“Do whatever you want,” he said, shrugging. “You’re off to college soon, anyway.”
Sophie glowed with pleasure. “Thanks, Dad.” She looked over at her mother, but Ann was busy with the leg of lamb she was roasting for lunch; as ever, she showed no interest in her daughter’s plans.
Sophie crept upstairs to her tiny bedroom and started to pack her small suitcase. Thank God, she thought. Dad hadn’t cared enough to stop her. She was going away from here. That was exciting enough by itself, but France!
France was abroad. And it was for the famous film festival. Joanna promised her there’d be loads of stars and suchlike. Princes from Monaco and rich men. Jo said she was going to find her destiny, and would Sophie like to come?
Well, of course. Jo, after all, was so blonde and golden with her hair she got done at Vidal Sassoon. A little suburban town like Tunbridge Wells was right for Sophie, but it couldn’t hold a butterfly like Jo—she was destined for higher things, Sophie reflected.
If Jo was a butterfly, Sophie was a moth, usually with her nose in a book, lost in some trashy romance, concentrating on her studies. She always wore her school uniform, so she never shone out. Even on weekends, Sophie favoured plain, don’t-notice-me clothing. And the boys never did, even though (as Jo patronizingly conceded) Sophie “could be pretty.”
“You should go for it,” Jo suggested. “Get really groovy.”
“Like what?”
“Dye your hair platinum blonde. I could do it for you. Wear short skirts, heels. Get a push-up bra!” Jo tossed her own brass-bottle mane. “Some blue eyeshadow! Nobody can see how you look under that fringe.”
“Oh, no thanks,” Sophie said meekly. “My dad would kill me.”
Some girls at school wondered why Jo hung around with Sophie Roberts. Mr. Roberts was so boring, just a newspaper man with a middling-sized house. She didn’t even have any good-looking brothers.
Well, Sophie knew why; Jo didn’t like competition, and Sophie didn’t offer her any. Her confidence so dented by her loveless, selfish parents, Sophie was just pathetically glad to have a friend. The motivation didn’t matter—not really.
And tonight she felt even gladder about it. She was going to be Jo’s lady-in-waiting in France! On a real foreign beach, watching real film stars. A glimpse of a life away from her miserable suburban girlhood. It might even be sunny there, you never knew. Abroad was always sunny on TV. Sophie glanced at the rain drumming on the skylight window in her neat, dull little attic bedroom and wished with all her heart that nothing would go wrong; that Dad wouldn’t find some spiteful excuse to stop her. Her plan was always the same: head down and stay out of his way.
“I’m bored,” Joanna announced. She lolled against the motel bed with its thin sheets.
“Bored?” Sophie was shocked.
How could Jo be bored? She had dutifully followed her around everywhere. They’d seen all kinds of movie stars and dolly birds, and Johnny Hallyday, the famous French singer, had even winked at Jo! Sophie had seen it. They’d drunk wine (Jo had gotten plastered) and eaten baguettes and splashed in the sea. Actually, Jo spent a lot of time on the beach in that amazing red bikini of hers. Sophie had a swimsuit, but she was too shy to wear it, so she stuck to her shorts and flip-flops.
“We haven’t hooked up with anybody.”
“We had a coffee with those French girls,” Sophie pointed out.
“Huh! Girls,” Jo said with deep scorn. “I’m not here for girls. I want to meet a boyfriend. Or a movie director.” She ran her long scarlet nails through her hair, looking at her reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door. “I’m here to be discovered.”
“Most of the men are a lot older than us.”
“So what, darling? Mature, successful men like young girls. Maybe we could get invited onto a yacht,” said Jo excitedly.
Sophie blushed. The girls on the yachts often sat there with their tops off, showing their boobs to everybody!
“I don’t think my dad would like that.”
“Your dad doesn’t like anything you do,” Jo said, cruelly but accurately. “Live a little, Soph! Or at least,” she gave a tinkling laugh, “watch me do it.” Swinging her long legs off the bed, she wrenched open the wardrobe door, which was sticky. “Cheap motel,” she said scornfully. “We should be living in luxury!”
