The Account. Roderick Mann

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СКАЧАТЬ was assistant manager here.’

      ‘We’re very pleased with him. You must come and see us when you’re next in New York.’ Brand glanced around the room. ‘You put all this together?’

      ‘Most of it.’

      ‘You got a great turnout.’

      ‘Free drink,’ Koenig said drily. ‘Never fails. Anyway, Julia has magic powers.’

      ‘I believe it,’ Brand said. He had hardly taken his eyes from her. How old was he, she wondered. Early sixties? It was hard to tell, he exuded such energy. ‘I suppose everyone tells you you could be Grace Kelly’s kid sister?’

      Julia, never comfortable with compliments, flushed slightly. ‘Not everyone,’ she said.

      ‘I knew her years ago,’ Brand said. ‘Wonderful woman. Before Rainier came along, of course. I couldn’t compete with a prince.’ He looked at Julia intently. ‘Any princes in your life, Miss Lang?’

      ‘Mine’s on the way, according to my horoscope,’ she said, laughing.

      ‘You know what the French say?’ Brand chuckled. ‘Every woman waits for the right man to come along. In the meantime she gets married.’

      ‘You’re sure that’s what the French say?’ Julia said.

      ‘Positive.’

      Was he flirting with her? She hoped so.

      She needed a morale boost after her encounter with Moscato. And Robert Brand was one of the most charismatic men she had ever met. She felt a surge of attraction towards him and was disconcerted. This was a cocktail party for the hotel. He was a guest; she an employee. She must not forget it.

      ‘If the peasants could see us now,’ Koenig said, surveying the room, ‘they’d be lining up the tumbrels outside.’

      ‘We don’t do this very often,’ Julia said.

      ‘Well you should,’ Koenig replied. ‘Give me the excuse to come here more often. I love this town.’

      ‘Can’t think why,’ Brand laughed. ‘It’s freezing cold and it rains all the time.’

      ‘What a masterly summing up of one of the world’s great cities,’ Koenig said, deadpan.

      ‘Well, it’s true,’ Brand insisted.

      ‘It’s the last truly civilized city on earth,’ Koenig said. ‘A cornucopia of pleasures. New York is violent and vicious … Paris is too desperately chic … Rome is bedlam-’

      ‘So is London,’ Brand said. ‘I don’t understand what you see in the place.’

      ‘I told you. It’s civilized.’ Julia watched Koenig, amused, as he got into his stride. ‘Remember Sam Danovich, the producer? The great Sam? He brought me here thirty years ago to do a rewrite on a script. He loved it here. He said, “There’s no other city in the world for the cultivated man.” By the time I’d finished the film I agreed with him.’

      ‘On the basis of what?’

      ‘The conversation, for one thing. People here talk about ideas.’

      ‘Give me an example,’ Brand said.

      ‘Well, just last night at dinner the woman next to me asked if I thought it was mere coincidence that none of the great philosophers – Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche – was married –’

      ‘You are too easily impressed, my friend,’ Brand said. ‘A little Reader’s Digest trivia can hardly be categorized as good conversation.’

      ‘Sneer all you like,’ Koenig said. ‘All I know is that back home in Los Angeles we’d have been asking people which dermatologist they used and how much the new addition to their house cost.’

      ‘Both subjects of considerable interest,’ Brand chuckled. ‘Particularly if you live in a tiny house and have spots all over your face.’

      ‘I’m being serious,’ Koenig protested.

      ‘So am I,’ Brand replied. ‘I promise you there are plenty of idiots here too.’

      ‘Agreed,’ Koenig said. ‘But there’s one other great thing about London: you don’t need an Uzi by your bedside to feel secure.’

      Brand turned to Julia. ‘Our friend tends to exaggerate, as you’ve noticed. But then he’s a writer.’

      ‘Sorry, Mr Brand. I agree with Bobby. I love London too.’

      ‘New York is much more exciting.’

      ‘A morally bankrupt city,’ Koenig said. ‘With a social world made up of fools who consider it desirable to associate with people simply because they are rich.’

      ‘Are you suggesting they don’t do that in Los Angeles?’

      ‘Only morons,’ Koenig said easily. ‘Morons and movie stars.’

      Brand glanced round the room. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Look who’s over there. Jack Blacklock. Black Jack himself. We must go and say hello.’ He turned to Julia. ‘I enjoyed talking with you, Miss Lang. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

      ‘I hope so,’ Julia said.

      Koenig smiled and squeezed her arm. Watching them leave, Julia felt curiously deflated. Brand had such a powerful presence it was as if she had been left in a vacuum.

      Looking round she saw Moscato approaching. She felt a sense of dread.

      ‘I saw you talking with Mr Brand,’ he said. ‘Does he seem happy with the hotel?’

      ‘Perfectly.’ She turned abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the reporters outside. They’ll need some details of the party.’

      She wove her way through the crowded room towards the door, taking a last glance at Brand and Koenig, who were deep in conversation with a tall, flamboyant-looking man wearing an eye-patch. They did not look her way.

      The rain had eased as Julia left the hotel. Only a few reporters still stood around, hunched in their raincoats. Two of them nodded to her.

      As she walked down the steps, she called goodnight to Henry Wilson, the uniformed night doorman.

      ‘Good night, Miss Lang.’

      Henry liked Julia. She always had a cheery word for him – unlike some of the other hotel executives. After six years he knew quite a lot about Julia Lang. He knew she was thirty-three and unmarried. He knew how conscientious she was; how late she often worked. He liked the way she held herself, the way she dressed. She was, in his book, a very stylish lady. He had even met her boyfriend, Michael Chadwick. Nice enough, but not good enough for her.

      Tonight she seemed preoccupied. Working too hard, he decided, stepping forward to open the taxi door for a late arrival.

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