Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  He paused, wondering whether to ignore the letter, then shrugged and tore it open.

  Darling Tom,

  This is a short note to let you know that I have recently been to see M. Foche. . . .

  The family lawyer. What could she want with Foche? He quickly scanned the rest of the letter. His eyes widened, and he gasped.

  The porter was delivering post to the pigeonholes around him and glanced at him with concern.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Tom snapped back to himself.

  “Oh yes . . . perfectly . . . thank you,” he said. He took the letter over to the waste bin in the corner and methodically ripped it into shreds. His back was rigid with anger.

  The porter wisely said nothing. Tom Massot was a good-for-nothing wastrel, just another rich playboy; they had a bunch of those every year. He wondered what the letter said. Maybe one of his girlfriends was up the duff. That would give the little shit something to concentrate on.

  Massot strode out of the lodge and paced down the warm flag-stones of Tom Quad towards his tutorial. He would get that out of the way, and then decide what to do. He thought of Papa, then wrenched his mind away. No! Whatever, whatever happened, he must not cry. Not even have red eyes. This was not child’s play, now, this was the business of House Massot. He would not have his affairs become the gossip of a bunch of impoverished Britons.

  To take his mind off it, he concentrated firmly on Polly and last night. Yes, that worked. That would work for the next hour.

  As soon as the tutorial was over, Tom having grunted his way through a dull analysis of Pope’s Rape of the Lock, he raced back to his rooms, ignoring the cries of his friends who wanted him to come in to lunch at Hall. He locked his doors and pulled out his mobile. He hoped his mother was there and not having one of her endless hair appointments or holier-than-thou visits with Father Sabin.

  “Sophie.”

  “Maman,” he said, switching to French to punish her. They had always spoken English together, but what the hell. He was his father’s son. Something she had apparently forgotten. “You cannot do this.”

  A long sigh. His mother was always sighing. Tom raged.

  “I have done it, darling. It had to be done.”

  “No, no it didn’t,” he cried. His heart thudded from the betrayal, from the grief. “You have no idea if Papa is dead.”

  “Of course he’s dead. He couldn’t be alive; he would never abandon you on purpose.”

  He hated her for putting it like that.

  “He could still be alive,” he said. “Maybe he’s been hit on the head and lost his memory. He could have amnesia!”

  There was a long silence. He could hear her struggling with what to say, and of course it let him hear how ridiculous the idea sounded.

  “We both loved Papa,” she said. “You know, we must give him the gift of mourning him and of celebrating his life. He would want us to do that.You must stop hoping, darling.You should pray for him.”

  “Pray!” Thomas groaned. “Please, Maman. And the House? Now what will happen to the people running it?”

  “I take control of it. I’m going into town tomorrow to meet the executives.”

  He scowled. “Maman, that all comes to me when I’m twenty- one.”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “So you should wait until then.”

  “I can’t wait another three years. We must take care of your father’s affairs; he would have wanted that.”

  “No, he wouldn’t!” Thomas exploded. “He appointed all the people who are there now! He chose them! You shouldn’t alter Papa’s decisions! You should leave that for me. I’m head of House Massot, not you—if he is truly dead.”

  “He truly is, sweetheart.”

  “You’re betraying him,” Thomas said, and was ashamed to find his own voice now thickening with the tears he had been suppressing. “And you’re betraying me.”

  “I’m doing all this for you, my dearest.”

  “Oh yes, your dearest. But you can’t stand to see me take control of my own inheritance!”

  “You are eighteen. For the next three years you need to be getting your degree. A year ago you were still in school, Tom; be reasonable. You’ll have your whole life to run Massot.”

  “My father never wanted this for you. He provided for you to stay home, to live very well, Maman.”

  “It will be all right, darling.”

  “No it won’t,” he said, crying. “Because of you!”

  He hung up on her. He wished it was a real phone so he could have slammed the receiver down. Pressing a little red button didn’t seem to have the same effect.

