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fumbled to light a cigarette. Before she could accomplish that, Valentine had wandered out to join her.
    â€œHow are you doing?” he asked.
    â€œAll right. But this party is turning into a parade of bruised bodies and broken hearts. Where’s Uncle Tom O’Sullivan?”
    â€œEva Braun—that’s Ann, I think—had too much to drink, and he and Clara Petacci took her out for a little air.”
    â€œHave you made your decision yet?”
    â€œWhat decision?”
    â€œWhether it’s to be a single or a double ring ceremony.”
    Valentine grimaced. “Maybe he’ll be satisfied if I just give him the wedding night.”
    â€œOh, dear,” sighed Clarisse. “Life is hard when you’re an object of universal admiration. Be sure you let Uncle Tom down easy. But in the meantime,” she said brightening, “my glass is empty.”

Chapter Five

    A T FOUR-THIRTY, when the disc jockey announced last call, Clarisse was leaning wearily against the deck railing by the pool, an empty glass in one hand and the stub of a half-consumed cigarette in the other. Her chignon had come undone, and her hair fell thickly about her shoulders. The top few buttons of her gown were unfastened, and if she turned to face the breeze out of the east, she felt actually chilled. She closed the eye from which she had lost a contact lens, and scanned the portion of the crowd she could see through the open doors of the bar. She alternately prayed to see Valentine and, in case he had already left with Terry O’Sullivan, cursed him for abandoning her. Despite the DJ’s announcement none of the guests seemed disposed to leave the bar; those who had remained this late were determined to bitter-end it, braving the unflattering light of dawn.
    Just when she had begun to despair, Valentine and Terry appeared through the glass doors. Terry had his arm possessively around Valentine’s waist. Valentine’s face and chest were damp with sweat, his linen shirt clung to his arms and back. Most of Terry’s black makeup had been wiped off onto his sleeves.
    â€œOne for the road?” Val asked.
    Clarisse groaned, “I couldn’t even see the road.”
    â€œGuess you had a good time,” remarked Terry pleasantly.
    â€œThe blister on my foot came to a head and exploded,” said Clarisse. “One of my Bausch and Lomb contacts, which is advertised as eighty percent water, sank into the swimming pool. Someone stole my letter. And after puncturing my wrist three times, I broke every one of the nails on my right hand.” She fanned the jagged remains before Terry O’Sullivan’s face. “Who’s going to call a taxi?”
    â€œWe live six blocks away, Clarisse. And the taxis stop running at two.”
    Clarisse sighed desolately. She set her glass on a table and flicked her cigarette over the deck railing. “Would Uncle Tom like to tote a weary load down Commercial Street? I’ll give you a quarter.”
    A shriek tore across the deck.
    â€œYou fucking little bitch!” Joan Crawford roared as she dragged a very drunk Christina to the edge of the pool, stiff-arming aside those in her way. She lifted Christina erect at the edge of the deep end, and then tripped her in. The girl’s pinafore billowed whitely about her and the sausage curls formed an aureole of gold around her submerged head. Joan Crawford dropped to her knees, bent far forward over the edge and grabbed a fistful of lank blond hair. She began violently bobbing Christina’s head up and down in the water, and pushed away anyone who tried to stop her.
    â€œLife is hard when you’re constantly in the public eye,” remarked Clarisse. She slipped her arm into Valentine’s. “Hold me up. I’m so plastered I couldn’t hit the floor with my hat.”
    It was impossible to get out through the bar. The doorways were jammed with people watching Joan and