The Numbers Game

by Danielle Steel

  He drove them back to Greenwich in a light snowfall. They all agreed Paris had been great, but it was good to be home. And their mother would be home in a little more than a month. It made Paul sad to realize that his reason for living with them was almost over. He knew Olivia would be happy about it, but he wasn’t. He was going to miss them even more when he moved out again. He had gotten closer to them than he’d ever been before, being alone with them. And he’d gotten better at the chores and organization than he’d been in the beginning. But he couldn’t imagine coming back to Eileen either. She had moved on, and so had he.

  He didn’t know if Olivia was the answer for the next chapters of his life, but he felt sure Eileen wasn’t. He loved her and knew he always would, but she wasn’t the future for him, she was the past, and you couldn’t go back in time, only forward. When he looked ahead to his future, he saw Olivia, with her bright curly red hair. Not Eileen. He wanted a fresh start, and was ready for it. He hoped Olivia was it for him.

  Chapter 11

  Eileen was due back in four weeks, and the children settled down in Greenwich again. Olivia was hardly seeing Paul, when she got an email from a man with a French name, who asked for a meeting with her. She wrote back to him, asking about the nature of his business, and he said he was in the art field, and would explain it to her when he saw her. He promised not to take up too much of her time. His name was Jean-Pierre Muset, and he would only be in New York for four days.

  With Paul unavailable again, she had time on her hands, and agreed to have a drink with Jean-Pierre Muset at the Mark Hotel, where he was staying. It was close to her apartment.

  His email was quite formal, although his English was good, and she was surprised by how young he was when she saw him. He told her he was thirty-two. His father was a famous art dealer, in the traditional sense, and he was intrigued by her online art dealership. He said he was interested in joining her in some way, and starting a Paris branch for her, and wanted to know if the idea appealed to her. She had never thought of doing that before, but it seemed like a natural offshoot of her business.

  He was tall and attractive, with dark hair and warm brown eyes, and he smiled a lot.

  “I’ve never thought of it, but I like the idea,” she admitted to him.

  “I have a friend in London I went to school with, and he might be interested in a London branch. The possibilities are endless really. Ideally, I’d like to do Paris, London, Hong Kong, in that order. It could be very interesting, and expand your business considerably. If you want to pursue it, I’d like to spend a few days with you here and see how you operate, and then you could come to Paris, and help me set it up. You could spend a month in Paris, maybe two, and help me launch and set up an office there. And then come back here. Are you interested?” He was very direct and smart and she liked him. He had good ideas.

  “Yes, I am interested,” she said. She wanted to check him out, and if he had a good reputation, she was more than willing, and liked the idea.

  “My father has a very large gallery in a mansion in Paris, which we own, and he has some spare offices he would give us for the space we would need. I talked to him about it before I left. I came here to deliver a painting for him to a client in New York. I’ve been working for him for the past five years. I’m ready to do something of my own, and the internet is more of our generation than his.” She smiled and they talked animatedly for two hours. He left her his card, and she looked him up when she got home. His father was one of the most prestigious art dealers in Europe, Arnaud Muset, and there was a profile of Jean-Pierre on their website. His credentials were excellent for someone his age. He had gone to the Sorbonne, followed by Oxford, where he got a master’s degree in art history. He had begun at Christie’s, as she had. She called him after she looked him up.

  “Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow?” she suggested. He said he’d be there, and could spend two days with her, possibly three, before he had to get back to Europe to join his father at meetings in Madrid.

  He showed up the next day in jeans with a blue shirt, a well-cut tweed jacket that looked English, and brown suede boots. He was very attractive, which she reminded herself was irrelevant. She was in love with Paul. He was tied up with his children all week, and had told her he couldn’t see her until the weekend, so she had spare time to spend with Jean-Pierre, showing him everything. He represented an extraordinary opportunity for her.

  “Would you be interested in a partnership eventually?” he asked her on the second day. It would involve his investing money in her business.

  “Possibly. For now, let’s just think of it as the Paris branch.” She wanted to discuss his suggestion with her financial advisors. She had invested part of her inheritance from her father in the business, so she wasn’t casual about it, and didn’t want to take on a partner she didn’t know well. But eventually, his proposition might be of interest to her. She enjoyed the time they spent together. He had an easy, pleasant style, but he was also businesslike and well organized. He didn’t flirt with her. He was serious about their work.

  He left for Paris on Friday afternoon, and she had agreed to come to Paris in a week and spend two weeks there, going over things with him. She told Paul about him that night. She hadn’t mentioned it all week, because they were both busy, and she wanted to explain the plan to him at length.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Paul looked surprised.

  “You didn’t have time. What do you think of the idea?”

  “It sounds good to me, but you should check it out with your financial people.”

  “I already have. So far, it all looks good. I’m going to Paris in a week to check it out with him,” Olivia said, and he looked startled.

  “You are? So quickly?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why are all the women in my life migrating to Paris?” he said, smiling. “I wish I could go with you, but I can’t leave the kids. Maybe you’ll run into Eileen,” he said, joking, but Olivia didn’t smile.

