Breaking the Rules

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “Not his wife. She is quite the operator,” Jean-Louis remarked, giving Philippe a knowing look, wondering why his brother didn’t understand the setup.

  “So what you are saying, in effect, is that you think the police are wrong, and yesterday’s disaster was not an act of terrorism,” Philippe asserted, staring at his older sibling.

  “That is correct. Well, terrorism in one sense, by Rafi against me.”

  “I don’t think the DST would agree with you, mon frère.” Philippe smiled. “Those guys who occupy number one rue Nélaton appear to have other ideas altogether, from what I read in the newspapers today.”

  “Perhaps. And I do believe that the intelligence agency has some brilliant operatives. But in this instance, well, I have come to my own conclusions, and with good cause.”

  “And yet there is nothing we can do—”

  “Oh, yes, I can do something. I am going to see Rafi—”

  “Oh, no, you’re not,” Philippe interrupted most forcefully. “I’m not having you wandering around Belleville, it’s not safe. If necessary I myself will go and talk to him.”

  “Perhaps that would be better, Philippe, merci beaucoup. I might lose my temper.” Jean-Louis smiled ironically at the thought.

  Philippe announced, “I will go. This afternoon. After our meeting with our lawyers and the director of the insurance company. Now, mon cher frère, let us go and have lunch.”

  Belleville was on the opposite side of Paris, and Philippe knew that it would take him a good forty minutes to get there. Once he had finished the meeting with their lawyers and the insurance people, he hurried to his apartment on Avenue Montaigne, quickly changed into more casual clothes, and gave his driver the address of their destination.

  The traffic was heavy at the end of the afternoon, and he cursed himself under his breath, realizing he should have gone out there in the early evening, when it was less congested.

  But it was too late. He was on his way, and he wanted to get the meeting over with; he had toyed with the idea of ringing his cousin Raphaël and discussing the matter on the phone. But instantly he had changed his mind. Nor did he wish to call to announce that he was coming out to see him. Better to arrive when he was not expected.

  Although he did not harbor the same troubling thoughts and grudges his brother did, Philippe nonetheless knew that their cousin was a disreputable character who mingled with crooks and criminals; the lowest of the low seemed to be his preference. Raphaël Tremont had had many advantages in his youth, yet he had thrown them all away, had gone from disaster to disaster all of his life. He has larceny in his heart, Philippe suddenly thought, my brother is right about that. And he is a loser.

  Philippe glanced out of the window as the car finally arrived in Belleville. It was an ugly area of Paris that hardly lived up to its name. Even though it was growing dark, Philippe could see that the streets were more scruffy-looking than ever, and depressing. He had always thought of it as an odd part of the city, a disreputable district. It was the Arab quarter, where most of the North African and African immigrants lived. He was well aware that there were many decent, hardworking people amongst them, yet somehow the place had managed to get a peculiar reputation in the last few years.

  The car turned off the Boulevard de Belleville, and Philippe directed his driver to the small street off the boulevard where his cousin lived with his wife and son.

  When the car arrived at the front door of the modest apartment building, Philippe told the driver to wait if that was possible, adding, “If you have to move on, do so, Marcel. If you’re not here when I leave, I will call you on your cell.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” the driver said, jumping out to open the door for him.

  Philippe rang the bell marked TREMONT. There was no reply. But after a moment a youth came out; Philippe nodded to him, held the door open, and slipped into the building.

  He took the stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor, where his cousin lived. He rang the bell, and when no one answered he banged on the door. Finally a gruff voice demanded, “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  “Rafi, open the door! It’s Philippe. Your cousin Philippe.”

  “Get lost! I don’t want to see you!”

  “I have something for you,” Philippe said. “Money. I know you need it.”

  “Just shove it under the door.”

  “No, no. That is not possible. I must see you, speak to you.”

  Much to Philippe’s amazement, the door opened at once. He stared at Raphaël, barely recognizing him. “In God’s name, what has happened to your face? You look as if you’ve been hit head-on by a truck going at top speed.”

  “Two bastards going at top speed,” Rafi answered and stepped back, opened the door, beckoned for Philippe to come inside.

  “You’ve been beaten up, is that it?”

  “Several times, by several shitheads.”

  “When did this happen? It looks as if the wounds are fresh.”

  “A few days ago. I got in a brawl. Over money.” He tried to grin, but it obviously hurt his face too much, and he mumbled, “Okay, Philippe, where’s the cash?”

  “I need a bit of information first, Rafi.”

  His cousin looked at him suspiciously. “Information about who? Or what?”

  “First tell me this . . . Where were you two nights ago? The twenty-first of March, to be precise.”

  “Today’s Friday, so we’re going back to Wednesday, right?”

  Philippe nodded.

  “That was the night I got the shit kicked out of me. I was in the bar. Down the street. Why?”

  “The following afternoon, which was yesterday, there was a horrific incident at the Hôtel Cygne Noir. The runway collapsed at a fashion show, and many people were hurt.”

