His first thought is that he needs to find her. They shouldn’t wait, he thinks, not now. They should go this evening. He staggers to his feet and hurries from the cabin. She is nowhere to be found below deck. He climbs up the ladder, and sees that the bow of the yacht has been transformed. A bar has been set up, and one of the crew is pouring glasses of champagne with a commendably steady hand, considering that the boat is listing slightly on its anchor. Lanterns have been lit around the perimeter of the deck, and in place of the sunbeds, right in the centre of the bow, is a grand piano.
But no sign of Stella.
He finds Roberto. ‘Have you seen Mrs Truss?’
‘No, Signor Jacobs,’ the man says, giving Hal an odd look. ‘I imagine that she and Mr Truss are getting ready for the party.’ He continues to look, so curiously that Hal begins to wonder if he has something on his face.
Sitting down at the piano, a man in a tuxedo begins to warm his vocal cords. A champagne cork is discharged. The Contessa, gold-turbaned, is issuing instructions.
Hal is beginning to be worried for Stella. He is half-tempted to go to the cabin and find her, challenge Truss outright. He would have the upper hand – he will not let himself be bested again. But that would be to blow it all wide open and jeopardize their plans. There is no saying whether Truss believes it to be a one-sided infatuation or not. He will wait for half an hour, he thinks, and then he will go down. One of the waiters brings him a glass of champagne, and he drinks it down without tasting it.
Gradually, the guests begin to arrive. They come on a fleet of boats, dressed in all their finery. Here and there appear faces so familiar that they do not look quite real – or at least less so than their celluloid or newsprint form. Giulietta, however, clad in wasp-waisted Dior, is the toast of the evening: and she leaves none present in any doubt of this fact. He watches all of this like one in a dream, waiting for the only face that is important.
Aubrey, in his element, moves through the crowd with his little portable Leica. He sidles up to Hal, gesturing to the suit. ‘It fits you. I wasn’t sure if it might be a bit tight.’
‘Thank you.’ Hal cranes over his shoulder, still looking for her.
‘Not at all.’ Now Aubrey is looking at him more closely. ‘But my God, man, what’s happened to you?’
In answer, Aubrey fishes a gold compact from his pocket. ‘It’s not for me. I keep it for the models, naturally, so they can touch up their lipstick before I shoot.’
Hal flips it open. In the mirror he sees that the whites of both his eyes have filled with blood.
‘Oh,’ he says, the first thing that comes to mind, ‘some sort of infection, probably.’
Aubrey takes a marked step back, and reaches for the compact. As Hal goes to hand it to him he seems to change his mind and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, faintly, cringing away, ‘I have another. You may keep that one.’ And then his eyes light up. ‘Oh, doesn’t she look divine. You know, I’m almost converted to blonde.’
Hal turns, and sees her.
She wears a black dress that stops at mid-calf. It is a simple piece, high at the front and falling away behind. And yet against the pale gold of her skin, and with her slender arms left bare, the effect is anything but mundane. No deep décolletage and no heavy carapace of jewels for her, only the two small gems winking at her lobes, and a thin, diamond-set chain about her neck. Surrounded by famed beauties of screen and stage, she is – Hal thinks – the most exquisite.
She is unharmed. He sags with relief.
How to get her attention? He watches them across the crowd – but particularly her: listening politely to one guest, her head on one side – and then to the next, nodding in understanding. He sees that Truss has his arm about her waist. Then he sees Stella reply to something Truss has said, and, quick as a flash, Truss’ hand flies back up – but this time to land on her upper arm. To the casual observer, it would be a protective gesture. But Hal can see how tightly the fingers grip. He remembers the feel of them about his neck.
He moves a little closer, aware, vaguely, of someone turning to say something to him, but absolutely fixed on his goal. Now he almost has a clear view. Now, in fact, Stella’s face is turned in his direction. Her arm is still caught in Truss’ grasp. He wouldn’t dare do anything here, Hal thinks. So long as he keeps them both in his sights …
And then Truss turns, and looks straight at Hal. Hal freezes where he is. And Truss smiles, and raises his glass.
For several seconds Hal is pinioned by the look. Then he lifts his own drink, and returns the toast. Finally, to his relief, Truss looks away again. Hal takes a long gulp of his drink.
‘Hello.’