They stand, and move together, but only just. He can feel the pressure of her fingertips upon his waist and shoulder and he, likewise, holds her as though she were made of the finest, frailest porcelain that might fracture with too much handling. But he can feel the warmth of her skin beneath his palms, feel her breath upon his collarbone: all of these things that remind him irresistibly of the fact that she is not china, is anything but frail.
At one point he glances back towards the table, and finds the old man watching them, curiously. Afterwards, when they sit back down at the table and have another drink, he can feel the director’s gaze moving between them. Making, perhaps, surmises … connections. He looks at Gaspari frankly, half-challenging him to make some comment. But Gaspari merely raises an eyebrow, and looks back down at his drink. He wears a small, secret smile.
Now a man comes and offers a hand to Stella. Hal is about to step in and prevent it, when he catches himself. She glides away with her new partner without a backward glance. It is the act, he reminds himself – all part of the act.
‘She is a good dancer, Mrs Truss,’ Gaspari says, watching Stella and her partner. And then he looks at Hal, ‘But I said it before. I thinks she dances best of all with you.’
Hal looks at him.
‘I do.’
Hal wishes that he could talk to him – share the wonder and the fear of it with this man who he feels would understand absolutely. Gaspari would keep their secret, he is certain. But they cannot take any further risks. Not until they have taken that final, all-important risk.
As they make their way back toward the yacht, leaving the centre of town for the quieter streets that lead to the marina, they see an odd triptych of figures before them, stumbling in the same direction. Cast in darkness, their appearance is sinister, but as Hal, Stella and Gaspari draw closer they reveal themselves in the weak light of a streetlamp. It is, Hal sees, Earl Morgan – supporting or perhaps supported by two women, his arms about their shoulders, his head hanging down in front. His companions have that peculiar synthetic beauty common to women of a certain trade, or at least to those that prosper from it. Tight, glittery gowns and high shoes. From an angle, if one squinted slightly, they could be film stars or fashion models. But there is a hardness to them that speaks of rougher experience.
One of the girls, hearing the approaching footfalls behind them, starts and turns about. When she sees them she gives a little exclamation. Morgan and the other girl follow her lead. Morgan blinks at them, stupidly. Then recognition dawns and he smiles widely, slurring a greeting to them. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, sounding genuinely bemused.
‘We’re going back to the boat.’ Hal tells him, stepping forward. ‘Same as you, I’m sure.’
‘Oh no,’ Morgan shakes his head, grins. ‘No, no. I’m going to a party with my friends here. You could come if you’d like.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Morgan shrugs. ‘But let me introduce you. This is …’ He gestures to the first woman, stops, and giggles. ‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘Federica,’ she supplies.
‘And …’ He turns to the other.
‘Bianca.’
‘We met in the Casino,’ Morgan says earnestly. ‘Lemme tell you, these ladies know a bit about baccarat.’ He slings an arm around the one called Federica, who insinuates herself against him. Then the other girl makes a little pantomime of being left out, and with a laugh he wraps his other arm about her.
‘Hal,’ Stella says quietly, turning to him.
‘Yes?’
‘I think that we should try to get him back to the boat. Without any fuss.’
‘Indeed,’ Gaspari murmurs. ‘If a photographer gets hold of this it will be a great scandal.’ He looks behind them at the dark, empty street. ‘Thank goodness this is not Cannes – that is one thing to be grateful for. But it won’t take them long.’
‘All right.’ Hal walks up to the trio. The girls eye him.
‘Who is he?’ the one called Bianca asks. ‘He is a famous actor, too?’
‘I’m nobody,’ he tells her, baldly. ‘I’m poor.’
‘Oh.’ Her gaze slides away, disinterested.
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Hal says to them both, ‘I’d like to have a quick word with my friend here, in private.’
A lopsided grin from Morgan. And then in a childlike, wheedling tone, he says: ‘But right now? We’re having a good time, you see …’
‘Please,’ Hal says, with a smile. ‘It’s about something important. I—’ he improvises. ‘I need to ask your advice on something.’
‘Oh.’ He can see that Morgan, despite his stupefaction, is flattered by this appeal to his wisdom. ‘Well, all right … but for a few seconds. I don’t want to let these two get away.’
They aren’t going anywhere, Hal thinks. And that is part of the problem.
He draws Morgan to one side. The man smells terrible: stale sweat and alcohol, very possibly sex. Hal takes an involuntary step back.
‘Well,’ Morgan says, impatiently, ‘what is it then?’
‘I’d like some advice …’ Hal thinks, quickly. ‘About … acting.’