  Thomas stood up from his bed and caught sight of his reflection in the little age-spotted mirror over the sink. His eyes were bright red and his nose was flushed. He blushed with sheer embarrassment; he looked like the child his mother thought he was. He grabbed one of his monogrammed flannels and washed his face, breathing in deeply until it had returned to normal.

  Good. Better, anyway. He was not as young as all that. He picked up his Blackberry and tapped in the name G-e-m-m-a. She was another of his girls, more pliant than Polly, a little blander, but what he wanted right now. Nothing stressful, a woman who knew her place. He needed to assert his manhood and she would do very well. After Gemma, he would go to the bank, check his current account. Take stock of everything he had. Perhaps there would be enough to hire a really good lawyer of his own, not like Foche, that double-crossing old fool. Perhaps he could stop his mother doing this.

  If she really loved Papa as he did, she would never have done it. He was ashamed of her.

  Oh well, she was not a Massot by birth. He must not expect too much of her. In a few years it would be down to him. Calmetoi, he told himself.This uncharacteristic action was the only thing his mother had done on her own account since Papa left. Most likely, other than the dreadful declaration of his death, she would not rock the boat. She knew nothing about anything. She would leave things for him, as was right and proper, and so, perhaps, in time, he might possibly forgive her.

  But for now he would get himself a woman.

  Chapter 5

  The car purred silently through the twisting streets of Paris. The traffic wasn’t too bad; she would be there in good time. Sophie tried to calm her nerves. She’d felt forced to make this decision—it was in the interests of Tom, and, please God, the worst was over already. The visit to her mother-in-law, and then the letter, and the awful phone call that had followed it.

  The loneliness she had been feeling and trying to ignore for so many years was as nothing compared to the loss of her son.

  Was that too melodramatic? It did feel like a loss. The cheerful, bright, laughing little boy she had grown up with, altered of course since the night he lost his father, at eleven, but still at heart her Tom, the light of her life. The only true purpose to her days, to rising and sleeping. Even back when he had been around, Pierre had not visited her bed often, and the lovemaking, if you could call it that, had been cold and perfunctory. After Tom’s birth it had stopped completely. That was such a relief.

  Not that she’d tell anybody—a young wife is supposed to love sex, isn’t she? But Sophie didn’t. Pierre wasn’t tender, and she wasn’t excited; she submitted to it out of duty. Sex was what married people did. But she kept the lights off, so he wouldn’t see her biting her lip, the occasional grimace of pain. By common consent, outside the bedroom, they never spoke about it. Pierre didn’t complain. And Sophie didn’t trouble to ask why not.

  Pierre had provided magnificently for them, of course. There was nothing they could ever want. And he would kiss her and squeeze her hand and give her little compliments. Sophie cherished these; she didn’t realize she was starving for true affection. But the unbridled love of her baby boy had changed her world, and she had blossomed then, like a daisy uncurling its petals towards the sun.

  She had no idea when Tom had started to slide away from her. Eton, maybe. Boarding s
chool. Towards the end of his time there. She agonized again in the backseat of the car, as she had done so many times. Was that a fatal mistake? Sending him away? But Pierre had been so adamant he shouldn’t be a mama’s boy, and she hadn’t wanted that either.

  Precisely because he was her only one, her little one, she hadn’t wanted to smother him, make him, God forbid, effeminate. And when he started to get a reputation, when she got a call from the school about an affair with a local girl, well. Despite her faith in God, Sophie had secretly sighed in relief. He was a normal boy. Of course she had lectured him sternly. His father would never have done such a thing. . . .

  Well, she had confessed the gladness and been sternly lectured herself. But now, now she wasn’t quite so glad. There were women, countless women, so she had heard, in unguarded remarks from his friends. And she believed it. And even though he’d made it into Oxford, he wasn’t working, wasn’t bothering. Wasting his fine mind.

  More hurtfully, he wanted less and less to do with her. It seemed to her that her baby suddenly disliked everything about her.

  That call—well. It had been dreadful. Sophie was expecting it, but—dreadful, all the same.

