Anne Rice - Belinda by Belinda

Anne Rice - Belinda by Belinda

Author:Belinda [Belinda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00


"Come on to the party with us, Belinda," G.G. said.

Then Blair got excited about Mom doing "Champagne Flight." What if she did Midnight Mink again? Did I think she would do it?

I didn't say anything, but secretly I thought, It's starting already, this "Champagne Flight" madness. Mom had been Blair's first Midnight Mink girl. But in all these years Blair had never never mentioned Mom doing Midnight Mink again.

Anyway Dad started pulling me towards the yacht.

"I'm not dressed up, Dad," I told him.

And he said, "Belinda, with that hair, you are always dressed up. Come on."

The yacht was posh all right. The Saudi women, the very same who wear veils when they get home to Arabia, were all walking around the low-ceiling ballroom in knockout fashions, and the men all that had deep burning look in their eye that meant they could carry you off to a tent. The food was fabulous and so was the champagne. But I felt too disheartened to enjoy it. I was just putting on a good face for Dad.

Blair wouldn't stop talking about Mother doing Midnight Mink again until Ollie Boon told him gently that he was talking shop and to shove it. And then Dad and I danced. The best part.

The band was playing Gershwin, and Dad and I just danced very slow together to some sad song. I almost cried again thinking about what happened and then, while we were dancing, I realized I was looking at this guy on the sidelines of the dance floor, another dark Arab I must have figured until I realized it was no Arab, it was Marty Moreschi of United Theatricals and he was watching me.

As soon as the song came to an end, he cut in on Dad and we dancing before I could say no.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked.

"I could ask you that. Doesn't anybody care about you? Where you go. what you do?"

"Of course not," I said. "I'm fifteen years old. I take care of myself. Besides, the guy I was dancing with was my father, if you want to know."

"No kidding," he said. "You mean that's the famous G.G.? He looks like a high school kid."

"Yeah," I said, "and he's an awfully nice guy."

"What about me, you don't think I'm nice?" he asked me.

"You're OK, but what are you doing here? Booking a prime-time called 'Sheiks on the Riviera' or what?"

"There's money here. Can't you smell it? But if you want the truth, nobody's taking tickets at the door and I just followed you in."

"Well, you don't have to follow me or worry about me," I said.

But the chemistry was started between us. I was feeling something Do strong that it was embarrassing. I mean my face must have been sort of flushed.

"Come back to the hotel with me and have a drink," he said, "I want to talk to you."

"And leave my dad? Forget it." But I knew right at that very second that I was going.



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