Three Weeks in Paris

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Avenue from Seventy-ninth Street to Thirty-ninth. Forty blocks of good exercise, but she had finally given in and taken a cab back to the loft.

  After glancing out of the window at the lights of Manhattan slowly coming on, Alexa sat down on the sofa in front of the fire, staring into the flames flickering and dancing in the grate. Her mind was awash with so many diverse thoughts, but the most prominent were centered on Tom.

  It was Nicky Sedgwick who had introduced them when Tom had come out to the studios in Billancourt to see his client Jacques Durand, who was producing the movie. It was a French-American coproduction, very elaborate and costly. Nicky and his brother Larry were the art directors and were designing the sets, and at Anya’s suggestion they had hired Alexa as their assistant. But she had become more like an associate because of all the work and responsibility they had heaped on her.

  What a challenge the movie had been, and what a lot she had learned. It was a historical drama about Napoleon and Josephine in the early part of their relationship, and Nicky, who was in charge, was a stickler for historical accuracy and detail. Even now, when she thought of the endless hours she had spent at Malmaison, she cringed. She had taken countless notes, knew that house inside out, and had often wondered why the famous couple had ever lived there. Its parkland and closeness to Paris, she supposed. Nicky had been thrilled with her … with her work, her overall input, and most of all with her set designs. In general, it had been a positive experience, and she worked on most of their movies and plays after that, until she left Paris.

  The day Tom Conners came out to the studios, shooting was going well, and Jacques Durand had been elated. He and Tom had invited the Sedgwick brothers to dinner when they wrapped up for the day, and she had been included in the invitation, since Anya’s nephews had by then adopted her, in a sense.

  She had been struck dumb by Tom’s extraordinary looks, his charm and sophistication. So much so, she had felt like a little schoolgirl with him. But he had treated her as a grown-up, with gallantry and grace, and she had been smitten with him before the dinner was over. Later that night she found herself in his arms in his car after he drove her home; two nights later she was in his bed.

  “Spontaneous combustion” he had called it, but not very long after this he had said it was a coup de foudre, clap of thunder, love at first sight. Which they both knew it was.

  But that easy charm and effortless grace hid a difficult man of many moods, a man who was burdened by the needless deaths of his wife and child, and by an acute sorrow he was so careful to hide in public.

  Nicky had teased her about Tom at times, and once he had said, “I suppose women must find his dark Byronic moods sexy, appealing,” and had thrown her an odd look. She knew what he was hinting at, but Tom was not acting. He really was in pain on occasion. But it was Larry who had been the one to warn her. “He comes to you dragging a lot of baggage behind him, emotional baggage,” Larry had pointed out. “So watch out, and protect your flanks. He’s lethal, a dangerous man.”

  Alexa reached for the afghan on the arm of the sofa and stretched out under it. Her thoughts stayed with Tom and their days together in Paris. Despite his moodiness, those awful bouts of sadness, their relationship had always been good, even ecstatic when he shed the burdens of his past. And it had ended only because she had wanted permanence with him. Marriage. Children.

  She wondered about him often, wondered who he was with, how his life was going, what he was doing. Still suffering, she supposed. She hadn’t been able to convey to her mother the extent of that. She hadn’t even tried. It was too hard to explain. You had to live through it with him to understand.

  He was forty-two now, and still unmarried, she felt certain of that. What a waste, she thought, and closed her eyes, suddenly craving sleep. And she wanted to forget … to forget Tom and her feelings for him, forget those days in Paris … she was never going back there. Not even for Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kay

  I REMEMBER DANCING WITH HIM HERE, RIGHT IN THE center of this room, under the chandelier, she thought, and moved forward from the doorway where she had been standing.

  Her arms outstretched, as if she were holding a man, Kay Lenox turned and whirled to the strains of an old-fashioned waltz that was playing only in her head. Humming to herself, she moved with rhythm and gracefulness, and the expression on her delicately molded face was for a fleeting moment rhapsodic, lost as she was in her thoughts.

