What she had dreaded had proved to be sheer joy. House Massot . . . everyone was friendly. Especially Judy Dean; that was lovely, having a friend she could count on. Sophie couldn’t quite penetrate the dense language of the reports and files Gregoire gave her, and he was so distracting; but then he had warned her—business was boring. He was so open with her, flooding her with paper and information, when really, she reflected guiltily, all she wanted to do was spend time with him.
Gregoire was not like her so-called friends who came to parties here, dining and dancing twice a month, every month, just as Pierre and Katherine had commanded: twenty of the best families of the arrondissement, faces she knew like the back of her hand, and she couldn’t really care less about any of them. Sophie was closer, by far, to the servants.
Yes, hers had been a life full of people, but only now was she starting to realize what a lonely one. Gregoire cared about her. Judy was fun. She’d had nobody . . .
Well, Fr. Sabin, the old priest in the village. He was a good friend. But, of course, he was also a priest. And seventy. Not like . . .
Gregoire was smiling at her. Sophie admired again the pale blue eyes, the blond hair, the rigorous bearing.
“You must have designed this room.”
“I did. How did you guess?”
“The rest of the place looks like a museum.”
“Thank you. At least you can touch things in it, though.”
“I’m glad of that,” he said quietly and deliberately. “That you can touch things.”
Sophie flushed deeper and felt a faint, almost imperceptible stirring in her belly and breasts. She looked away, confused.
“This room is full of life,” Gregoire said lightly, changing the subject. “And light. It had to be your work. I imagine it is very pleasant in the winter . . . I hate the dark.”
“Oh, me too,” Sophie cried. “That is exactly what I intended it for, so I could be outside yet still inside. When it’s too cold I walk around in here, and soak in all the light. It stops me from getting—”
She cut herself short. She didn’t want to say “depressed.”
“I feel exactly the same, all winter long. What is your expression, ‘great minds think alike’?”
“That’s it,” Sophie said, and they laughed.
“Ah, Madame,” he said, catching her hand. “I do so enjoy spending time with you. It makes it all worth it.”
“Luncheon is served,” said Bernarde, appearing with a tray of heavenly smelling food.
Sophie jumped away from Gregoire as though his touch were electric, but Bernarde smiled knowingly, and Sophie had to rhapsodize over the meal to cover her reaction. Gregoire didn’t seem to care; he gave her a long look, and Sophie could still feel her palm, damp where his touch had been, burning against her cool skin.
Chapter 12
Judy stepped out of the elevator and put her shoulders back. Another morning in her windowless cell of a room, another morning working next to that simpering idiot Sophie Massot. But she had high hopes it was all coming to an end. Sophie was spending less and less time in her “office” and more and more time being squired around by Gregoire. The pretense of work was, she hoped, finishing, and Judy would have survived—survived, again; exactly what she was so good at.
She walked briskly, smiling, to their little corner of the top floor. Marie was already there, awaiting her.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle.”
“Good morning, Marie. Coffee, please, and today’s clippings. And my call sheet.”
“Certainly, Mademoiselle.”
Judy was pleased to note Marie’s expert eyes sweep over her outfit. She could thank Sophie for one thing, she had learned to be even more stylish, even more perfectly chic, since she had arrived. Judy had to raise her game. Mme Massot always looked perfect, always in black, without a hair out of place, and with little unexpected touches thrown in that lifted her to the heights of elegance because they were so obviously unplanned. When she was rich, she vowed fiercely, she would have clothes that were just as fine, clothes cut with the precision of a diamond.
For now, she had to struggle and think. Last week, Judy had even considered writing out a little chart of what, in her carefully constructed but limited wardrobe, went with what. But she had rejected the idea. That would be letting Sophie get too deep into her head.
Today she had gone very simple: a summery dress of pale blue slub silk, a single emerald-cut sapphire suspended from a white gold chain, strappy sandals, and an ivory cashmere cardigan thrown round her shoulders. Never at any time did she wear black. She had even retired her black handbags. For now, she would be a butterfly. Judy wanted everyone in the office to see how unafraid she was of Sophie. She would dress beautifully and conspicuously, and aim for the greatest possible contrast—
“Judy!”
She pasted on her most welcoming smile. “Sophie, hello. Good to see you again!”
“Isn’t it a wonderful morning?”
Sophie threw open the doors to the office Gregoire had given her; it was three times the size of Judy’s old one, with huge windows overlooking rue Tricot towards the Seine. There was a small silver bowl on her antique walnut desk crammed with low-cut yellow roses; Gregoire had the flowers changed each day.
Judy looked at it enviously, then caught herself. Nothing unproductive, right? So she liked this office? Then make a plan; it could be her office once the widow departed and she got that senior vice presidency.
“Look at that view!”
“Yes, wonderful,” Judy said, glancing at the plain white walls of her own room.
“It’s going to be hot again, but I think the forecast called for a quick shower around lunchtime. Which is perfect, don’t you think? Perhaps we shall have a rainbow.”
“Mmm,” Judy agreed sweetly.
“I can’t work in weather like this. . . .”
