It was a sweltering, humid evening. Eva arrived later, after a dance competition that she had entered with an Argentinian polo star. Lamb was doing rather well that evening without her.
Valmont was waiting at a table on his own, watching for her. From where he was seated, off to one side, he had a clear view. He saw Eva enter, pausing at the doorway, surveying the scene.
Her eyes rested on the centre craps table, where Gotti was attempting to impress his new lover by placing higher and higher bets. Eva watched as he urged her to blow on his dice for good luck; Kay Waverley, in all her golden glory, hung from his arm, distracted and bored.
There was something about Eva’s face, her level of concentration, that stuck Valmont. Her energy had always been mercurial, uneasy and agitated. But right then, right there, she solidified. Her focus, on Gotti and especially on Kay Waverley, sharpened into a fixed stare. It was as if she’d suddenly spotted something she’d been searching for, for a very long time. He didn’t realize it until much later, but in that brief, unguarded moment, Valmont observed a complete shift in Eva’s personality. Nothing about her changed outwardly, but internally, a decision had been made. In that moment, she turned away from him, towards a separate, shadowy agenda of her own.
Eva proceeded to the blackjack table and threw an arm around Lamb’s shoulder, accidentally bumping into Gotti just as he was about to throw. ‘Pardon me. And who is this?’ she asked, turning. ‘Why, it’s Adonis, throwing dice!’
Gotti laughed and gave a little bow. ‘Mademoiselle.’
She bowed back. ‘Say I’m forgiven. I can’t bear to offend.’
‘You’re too kind. I’m certain you’ll only improve my luck.’
‘What more luck can the gods bestow on you?’
He laughed again, thrilled by her attention.
Waverley’s eyes narrowed.
‘But I’ve disturbed you,’ Eva apologized. ‘Go on – show your mother how it’s done.’
Gotti’s friends gasped, twittering to each other in Italian.
Eva pretended not to notice. ‘Ah, parli italiano? Fantastico!’
Valmont watched as she chatted away in Italian to both Gotti and his friends, before announcing to anyone who would listen that she fancied a little skinny dip before dawn.
Completely out of her depth in multilingual society, Kay Waverley was reduced to mute fury.
Some of Gotti’s friends decided to race after Eva onto the beach. Gotti, left behind, looked after her with longing.
But before she left, Eva did something Valmont had never seen her do before. She wrapped her arms around Lamb’s neck and gave him half a dozen kisses.
Eva taunted and teased Lamb; everyone knew they shared a suite. But she never displayed any affection for him. Lamb laughed, shrugging her off, but even he looked a bit surprised as he waved them away, into the night.
Kay Waverley slipped her arm through Gotti’s, reeling him in closer.
Then she cast a look over her shoulder at Lamb, who’d just tripled his winnings.
He was buying a round of drinks for everyone. For one shining moment, he was the most successful man in Monte Carlo; handsome, urbane, gracious.
And above that, clearly the man this little fool Dorsey adored.
Her face softened into a half-smile.
But Valmont couldn’t help but notice that something in her too had suddenly sharpened; the bored distracted look was gone. She looked at Lamb several more times as the evening progressed.
He wasn’t sure why, but suddenly Valmont felt uneasy.
Kay Waverley knew how to charm when she wanted to. And she’d launched a charm offensive now. She appeared, magnificent and toned, sunbathing by the hotel pool one late afternoon, even though she had a private pool of her own in her villa. Young men seemed to collect by her side, ready with drinks and conversation. She tanned quickly and easily, her delicate limbs oiled and gleaming. In the evening, she made the most of her new tan in low-cut clinging evening dresses in white or black. And suddenly the Grand Casino was her favourite haunt. Gotti had been dismissed, sent abruptly back to Rome. Instead, she began arriving alone in the evenings, late, sitting at the tables, a whisky glass in hand. In addition to her good looks, her other great natural talent was that she knew how to drink.
Kay Waverley drank like a man, matching anyone shot for shot. She became neither tipsy nor morbid; she never giggled, slurred or swayed. Instead, she eased herself into a drunk, like falling, weightless, into an old lover’s arms. She had a finely honed appreciation for the irony and ridiculousness of the human condition which shot out as wry little asides. She could savour pathos without becoming pathetic; she could intimate that she was one of the boys without sacrificing any of her sex appeal.