Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

ROBIN HADN’T ATTENDED the Rosses’ party as a guest. She was part of the hired help. An acquaintance who ran a catering business had called her at the last minute in a panic: “How would you like to spend the weekend in the Hamptons?” Two of the caterer’s helpers had gone AWOL, and the woman was scrambling to fill their places.

Robin had been forced to make a real effort not to gape. Celebrities seemed to pour out of the woodwork. Brad. Nicole. Justin. She thought she might weep at the sight of Meryl Streep-a personal favorite-whose simple elegance and wicked little laugh were beyond captivating. Robin trolled the party with a drinks tray, dispensing champagne and martinis. She spotted Marshall Fox soon after he arrived at the party. The popular talk-show host was accompanied by a striking blonde, Kelly Cole, the reporter from Channel 7 News. In her plunging silk blouse and capri pants, Kelly Cole looked anything but the earnest reporter clutching the microphone in front of City Hall. As for Fox, he was sporting a radiant tan fresh from a week in Maui and was-no surprise-the life of the party, charming all comers, passing his celebrated banter around for all to sample. Robin admitted that she had always considered the entertainer deadly handsome. “Disturbingly appealing,” as she would later say on the witness stand. The infectious and exceedingly mischievous smile. The slightly damaged nose. The alert blue eyes. Fox’s lean, muscular frame moved easily in bone-white slacks and a simple gray V-neck sweater. Under a vigorous cross-examination, Robin would confess to having difficulty taking her eyes off the entertainer as he moved about the party.

At the time, Marshall Fox had been several months into his well-publicized estrangement from his wife, Rosemary, an estrangement that had already seen a number of high-octane if short-lived affairs with women of notorious beauty. The word on Fox was that he was a decidedly passionate and skilled lover. “ Voracious ,” came the grinning report from a particular Hollywood actress who was not known for suffering klutzes in her bed. Interviewed on one of the entertainment tabloid shows, the actress had looked directly into the camera and pronounced, “Let’s just say this is one hungry cowboy and leave it at that, okay?”

Robin’s first direct encounter with Fox came midway through the party, when she found herself cornered on the large patio by a large drunken British film director who had snared the last drink from her tray then locked a grip on her free arm as he looked her up and down with red bleary eyes.

“By fuck , if I couldn’t bend you over this rail right now and give that lovely USDA a proper nailing.”

In the process of attempting to free herself, Robin lost control of the empty tray, which clattered loudly to the patio floor. The director tightened his grip on her arm. As he moved closer, Robin was treated to a putrid exhaust of Scotch fumes.

“Let’s have us a fuckin’ kiss. Come here now.”

“Jeremy!”

Robin whipped her head around. It was Marshall Fox. As Fox made his way across the patio, he tossed his drink glass into the shrubbery. My God, Robin thought. Cowboy saves the day.

The Englishman gave Fox a sloppy smile. “Hallo, Marshall. Stinkin’ little bash, in’t it? I take it you’ve seen these lovely appetizers?”

“Let her go, Jeremy,” Fox said evenly. His voice held a low, liquid menace.

The director scoffed, “Fuck all, Marshall. Don’t be a prig.”

Fox glanced at Robin, then addressed the director. “Jeremy… old chap . How about for just one moment you pretend you’re not an asshole. Hmm? I know it’s hard, old chap . None of the rest of us have ever been able to do it. But why don’t you give it a try?”

Without warning, Fox’s left arm shot out, his open hand catching the Englishman square in the chest. As the director went tumbling into a deck chair, Fox grabbed Robin’s other arm and yanked her free. She stumbled up against him. Fox grinned and took a chivalrous step backward.

“I apologize for Jeremy. We don’t know who it was that let him off his leash.”

Still muttering, the director attempted to rise from the deck chair, but Fox placed a foot on the arm of the chair and succeeded in toppling it. The Englishman tumbled onto the tiles and went silent. Fox bent down and retrieved the tray that Robin had dropped and handed it to her. “It’s so hard to get good guests these days.”

He squeezed off another smile and left the patio by a nearby set of winding stairs, rejoining Kelly Cole, who was standing barefoot down on the grass, tolerating the stories of two overexcited young screenwriters. Robin had a sense that the entertainer knew full well she was watching him.

It wasn’t long after midnight that Kelly Cole lifted a martini from Robin’s tray, instructed Marshall Fox to get the hell out of her life immediately and then proceeded to launch the contents of her martini glass at him. The reporter’s aim was perfect, and the drink landed squarely in Fox’s face, the olive bouncing off his cheek. Robin had never seen a face as red with fury as Kelly Cole’s. The reporter’s expression was volcanic. For his part, Fox took a beat, then reached down to pick up the olive off the ground and blithely handed it over to his infuriated date. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I think this fell out of your ass.”

Cole’s slap seemed to echo back all the way from the boathouse. She stormed into the mansion. Fox produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his face and the front of his shirt. Conversation in the immediate vicinity had stopped, and Fox shared a bemused expression with astonished faces.

“Favor? The next time Ms. Cole orders herself a martini, could someone please ask the bartender if he can’t make it really, really, really dry?”

Soon afterward, Robin was down on the lawn, taking a moment to look out at the moon-blue water and the several boats that were anchored just offshore, when she became aware of a couple tangled together in a nearby hammock. Just as Robin realized that the couple were doing exactly what it sounded like they were doing, someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

“Hello there.”

Robin wheeled around. It was Marshall Fox. He offered his hand.

“The name’s Fox.”

Robin realized she was blushing mightily. She hoped it didn’t show in the moonlight. Fox made a show of guiding her hand into his and giving it a small squeeze.

“This is where you tell me your name. My name, your name. Then we’ve had what is called a communication.”

Robin withdrew her hand. “I’m…My name’s Robin Burrell.”

“It’s good to meet you, Miss Burrell. Though I feel like we’re old friends at this point, don’t you?”

“I meant to thank you before.” She indicated the patio.

“Jeremy? Hell, don’t mention it. By tomorrow that gin sponge won’t even remember it happened. He won’t remember a damn thing about the entire party. Which, now that I think of it, might not actually be such a bad thing. Tell me the truth, hasn’t this party been boring the pants off you? I’m dead serious, I can think of three thousand places I’d rather be. I love Gloria and Alan and all that, but this just ain’t really my kind of orgy.”

“I’ve never been to one of these parties,” Robin stammered.

“Well, you don’t want to make a habit of it, trust me.”

“People seem to be enjoying themselves.”

As if on cue, low moans rose from the couple in the hammock. Fox’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose they are. It’s a regular bunny farm around here, isn’t it? How about you? Are you enjoying yourself?”

Robin felt the color rising again to her cheeks. “I’m not supposed to enjoy myself,” she said. “I’m the hired help.”