Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  The priest busied himself in the kitchen; she could hear the swish of his soutane as he bent down to the fridge for milk. He was old-fashioned, and still dressed in a black robe and biretta. Sophie shuddered to think of the chaos in the tiny room as he fussed with the electric kettle, but she forbore to offer any help. Fr. Sabin was proud of his independence; he wouldn’t let her come and clean up his place, pay for a maid, or even make the tea.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have been busy, in Paris.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Sophie stared out of the window at a heavy foxglove, a fat bumblebee burrowing inside one of its bells. She could feel herself calming down.

  “Here we are,” Fr. Sabin said, reappearing triumphantly with a chipped mug full of black tea, a Tetley tea bag still inside it.

  “Perfect,” Sophie lied brightly, as she fished the tea bag out and discreetly dropped it into a waste bin. Fr. Sabin prided himself on his tea-making skills, even getting the Tetley sent over once a month from a nun friend of his in Cardiff.

  “You have been to Pierre’s company,” the priest said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I wanted to check that all was well. It’s Tom’s inheritance, you know,” Sophie said, a bit defensively. Though from whom? She had no need to defend herself against one of her oldest and kindest friends. “And I think Pierre would have wanted me to make sure all was in order.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Sophie started. “What?”

  “No, you don’t think that,” Fr. Sabin said patiently. His green eyes were rheumy and bloodshot with age, but the mind behind them was still perfectly agile. “Your husband would never have wanted you to be involved with his business, Sophie, never.”

  She put down the tea, shocked. His words echoed Katherine’s, and Tom’s. And maybe because he was the one saying them, she understood that they were true; they both knew they were true.

  “Pierre had decided ideas about his wife; you getting involved with the company is the last thing he would have wanted.”

  Her face fell. Now, she thought, I know why I feel so guilty all the time.

  “Then you think I am doing the wrong thing, Father,” she said, miserably.

  “Certainly not. You’re not stupid, girl, whatever Mme Katherine has been saying to you lately.”

  “But you said that Pierre—”

  “Your husband was a fool. May he rest in peace,” the priest said, crossing himself. “A fool, and—,” he checked himself. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum. What he wanted is irrelevant. He is dead, and you have the responsibility now. I only say, my dear, that you should not delude yourself. You are doing this because you should, for Tom. But also, you are doing it because you want to.”

  “Because I . . .” Sophie’s voice trailed off. Because she wanted to?

  Duty, honour, preservation, motherly love . . . all of those she could accept as motivations. But not that. . . .

  Sophie was so used to doing what she was asked to—being compliant and true to Pierre, the only way she knew how, which was to follow all he had asked her to do.

  Except, her friend and confessor was now telling her, for this. Taking control of House Massot. Pierre would absolutely have hated it.

  “You think I am acting selfishly?”

  “I think you would have done it for your son’s interests, but I also believe you wanted to do this, Sophie. For yourself.” The old man gestured to her rapidly cooling chipped mug. “Drink up, dear.”

  She took an obedient sip.

  “That is a good thing, you know, my child. You are allowed to want things. And you are allowed to do things.”

  Sophie thought of Gregoire.

  “It’s possible I may not spend much more time there, anyway. I trust the executives who run things. . . .”

  “You’re not telling me something,” he remarked. “A man?”

  Sophie blushed furiously. “Father!”

  “Aha.” He cackled. “I thought so.”

  “That’s not a sin,” she said anxiously.

  “Why should it be? You are a widow; you have a death certificate. Of course, I think it’s a grave error.”

  Sophie took a fortifying slug of the tea. This was not like Fr. Sabin, not at all. Usually they discussed nothing more interesting than village politics.

  “The man is obviously somebody you have met at work.”

  “How do you know that?” Sophie cried.

  “My dear young woman,” she was hardly that, “you haven’t been anywhere else.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you are very rich, my dear, and also his superior—what is the English word? His boss.”

  “He has money of his own. He is a rich man.”

  “The rich never seem to object to more money,” Fr. Sabin pointed out. “Of course, it is up to you, my dear. But . . . some people like to think of you as incapable.”

  Sophie’s mind flickered to Katherine . . . to Pierre . . . for a second, to Tom.

  “Don’t prove them right,” the old man said.

  She went back to the château and ordered tea and scones. Sophie was eating with great pleasure when the call came through.

  Mme Delon, her social secretary, came in with the telephone.

  “Excuse me, Madame; a M. Lazard to speak with you.”

  “Thank you, Celine.”

  “Sophie.” Gregoire’s voice, warm and comforting. She could feel the yearning start, yearning to be held, complimented, loved. Maybe she should take it slow, like Father had said . . . maybe she should be suspicious?

