Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
Lunch the following day was going to be a late affair. None of the guests had appeared before midday, and even then they’d surfaced slowly, slumping with sunglasses and broad-brimmed hats into the chairs Baxter had set beneath the vine-covered pergola.
Carter and Jade declared themselves “still absolutely wrecked,” mainlining Cocal Cola as though it had lifesaving properties and bursting into hysterical laughter as one or other of them remembered something from their night at Le Mirage, a members-only rooftop bar on Rue des Frères Pradignac.
“When that guy got on his girlfriend’s shoulders!”
“Oh my God— And when the DJ dropped that remix of ‘La Marseillaise’ into Phantome!”
“Total legend!”
They were still laughing when Kaitlyn and Alec emerged. Baxter had picked them up from La M?me just before midnight, making sure to slip a fold of euros to the ma?tre d’ in case Alec had been less than generous with his own gratuity.
“Freshly squeezed orange juice, Miss?” Baxter offered a glass to Kaitlyn, who took it with a smile of thanks. She looked significantly fresher than Alec, who turned away from the proffered juice with a distinctly bilious expression.
“What’s on the menu today, Baxter?” Alec fell heavily into a lounger. His fly was undone, and his T-shirt bore fresh sweat stains beneath his arms. “I can’t face anything fishy.”
“I took the liberty of asking Chef to prepare some simple pizzas,” Baxter said.
Carter perked up. “Ham and pineapple?”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Baxter said. He turned to welcome Damian, who ignored him and plonked himself into a chair next to Carter.
“How did you sleep, Baxter?” Francesca’s expression was contrite. “I felt terrible dragging you into town to pick me up, but the line for a taxi was ridiculous.” She was wearing yoga pants and a fitted top, her hair in a ponytail, and her face free from makeup.
“It was a pleasure, madam.” Baxter sidestepped the question about his night’s sleep, which had amounted to around three hours.
“You should have pushed on through.” Damian yawned. His back teeth were markedly less perfect than his front ones. “There were loads of taxis when we left.”
Baxter was just wondering who “we” were when the answer appeared in the doorway with a dramatic flourish.
“If those aren’t mimosas,” Sylvie said, “I’m going back to bed.” Sylvie stepped onto the terrace wearing a diaphanous white dress that was almost entirely see-through. Baxter dutifully opened some sparkling wine to add to Sylvie’s orange juice.
Damian lowered his sunglasses. “How did you sleep?”
“I’m not sure I did!” Sylvie laughed. “I still have music throbbing in my ears— Do you?”
“Great party, wasn’t it?” Damian pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose and leaned back. “Not the biggest yacht I’ve been on, but not bad. Nice pool.”
Francesca greeted Sylvie with a kiss on both cheeks. “Darling, you were never off the dance floor! Where on earth do you get the energy from?”
Baxter thought of Sylvie’s clandestine exchange the previous day. He supplies the party set, Red had said of Sylvie’s dealer. Pills, poppers, whatever they want.
Sylvie laughed lightly. “Oh, I get a second wind around midnight. You know me—never one to leave a party early. And what a party! Thank you for getting me on the guest list.”
“You should have come too.” Damian directed this to Alec, whose eyes were closed.
“Hmm?” He squinted. “Ah yes, well. I wanted to spend some quality time with this one.” He squeezed Kaitlyn’s knee.
“Your ears must have been burning,” Damian said. “I lost track of how many times your name came up. The Glass Veil would never have got off the ground without your backing.”
“What can I say?” Alec spread his hands. “I know a sound commercial project when I see one.”
“You do, you do.” Damian tipped his glass toward Alec. “That kind of business instinct can’t be taught.”
Baxter felt as nauseated as his guests, despite having eschewed his usual nightcap yesterday evening.
Surely Alec would see through this sycophantic sucking up?
He moved to the small bar by the window and checked he had everything he might need for the inevitable round of cocktails later on.
Aperol for Francesca, whiskey for Alec’s old fashioneds, more gin for Sylvie …
Baxter stopped at the vodka. None of the guests had been drinking vodka, yet the full bottle Baxter had put in the bar when he’d arrived was now half empty.
“Speaking of commercial projects …” Damian swilled the last of his drink around the bottom of his glass. “I had someone bike a script over to Tara Monroe. Her agent says she’s very interested.”
“Interested … in the part you promised me?” Francesca said quietly.
“Baxter, old chap—I’m dry over here.” Damian held up his glass in Baxter’s direction. He waved away his wife’s concern. “Early stages … Just throwing around casting options.” He gave Alec a chummy wink. “Got to keep our investors happy, right?”
Alec looked uncomfortable. “The thing is—”
“Her agent says Tara has a nudity clause, but we can work on that.”
“It’s not one for me, mate.”
There was a long silence.
Damian blinked at Alec. “It’s going to be sensational.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“We’ve got three streamers interested already, and it’s not even cast.”
“I’m just not in a position to invest right now.” Alec’s words had an edge now—irritation or perhaps defensiveness. Baxter listened intently. Here was something concrete he could pass onto Anya: Alec Prescott would not be investing in Damian’s latest project.
“But …” Damian flailed, his voice whiny, like a child refused a toy. “Without a backer, the whole project could—”
“With respect, mate,” Alec said, his tone suggesting respect was, in fact, in short supply, “that’s not my problem.”
“Oh Alec, come on!” Sylvie rolled her eyes at her ex-husband. “Help Damian out. The film sounds marvelous, and Tara Monroe is stunning.”
“Easy to be stunning at twenty-six,” Francesca muttered.
Alec rested his head against his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve made my decision.”
“Times hard, are they?” Sylvie’s eyes twinkled with malice. “Having to check down the back of the sofa for spare change?”
“I’m doing just fine.”
Carter gave a derisive snort. “You’re cutting me off out of spite, then?”
Alec opened his eyes. “I’m cutting you off in the hope it’ll trigger some kind of work ethic in you.”
“I won’t be able to pay my rent.”
“Then you’ll have to get a job.”
“Developing MediSense is a job!”
“No.” Alec sat up. “Jobs pay money. Anything else is a hobby, to be fitted in around the working week. I didn’t get where I am today—”
“On the cusp of type two diabetes …” Sylvie murmured.
“—by pissing about. I stacked shelves, waited tables …” Alec glanced at Jade. His lips curled into a sly grin. “I’m sure Jade could suggest a few side hustles.” He held her gaze provocatively, and Baxter saw a flash of something in the young woman’s eyes. Anger? Fear?
Sylvie cut into the ensuing tension. “You’re being ridiculous, Alec. You’re hardly going to miss a few thousand a month, and Carter will inherit everything eventually anyway, so—”
“Why would he get everything?”
Sylvie stopped abruptly. Everyone turned to look at Kaitlyn, whose quiet voice had risen above Sylvie’s.
Sylvie let out an exasperated sigh. “Carter is Alec’s only child. Once Alec and I shuffle off this mortal coil, everything will go to our son. Which is why it’s absurd to withhold pocket money now,” she added pointedly, glaring at Alec.
“But he isn’t Alec’s only child,” Kaitlyn said. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “At least he won’t be in a few months’ time.”
Alec screwed up his face. “Sweetheart, now isn’t the time—”
Kaitlyn placed a hand on her stomach. The smile spread. “We’re going to have a baby!”