  Memories flooded her.

  Memories of a man who had loved and cherished her, a man who had been an adoring lover and husband, a man she was still married to but who no longer seemed quite the same. He had changed, and even though the change in him was minuscule, she had spotted it from the moment it had happened.

  He denied her charge that he was different in his behavior toward her, insisting she was imagining things. But she knew she was not. There had been a cooling off in him; it was as if he no longer loved her quite as much as before.

  Always attentive and solicitous, he now appeared to be distracted, was even occasionally careless, forgetting to tell her if he planned to work late or attend a business dinner, or some other such thing. He would phone her at the very last minute, giving no thought to her or any plans she might have, leaving her high and dry for the evening. Although she seethed inside, she said nothing; she was always patient, understanding, and devoted.

  Kay had never believed it possible that a man like Ian Andrews would marry her. But he had. Their courtship had been idyllic, and so had the first two and a half years of their marriage, which had been, for her, like a dream come true.

  And these were the memories that assailed her now, held her in their thrall as she moved around the room, swaying, floating, circling, as if in another kind of dream. And as she danced with him, he so alive in her head and her heart, she recalled his boyishness, his enthusiasm for life, his gallantry and charm. He had swept her off her feet and into marriage within a month of their first meeting. Startled though she was, she had not objected; she had been as madly in love with him as he was with her. Besides, it also suited her purpose to marry him quickly. She had so much to hide.

  A discreet cough intruded, brought her out of her reverie and to a standstill. She glanced at the door, feeling embarrassed to be caught dancing alone, and gave Hazel, the cook at Lochcraigie, a nervous half smile.

  “Sorry to intrude, Lady Andrews, but I was wondering about dinner …” The cook hesitated, looking at her steadily, and then finished in a low voice, “Will his lordship be here tonight?”

  “Yes, Hazel, he will,” Kay answered, her tone firm and confident. “Thanks, Hazel. Oh, and by the way, did you see the dinner menu I left?”

  “Yes, I did, Lady Andrews.” The cook inclined her head and disappeared.

  But will he be here? Kay asked herself, walking to the window where she stood looking out across the lawns and trees toward the hills that edged the pale blue skyline. After breakfast he had announced he was going into Edinburgh to buy a birthday gift for his twin sister, Fiona; it was their birthday tomorrow and they were having a birthday lunch. But she couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t asked her to pick something out earlier in the week, since she went to her studio in the city three days a week. On the other hand, he and Fiona were unusually close, and perhaps he felt the need to do his own selecting.

  Turning away from the long expanse of window, Kay walked across the terra-cotta-tiled floor, heading for the huge stone hearth. She stood with her back to the fire, thinking, as always, what a strange room this was, and yet it succeeded despite its strangeness. Or perhaps because of it.

  It was a conservatory that had been added on to one end of the house, and it had been built by Ian’s great-great-grandmother in Victorian times. It was airy and light because of its many windows, yet it had a coziness due to the stone fireplace, an unusual addition in a conservatory, but necessary because of the cold Scottish winters. Yet
in summer it was equally pleasant to be in, with its many windows, French doors, and cool stone floor. Potted plants and wicker furniture painted dark brown helped to give it the mandatory garden mood for a conservatory, yet a few choice antiques added charm and a sense of permanence. A curious but whimsical touch was the Venetian blown-glass chandelier that hung from the beamed ceiling, and yet this, too, somehow worked in the room despite its oddness.

  Kay bit her lip, thinking about Ian, worrying about their relationship, as she had for some time now. She knew why there had been this slight shift, this moving away … it was because she had not conceived. He was desperate for a child, longed for an heir to his lands and this house, where the Andrews family had lived for nearly five hundred years. And so far she had not been able to give him one.

  My fault, she whispered to herself, thinking of her early years in Glasgow and what had happened to her when she was a teenager. A shudder passed through her slender frame, and she turned bodily to the fire, reached out to warm her hands, shivering unexpectedly as she filled with that old familiar coldness.

