Fancy Pants by Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page B

drama of performing
had always appealed to her. She thought of her friend Marisa Berenson,
who seemed to be having a
perfectly wonderful time with her film career, and then she nearly
laughed aloud at her own naivete. Legitimate directors hardly walked up
to strange women at cocktail parties and offered them film roles.

Byron had whipped a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket
and was scribbling something inside with a gold pen. "I have to leave
London tomorrow for the States, so ring me at my hotel before noon.
This is where I'm staying. Don't disappoint me, Francesca. My entire
future is riding on your decision. You absolutely can't pass up the
chance to appear in a major American film."

As she took the paper from him and slid it into her pocket, she
restrained herself from commenting that Delta Blood hardly sounded like
a major American film. "It's been lovely meeting you, Lloyd, but I'm
afraid I'm not an actress."

He pressed both hands—one containing his drink and the other his
cigarette holder—over his ears so that he looked something like a
smoke-producing space creature. "No negative thoughts! You are what I
say you are. The creative mind absolutely cannot afford negative
thoughts. Call me before noon, darling. I simply have to have you!"

With that, he headed back toward Miranda. As she watched him, Francesca
felt a hand settle on her shoulder, and a voice whispered in her ear,
"He's not the only one who has to have you."

"Nicky Gwynwyck, you're a horrid sex fiend," Francesca said, turning to
plant a fleeting kiss on his smoothly shaven jaw. "I just met the most
amusing little man. Do you know him?"

Nicholas shook his head. "He's one of Miranda's friends. Come into the
dining room, darling. I want to show you the new de Kooning."

Francesca dutifully inspected the painting, then chatted with several
of Nicky's friends. She forgot about Lloyd Byron until Miranda Gwynwyck
cornered her just as she and Nicholas were getting ready to leave.

"Congratulations, Francesca," Miranda said, "I heard the wonderful
news. You seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. Rather like a
cat. . ."

Francesca heartily disliked Nicholas's sister. She found Miranda as dry
and brittle as the lean brown twig she resembled, as
well as ridiculously overprotective of a brother old enough to take
care of himself. The two women had long ago given up the attempt to
maintain more than a surface courtesy. "Speaking of cats," she said
pleasantly, "you're looking divine, Miranda. How clever of you to
combine stripes and plaids like that. But what wonderful news are you
talking about?"

"Why, Lloyd's film, of course. Before he left, he told me he was
casting you in an important part. Everyone in the room is green with
envy."

"You actually believed him?" Francesca quirked one eyebrow.

"Shouldn't I have?"

"Of course not. I've hardly been reduced to appearing in fourth-rate
films."

Nicholas's sister tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes gleaming
with uncharacteristic brightness. "Poor Francesca. Fourth-rate, indeed.
I thought you knew everyone. Obviously you're not as au courant as you
want people to believe."

Francesca, who considered herself the most au courant person she knew,
could barely conceal her annoyance. "What do you mean by that?"

"Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just surprised you
haven't heard of Lloyd. He won the Golden Palm at Cannes four years
ago, don't you remember? The critics are simply wild about him—all his
films are marvelous allegories—and everyone is certain his new
production is going to be a huge success. He works with only the best
people."

Francesca felt a tiny thrill of excitement as Miranda went on to list
all the famous actors with whom Byron had worked. Despite her politics,
Miranda Gwynwyck was a terrible snob, and if she considered Lloyd Byron
a respectable director, Francesca decided she needed to give his offer
a bit more consideration.

Unfortunately, as soon as