  “I hope not. That would be embarrassing.”

  “Just don’t go to Le Cordon Bleu when you’re there.” She had no reason to anyway. She was going to meet with an art dealer, not a cooking school.

  They managed to spend one night of the weekend together, but the following week, all three of his children had midterms, and he had to be home to help them study for them. He told her he wouldn’t be able to see her before the weekend. She couldn’t wait for Eileen to get home. She was tired of playing second fiddle to his kids. They always came first with him, and she couldn’t help wondering what their life would be like, even when he wasn’t living with them. They always had a game, or a practice, or a problem, or a tutor, or were sick, or needed his attention. And with three of them, there was no time for her on the merry-go-round he lived on.

  She hadn’t seen him in six days when she left for Paris on Friday night. Paul was disappointed that she was leaving. He had gotten Tina to agree to stay for both weekend nights, but now Olivia would be gone.

  Her flight landed in Paris on Saturday at nine A.M., and she took a cab to the Ritz, where her mother always stayed. Jean-Pierre knew when she was arriving and they had agreed to have lunch in the covered garden of L’Espadon on Saturday. He wanted her to meet his father. She was looking forward to it.

  She lay down for a while to rest, and then took a bath and changed. She put on a chic black suit, and felt very sophisticated as she headed to L’Espadon downstairs at the Ritz. Jean-Pierre was waiting for her and wearing a suit and tie. He looked happy to see her.

  “How was your flight?”

  “Easy. I watched a movie and slept the rest of the time until we landed. I like night flights for that.”

  “So do I,” he agreed. “My father used to send me to Asia a lot when I started working for him. I got used to sleeping on long flights.”

  The maître
d’ showed them to a table in the garden under the glass roof. He knew Jean-Pierre well. Jean-Pierre ordered champagne for them, to celebrate “their alliance” and “the Paris branch.” She ordered a light lunch, and so did he. They talked nonstop for two hours, sharing ideas for the business, some of which she wanted to incorporate in New York too. He had made some excellent suggestions, and they were both in high spirits when he took her to their gallery on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, the most elegant shopping street in Paris, where his father owned a large building they had transformed into the gallery many years before.

  Jean-Pierre took her upstairs in a private elevator to his father’s office on the top floor. The door was open, and an imposing-looking man in his sixties was seated at an enormous Louis XV desk. He glanced up when he heard footsteps, and smiled when he saw his son with a beautiful redhead in a chic black suit. Jean-Pierre had mentioned his interest in Olivia’s business in New York, but his father didn’t make the connection until Jean-Pierre introduced them.

  “So you are my son’s new associate,” Arnaud Muset said, smiling at her. They both looked so young to him, and made a handsome pair. Jean-Pierre had a weakness for very young, very sexy, somewhat cheap-looking girls. Arnaud was relieved to see him with a respectable young woman for a change. But he wasn’t dating her, he wanted to go into business with her, which was an entirely different matter.

  Arnaud showed her around the gallery himself, and took out some remarkable paintings for her to see. He often dealt in Old Masters and the major Impressionists, but handled the modern artists too, particularly Picasso. He pulled out two spectacular Picassos, and she quietly said that she had one from the same series herself. Arnaud was intrigued to hear it.

  “My father was a big collector. I inherited two from him,” she said demurely. Jean-Pierre didn’t know that about her. She had been very discreet, and only spoke about business with him, or funny experiences at Christie’s or in college. He didn’t know who her mother was either. “My grandmother is an artist,” she admitted then. “Gabrielle Waters. She does very large bronzes, mostly horses.” Arnaud looked at her in amazement and laughed.

  “I have always wanted one for our country home. I’ve been on a waiting list for one of them for ten years. I think she only sells to old clients and her best friends. She’s not impressed by me at all.”

  They left Jean-Pierre’s father after a while and went back downstairs, so he could show her the offices his father was willing to let them use. They were very handsome spaces, which would be excellent for meeting clients. He looked at her with a smile. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me. You didn’t tell me your grandmother is a famous artist. She’s quite old now, isn’t she?”

  “She’s ninety-two and going strong. And there have to be some surprises.” She smiled at him. “She lives with a younger man of eighty-four, Federico Banducci, the photographer.” Jean-Pierre’s face lit up when she said it.

  “I sold one of his photographs last year. We don’t normally handle photography, but we had a client who wanted one and couldn’t find it, so we got it for him. And I have two myself. I love his work. So you come from a long line of artists. What did your father do?” She had told him in New York that her father was deceased.

  “He was a producer, Tom Page,” she said proudly, and Jean-Pierre recognized the name immediately. “And my mother is an actress.” She didn’t explain further, but Jean-Pierre was curious about this surprisingly discreet young woman with a distinguished artistic heritage. He was interested in knowing more about her, especially if they were going into business together.

  “Would I recognize your mother’s name?”

  “Probably.” Olivia smiled innocently at him.

  “Well? Are you going to tell me?” Jean-Pierre said expectantly, and she laughed.

  “Gwen Waters. She’s an American actress,” she said, as though he might not know.

