“Thank you,” she said to the chauffeur, using the voice Princess Di might have used to a menial, not even glancing at him as she pulled back the skirt of the gown and stepped into the car. Geoffrey came in behind her, looking quite handsome in a dinner jacket, although the tie was knotted somewhat crookedly.
“I have to call my mother,” she said.
“What?” he said.
The chauffeur had come around to the driver’s side now, and was getting into the car. The door eased shut with the solid simple click of luxury. “Excuse me,” Geoffrey said to her, and then leaned forward and said to the chauffeur, “We’ll be going directly to the Plaza now.”
“Thank you, sir,” the chauffeur said, and eased the sleek long limo away from the curb. Elita felt as if she were inside a tinted glass spaceship gliding soundlessly through the stratosphere, the city far below, obliter...
“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said, “you were saying?”
“I was? Oh, yes, my mother. If you don’t mind, I’d like to try her again when we get to the hotel.”
“Something wrong?”
“Well... I just can’t believe she’s still on the beach. Would you like me to fix that for you?”
“Fix what?” he said, looking alarmed.
“The tie. It’s a little crooked.”
“Oh. Yes. Please do.”
They turned to face each other on the leather seat. She smelled of something wonderful, it reminded him of journeys to the Cotswolds when he was a boy, the hillsides covered with wild flowers, the sky a piercing, aching blue. Her hands were adjusting the tie now. Blue eyes lowered. Intent. He looked at her face and longed suddenly to kiss her.
“There,” she said, and looked up, satisfied.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” she said, and smiled and sank back into the yielding leather seat, and unexpectedly took his hand.
He’d gone into the shower at ten minutes to six.
Soaped himself leisurely and calmly, shampooing his thick hair into a luxuriant froth of foam, thinking of the movie he’d seen this afternoon, wondering if Julia Roberts was as pretty in person as she was on the screen. Only saving grace. Otherwise, a totally dumb movie. He wondered who she was sleeping with now that she’d dumped the Sutherland kid.
He came out of the shower at nine minutes past six.
Watch on the counter, ticking off time digitally.
6:09.
He was through shaving at 6:24... no, 6:25, the watch informed him, the numeral changing even as he looked at it.
He combed his hair.
Sprayed deodorant under his arms.
Looked at himself in the mirror.
Winked.
And went into the bedroom to dress.
Geoffrey looked at his watch.
It was already six-thirty, and he was eager to get upstairs to the Baroque Foyer, where the reception line would be forming. This would not be the P.M. arriving — Major being too major for such a minor event, oh dear, Geoffrey thought — but it was most certainly a P.M., and Geoffrey wanted to be on hand to greet her. Shake her hand and let her know he was a loyal servant of Her Majesty the Queen, not to be forgotten if ever Maggie shared tea and opinions along with the scones and clotted cream at Buckingham Palace.
He was standing discreetly beyond hearing distance of Elita, who was at one of the wall phones downstairs at Trader Vic’s, where the Plaza people routed anyone desperate to ring up anyone else. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was now dialing the same number yet again, or perhaps a different number this time. She had slipped out of one high-heeled blue satin pump and was standing with the stockinged foot resting on the toe of the other shod foot, looking entirely girlish and adorable, but he did wish she would hurry up.
He looked at his watch again.
6:32.
Please, Elita, he thought, get off the phone or we’ll entirely miss her arriv...
Ah. At last.
He began moving toward her as she replaced the receiver on its hook, hoping she didn’t plan to dial yet another number, catching her elbow as she turned away from the phone, a concerned look on her face.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“I still can’t reach her,” Elita said, and fell silent, obviously troubled as he hurried her upstairs and through the main lobby now, toward the elevator banks.
“Are you sure you dialed the right number?” he asked.
“I know it by heart. I even called the man next door...”
“This way,” he said, and led her into the closest elevator.
“... but I didn’t get an answer there, either.”
She was nibbling at her lower lip now. He took her hand in his, gave it a little reassuring squeeze.
“Perhaps she’s at a party,” he said.
“I hope so. It’s just... so odd. Her not being in all day.”
He refrained from suggesting that her mother was, after all, a grown woman who did not need to inform her daughter of her exact whereabouts at any hour of the day. The elevator had whisked them up to the first floor, and he allowed her to precede him into the corridor, which he immediately saw was afloat with security people bobbing like blue-suited buoys on a sea of tuxedos and dinner gowns. He took her elbow again and led her to the entrance doors to the foyer, flanked by two agents, one of whom held a clipboard.
“Geoffrey Turner,” he said. “And Miss Elita Randall.”
The agent with the clipboard flipped to the second page of sheets attached to it. The other agent kept checking the corridor, making occasional eye contact with the floating agents scanning the arriving guests, most of them consular personnel eager to be on hand when the heads of state rolled in with the tide.
“Turner, yes, I have that right here, sir,” the agent at the door said, British from the sound of him. “And the other was Crandall, sir?”
“Randall,” Elita said.
“Yes, of course, pardon me, Miss,” the agent said, and ran his finger up the page to the R’s. “Yes, here we are, step right in, won’t you please? Have a nice time.”
“Thank you,” Geoffrey said.
Elita was thinking how very polite the British were.
Ozzie Carruthers stood at the top of the carpeted steps on the Fifth Avenue side of the hotel, watching the uniformed doormen opening the doors of limousines and ushering elegantly dressed men and women onto the sidewalk. A black plastic tag with white lettering on it was pinned just over the breast pocket of his jacket, O. CARRUTHERS. A laminated Plaza Hotel identity card was clipped to the lapel above that pocket. A walkie-talkie was in his right hand. In his dark suit, white shirt, and maroon silk tie, he looked discreetly official. He was waiting to say hello to the President, a man he’d loved — still loved — a man he’d voted for each and every time.
A limousine with miniature British union jacks flying from both front fenders pulled to the curb. One of the hotel doormen approached the rear door and was politely but pertinently shouldered aside by a man in a dark suit who took up a position at the curb while three other men covered the car front, rear, and driver side. The chauffeur came around and opened the rear door. The Right Honorable Margaret Thatcher accepted his gloved hand as he assisted her out of the limousine. The hotel doorman smiled graciously and bowed her toward the steps. Surrounded by the four British agents, she swept past Carruthers, who inhaled the faint scent of her delicate perfume.