Chapter Thirty
They looped back to the hotel where Ryan had arranged a late checkout. Isobel changed into a white cotton dress with a hemline below her knee. Though otherwise simple and conservative, the light material hugged her midriff, accentuating her narrow waist and the curves above and below.
Shahidi’s mansion sat high on the side of a hill looking down toward West Sunset Boulevard. A line of cars filled the road outside the heavy black metal doors, so they drove on looking for a space. They had swapped back to Isobel’s car so Ryan could drink if he chose.
“More than just a few close friends then?” said Isobel.
“He knows a lot of people, and a lot of people want to know him.”
“You want me to take over,” offered Ryan, as they finally found a space they might squeeze into.
“Just watch me,” she replied. “Once you can park a horsebox, you can park anything.” True to her word, she zipped in backward in two smooth manoeuvres.
He nodded respectfully. “Cool beans, babe.”
“Yes, except somehow we’ll also have to get it back out.”
Ryan rang the intercom to announce their arrival, and the doors inched open. They were faced with a sweeping driveway lined by expensive automobiles. A man with two hulking dogs clinking chain leashes watched their approach.
“These all his?” said Isobel, gesturing left and right.
“Probably not. He likes to sit in the back of a Hummer with blacked-out windows. The Lambo’ belongs to one of his sons, I do know that much.”
They were welcomed by a butler and led around the side of the main building, a modern white structure with flowing lines and high glass windows, to an area overlooking a pool. The location and design had been chosen with privacy in mind, and high hedging masked the garden and pool areas from prying eyes, yet the property offered panoramic views over the rooftops below. A garden of Eden had been created with a twisting balboa tree that white doves with clipped wings had somehow scaled; a carpet of glistening green worthy of a king’s bowling match, bordered by exotic plants and delicately sculptured bushes, completed the perfect landscaping.
The top terrace oozed money. A gleaming bar and kitchen area were set against a wall with a number of seating areas fanning out like petals. Red lobster, grey oysters and pearl white prawns were arranged in delicate patterns on pitched banks of shimmering ice. A chocolate fountain surrounded by mounds of lush strawberries whirred around invitingly, the dark liquid cascading down like a flowing stream. Men in crisp suits and open shirts lounged in the chairs, bikini-clad girls sat familiarly on their knees or draped themselves across the backs and arms. Despite it being a Sunday, no children played anywhere in sight. Several giant TV screens flickered silent ball games played by brightly coloured teams, in stark contrast to the white statues and ornate citrus trees that gave a Grecian elegance to the surroundings. In a far corner a jazz quartet of three musicians and a strikingly attractive black singer in a sequinned dress that clung to her curves played mellow background tunes. Other guests chatted on the lower terrace, and in and around the pool, the noise of adults at play signalled the beginnings of a party atmosphere. Girls in scanty outfits, some no more than teenagers, sat dangling their toes into the sparkling blue water of the pool, twirling their hair and adjusting their bikinis.
A man in dark glasses and a white linen suit sauntered towards them. “Ryan, good to see you here, bro, thanks so much for coming, the party is just getting going.”
“Hi Amir,” said Ryan, as the two men knocked their fists together. “It looks like a good turnout.”
“Thank you. Perhaps an open bar and a warm day are the secrets to attraction.”
“Isobel, this is Amir, Victor’s youngest son.”
“Isabel, what a beautiful Spanish name. You are most welcome in my father’s home.” He took her hand and kissed it. “So different from what I had expected. My father is resting inside, and I must apologise that he’s not here to welcome you.”
She didn’t correct him on her name, a mistake that she had become used to in California. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“He will join us, I am sure, when the sun drops lower in the sky. In the meantime, if I may, I will leave Ryan to show you around. Our house is open to our guests today, please treat it as your own.”
“Nice guy,” said Isobel as they walked away.
“Victor’s the same. They value loyalty. If you show it, they repay it well.”
They meandered around the gathering, Ryan stopping here and there to say hello and introduce Isobel. A couple of his friends from the party were leaning on a high table and they dwelt for ten minutes chatting.
“Cindy not coming?” asked Isobel.
“No, I didn’t invite her, it’s not her scene,” said Ryan coldly.