“I have to, I’m afraid,” Judy told her. “But,” she added, taking up Gregoire’s line, “you’re right, work is so boring.”
Sophie went to her desk, sat down, and flicked idly through a sheaf of papers.
“More sales reports.”
“He said you wanted to see everything.”
“I did.” Sophie sighed. “But there’s so much of it.”
“You see that everything is fine, though, and I suppose that’s the important thing,” Judy said. This wasn’t strictly true, but Sophie Massot didn’t need to know it.
“I wish I could. I feel I’m just thrashing around here. . . .”
“I understand, Sophie,” said Judy, sympathetically. “You have to check everything out, you can’t just trust Gregoire, can you?”
Sophie’s dark head lifted. She stared at Judy.
“But of course I trust Gregoire!”
“Yes, of course.” Judy added lightly, “Up to a point, that is.”
Sophie sat down in her chair, looking dismayed. “You don’t think I trust him, Judy?”
“Coffee, Mademoiselle,” Marie sang out, arriving back with it. Judy reached for the bone china cup.
“Thank you; place the documents on my desk.” Judy looked at Sophie; she saw an opportunity and wanted to act on it. “Do you have time to take coffee with me this morning, or . . . I suppose you’re too busy,” she said, deferentially.
Sophie looked pleased. “No, I’d love to.”
“Another cup for Mme Massot,” Judy told Marie. “Black, one sugar. Is that right?”
“Perfect.”
Judy waited until Marie had come back with the coffee. “Hold my calls,” she told her, then she shut the door and gave Sophie her cup.
“I wonder, Madame . . . if I might speak frankly to you.”
Sophie sighed. “I wish you would . . . I wish anyone would. And honestly, Judy, how many times? It’s Sophie.”
“Well . . . of course . . . it’s just slightly delicate.” Judy smiled awkwardly. “You see, M. Lazard—Gregoire—he has been running House Massot since . . . you know.”
“Yes,” Sophie agreed dryly. She knew.
“He works very hard,” Judy said loyally. “He’s in the office all the time. I believe he does his very best for the company; he’s dedicated. . . .”
Sophie smiled, proud to hear Gregoire described like that.
“He’s been a good boss to you then?”
“The best,” Judy said. She trusted she would soon be able to make those words come true. “And then, of course, you show up.”
Sophie looked defensive. “You don’t think Gregoire minds . . . ?”
“He was very happy to see you,” Judy explained. “If you want my opinion, I would say he was glad for the chance to show you how he has kept his trust to your family, working the way he has.”
Sophie nodded.
“But,” Judy continued. “You stayed, Mada—Sophie. You stayed and you kept going over all the papers . . . even though he gave you every report . . . you are still here. I think the only way to understand it is that you do not believe what he has told you about the company. You do not trust him to run it, and you do not trust his assurances.”
Sophie looked shocked.
“Of course that is your right . . . you have a perfect right not to trust anybody,” Judy went on smoothly. “You’re the chairman of the board.”
Sophie put down her cup of coffee, stood up, and started to pace back and forth in front of the window. What if the American girl were right? What if that was 100 percent how Gregoire saw things? No wonder he had not declared himself . . . had not said anything open.
“And this is how he sees it?” she asked Judy.
Judy shrugged, a little slither of cream and palest blue.
“If you were him, how would you interpret it?” she asked. “Of course, I only know him professionally, as a colleague . . .”
She hardly knew Lazard at all; she had made it her business to stay out of his way until very recently.
“. . . but he’s very proud of his work,” she concluded.
Sophie looked despairingly at the reams of paper scattered across her desk. She couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it.
“Are things going well at House Massot?”
“Exactly the same as they have been for the last several years,” Judy responded, quickly and, she noted with internal amusement, accurately. “Nothing’s happened here. We put out collections . . . we sell them . . . we put out new collections.”
It was a slightly depressing recital, the truth, and as she thought about it, Judy added carelessly, “Nothing’s actually happened since the last Hugh Montfort episode.”
“The last what?” Sophie asked.
Judy could have kicked herself.
“Oh, nothing very interesting,” she said. “There’s a guy named Hugh Montfort who works for an English company called Mayberry.”
“Never heard of them.”
With Sophie’s classic styling, this did not surprise Judy. So much the better, since she would not be fascinated by the mere name, like so many others.
“They make cheap jewels. Nothing like House Massot.” Again, the best lie was simply to tell part of the truth. “Hugh Montfort thought he could expand and take this company over, gobble it up.”
Sophie asked “What happened?”
“Your husband couldn’t stand the man. Told him what to do with his bid.”
“So this took place years ago.”
“Yes, well, he sniffed around after that, a few times.”
Sophie thought about it. “He’s obviously persistent.”
“Nothing to worry about, Sophie. Gregoire told him where to get off. There’s no way he could do us any damage with Gregoire taking care of your family’s interests,” Judy said, warmly.
“So then, apart from this man Montfort, nothing untoward has happened here? Seriously, Judy, I need to know.”
“Absolutely nothing. We’re just going along as we always have.”
As far as Judy knew, this was the truth. It was also the problem—something she did not explain to the older woman.