  She was doing this for Tom’s own good. Sophie snapped open her Chanel purse and took out her spotted cloth handkerchief, a relic from her childhood, a little piece of her English life that she carried with her everywhere. A secret rebellion against Pierre and all his grooming of her as a proper grande dame. Of course, not much of a rebellion. She had obeyed him in almost everything.

  Her marriage came flooding back to her; the years of trying to fit in, the young bride desperate to live up to her millionaire husband’s expectations. How her nerves and timidity had kept her silent. The awkwardness at the formal dinner parties; Sophie hadn’t even known which fork to use. Pierre’s dazzling society friends, aristocrats and moguls, had terrified her. She’d become used to keeping quiet, keeping her head down. Hiding behind Pierre, desperate for the approval he withheld. She wanted to show she was grateful, to prove she could learn—she wanted to be the kind of wife he desired. Quiet and ladylike and modest. In the end, she’d become accustomed to living in his shadow: a beautiful, stylish cipher, and, with practice, an excellent hostess. But Tom’s birth had changed everything; when Tom came, Sophie had come alive.

  And now all her baby did was shout and rage at her.

  Sophie dabbed the handkerchief to her eyes. She wouldn’t think about it anymore. Loving your children often meant doing things they didn’t like. It was a mother’s place to endure the anger and the crying.

  Tom had to move on. It was unhealthy to obsess over somebody who was never coming back. And his company, no doubt everything was fine there, but she didn’t think she was overstepping her boundaries in checking. It would be a full three years before Tom could take over.

  I’m just seeing to this the way I balance my checkbook, Sophie told herself. She still spent on herself, to the cent, only the allowance Pierre had said she should be allotted. And she accounted for every penny. Another childhood habit, as natural to her as brushing her teeth.

  This is nothing to be afraid of. This is just a bigger checkbook, she thought. Ah, rue Tricot. There were Pierre’s offices. Today was overcast, cooler than it had been, and the grey sky matched the colour of the building. It also matched Sophie’s mood. Sombre and serious. She had chosen a suit—Dior haute couture—and kept it deliberately feminine, the required black of mourning, but with ivory buttons and a matching string of pearls. Massot, of course; Pierre had presented them to her on her twenty-fifth birthday. She also had a touch of scent at her wrist—Chanel No. 19, very light and springlike. There was no point in her wearing pinstripes or playing the businesswoman. Sophie did not want to look ridiculous.

  As her driver opened the car door, and saluted as she walked out, she felt a sudden burst of hope.

  Perhaps this would be the last of it. There was the funeral mass to go, of course. She didn’t know quite what to do about that. Hold it privately in the château’s private chapel. Katherine Massot and Tom would probably both refuse to attend. Katherine despised all priests, and Tom had stopped going to church. She didn’t dare push it. She just would do things privately, for Pierre.

  But this was the last awful, public thing. She had confronted Katherine and her son, and now all she had to do was just check on things here and then she could go back to the château and forget all about everything.

  Sophie couldn’t wait. She just wanted to get back to normal. These confrontations, so unusual for her, left her drained, tense, and unhappy.

  It was almost summer and she wanted to start work on that herb garden they had planned. All term-time, when Tom wasn’t there, Sophie worked on the gardens in the château. It kept her occupied, and it felt useful. You could create things of great beauty that way.

  She opened the heavy door with its brass handle and let herself into the offices. Her heart sped up, but Sophie breathed in, trying to slow it. No need to be nervous; why, they’re probably all afraid of you, the big bad widow who votes all that stock. The portrait of herself was ridiculous, and she smiled.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, with a touch of challenge.

  “Madame,” Sophie said. It slipped out before she had a chance to stop it.

  “Excuse me?” the girl demanded, angrily.

  “Madame,” Sophie said, apologetically. “You know,‘Can I help you, Madame?’ We should be polite to our customers, don’t you think? Or to anyone who walks in, really. It’s just good manners.”

  “You have an appointment with somebody?” the girl demanded.