Sophie had to chuckle. “That’s not very likely. You don’t really think you’re going to meet Prince Charming, do you?”
“If anybody can, it’s going to be me,” Jo said confidently. “Look! I’ve been saving this one. What do you think?”
She pulled out a see-through white dress and held it up against her body. It clung lovingly to her slight curves, had a dangerously low-cut bodice, and a hem that flirted with the tops of her thighs.
Sophie laughed.
“I’m serious!” Jo said. “It’ll look sexy!”
“I think it’s a bit much.”
Jo pouted. “You never want to have any fun. Anyway, have you seen what the other girls are wearing?”
“I only have my pink dress left.” Her pink dress was her favourite. It was a knockoff of one that had been in the magazines, a Jackie Kennedy copy, sitting just on the knee with an elegant boatneck. Sophie thought it made her look more grown-up.
“Booooring,” Jo said. “But you wear that and I’ll wear the white. We’ll go to the Croisette. I heard a rumour yesterday that Pierre Massot is going to be there.”
“Another film star,” Sophie sighed. They were never where Jo thought they were going to be, and the two girls just walked around looking for them and getting blisters from their platform heels.
“No—he’s a Frog, a jeweller. Owns that famous chain of shops, like Garrard or something.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sophie. She loved jewellery, not that she owned any. But she liked looking in Jo’s magazines at what the models and princesses were wearing.
“Anyway, he’s gorgeous and filthy rich. And they say he loves pretty girls.” Jo was sliding out of her jeans, reaching for the little scrap of white fabric. “Just watch me, Soph. It’s my night. I can feel it!”
The Croisette beach was packed. It was a warm night, and the light breezes blowing in from the sea were pleasant; so were the scents coming from the local restaurants, all filled to overflowing. Cannes existed for the film festival, and did it magnificently. But Sophie was, if she admitted it to herself, looking forward to going home. She didn’t belong here; it was all butterflies, no moths allowed.
“Look!” Jo clutched on to her, teetering on her heels. “I think that’s him, Soph! I recognize him from the papers.”
Sophie looked. She couldn’t see much; there was a gaggle of blondes, giggling and mostly wearing nothing but swimsuits, clinging on to a man. He was pointing at a large, gorgeously equipped yacht, and several of the girls ran towards it.
“That’s the Natasha. That’s his boat! It’s seventy-five feet, at least.”
“It’s very nice.”
“Nice!” scoffed Jo. “D’you know how much money you need to run one of those things? He has servants. And a big castle near Paris, with peacocks on the grounds. He’s famous.”
“He’s coming this way,” Sophie said, timidly. She had a sudden urge to turn and run. Compared to the tiny scraps of nothing the other girls were wearing, even Joanna’s white baby doll dress looked dowdy. “Let’s go down and paddle in the foam.”
“Paddle nothing.”
“Jo—we’re going to look a bit silly . . . don’t you think?” Sophie ventured. But her friend ignored her.
“Oooh—isn’t he handsome.”
Sophie squinted. Was he? Handsome—in a way, she supposed. Those slim good looks weren’t really her thing. But who could quibble? The man was utterly self-confident, moving like one entitled, a pasha surrounded by a giggling harem. Photographers hovered, snapping his picture. He looked as though he owned the world.
“Oh! Soph, he’s heading this way!” Joanna squealed. And he was�
�he was walking straight at them. Sophie, in her modest pink dress, her brunette, undyed hair falling down onto her shoulders, wanted to cut and run. But that would have looked even more stupid than Jo flinging herself at him. She bit her lip, and hoped he would soon pass on.
He didn’t. Pierre had looked out over the crowds of blonde girls in tiny bathing suits, giggling and thrusting their curves forward, and seen her. And he had beckoned.
She could still remember the moment quite clearly, today.
“Look! He saw me. He wants me to come over,” Joanna said, in a fury of excitement. And then, clutching Sophie, she gasped, “Don’t move! Act natural. He’s coming over here. He’s coming over here! Say something. Start talking to me!”
“I’m getting cold,” said Sophie, who couldn’t think of anything else.