  “I saw it on the news. Your fashion show. Jean-Louis’s fashion show.” He threw Philippe a sullen look and added, “Tell your brother sorry from me.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Rafi. It was a deliberate act of sabotage. Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “Me? Why me? Hey! Come on! What’s all this about? I told you what was happening to me. Trying to get me into trouble, are you?” He stepped back. “Go on, get out. I don’t want the flics coming around here.”

  “You know, there is a suggestion this sabotage was the act of terrorists. You’re not a member of any extreme political or radical religious group, are you?”

  “You’re insane to think that!”

  “But you used to be very militant, and fanatical . . . about Algerian politics.”

  “When I was a kid, days long gone. No time for that shit now. Got to earn a living.”

  “Are you working, Rafi?”

  “No. Not this week. I can’t go to work with this face.”

  Philippe was certain that Rafi had as much to do with the sabotage of the runway as he did. His brother was all wrong about their cousin, at least in this instance. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a wad of euros and handed them to Rafi. “I hope this helps,” he said. “And how’s Chantelle?”

  “Same as always. Working hard, running her company. The catering company she started. Little good it does me, I don’t see a sou.”

  “Take care of yourself, Rafi,” Philippe murmured and let himself out.

  As he went down the stairs, he felt a wave of sadness and depression flow over him. He always experienced this feeling when he had been here to see their cousin. It was unbearable for him to think of the waste. That Raphaël Tremont, once so good-looking and a brilliant musician, had become this . . . derelict . . . beaten to a pulp, wearing ragged old clothes . . . dependent on handouts . . . a lost soul.

  Rafi sat staring at the door, an expression of bitterness setting on his face. Handouts. That was all his cousin ever gave him. But Philippe was a decent man; Jean-Louis, filled with his own importance, was a bastard. Rafi sighed, put the money in his pocket. Later, he would go out to the bar and drown his sorrows in red wine. Cheap Beaujola
is was his solace these days. Certainly he found none with his wife. When he had married Chantelle Valbonne, some years ago now, his expectations had been high: a life of married bliss. Well, that had never happened. And now she was too busy running her catering company, mixing with movie stars and doing the bidding of that weird character whose parties she catered. He was loaded and paid her well, but Rafi often wondered what exactly she did for the guy with the exaggerated English accent. He would never know that; she rarely confided in him. But she was still a beautiful woman, if older, and she kept a roof over their heads, such as it was. Who was he to complain?

  Thirty-five

  There was nothing girlie-girlie about M’s London flat, even though that was the way she had described it in New York. In fact, it was just the opposite, Larry thought, because of its innate simplicity and its lack of folderol. It also displayed wonderful taste, the taste of someone who had a superior knowledge of antique furniture and fabrics, paintings and objects of art. He had not been at all surprised when M told him she had decorated it herself, because he saw her signature everywhere.

  Essentially, it was a two-room flat, if you discounted the pristine gray-and-white-tiled kitchen, designed for serious cooking, and the large master bathroom. There was a medium-size bedroom and a living room, and it was this room, where he was now standing, that made the place so unique. He had been gobsmacked when he first saw it.

  On this cool, slightly drizzly morning at the end of April, Larry meandered around the room, coffee mug in hand, taking stock of everything once more, always discovering something new to admire.

  M had gone off to have a business meeting about a special project, but he was quite happy to be alone, to relax and have a bit of quiet time. He had finally finished filming, now had only the looping to do. Larry had enjoyed making Coco in Love, had found it a happy experience, with some great actors supporting him and a brilliant director at the helm.

  His strange bout of food poisoning had been all but forgotten, except that he was now more careful what he ate wherever he was.

  At the moment he was wondering whether to accept a play in the West End, which he had just been offered, and he was mostly hesitating because he didn’t really want to be tied down this summer. He wanted to have a holiday with his adored wife, a honeymoon was the way she put it.

  Walking toward the French limestone fireplace, Larry stood gazing at the painting hanging above it, one of his favorites in the flat. It was of a young woman sitting on a stool in a sun-filled room, half turned away so that her face was partially obscured, a shawl draped over her nude back. Painted by Bernard Taurelle, a French contemporary artist, the picture displayed a marvelous mixture of colors. The pinks and peaches, cream and yellow, various tones of terra-cotta, blue, and mauve were most alluring. It seemed to Larry that if he reached out to touch the woman in the picture, her skin would be warm from the sun, so realistic did she look.

  Turning away at last, seating himself on one of the big cream sofas in front of the fireplace, he sipped his coffee, glanced around, liking the banana color of the walls, the French country furniture, Provençal in style, which M had used throughout this extraordinary room. “Mostly chosen for the mellow woods,” she had explained.

  What made the room different was its size. It was big and had a twelve-foot-high ceiling; the size and proportions reminded him of one of those Great Rooms so often seen in houses of the Elizabethan period.

  In essence, M had divided it into three areas: the central seating arrangement in front of the fireplace; a dining area on the left side of the room, near the kitchen door; and on the right side, where a huge window dominated, she had lined the wall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded with books and decorative objects. A desk, a sofa and chairs, and a TV set made this area an intimate corner to watch television and movies.

  The ringing of the phone brought him to his feet, and he went over to the library corner, picked up the phone on the desk. “Hello?”