  Sophie flushed. She hated arguments. She was no good at them. But there was nothing for it. She stared the girl in the eye.

  Now the girl flushed.

  “Why are you staring at me like that? I’ll call security,” she threatened.

  Sophie did not move. The girl looked at her. She watched her take in the beautifully cut suit, the huge pearls, the Chanel bag, the quiet, unmistakable scent of money. The wheels started ticking, slowly.

  “Oh,” said the girl, sullenly. “Of course, you mean I should say Madame. Do you have an appointment with somebody, Madame.”

  She repeated this flatly and with resentment.

  “With M. Gregoire Lazard,” Sophie said.

  The girl flushed again. “Of course, Madame. Please accept my apologies. I will remember what you said.”

  “It just makes people feel more welcome,” Sophie said, wanting to excuse herself now that she had won the point.

  “No doubt,” said the girl, “Madame.”

  She hates me, Sophie sighed.

  “Name please, Madame.”

  “Sophie Massot.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in fear.

  “Yes, yes, Mme Massot, at once,” she said, diving on her phone. “Monsieur, Mme Massot is here.” She listened, then hung up.

  “I—he is on the tenth floor, Madame,” she said in halting English. “I am to take you to him.”

  “Do the elevators go to the tenth floor?”

  The girl nodded.

  “I can find the way up there myself.”

  “Oh, please, Madame,” the girl said, almost crying. “Do please excuse me and don’t mention it to M. Lazard. . . . I need the work, the job.”

  “I’m not going to say a word,” Sophie said, appalled that she should be frightening anybody. This girl didn’t look much older than Tom. “I only want people to enjoy coming to House Massot, Mademoiselle. Please don’t concern yourself.”

  The girl nodded and bit her lip.

  “Everything will be fine!” Sophie said heartily, getting into the elevator. It was very small and dark, lined in red velvet, the old-fashioned sort with the metal grille you needed to pull closed yourself before the thing would start. She shivered and pressed the button for the tenth floor.

  Sophie was slightly claustrophobic, and below her, as the elevator cranked and wheezed its way up
the stairwell, she could hear the young girl snuffling. Of course, she had been abominably rude, but . . .

  Dulouc, the gardener, would be out there already, with his flask of coffee, raking the moist, crumbly soil that turned over on his trowel like a pat of butter. Ugh, she hated all this. Damn Pierre for getting himself killed, she thought, crossly. She hadn’t been here five minutes and already she wanted to go home.

  Blessedly, the tomblike lift juddered to a halt. She pulled open its inner door; an assistant, beautifully dressed in a little navy twinset, of which Sophie approved very much, opened the second door for her.

  “I decided to come up by myself,” Sophie said hastily, seeing the older woman’s eyes look for the errant receptionist.

  “Very good, Madame. Welcome to House Massot.” She offered her a brisk handshake. “My name is Cecile Lisbon; I am assistant to M. Lazard. It is a great honour to have you pay us a visit. I will take you to M. Lazard, if you will follow me.”

  Sophie dutifully walked behind her through the offices, which were open-plan, with employees sitting behind their little screens staring at computers or on the telephone. Most of them looked bored, though a few stared at her with open curiosity. It didn’t seem to her like the headquarters of a great house of jewellery and fashion, more just another office building. When she was a girl, she had visited her father one day in his work at the local paper. The atmosphere reminded her of that. But perhaps all business was the same, and just as dull as Pierre had told her it was.

  “In here, Madame.” The assistant opened a beautifully carved walnut door, and ushered her into Lazard’s office.

  It was tastefully decorated. Sophie had an eye for these things. She took in the soft, royal blue carpet, the cream-coloured walls, the mahogany desk lined with unexpected navy leather in place of the usual burgundy or forest green. Large bay windows looked over the Parisian streets, where shoppers and tourists and businessmen mingled in the chilly morning. He had no cushions on the window seat. If she worked here, Sophie thought, she would pile up cushions and sit there like a cat, staring into the street and looking for inspiration.