  Lowering herself onto the leather-topped club fender, she sat staring into the flames, her face suddenly drawn, her eyes pensive. Yet despite the sadness, there was no denying her exceptional beauty, and with her ivory complexion, eyes as blue as speedwells and red-gold hair that shimmered in the firelight, she was a true Celt. But at this moment Kay Lenox Andrews was not thinking about her beauty, or her immense talent, which had brought her so far in her young life, but of the ugliness and degradation of her past.

  ————

  WHEN SHE LOOKED BACK, growing up in the Gorbals, the slums of Glasgow, had been something of an education in itself. There were times when Kay wondered if she might have been a different person if her early environment had not been quite so difficult and harsh. Inevitably, she always had the same answer for herself … she just wasn’t really sure.

  She knew there were those who said environment helped to create personality and character, while others believed you were born with your character intact, that character was destiny, that it determined the roads you took, the life you ultimately led. She herself tended to accept this particular premise.

  The road she took was the road to success. At least, that is what she repeatedly told herself when she set out to change her life. And her positive attitude, plus her determination, had helped her to accomplish wonders.

  When she was a teenager, the thing that had driven her was the need to get out of the Gorbals, where she had been born. Fortunately, her mother, Alice Smith, felt the same way, and it was Alice who had helped her to move ahead, who had pushed her out into the bigger world. “And a much better world than it is here, Kay,” her mother had repeatedly told her, always adding: “And I want you to have a better life than I ever had. You’ve got it all. Looks, brains, and that amazing talent. There’s nothing to stop you … but yourself. So I’m hoping to make certain you bloody well succeed, lassie. I promise you that, even if it kills me trying.”

  Her mother had plotted and planned, scrimped and saved, and there had even been one moment in time when she had actually resorted to blackmail in order to rescue Kay and fulfill her own special plans for her daughter. Alice had enormous ambitions for Kay, ambitions some thought were ludicrous, beyond reach. But not Alice Smith. Nothing and no one was going to stop her grabbing off the best for Kay; eventually, all that shoving and pushing and striving, and sacrifice had paid off. Her cherished daughter was launched with a new identity … a young woman of background, breeding, and education, who happened to be stunningly beautiful, unusually talented, and all set to become a fashion designer of taste and flair.

  I wouldn’t have made it to where I am today without

  Mam, Kay now thought, still gazing into the flames of the roaring fire, ruminating on her past life in general.

  Kay left the conservatory and walked toward the front hall set in the center of the house. It was a vast open space with a high-flung cathedral ceiling and a double staircase, with carved balustrades that ran up to the wide upper hall. The main feature of this hall was a soaring stained-glass window that bathed the front hall below in multicolored light, almost like a perpetual rainbow.

  She took the left-hand side of the staircase, running up to the second floor, where her design studio was located in what had once been the day nursery at Lochcraigie.

  As she opened the door and went in on this bitter February morning, she was glad to see that Maude, the housekeeper, already had a fire burning brightly in the grate. It was a large, high-ceilinged room with six tall windows, and it was flooded with the cool northern light she loved, and which was so perfect for her work. In this crystalline light all colors were true, and that made her designing so much easier.

  Stepping toward the old Jacobean refectory table that served as her desk, she reached over and picked up the phone as it began to ring. “Lochcraigie House,” she said, walking around to her high-backed chair and sitting down.

  “It’s me, Kay,” her assistant said.

  “Hello, Sophie. Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing. Why? Oh, you mean because I’m calling on a Saturday. No, all’s well in the world as far as I know. At least it is in mine, anyway.”

  Kay smiled. Sophie was a darling, full of energy and life, and a joy to work with, and at twenty-three she was bursting with talent, enthusiasm, and ideas. “Then you are the lucky one,” Kay said at last, wishing that all were well in her little world. She went on. “I just came up to the studio, and as I’m sitting here talking to you I can see that vermilion piece that came from the mill the other day … I like it, Sophie, I really do. It’s such a change from the colors I’ve been using this past year.”

