Page 35 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
Parties at the McIntyre household were relaxed, lazy affairs, only for our favourite people – strictly invite only – with strings of lights around the garden, a three-piece jazz band, a dance floor on the terrace, a bar beside the pool, canapés served by beautiful out-of-work actors, a juggler weaving in and out of the throng of guests on the grass, a magician showing card tricks. We set up a roulette table in the dining room, fireworks at midnight, breakfast served at dawn. We only did this when Aidan was in town. We only did this for our favourite person.
He swept into the drawing room just as the first guests arrived. Quiet jazz music trickled in from the terrace, the fire pit blazing in the centre of the garden, and I was flowing with a sense of contented well-being. My strange, unconventional family: Netta, Jessica, Nina and Aidan were back together. We sorely missed Oti, but caring for Joseph and running the business in New York left her little time for transcontinental visits.
At forty-nine, Aidan Cruickshank hadn’t put on an ounce of weight, in fact he seemed a little wirier, perhaps a little more highly strung despite that always casual air of self-confidence. His features remained as chiselled as ever, the nose still hooked but the rakish brown hair was now flecked with distinguished grey, just enough to make him appear thoughtful and considerate to the crowds of elderly women who chased after him.
I’d made him a director of Maison McIntyre so that he could organise the twice-yearly fashion shows, move in the right circles and continue to bring in new customers, smooth over any tricky negotiations with local government officials, pay off the local Mafia, now that Tori no longer kept them at bay. In return I paid him a handsome salary. We made sure that we were occasionally seen together, letting the gossips think two old flames were back together so that he got to live his underground lifestyle, have his love affairs and grand passions with all the beautiful men of New York and now, sporadically, of Hollywood. He simply oozed charm, still dressing in Savile Row suits that always made me want to touch them, so right for his personality, for his shape; they made me jealous of the abilities of his tailor.
After the initial family greetings there was little opportunity to talk to him as the older women surrounded him. The mothers, the producers’ wives, even the cook had taken a fancy to him. They gazed, he talked, they laughed, he touched someone’s arm; I could see them shudder with pleasure. Watching him was like witnessing an Academy Award-winning performance, never missing a beat.
Netta was equally as popular, sitting at the bar with her knitting, holding court, telling stories of our days in the laundry, her trip over on the boat, ridiculing the life in Los Angeles. All the famous actors paid their respects throughout the evening, each one of them kissing her hand with great show, every one of them making her blush. I had never seen her so happy. Those frown lines faded away; she became sunnier. I noticed that she had one man giving her particular attention – a Mr Pound, the aptly named chief accountant at Samuel Goldwyn Productions, a small, portly man, about the same height and breadth as Netta, with a sandy comb-over and friendly blue eyes. Once he’d arrived she ignored her knitting, her gaze on Mr Pound only. The attentive actors sensibly stayed away; they could sense when they were not needed.
Eventually, Nina arrived, late as ever, bringing the party to a virtual standstill. She wore a new gown of her own making, a figure-hugging, full-length, pale-green satin gown with a halter neck and plunging back neckline. It was clear she was wearing no underwear. With her dyed-blonde hair pulled up, showing her slim, long neck, she drew more attention than any of the stars in the room, quickly surrounded by a posse of young actors looking for someone to help their careers along the way. She too played her part to perfection, touching them, whispering in their ears, pouting, and laughing at their jokes. But I could tell she was keeping an eye out for someone in particular, frequently glancing at the main door, a little frown appearing each time she was disappointed.
Jessica then sneaked into the party, wearing her sweet teddy bear patterned cotton pyjamas and hugging a very large soft toy, her hair tousled, her face still full of sleep. The increasing noise of the party must have woken her. Ronald Colman and his brand-new wife, Benita Hume, seemed enchanted, as if she was some sort of doll to play with. Swiftly and apologetically, I scooped her up and bundled her back to bed. Although Netta was supposed to be keeping an eye on Jessica, I was happy to let her concentrate on her new-found admirer. We lay on the covers together, thinking up stories about the guests, wondering which one of them still had their old soft toys. Finally, she fell asleep and I lay on her bed listening to the noises of the night and it became clear that the party had stepped up a gear, the tempo had increased to something more urgent, perhaps even a little menacing, almost like those parties in Long Island in the twenties, those frenzied affairs with wild dancing, an abundance of alcohol and an intensity that I always felt would cause injury.
Taking myself downstairs I noticed that the juggler was now using fire torches, his display more perilous, the reaction from his audience louder and more piercing. I could see couples downing shots of whiskey and immediately ordering more as if they’d never see the stuff again, then I noticed Nina with her back up against the terrace wall, mainly in shadow, with a faintly recognisable figure pressed right up against her, his mouth by her right ear, his hand on her breast.
‘Annina!’ I shouted, rushing over to her, a menacing feeling in my stomach. ‘Would you come and help me talk to the men setting off the fireworks, they know you. It would help if you were there with me.’
The man lugubriously pulled away, as if he didn’t care that he’d just been caught necking my assistant.
‘Ah, Miss McIntyre. What a pleasure.’ The man held out his hand, an oddly formal gesture in the circumstances.
‘Mr Finerman,’ I said coldly, ignoring his hand. ‘I had no idea you’d been invited to our little party.’
‘Your fine assistant here, the inestimable Miss Bassino, gave me the heads-up. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, such distractions. How could I have refused.’
Unease prickled at the back of my neck.
‘Nina, would you mind?’ I asked. ‘Mr Finerman, I’m so sorry to drag her away from you, but we have a little business to attend to.’
I grabbed Nina’s arm, too harshly, pulling her away as fast as I could.
‘Ow,’ Nina whined, as I pulled her into the garden, ‘you’re hurting me.’