“A party with movie people and free food and drink…and lots of pretty things…sounds just like Cindy’s scene,” replied Isobel, disappointed and hit by a pang of sympathy for the girl.
“Cindy’s a great kid, but she needs to learn to go with the flow. At least that’s the way I see it.”
“But isn’t it Victor’s place to issue invitations?” objected Isobel, with the indignation of a courtroom lawyer speaking for an absent defendant.
Ryan continued sweeping the crowd with his eyes. “Victor doesn’t know any of the hotties around the pool, they’re just eye candy for the people he wants here.”
“So one of your jobs is to provide the eye candy?” she said, adopting a feminist distaste for the sexism.
“It’s no big deal. He could have Amir use an agency just as easily but his nightclub employs hostesses and dancers, girls we know who have been vetted, so it makes more sense to invite them.”
They stopped at the chrome and glass barrier that ran around the top terrace. Isobel looked down onto the pool below, tilting her head to take in the army of young beauties who splashed in the water or stretched their tanned bodies for the sun. “They’re all very pretty,” she said.
“Yeah, peroxide and a surgeon’s knife can do wonders. There’s enough silicon down there to supply half the computers in California.”
“I hope not, some of them look so young. That girl in the red polka dot swimsuit, she can’t be much older than sixteen.”
“She used to work as a child model. But she’s been putting out since before she had grass on the wicket, as you English say.”
“And you would know that?”
“Just guessing,” he said airily.
“And she works at the club?”
“She’s got a habit that she has to feed. A lot of them are on something, the white stuff more often than not. That’s why they’re willing to prance half-naked around a nightclub till five in the morning.”
Isobel bridled at his nonchalance. “You seem very blasé about how cruel a place LA can be. Can’t something be done to help these girls?”
“Get real, babe. No one’s forced to come here, or stay here.”
“What about those girls over there?” said Isobel, feeling both sad and helpless. “They’re not all American, are they?”
“Not all. Some are from South America, Brazil or Argentina in the main. But anyway, you want to try the water?” he said, seeming to tire of Isobel’s interest in the guests. “If you need a suit it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Before she could answer Amir appeared at their side.
“Am I intruding?”
“No, we were just admiring the view. Isobel’s thinking about taking a swim.”
“Perhaps later,” she said, throwing a glare in Ryan’s direction.
“Then perhaps my father might have the pleasure of your company? He’s sent me to ask if you would like to join him for a Turkish coffee.”
The invitation seemed to be directed at Isobel and she looked at Ryan before answering. “We’d be delighted to.”
“You go ahead, babe. Victor can talk to me anytime he wants. And there are a couple of guys I wouldn’t mind catching up with.”
“So why have we not seen you before,” said Amir, as he led her away. “Has Ryan been hiding you in fear that you will be attracted by a brighter star?”
“I’ve been hiding myself down in San Diego,” she said with a laugh. “And Ryan is bright enough a star for me.”
He laughed in return. “I see you have wit as well as beauty, Ryan is blessed. But now you must help me because I see that my father is cornered by men who only wish to talk about the old days of the Shah, days that will never return and are best forgotten. Come, let us rescue him.”
Amir approached his father from behind, putting his palms together in a gesture of apology to the group and guided him away.
“Father, this is Isabel, she is the guest of Ryan, and has travelled up from San Diego to be with us today.”
Shahidi put his right hand on the left side of his chest and made a bow. “Isobel, I believe. I welcome you to my home. You are an honoured guest. Please, let us move where it is quieter. Amir, you forget we are the hosts, you must go and see that Ryan is not being neglected.”
Victor Shahidi looked far from the geriatric that Ryan had implied. Broad shouldered and tall with a generous girth, he could not be more than in his mid-sixties. He sported a head of thick black hair and a heavy moustache. He led her to a corner where water cascaded out of the mouth of a gold dolphin into a pink hot tub, and beckoned her to sit down with him.
“If I am not mistaken,” said Shahidi, “you come from London?”
“You remembered my name and where I’m from, I’m impressed.”
He waved away the compliment. “I have many friends in London and also in San Diego. Perhaps we will soon count you amongst them?”
“That is most kind of you, Mr. Shahidi—“
“Please, the British, I think we love them because of their formality, but amongst friends I am Victor. It is not the name my parents gave me but I have grown to like it.”
