Sex, Lies & Serious Money

19

They were having breakfast in bed, when Laurence’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Laurence? It’s Marge.”

“Good morning, Marge. What’s up?”

“I’ve had a call from the hotel manager this morning. He says the front desk has been besieged by press and media people, looking for you.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly. What do they want?”

“They’ve discovered that I won Powerball, that’s all. They’ll go away when they can’t find me.”

“The manager has refused to give them any information about you, or even to acknowledge that you live here.”

“That’s exactly what he should do. Please thank him for me.”

“Is there anything you want me to do?”

“The telephone there is not listed in my name, so you shouldn’t be harassed. If any of them get upstairs, call hotel security.”

“All right.”

“Call me if anything of importance happens.”

“I will.”

Laurence hung up. “They’ve already traced me to New York and shown up at the Fairleigh,” he said to Theresa.

“We’re sheltered here,” she said.

Laurence picked up the house phone and rang the concierge.

“Yes, Mr. Hayward?”

“If anyone inquires if I’m staying here, please deny it.”

“We would never divulge such a thing to anyone, sir.”

“Good. When the New York papers arrive, will you send them all to me?”

“A Times was sent with your breakfast, sir. The tabloids will be in this afternoon sometime. I’ll send them to you.”

“Thank you.” He hung up and turned to Theresa. “Shall we hit Rodeo Drive this morning?”

“All right. I’ll need an hour to get myself together.”

Laurence ordered a car and asked the concierge to get them a table at Spago Beverly Hills for lunch. He had a thought. “Please book the table in the name of Beresford,” he said.

“As you wish, sir.”

“Where did you come up with that name?” Theresa asked.

“It’s my mother’s maiden name and my middle name.”

“Nice to have an alias, in the circumstances.”

They were driven to Beverly Hills and strolled Rodeo Drive, looking in windows and doing some light shopping. When he started into the Ralph Lauren shop she tugged at his sleeve. “I’d rather do that at home and get my discount.”

They visited Cartier, and Laurence bought her a tank wristwatch and an extra-large one for himself. When they pulled up to Spago for lunch and got out of the Bentley, someone with a camera ran up and took their photograph.

“Can they know?” Theresa asked.

“Unlikely. They probably shoot everyone who gets out of a Bentley.” Inside he gave the name Beresford to the woman at the lectern.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Hayward, right this way.” She led them to a table at the center of the garden.

“How did you know my name?” he asked the woman as they were seated.

“Just a moment.” She disappeared and came back with a newspaper. “See the entertainment section,” she said.

Laurence found it, and his photograph was on the first page, with the headline “English Schoolmaster Wins Powerball Big.” Full details followed.

“You had a beard?” Theresa asked, looking at the photograph.

“Yes, and as you can see, a lot more hair. Dino said a shave and a haircut were a good disguise for me, and he was right. At least they don’t have a more recent photograph.”

They were in the middle of lunch when the woman approached. “Mr. Hayward, I’m afraid that there is a knot of paparazzi at the front door. When you’re ready to leave the restaurant we can get you out the rear door. You might let your driver know.”

“Thank you so much,” he said, and called the car. “Park somewhere near the rear of the restaurant, not at the door, but within sight of it. I’ll call back when we’re ready to leave.” He hung up. “Relax, let’s finish our lunch.”

After he had paid the check, he called the driver. “Right now at the rear door, and have the car door open when we emerge.” He hung up. “Shall we make our escape?”

The head waitress escorted them to a rear door and peeped outside. “Your car is there and ready,” she said.

They ran from the door to the waiting car and dove into the rear seat, then they were off.

“If we’re followed, try to lose them,” Laurence said to the driver.

“If it’s the paparazzi, they’ll know the car is from the Arrington. They have all our license plate numbers. They may meet us at the hotel.”

“Let’s drive out to Malibu, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a beautiful day, and they enjoyed the drive out Sunset Boulevard and up the coast, then they headed back to the hotel.

“Is there another entrance besides the main one?” Laurence asked the driver.

“Yes, sir, there’s a more discreet one that we use for heads of state and the like, who are staying in one of the two presidential cottages, which are next door to Mr. Barrington’s house. I’ll phone ahead for access.”

“Good man.”

They made it onto the property, apparently undetected, and were driven to the house. The New York tabloids were waiting for them.

“My God, they’ve got photographs of the apartment from the Times piece,” Laurence said.

The butler greeted them. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hayward, Ms. Crane. Security called and warned of paparazzi near the hotel.” He handed them two small devices with wristbands attached. “It might be a good idea to wear these, should you leave the house. They will summon Security instantly.”

“Thank you,” Laurence said, and they both put them on. He looked at Theresa. “I was thinking of a skinny-dip in the pool,” he said, “but now, not so much.”

“Let’s curl up in bed and watch a movie,” she suggested.

“I need to make a call first.” He pressed the button for the concierge.

“Yes, Mr. Hayward?”

“What time does the sun come up in the morning?”

“One moment. Five forty-six AM,” he replied.

“I’d like a car to depart at five-thirty,” he said.

“Of course, sir.”

“Two other things — see if you can get us a nice suite at... just a moment.” He found a copy of Sunset magazine and looked up an ad he had seen. “At Auberge du Soleil,” he said.

“Certainly, sir.”

“And please call Atlantic Aviation at Santa Monica Airport and have my airplane fueled and ready for departure at five-thirty AM.”

“I’ll confirm shortly,” the man said. “How many nights?”

“Ah, three. And please arrange hangar space and a luxury rental car at Napa Airport.” He hung up.

Ten minutes later, the concierge confirmed all his bookings.

Shortly before dawn the following morning, their car left the hotel and headed for the airport.