  “I agree. It’s really vibrant, but also sort of … smoochy.”

  “What do you mean by smoochy?”

  “You know, smoochy, as in kiss-kiss-kiss.”

  Kay burst out laughing.

  Dropping her voice, Sophie now said confidingly, “I called because I finally got that information for you.”

  “What information?”

  “About the man my sister recently heard of … you know, we discussed it two weeks ago.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Sophie, I guess I’m being a little stupid today.” She clutched the receiver more tightly, filled with sudden expectancy.

  “His name is François Boujon, and he lives in France once again.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Just outside Paris. A place with a peculiar name. Barbizon. My sister got me all the information. Do you want to know everything now, or shall I tell you on Monday?”

  “Monday’s perfectly fine, I’ll be at the studio by about ten, and we can talk then. But just tell me one thing now … is he difficult to get an appointment with?”

  “Yes, a bit, I’m afraid. But Gillian will help.”

  “Can she?”

  “Oh, yes, very much so … her girlfriend Mercedes has a strong connection, which is good.”

  “It certainly is, and listen, I’m very appreciative, Sophie, I really am. Thanks for going to all this trouble.”

  “It wasn’t anything, not really. I was happy to do it. So, I’ll see you Monday, then.”

  “That’s right. Have a good weekend.”

  “I will, and you do the same.”

  “I’ll try,” Kay answered, and after saying good-bye she returned the phone to its cradle. Resting her head against the faded red velvet covering the chair’s back, she let her eyes roam around the room, her mind whirling with all manner of thoughts. Then quite suddenly she remembered the envelope that had arrived by FedEx yesterday, and she reached for the decorative wooden box on one end of the desk. Lifting the lid, she took out the envelope with its beautiful calligraphy—her name so elegantly written—opened it, and slipped out the invitation.

  Once again she read it carefully.

  Anya’s party was on the second of June, a good four months away. She wondered if
she could get an appointment with François Boujon for around that time.

  It would be perfect if she could, because Ian hadn’t been invited, and so she could travel alone to Paris. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought, and then she sat back in the chair with a jerk, frowning hard. Her vivid blue eyes clouded over, and her expression became unexpectedly grim.

  They would be there and she would have to see them. No, not only see them, but socialize with them, spend time with them. Not possible. They were no longer friends.

  Alexandra Gordon, the snob from New York. From the elite social set, Junior League, and all that ridiculous kind of thing. Always so toffee-nosed with her, stuck up, snubbing her.

  Jessica Pierce, Miss Southern Belle Incorporated, with her feminine sighs and languor and the dropping of lace hankies along the way. Poking fun at her, teasing her unmercifully, never leaving her alone with her taunts.

  Maria Franconi, another snob, this one from Italy, with her raven hair and flashing black eyes and fiery Mediterranean temperament. And all those lire from her rich Milanese textile family, flaunting her money and her connections, treating her like a servant.

  No, it’s not possible, Kay told herself again. I cannot go to Anya’s party. Because my tormentors will be there … how miserable they had always made her life.

  She knew what she must do. She must go to Paris sooner rather than later, to meet with this man François Boujon. Hopefully she would get an appointment relatively soon. She would set everything in motion on Monday, ask to see him next month. And it did not matter what it cost.

  She put the invitation back in the envelope, placed this in the wooden box, dropped the lid, and turned the key. Then once more she sat back in the chair, her eyes becoming soft and faraway as she thought of Ian. The man she loved. Her husband … who must remain her husband at all costs.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EVEN AS A CHILD, GROWING UP IN THE SLUMS OF GLASGOW, Kay had always managed to escape simply by retreating into herself. When the cramped little flat where she lived with her mother and brother, Sandy, became overly oppressive, she would find a small corner where she could curl up, forget where she really was, and dream.