She smiled and nodded her head in acknowledgement. “A great party you’re throwing today, I do appreciate the invitation.”
“You are generous in your praise.”
“And you in your hospitality.”
“They say if a man wants a place in heaven it is better to look after those less fortunate than himself. And if even water will not trickle through my hand, then I will die with few friends.”
“I don’t think you need ever worry about being short of friends.”
Shahidi leant back and let out a raucous laugh. “You must stop this flattery because I am most partial to it. Especially from a woman of such charm, and even more beautiful now I meet you.”
“You will make me blush, Victor, as I see you’re also expert in flattery.”
A hostess in a short black dress and white apron over fishnet stockings arrived with the coffee. She bent over from the hips, revealing light brown flesh above her garters. “Allow me,” said Shahidi, taking responsibility for serving the drinks. “You like Turkish coffee?”
“Now and again.”
“I confess it is one of my weaknesses. We Persians do not understand the American passion for their watery elephant measures.” He put the delicate glass to his nose and inhaled as if he were sampling a fine wine. “Perhaps the smell of strong coffee reminds me of warm evenings in Tehran all those years ago. I used to enjoy a glass or two while smoking shisha tobacco, but my American doctor forbids the pipe. So these days I must make do with an occasional cigar. But it is no great hardship.” His eyes were on her as he pulled on his moustache. “And now that I have you all to myself, what shall we talk about? You are enjoying your time in America?”
“Very much so. And more so than I expected. Coronado is a wonderful place and I have started to paint again, which is a pleasure I thought I had forgotten.” Shahidi lifted his coffee glass and seemed to look right through the black fluid. His gaze unsettled her and she did not wish to be quizzed on her reasons for coming to California. As he sipped his drink she seized the opportunity.
“You have many interests I believe, Victor.”
“Uh-hum,” said Shahidi, seeming surprised to have the initiative taken from him.
“Ryan tells me you have been supportive of his film project?”
“He’s too kind.”
“No, I mean it, Ryan is really grateful.”
“Ryan has talent, and burning ambition, but he has not been lucky. I have nothing in the way of talent, but I have been lucky, it seems a good fit.”
“And Ryan is appreciative, but I still don’t understand why a successful businessman like yourself is drawn to a speculative film. I thought only movie stars with pet projects and big egos financed independent films.”
“I think, Isobel, you are a tenacious lady. And that you also have more knowledge of business than one expects in a beautiful woman. Is it that you have doubts as to the sincerity of my interest?”
“No, of course not. But Ryan mentioned something about last minute hitches, and I would hate for him to be let down, he has been working so hard to make the film happen.”
“Which is one of the reasons that I want to support him. But also because the story is one that interests me. “
“A simple romance story?”
“That is how it started, how it reads in the book and in the first screenplay. But now it is much more than a love story, or will be when the audience sees it.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“I think perhaps you are, but let me explain further. Hollywood loves romance, and Ryan has found himself a good love story, but that is not enough. It needs a context, a subplot, to make it different. I have connections, agencies in government, shall we say, that have an interest in Iran.”
“You mean the CIA?”
“There are many agencies in Washington.”
“So you want to turn a love story into a documentary?”
“Oh no. That is the last thing my friends in government would want. But I have told you too much, more even than Ryan needs to know. And I must not bore you with politics. Now let me leave you to return to Ryan and enjoy the party. Later, if it is of interest to you, perhaps we can talk about matters less divisive, about art. I have a painting on which I would value your opinion.”
Isobel rose to accept his hand. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you.”
Isobel found Ryan and one of his friends from the previous evening playing chess with sandstone pieces the size of cola cans. She stood behind him, her hand lightly on his shoulder, watching. “You want to take over?” asked the friend. “I’m afraid Ryan has me cornered.”
“Sure,” she said, moving around to take his seat.
“You may as well concede,” said Ryan, “and we’ll start fresh. Jack’s left you in a hopeless position.” From the amount of white pieces stacked at Ryan’s end of the board, he seemed to have a point.
“Let’s see how it goes,” said Isobel. “Whose move is it?”
Ryan nodded towards her and without pause for thought she removed his remaining bishop. “Check,” she said.
“Beginner’s luck. How did it go with Victor?”
