, it was all going wrong.  Every time she said anything, it came out sounding callow and gave him reason to despise her.

For the remainder of the short journey she let him do the talking, yet despite her poor start to the evening, Bonny's imagination was running riot.  If only she played her cards correctly from now on, this could be her future, Rolls-Royce barge account at Harrods and Harvey and dinner at Nico's, a c Nichols and a flat in Mayfair or Kensington, holidays in Acapulco and Sydney and Cannes and a sable coat.  Pleasures and riches without end.  This could be the big casino.  just cool it, girl.  She had spent most of the afternoon tucked up in bed with Danny, but that seemed like a hundred years ago in another half-forgotten land.  Now there was Sir Peter Harrison and a new world of promise.

The restaurant surprised her.  She had expected a pompous dimly lit atmosphere, and instead it was gay and the lighting was cheerful.  The lovely stained-glass ceiling was in green garden colours and captured a mood of art nouveau.  Her own mood expanded and lightened in sympathy.

As they were ushered to the special table in the elbow of the L-shaped room, the conversation at the other tables faltered and all heads revolved to follow them and then came back close together to whisper his name and barter the latest gossip about him.  Tug Harrison was the stuff of legend.  It felt good to be at his side and savour the envious glances of other women.

Bonny knew just how striking were her tall athletic body and her flaming hair.  She knew everyone would be jumping to conclusions about her status in Sir Peter's life.  Please God, just let it come true.

I'd better remember to take it easy on the wine.  Perrier and a quick wit, those are the watch-words for this evening.  It was easier than she expected.  Tug Harrison was urbane and attentive.  He made her feel pampered and very special by directing all his attention and charm upon her.

Nico Ladenis came up from his kitchen, especially to speak to Tug Harrison.  With his dark satanic good looks Nico had a fearsome reputation.  If he served the best food in England, he expected it to be treated with respect.  If you ordered a gin and tonic to ruin your palate at the beginning of one of his celestial repasts you had to expect his wrath and contempt.  Tug Harrison ordered a chilled La Ina for himself and a Dubonnet for Bonny.  Then he and Nico discussed the menu with the same serious attention that Tug would give to BOSS's quarterly report.

When Nico left, sending one of his underlings to take their order.

Tug turned to Bonny to ask what she had chosen, but she feigned a girlish confusion Oh, it all sounds so gorgeous that I can't possibly make up my mind.  Won't you order for me, Sir Peter?

He smiled and she sensed that she was on the right track at last.

She was getting the feel of the relationship, her intuition working up to cruise speed.  Clearly, he liked to be in charge of any situation, even to choosing the meal.

She went very gently on the Chevalier-Montracket that he ordered to complement her salmon.  She encouraged him to relate the adventures of his young days in Africa.  It was not difficult to show intense interest in his conversation, for he was a fine raconteur.  His voice was like the caress of velvet gloves, and it didn't matter that he was old and that his skin was wrinkled and bagged and foxed by the tropical sun. Recently she had read somewhere, perhaps in the Sunday Times Magazine, that his personal fortune was over three hundred million pounds.  At that price, what were a few wrinkles and scars?  Well, mydear.  At last Tug dabbed his leathery lips with the folded table-napkin.  May I suggest that we take coffee at Holland Park.

There are a few small matters that I would like to discuss with you.

Modestly she hesitated a moment.  Could she afford to make herself too readily available?

Shouldn't she play just a little hard to get?  Should she hold out until the second time of asking?  But what if there were no second time?  She quailed at the thought.