“Excusez-moi, Mesdemoiselles,” said Pierre Massot, stopping in front of them and bowing slightly. A girl on his arm giggled.
“We’re English,” Sophie said, bluntly.
“But of course you are,” he responded admiringly, “with skin like that.” He turned around and spoke to the crowd of blondes in French; his tones were charming but dismissive; they pouted, and dispersed.
Joanna smiled up at him triumphantly.
“Mademoiselle,” Pierre said to Sophie, “would you do me the honour of having dinner with me?”
“What about me?” Joanna cried.
Pierre looked at her, all blonde hair and tumbling legs. “If you wish to come along too, mademoiselle, I suppose it is all right,” he said.
Sophie blushed. Had she heard right?
Joanna scowled. “We’re busy. Come on, Sophie,” she said angrily, trying to drag her away.
But Sophie, for once, pulled her arm free. She didn’t know what made her—but there was something in this man’s stare, his eyes, that compelled her. That told her to seize this chance. Just once.
“I’ll see you later, Jo,” she said, and to Pierre, “I suppose I could—just this once.”
“You cow, Sophie Roberts!” Jo hissed. “Don’t bother coming back to the motel.”
Sophie quailed, but Pierre Massot, in his beautifully cut suit, turned his impassive eyes on her former friend.
“Mlle Roberts will not be coming back to your motel at all, Mademoiselle. I am looking after her now.” He offered Sophie his arm, and shyly, demurely, she took it.
“Shall we go?” he said. And escorted her off the beach.
She didn’t remember the name of the restaurant, only that it was far away from the hustle of Cannes, at Cap d’Antibes. Pierre had taken her there in his personal helicopter; the pilot saluted her as they touched down. She had been so taken aback she could hardly speak.
“What will you have?” Pierre asked, offering her a menu.
Sophie gazed shyly into her crystal glass of champagne.
“Whatever you think best. I don’t eat at expensive places very often,” she added artlessly.
“You’re extremely beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you.” She blushed.
Massot’s dark, calculating eyes swept over her. It was attention, focussed like a laser beam directly upon her, and Sophie wasn’t used to that.
She liked it.
He probed her delicately, carefully. Sophie answered honestly; she was eighteen; she was hoping to go to college; she wasn’t close to her family; she had led a sheltered life.
“And are you religious?”
“Yes—we’re Catholics.” Sophie thought she ought to say something. “We don’t believe in, you know. Sex, before marriage.”
He smiled. “How unusual. And have you had many boyfriends?”
“None at all,” Sophie said honestly. “They aren’t interested because . . . well, I’m not that pretty.” She self-consciously tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear.
“Nonsense. You are exquisite,” he said, so matter-of-factly that she glowed with pleasure. “And although you have not had the tools, you have a natural style.” He sipped at his glass. “No boyfriends . . . you are a blank slate. Tell me, do you enjoy your life?”
“Not that much.” She had stared at him. “Does anyone?”
“Oh, yes.” He smiled. “I do.”
“Then you’re very lucky.”
“I make my own luck,” he said confidently.
Sophie looked at him admiringly. Of course, now she’d told him they couldn’t have sex, he’d never want to see her again. But what a story to tell the girls back home! It was worth annoying Joanna for.
“I would like to show you my house.”
“Do you live near here?”
“Not at all. Just outside of Paris. But we can go in the helicopter.” He regarded her anxious face. “You can stay the night there—by yourself, of course, and I will send you back to England the next day, with a first-class ticket.”
“I’ve got clothes in the motel. . . .”
“I will replace them.”
Sophie didn’t hesitate. Somehow, it seemed less dangerous to accept than to say no. He simply wasn’t the sort of man you said no to.
“Thank you very much,” she said.
Pierre Massot smiled. “I find you intriguing,” he replied.
“But where are we?” Sophie asked. She walked hastily away from the chopper, its still-whirling blades blowing her dress up around her thighs. “I don’t understand. Where is your house?”
They were standing on a landing pad outside a vast, glorious old château in the middle of a park. It was lit with torches, blazing in the gravel drive; the size of a palace, and just as beautiful.
