then Charles cleared his throat and said, “Maxine, I want a divorce.”
Maxine could not believe her ears. “Never,” she said softly, sounding far more resolute than she felt. Then her voice rose. “Get her out of this bed! Get her out of this room! Immediately!” Maxine’s legs shook and she felt as if she wererunning in slow motion across the treacherous surface of the moon as she ran into her bathroom and slammed the door against those two naked bodies on the wrecked bed.
* * *
By the following morning, Charles’s assistant had disappeared and a frosty silence had settled on the Chateau de Chazalle. Maxine was still in a shocked trance, but she plunged into a frenzy of work to distract her mind from her grief and pain; she attacked her accumulated mail, demanded to check the china and linen lists, and sent servants scurrying on different errands all over the chateau. Maxine’s secretary left her office with enough work for a month; without being told, Mademoiselle Janine, who had been with Maxine for twenty-two years, knew the reason for Maxine’s frantic activity, and silently sympathized with her mistress for being faced, yet again, with one of the Count’s regrettable indiscretions.
By midday, Maxine’s competent mind had worked out that her charming, correct husband would never have acknowledged the existence of his mistress to her—let alone have asked for a divorce—had Maxine not surprised them together, had that bitch not forced Charles to speak. Too late, Maxine realized that the cleverest action would have been quickly to close the bedroom door and walk away, then later to have tackled Charles on his own, when, Maxine knew, he would have agreed to whatever she demanded. But now, it was too late.
It was not the first time Maxine had felt her marriage to be in danger. By tradition, aristrocratic French couples often lived discreetly separate sex lives, but they never allowed anything to threaten the sanctity of their family, their home and—most important—their inheritance. But Charles was too easily seduced, and Maxine too romantic, to follow this civilized way of life, and their friends considered the mixture of Charles’s déclassée mistresses and Maxine’s perfect fidelity to be an immature invitation to trouble.
After Charles’s first serious affair, what had brought them together again had been Judy’s intervention. A little of her Yankee common sense had made Charles realize what he stood to lose. So if Maxine couldn’t handle this situationby herself, she thought, she’d send an SOS to Judy in New York.
* * *
Lili yawned as she answered the telephone. “Who? Paul Kroll? For Simon?” Damned directors thought they could phone an actor at any time of the day or night. “Paul, can’t it wait until tomorrow? It’s eleven o’clock in New York and Simon’s in the shower.”
“Simon never minds what time I call him.”
“Well, I mind. Are you in London or Paris? I’ll get him to call you tomorrow when we wake up.”
“Why not wake up now, Lili?” Paul’s voice was slurred and backed by party noise.
“What do you mean? I am awake.”
“No, dear, you’re in Dreamland.” The silky, bitter note in his voice reminded her that Kroll was gay.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“What I mean, lil ole Lili, is that you won’t face what we all know.” Now his words were running into each other, but there was a triumphant note in Kroll’s voice.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that no matter how hard Simon tries to pretend he’s straight … he’s only pretending. We’ve been at it together for years, darling. We all know that any actor will do anything for a good part, but Simon does it because he likes it. He loves it, darling. He hates to admit it, but that long tongue gets in the strangest places, don’t you find? When you were shooting Cherie , Simon and I were in Marrakesh. When you were making The Sun King , Simon and I were in Tangiers. When
Maxine could not believe her ears. “Never,” she said softly, sounding far more resolute than she felt. Then her voice rose. “Get her out of this bed! Get her out of this room! Immediately!” Maxine’s legs shook and she felt as if she wererunning in slow motion across the treacherous surface of the moon as she ran into her bathroom and slammed the door against those two naked bodies on the wrecked bed.
* * *
By the following morning, Charles’s assistant had disappeared and a frosty silence had settled on the Chateau de Chazalle. Maxine was still in a shocked trance, but she plunged into a frenzy of work to distract her mind from her grief and pain; she attacked her accumulated mail, demanded to check the china and linen lists, and sent servants scurrying on different errands all over the chateau. Maxine’s secretary left her office with enough work for a month; without being told, Mademoiselle Janine, who had been with Maxine for twenty-two years, knew the reason for Maxine’s frantic activity, and silently sympathized with her mistress for being faced, yet again, with one of the Count’s regrettable indiscretions.
By midday, Maxine’s competent mind had worked out that her charming, correct husband would never have acknowledged the existence of his mistress to her—let alone have asked for a divorce—had Maxine not surprised them together, had that bitch not forced Charles to speak. Too late, Maxine realized that the cleverest action would have been quickly to close the bedroom door and walk away, then later to have tackled Charles on his own, when, Maxine knew, he would have agreed to whatever she demanded. But now, it was too late.
It was not the first time Maxine had felt her marriage to be in danger. By tradition, aristrocratic French couples often lived discreetly separate sex lives, but they never allowed anything to threaten the sanctity of their family, their home and—most important—their inheritance. But Charles was too easily seduced, and Maxine too romantic, to follow this civilized way of life, and their friends considered the mixture of Charles’s déclassée mistresses and Maxine’s perfect fidelity to be an immature invitation to trouble.
After Charles’s first serious affair, what had brought them together again had been Judy’s intervention. A little of her Yankee common sense had made Charles realize what he stood to lose. So if Maxine couldn’t handle this situationby herself, she thought, she’d send an SOS to Judy in New York.
* * *
Lili yawned as she answered the telephone. “Who? Paul Kroll? For Simon?” Damned directors thought they could phone an actor at any time of the day or night. “Paul, can’t it wait until tomorrow? It’s eleven o’clock in New York and Simon’s in the shower.”
“Simon never minds what time I call him.”
“Well, I mind. Are you in London or Paris? I’ll get him to call you tomorrow when we wake up.”
“Why not wake up now, Lili?” Paul’s voice was slurred and backed by party noise.
“What do you mean? I am awake.”
“No, dear, you’re in Dreamland.” The silky, bitter note in his voice reminded her that Kroll was gay.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“What I mean, lil ole Lili, is that you won’t face what we all know.” Now his words were running into each other, but there was a triumphant note in Kroll’s voice.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that no matter how hard Simon tries to pretend he’s straight … he’s only pretending. We’ve been at it together for years, darling. We all know that any actor will do anything for a good part, but Simon does it because he likes it. He loves it, darling. He hates to admit it, but that long tongue gets in the strangest places, don’t you find? When you were shooting Cherie , Simon and I were in Marrakesh. When you were making The Sun King , Simon and I were in Tangiers. When
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