West of Paradise Read Online Free PDF Page A

gentle tone, but with a slight edge to it, concluding that argument. Strength, like knowing exactly what to wear, had come unexpectedly to her, and she was still trying it on.
    Photographers continued to take her picture, from every conceivable angle, shouting “Your Highness! Your Highness!”—a term that no longer applied. Bureaus and worldwide services had an insatiable appetite for her photo. But in this environment, her looks seemed a little plain, almost homely. She could not hold a physical candle to movie stars, whom Americans had made their aristocracy, as they had made politicians into movie stars, if for only one Kennedy season. Since there was no royalty in America, films had given the nation the closest it could come to lineage. So, when an indisputable blueblood fell into the place, no one knew quite what to do, besides invite her to everything.
    â€œSamantha!” Wilton cried, as he got out of his car, waving. “Here’s someone you have to meet!”
    The slender blond woman smiled tolerantly, already having at her side the only one at the event who really mattered, and continued to steer the duchess through the crowd like a prize float in the Rose Bowl parade. But she did make a step in Wilton’s direction, since she found him amusing, a word she had learned to use rather than fun.
    â€œThis is Kate Donnelly,” Wilton said, proprietarily, and put his hand to Kate’s waist. “She’s F. Scott Fitzgerald’s granddaughter.” He pinched Kate into silence.
    â€œReally,” Samantha said, obviously impressed, and gave her her card. “You must call me. We’ll lunch.” She turned to introduce the duchess.
    â€œWhy would you tell a lie like that?” Kate whispered, as though there were degrees of lies. In spite of his pinching her into silence, once past the shock, she’d been moved to dispute him. But as she’d already transgressed by being in a place she didn’t belong, she’d kept quiet. And the card with its raised lettering felt good in her hand. East magazine, it said. The best magazine in the country.
    â€œIt’s not a lie, it’s a fable.” Wilton edged his way into the main room of the restaurant. “This whole town is filled with fabulists. They don’t even know what they’re making up.” He grabbed an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray and popped it into his mouth. “You’re only as good as your last picture, and you haven’t made any.”
    Past his bantering mouth she could see Norman Jessup in deep conversation with Victor Lippton, the tobacco heir, who’d just taken over Cosmos Pictures. And not a moment too soon, the wags had noted, what with Congress uncovering amounts of nicotine doctored to keep smokers hooked, and Jesse Helms having to seem friendly to Vietnam to try and help the tobacco industry. Lippton had shaved off his beard since coming to Hollywood, but Kate still recognized him from the leonine mane of golden hair and the exquisite woman on his arm, the wife said to be even richer than he was, the daughter of a Hong Kong billionaire.
    There was a stunning woman with Jessup as well, the fashion model Carina. Their engagement had been announced in a very social way in The New York Times, besides the trades.
    â€œYou want to find out what you need to know for your book,” Wilton was saying, munching, “leave your credits to me. People will only accept you if they think you’re somebody.”
    He took her by the hand and whooshed through the proceedings as though lightened with helium, slightly above it all, nodding, smiling, taking stock of those attending. “What a pity Mavis isn’t here to cover the funeral. She would have given it an A.”
    â€œMavis?”
    â€œA gossip columnist who used to rate parties. Her husband left her for another man. She felt so vulnerable she stopped being vicious, lost her power, and fell mortally