The Invitation(92)

It isn’t Aubrey.

It seems to happen in a fraction of a moment – a span of time far too short for movement. And yet the second before, Truss was several feet away, framed by the doorway. Now, suddenly – unbelievably – his hands are about Hal’s neck. For another distinct moment, Hal is too transfixed by shock to move. And then he begins to struggle. He tries to shout, but his windpipe is being crushed closed: the only sound he can make is a low growl; like an animal in pain. The pressure is incredible, intolerable. And Truss’ face, close to his own, betrays little of the immense effort it must be costing him to exert such pressure. Hal’s hands are on Truss’ wrists: grasping, pulling, scratching – anything to try and tear them away. He should be the stronger of the two – he is taller, broader. Yet there is some magic to Truss’ grip. He cannot break it.

His vision now is clouded with silver fish, with blooms of red. His thoughts feel confused, washing tantalizingly close, and then ebbing away. There is something that he needs to do … but he cannot think what it is. The pain is still terrible, but it is something remote now, almost as though it were happening to someone else.

And then, suddenly, the agony, the awareness, come screeching back in. He is on the floor on his knees, retching, clawing at his neck. The deadly pressure has gone and yet his flesh remembers the fingers, strong as iron bands, pressing into the soft tissue.

He looks up at Truss, who stands over him. He has never been bested in a fight. Truss merely had the element of surprise. If he wanted to – when he gets his breath back – he could knock him to the ground. He could kill him.

‘You may have been wondering,’ Truss says – and there is no strain, Hal realizes, no breathlessness, in his voice – ‘if I have noticed.’ He smiles. ‘Well. I have noticed.’





38


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.