  “Larry, darling! Can we make our lunch a little later?” his mother asked, obviously in a hurry since she hadn’t even greeted him.

  “Good morning, Mum, and yes, of course. You sound harried. Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, I’m just a trifle pushed at the moment, my darling.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine. I’ve managed to let the morning slip away from me somehow, and now I’m late for an appointment before I meet you.”

  “How’s Dad?”

  “He is now back to normal, I’m happy to say. I shall tell you all about it when we meet. You did say the Caprice, didn’t you?”

  “I did. And at twelve-thirty now, instead of noon?”

  “Yes. See you anon, my darling.” She hung up abruptly.

  He stared at the receiver, smiling, and placed it in the cradle. His thoughts stayed with his mother as he took the coffee mug to the kitchen and rinsed it. She was an enigma, but then so was his father.

  He went down to the bedroom to shower and get dressed. It was already eleven, he noticed as he glanced at the clock on the chest of drawers in a corner of the room. Walking over to the chest, he looked at the photographs M had arranged there, all of them her family, her siblings and her parents.

  He had met them all now except her oldest sister, who lived mostly in Paris. Her parents had given a dinner when they first arrived in London at the beginning of the month, and he had fallen in love with her mother, who turned out to be the exact opposite of what he had anticipated. He knew beforehand that she was good-looking and clever, but what he had not bargained for was the innate natural charm, the sweetness, the lack of pomposity and pretension. When he had said this to M, she had given him an odd look and then laughed. “She’s just an ordinary woman who’s very, very special.”

  “And brilliant,” he had murmured. “Let’s not forget that.”

  Seeing her elder brother again had been a bonus for him; they had always been good friends, had so much in common. Her family were a good-looking bunch, just like his lot, some of whom M had met.

  He had done a bit of editing when his mother had invited them to come to dinner and had crossed off Miranda and Thomas, keeping only Horatio and Portia, along with his parents, of course, the hosts. Fortunately, Edward was in Los Angeles, and Larry soon discovered nobody wanted Miranda or Thomas. His mother had explained she had been trying to be polite by putting them on the list.

  As for his parents’ constant rowing, it seemed to have ceased, and his mother had promised to explain everything today at lunch. Hopefully, he said under his breath, as he went into the bathroom to shower. She had already broken this promise twice since he had been back in London.

  M stood outside the famous store in Knightsbridge, staring up at the name. HARTE’S. Founded by Emma Harte in the 1920s. Her namesake. She felt a rush of pride as she pushed open the door and went inside. As she traversed the fabulous cosmetic floor, that great sense of pride was replaced by a rush of gratification. She had done it herself, created a big career as a supermodel without help from her family. She had made it on her own, just as the first Emma had done so long ago. A smile of happiness slipped onto her face, and she acknowledged some of the greetings from various assistants behind the counters, who knew her only as M, the famous supermodel.

  “Is she in, Connie?” M asked.

  Connie Wayne immediately swung her desk chair around and exclaimed, “M! You startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I crept in on silent feet,” M answered, smiling at her.

  “Yes, you certainly did, and congratulations. You’re the famous one in the family now.” Connie jumped up, came around the desk, and the two women hugged. Her sister’s personal assistant then said, “Yes, she is in her office, and she’s expecting you. Shall I tell her you’re here?”

  M shook her head. “No, let me startle her, like I did you.” Again smiling at Connie, she moved forward lightly, paused at the door and opened it quietly, s
lipped into her sister’s office.

  M stopped in the doorway, saw that Birdie was standing in the middle of the office, facing the fireplace, speaking on her cell phone. Closing the door as quietly as she could, M took several steps, thankful for the thick carpet. She hadn’t made a sound; her sister had no idea she was standing a few feet behind her.

  M waited until the phone call ended, then spoke. “Hullo, Birdie darling.”

  Her sister jumped, and as she turned she cried, “If you don’t stop calling me that I’m going to start calling you by a name you won’t like either.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t do that, would you, lovey?” M grinned and added, “I would hate that.”

  “As do I, and I’m talking about the nickname you gave me when you were all of four, or some such tender age.”

  They both began to laugh and hugged each other tightly, clinging a bit longer than usual. “God, I’ve missed you, M. Every time I see you I realize how much. Having you drop in like this is so wonderful, just knowing you’re back in your flat down the road fills me with relief and happiness. But come and sit by the fire. It was so damp and drizzly when I arrived at six this morning, I knew it was going to be one of those days . . . when I needed a fire going until I go home.”

  “You were here at six! I can’t believe you’re still doing that early shift.”

  “I don’t, well, not every day. But there was a problem this morning, and I had to come in.”

  “A problem at six? Who on earth was here before you?”

  “One of the managers, but don’t let’s waste time talking about a problem I’ve solved. How’s Larry?”

  “He’s great. Glad the film is in the can, but he liked the cast and crew. I think he had a really good time making it.”

  M sat down on the sofa, and her sister went and stood with her back to the fire, a habit of hers. “I’ve gone over the figures you gave me last week, M, and all of your ideas, and I think you can create something great, very commercial. But I do have a few questions.”