“Then maybe . . . I really don’t need to be here,” Sophie said, and Judy fought the urge to close her eyes and exhale . . . yes! She had done it.
“Nobody can tell you that,” Judy said, trying to sound dissuading. “Nobody can tell you you ought to trust your executives. . . . that you have to trust Gregoire. Trust is so personal, don’t you think?”
Sophie left the office—for the day, she told Judy—around eleven. It was all Judy could do not to turn cartwheels across the length of the executive floor, past the cubicles and into the watercooler. But she contained herself. Patience—she wasn’t quite home yet.
She had Marie call Lazard’s secretary for an appointment, and sure enough, he slotted her in right away. Of course. Gregoire Lazard would not have ordinary meetings and lunches, not anymore. Everything had ground to a halt so he could look after the widow. Judy spritzed her scent, Hermès 24, Faubourg, into the air in front of her and walked into the cloud, the way all Frenchwomen did. It perfumed her lightly all over, without ever being overpowering. She had no desire to stink like some showgirl.
She walked to Lazard’s office, and knocked discreetly on the door.
“Judy, come in.”
“Thank you, Gregoire,” she said, making full use of the permission she had gotten to use his first name. “May I sit down?”
He waved her to the chaise longue. She sat down, catlike, upon it, smiling and confident of her own good looks.
“I wanted to update you on a conversation I had just now with Mme Massot,” she said evenly.
Lazard stopped giving her that slightly patronizing smile and took his seat again. He was now all ears.
“Have there been . . . fireworks in the office?”
“Fireworks? Why on earth would there be fireworks?” Judy asked, smiling firmly at him.
Lazard inclined his head; he seemed to enjoy the tap dance.
“Two such strong personalities,” he murmured.
Strong personality was not a phrase Judy would have used to describe the widow Massot. Weak as water was more like it.
“Mme Massot and I get on very well.”
“Oh,” he said, and for a second she thought she saw disappointment on his face. “What was the substance of your conversation, then?”
“Mme Sophie finds the volume of information you have given her to digest rather hard going.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“And she asked me about the state of the company. I was able to reassure her that nothing has changed here. And . . . I remarked that perhaps she was taking extra caution, in that she could not trust the assurances of her executives. . . .”
Lazard smiled appreciatively.
“Of me, you mean.”
Judy inclined her head.
“And what did she say?”
She noticed Gregoire had actually shifted his body forward; he was literally on the edge of his seat.
“She seemed most disturbed by the implication, and told me she has perfect trust in you. Then she asked me for my assessment of House Massot, and when I reassured her, she took the rest of the day off.”
“I see.”
Gregoire Lazard steepled his fingertips and looked straight at Judy; the sky blue, slanted eyes were impenetrable, and for a moment she worried. Had she overstepped herself? Misread him?
“Although I do not believe I should be instigating promotions at this time,” Lazard said, “I have . . . recently been impressed with your work on the London shows.”
They had taken place more than a month ago.
“Thank you,” said Judy.
“And I have decided to increase your salary.”
She smiled coolly; she had gambled and won. “Thank you,” she repeated.
“You will now receive one hundred and seventy-five thousand euros.”
Judy tensed. One seventy-five? Her current salary was one fifty. She had been looking for a quarter of a million, at least.
She wondered whether or not she should challenge Lazard.
“I trust you will consider increasing that soon, Gregoire,” she said.
Lazard’s blue eyes held hers, calmly.
“Certainly, Judy, you understand that salary increases as performance increases. If you continue at this level of service, then . . .”
He waved a manicured hand to indicate the infinite possibilities.
Judy nodded. She understood perfectly. She was no longer a PR girl, she was now Gregoire Lazard’s eyes and ears in House Massot, and maybe outside it.
“I wonder,” she said delicately. “If Mme Massot does decide that she will be spending less time in the office . . . I think she should still be updated on our doings here, and of course, I am quite fond of her. Although it’s a little unorthodox, perhaps you might consider my taking some time off, in the workday, to visit her, to continue our . . . friendship?”
“On reflection, perhaps I was a little conservative. Let us say two hundred thousand,” Gregoire Lazard replied.
Judy offered him her hand across the table. “A pleasure doing business with you, Monsieur,” she said.
Chapter 13
It started in such a mundane way. With a holiday.
“Dad.” Sophie screwed up her courage.
“Yeah?”
Mike Roberts didn’t turn aside from his copy of the Mirror. Not that she’d expected him to. Her dad didn’t like her much. Eighteen years of sulking that she wasn’t a boy. And Mum only really cared about pleasing Dad.
“I’d like to go to Cannes with Joanna Wilson.”
“Jo Wilson? That girl’s a little tart.” Roberts sniffed. “And where’s Cannes?”
“In France. Just for the weekend.” Sophie made her excuse. “It’s cultural . . . and I did get my passport last year, remember?”
“I’m not paying for it. You eat me out of house and home as it is.”
“I’ve got some money saved up,” Sophie pleaded. “From my job. Can I go?”
Her father turned and looked at his daughter, all nervous, skinny, and timid. She reminded him of his wife in her most aggravating moods. Why couldn’t they have had a boy?
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