“Right there.” He smiled.
“That? Isn’t that a . . . a monument? Or a museum?”
“It’s a château. Château des Étoiles, to be precise—the castle of the stars. My home.” A thin smile. “Maybe, one day, yours, too.”
Sophie laughed nervously. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke.” He offered her his arm again. “I called ahead. My servants have found some clothes in your style, and you will find night things and toiletries in the guest suite, the Orléans suite. There are also fresh clothes for tomorrow, when you may call your parents.”
“My dad’s going to kill me,” Sophie whispered.
Massot shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She looked shyly up at him. Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps Prince Charming did exist, after all. . . .
And in fact, Pierre had rescued her. Less than two months later she had moved out of her parents’ cramped, dingy house, and been shipped off to France and married in church, like Cinderella, in a huge ball gown personally designed for her at Givenchy haute couture, a tiara of pear-shaped diamonds, and antique satin slippers, and taken in a horse and carriage to her very own castle, where in exchange for this fairy tale—and a man who said he loved her—she offered up nothing more exciting than her own virginity.
Pierre was an ideal husband. He gave her everything and made no excessive demands. And Sophie, although terrified of her new mother-in-law, was an ideal wife: obedient, eager to please, ready to learn. She had let him shape her.There were no fights. The first year it was even pleasant. She still felt like she had escaped.
After that . . . yes, the bloom had come off, just a little—a very little. Sophie hated the idea of disloyalty; however cold Pierre might have been, however much of a worker, he had been a good husband, given her everything, given her Tom, and Tom was truly, truly everything—her baby and the love of her life. Sophie believed she had fulfilled her part of the bargain. She had spent almost twenty years becoming the perfect spouse, the last seven of them on her own. She had done everything exactly as Pierre would wish.
That, then, was her last marriage. Sophie thought of Gregoire. Was she really ready for another one?
Sophie wondered, later, why she had chosen to leave the office, why she hadn’t gone straight in to Gregoire and asked him about what Judy said. Perhaps it was the faintest stirring of suspicion, or intuiti
on. But, as Sophie reflected, she had not wanted to hear that stirring. Not then.
She called her driver from the office and had him wait; then selected a few key reports—at least she thought they were key—and headed to the small, stifling elevator. Lazard’s door was shut, and Judy was on the telephone. Most of the workers in their cubicles did not give Sophie a second glance. She rode down the ten floors with an uneasy feeling; was she fleeing something?
It was a mild day, a little overcast. Sophie waited as the driver opened the door for her, then slid herself into the backseat.
“Good morning, Madame.” He knew better than to ask why she was leaving so early. “Where to?”
“Home.”
“Very good, Madame.” He pulled expertly into the traffic.
She would go back to the château and just think things through, Sophie told herself. She would—
No. The thought of the château suddenly repelled her. It was so huge and so empty. She could sit in the small library with the west-facing windows, the one she had selected, out of so many, to be her study, but still . . .
“On second thought, go to St.-Aude.”
“Are you visiting Père Sabin, Madame?”
“Yes,” Sophie said, and sank back against the buttery leather of the seat.
“My dear—what a pleasant surprise.”
“I hope I’m not intruding, Father.”
“Not at all. I have absolutely nothing to do. Come in, come in.”
Sophie smiled gratefully as the old man beckoned her inside the rectory. She opened the little wrought-iron gate and let herself in, walking down the cobbled path that wound through his tiny garden. Fr. Sabin was a great admirer of English country gardens and had carefully cultivated pansies and hollyhocks and lupins, along with wisteria and ragged dog roses; in the summer, his tiny patch of earth was ablaze with colour and scent.
“I have not seen you in some time,” he remarked mildly. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sophie perched, as she always did, on the edge of one of his ratty armchairs, ripped from the claws of his long-dead and much-missed tomcat, Luther—a wicked joke of the old priest’s, to call his cat that—and stained with tea and coffee and the occasional splash of pastis. Sophie was always trying to buy Fr. Sabin new furniture, and he invariably accepted her donations with pleasure and promptly spent them on the poor.
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