“He’s an interesting guy; does rather likes to play the Great Gatsby, the misunderstood but munificent hero in his own drama.”
“I’ll pass that on, he’d like that.”
“By the way, have you ever shown Victor a photo of me?” she asked idly.
“Why would I do that?” he replied, still studying the chessboard She shrugged. “I don’t know, instinct maybe. The way he looked at me.”
“Must have been something I said. Anyway, what else did he say?”
“Mostly small talk really, and we chatted about the film project.”
“Did he offer you a role?”
“I think he might have done, a roll on the casting couch that is, if I’d given him any encouragement.”
Ryan stifled a laugh. “Hollywood, babe.” He moved a pawn forward.
“En passant,” said Isobel, taking the pawn.
“Hey, what’s with the French? We’re playing American rules here.”
“Then you need to learn them. Your move.”
“So what did he have to say about the film? No more curve balls, I hope?”
“No, he seems to be committed. But he did talk about his agenda, about why he’s putting up the money.”
“The politics, you mean? That’s where he’s not as smart as he thinks he is. What more did he tell you?” Ryan moved his rook.
“You sure you want to do that?”
“Stop avoiding the question.”
Isobel took his queen with a fluid sweep of her hand. “Now I think that’s what you call a level playing field. And he didn’t tell me anything you hadn’t told me, more or less. But why isn’t he as smart as he thinks he is?”
“Because you can’t make a feel-good movie and shove political messages up the audience’s ass. It’s been tried before and it doesn’t work. Anything that’s not essential to the storyline will end up on the cutting room floor. But I’m the last guy that’s going to tell Victor that.”
“So you’re playing him?”
“No more than he’s playing me.” He rapped a knuckle on the board. “Now your move.”
Isobel placed her rook in line with Ryan’s king. “Checkmate, I do believe.”
Ryan leant back and surveyed the board, knocking over his remaining pieces with a sweep of his hand before rising to his feet. “Don’t gloat, I let you win.”
“I know you did. You’re so much better than me.”
He pulled her to him. “You’re heading for another spanking.”
“Promises, promises. But first I wouldn’t mind something to eat.”
They helped themselves from the buffet. All the tables on the upper terrace were taken. “Let’s grab a lounger down by the pool,” he said.
“Does it ever bother you, the type of people Victor might be mixed up with,” said Isobel, as they tucked into the food.
A hostess stood nearby preening her immaculately groomed hair and Ryan beckoned her over. He requested two glasses of champagne. “We can’t eat lobster and oysters without bubbly.”
“But does it worry you?”
“Lying down with dogs and getting up with fleas sort of thing?”
“Well, yes, kind of. Though I’m not saying Victor is a bad person or anything.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I don’t know. It just makes me uneasy, that’s all, what he said about being connected to mysterious agencies in Washington, he seemed to be talking about the CIA.”
“Keeping America free. What’s wrong with that?”
“Ryan, stop being obtuse. After what you said about the FBI. If you think they’re best avoided, don’t you think you want to stay well away from the CIA? The FBI at least respect the law, for the CIA it’s just an inconvenience. Those people will stop at nothing.”
He took a glass of champagne and handed it to her. “I’m just an actor and budding filmmaker. Victor can smooch with whoever he wants to up on Capitol Hill, for whatever reason he wants to; it’s got nothing to do with me. Now let’s stop playing amateur sleuths and enjoy ourselves.” He clinked her glass and she put it to her lips, but did not drink from it.
Isobel had been keeping a discreet eye on Mel, the buxom girl she had briefly met the previous evening; she sat alone on a nearby lounger snatching glances in their direction.
“Mind if I invite Mel over?” said Ryan, apparently picking up the same signals.
“If you must.”
He beckoned for her to join them and she feigned surprise at the invitation, pointing a finger at herself like she had just been invited from the audience up on stage. She meandered over and regaled herself on the next lounger. “Hi again,” she said. She pouted her impossibly full lips as she sipped from her cocktail. “I’m not breaking anything up, am I?”
“Not at all, you’re welcome,” said Isobel, standing up. “I’m just going to powder my nose anyway.”
“You may have company doing that,” said Mel, sniffing along her finger.
“So I believe. If I strike lucky should I bring you back a line or two?”