‘Not as much as that man will hurt you,’ I growled, my Edinburgh accent suddenly re-surfacing. ‘You shouldnae trust that man. He’s nothing but trouble.’
She laughed, pulling her arm away from me, rubbing her flesh. ‘He’s no trouble, just a pussycat. I’m a big girl, I can fend for myself.’
‘Well, you didnae look like you were doing a great job. His hands were all over you.’ I was trying not to shriek at her, surprised at my own fear.
Just then the fireworks started, everyone’s attention pulled to the sky. Explosions of every colour filled the air, fountains of light, whirling Catherine wheels like sparkling flowers in the dark. Heads tilted upwards, oohs and aaahs, claps and laughter with each explosion. We were mesmerised, enthralled, our attention caught for the next twenty minutes.
At the end of the show, Nina was no longer by my side. Guests were beginning to leave and I was distracted, saying my goodbyes as Aidan sidled up to me, a look of concern on his face.
‘Have you seen Nina? I can’t find her anywhere.’
Instantly a cold dread came down on me. ‘No, I haven’t seen her since the fireworks started. Have you seen Harold Finerman?’
‘That weasel. Why do you ask?’
‘I last saw him feeling up Nina, looking as if he had every intention of finding out what’s below that satin dress.’
Aidan blanched. ‘I’m going down to the cottage, that’s the only place I haven’t looked.’
I followed, my stomach churning, my hands already a little sweaty, the worry increasing, thinking of Nina’s vulnerability that she hid so well.
There were no lights on at the cottage.
‘Perhaps she’s sleeping,’ Aidan said. ‘Lights off would mean she’s asleep, right?’
I shook my head. ‘She sleeps with the lights on. Always has done. It’s the only way she’ll sleep down here by herself.’
‘Nina!’ I shouted, my heart in my throat. Something was very wrong, something that perhaps I could have stopped.
The door was unlocked and I burst in, shouting Nina’s name. There was a heaviness in the air, as if the oxygen was solidifying around me. I flicked on the hall light. Although sparsely furnished, the room was a wreck. The chair, side table, mirror and a pair of shoes thrown across the floor, wooden splinters and glass shards mixed in with spatters of blood.
‘Nina?’ my shaking voice asked tentatively. ‘Nina. What did he do?’
Then I heard a faint whimper coming from the bedroom. Crossing the hallway, pushing aside the mess with my feet and turning on the light, I saw her curled up in one corner. Completely naked, her head on her knees, her arms hugging her legs, her hair dishevelled, a patch where it had been pulled from her scalp, her left foot bleeding, her arms already showing severe bruising.
‘Nina. Nina. Look at me,’ I said, panicking, as I squatted down beside her.
She was shaking hard, otherwise unable to move.
‘Did he do this? Did Harold Finerman do this to you?’ I whispered as I stroked her hair.
She gave a slight groan.
Carefully I put my hand under her chin and pulled her head up so she was facing me. Immediately she jerked away and hid her face again, giving out a cry of pain. But I’d seen the swelling on her face, crusting blood around her mouth, the ripped ear, the gash across her left cheek.
Aidan wailed in anguish, trying to pull Nina into his arms. She resisted, retreating even further into the corner.
That smell of blood, fear, sex, terror and resignation, a heavy, animal smell overwhelmed us, a smell that has never quite left me.
‘Aidan, can you go back up to the house and find Netta and bring her down here? Make sure no one else knows what’s going on,’ I said, articulating the words overly clearly. ‘She’ll know what to do.’
Three hours later I sat in the garden, drinking a large whiskey. The guests had departed and finally everyone was in bed. I’d felt so dirty I’d had a long bath, needing to scrub away the guilt that was blanketing me. I’d yet again brought tragedy to the Bassino family. How was I going to tell Matteo?
The full moon was throwing its eerie light over the city as I nursed my glass, the constant nighttime noise pushing into my thoughts: the lazy buzz of the cars, the continuing parties, a cat wailing, a glass smashing, a shout, laughter, the slam of a door. This was the skin of the city, a city that could never be quiet, would never stop and contemplate its legacy, what immorality it emitted, what harm it created. It continued to thrust ahead, to forge its own new paths of destruction in the name of entertainment, innovation and money.
Rolling the cold glass along my forehead, the ice cubes tinkling gently, I tried to soothe the voices in my mind. Nina, now in her early thirties, was a responsible adult, but she was under my protection. I’d brought her to this town. I knew the reputation Harold Finerman had – the rumours of his infidelity, the late-night pool parties, the hint at orgies, the whiff of drug usage. I’d seen them together before and had said nothing.
Refusing to go to the hospital, too ashamed, believing she had brought it all on herself, believing her na?ve flirting had made him do what he did and that by fighting him she had been the cause of his anger, she sobbed as she told me that she’d thought that if she’d taken her punishment meekly, he’d have been gentler.
The pain became too much, the internal bleeding not stopping. Knowing a discreet doctor lived just a couple of houses away, I’d walked down the street and banged on the door. Her left cheek had been broken, several ribs cracked, she’d needed stitches in her head, a couple of toes had been shattered and we never fully understood the damage to her womb.
The sun began to rise over the city and I got out of my chair to pour another drink. The clink of the three ice cubes on the sturdy cut-glass tumbler was soothing, the gurgling sound of the pouring brown liquid healing. There was a packet of cigarettes on the side and I took one out. I rarely smoked, believing the smell of smoke ruined a good outfit. But I needed a distraction. I found a lighter, appreciated the sophisticated rip of the flint wheel, the whoosh as the flame flew up, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. I was hit by that dirty, woozy sensation you sometimes get when you haven’t smoked for a while, but as I drank and inhaled, the ache of guilt began to subside and the bones of a plan began to form.