  “Yes, and Renoir was a French artist. I’ve heard of both of them. Are you serious? Gwen Waters is your mother?” She nodded, as they stood in the space that was going to become the site of their joint venture, her Paris branch. “Now we have to go into business together. I would love to meet her.”

  “I’m sure you will. Actually she paints. She’s pretty good. She just started painting again. She does it between films.”

  “I’ve seen all of her movies. My father would die to meet her. He has a huge crush on her.” Most men did.

  “So that’s me. What about you?”

  “You’ve met my father. My mother died when I was seven. I’m an only child.”

  “My father died when I was seven. And I’m an only child too.”

  “Clearly, we’re twins, separated at birth, and now we’ve found each other and we’re going into business together. Destiny.” He wanted to ask her if she had a boyfriend, but he thought it too forward. They were engaged in business, not internet dating, but he was curious about her. She was so strikingly beautiful, and she certainly had an interesting family, loaded with famous people. “Are you too tired to go out tonight?” he asked her as they left the building and walked a short distance down the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. All the most luxurious stores were there. Chanel, Hermès, Saint-Laurent, and many important jewelers.

  “I’m not tired at all. I slept enough on the plane.”

  “A client of ours has taken over a nightclub, Castel. It’s a private club. He’s giving a party there tonight, and I told my father I’d go. Would you like to come with me?”

  “It sounds like fun.” She smiled at him. “But I’m not sure I brought the right clothes.”

  “You can wear jeans if you want to, with a blouse or sweater of some kind. No one dresses up much in the clubs. Why don’t we have dinner first, and go late? Nobody will get there till midnight or later. Or are you tired of me?”

  “I’d better not be if we’re going to work together,” she said, smiling.

  “I’ll figure out some bistro for dinner. I’ll pick you up at the Ritz at nine.” He hailed a cab for her then to take her back to the Ritz. She’d had a wonderful time with Jean-Pierre all afternoon, having lunch, meeting his father, seeing the gallery and the space they were going to use. And their plans for the evening sounded like fun too, with dinner and the party at Castel.

  She wore a sweater with rhinestones on it, jeans, high heels, and a short fur jacket she’d brought with her. It was still cold in Paris in March. He arrived promptly at nine, and took her to a small cozy bistro, then shortly before midnight, they went to Castel, which was on a narrow backstreet. It was a fashionable disco for members only, and because it was a private party, the crowd filtering in was well dressed and attractive. But there were several guests dressed as informally as she was, in jeans, and assorted creative outfits, since some were artists. There was a small, cramped restaurant on the main floor, and carpeting with an erotic design of male genitals leading downstairs to the club. People were drinking and having fun. The music was techno but not too loud. Jean-Pierre introduced Olivia to their host, a very attractive man in his forties, with an equally handsome young Englishman in his twenties, whom he introduced as his partner, standing beside him. And there was a beautiful blond woman with the younger man. She was wearing a lace blouse with jeans. Hugo, the young Englishman, introduced them. Her name was Eileen Jackson, and Olivia tried not to look shocked when she heard it. Jean-Pierre introduced Olivia, and the two women stared at each other and held their breath for an instant. Then Eileen held out a hand to her, and Olivia smiled nervously. They had recognized each other’s names. Olivia knew instantly who Eileen was and Eileen had heard Olivia’s name a few times, so it clicked immediately as the woman who had destroyed her marriage.

  “I guess fate brought us both to Paris so we could meet each other,” Eileen said graciously. “You’re as beautiful as my sons said.” She was incredibly nice about it.

 
“I’m so sorry,” Olivia said just loud enough for Eileen to hear her. Suddenly Eileen was real to her, as they met face-to-face. Before that she was just an idea.

  “Don’t be. Good things have come of it. I’m doing things I’ve wanted to do for years. I have my freedom. We should have ended it a long time ago. You woke us up.”

  “Thank you. Truly, I am sorry,” Olivia said to her as the men watched, but didn’t understand the exchange. “It’s all much more complicated than I thought. If I could, I wouldn’t do it again. I learned an enormous lesson. I’m sure Paul did too.”

  “I don’t know if he learned anything, but he’s paying penance now, running after our kids while I’m here. It’s his turn! I did it for nearly twenty years.”

  The worst part was that Olivia really liked Eileen, and now she could see who they’d been cheating on. She almost liked her better than her husband. She seemed like the kind of person Olivia would have admired if she knew her.

  “I hope everything turns out well for you,” Olivia said sincerely.

  “It already has,” Eileen said generously, and then the crowd pushed them away from each other, and Jean-Pierre introduced Olivia to someone else.

  “Who was that woman?” he asked when they were on the other side of the room. “Is she an actress? She’s very beautiful.”

  “It’s a long, very complicated story. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but not here.” Something happened to her when she saw Eileen. She felt as though she had woken up. She had come all this way, met her, and seeing her, Olivia knew she didn’t belong with Paul. She wondered if maybe he would go back to Eileen, if she’d have him. Olivia didn’t have the feeling that Eileen was unhappy. She looked comfortable and at ease at Castel.