  “I hope you are feeling well? Judy told me you left the office early.”

  “I’m fine, Gregoire.”

  “Listen,” he said, the words tumbling out as though in a rush. “Judy was very upset. She came to see me. She thinks she said too much to you.”

  “Judy needn’t worry.”

  “You must know that what she said is nonsense,” Gregoire went on. “I don’t feel you mistrust me . . . don’t let that keep you from us. I want you to be happy, Sophie. I want you to stay at House Massot until you are quite comfortable with the job I’m doing. Or longer! Stay forever, as far as I am concerned.”

  Sophie leaned back on the gold brocade of the sofa, feeling almost dizzy with relief. See! She thought triumphantly. He is asking me to stay. . . . No emotional blackmail. . . . Father is wrong about him.

  “No, Gregoire,” she said. “There’s no need for me to stay there anymore. I’m sure you’re doing a perfectly fine job. Judy tells me you are, and she’s a bright woman. And I looked up the stock price—I see it’s risen, like you said. Nine percent.” She glanced at the reports she’d brought with her, stacked neatly on top of a desk. “I trust you,” she said, and felt the weight lift off her shoulders as she did.

  “You trust me,” Gregoire said. He sounded overjoyed, almost weepy. “You trust me,” he repeated. “Sophie—that means so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” She was pleased at his emotion, maybe just a little surprised.

  “I wonder if I could come over and visit you. Nothing to do with the office. I should just like to see you,” he said.

  Sophie’s face lit up. She was right! Gregoire was holding back because she worked with him. Now he’d come to her, and tell her the truth—he loved her.

  “Please do,” she said, trying to keep it light.

  “I shall be there in half an hour. I can’t wait,” Lazard told her.

  Sophie hung up, hugging herself. Neither can I, she thought. Neither can I!

  Chapter 14

  The Palace d’Épée, a sixteenth-century Italianate building nestled inconspicuously on rue de la République, was alight. The gates that protected its fine old courtyard from passing traffic of foot and car had been thrown open; huge torches flamed along the lawns, illuminating the uniformed flunkies who were directing limousines to the paved parking lot in the back. Normally, the palace was a rather uninspired museum of Roman Gaul and France under the M
erovingians, but tonight, Hugh thought, it had reacquired a touch of its pre-Revolutionary lustre. His own limousine was in a long queue to get to the front, where a security guard, immaculately polite yet well-armed, would check his details. There were policemen and secret service agents everywhere; his soldier’s eye picked them out easily enough.

  Hugh supposed it was hardly surprising. Le tout Paris would be here tonight. He knew of three ambassadors who were attending, including the American one. It was a benefit for literacy programmes, hosted by the wife of the president of France; attendance was practically compulsory. Louis Maitre had to pull strings to get him in this late, but he’d managed it.

  Hugh made a note; the man deserved a bonus. He was a little attack dog, worrying away at Hugh’s problems like a terrier.

  Ah, they were there at last.

  “Name.”

  “Hugh Montfort.”

  The man scanned his list. “The Honourable Hugh Montfort?”

  “Yes,” Hugh said.

  “Your driver may pull up, Monsieur. You are seated at table twenty-three.”

  “Has my friend Sophie Massot arrived?” Hugh asked pleasantly. “I forget where she’ll be seated.”

  “Oh, yes, Monsieur; Mme Massot was one of the first to arrive,” the man said in a slightly more friendly tone. “She is a great benefactress to our work. She is seated at . . . table five tonight, Monsieur.”

  “Thank you,” Hugh said. “Drive on.”

  He smiled. This was going to be easy.

  The ballroom, cleared of display cases, had been transformed. The party designer had outdone herself on the commission; rather than strain to link the decor to literacy, somehow, she had gone for classically elegant: a string quartet in black tie, the walls draped with billowing white chiffon, myriads of candles in cut-crystal holders, everything soothing and creamy, a snowy paradise without the cold and wet. A waitress came by and offered Hugh a glass of champagne, which he took. Perrier Jouët, he thought, nonvintage, but still good.

  He made his way swiftly through the tables until he could see number five, still a few metres away from him. He scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes running over hundreds of rich, beautifully dressed French ladies. Where was she, where was she . . . ?

  Ah, there. Standing by the pillar, talking to an older woman in a plain red sheath. Sophie Massot was pristine, he thought, in a floor-length, tailored black dress, silk over satin, with a shawl of black lace—almost certainly antique. Heels of some sort; you couldn’t see them, but Hugh could tell from the way her body was poised. And her earrings; they were quite breathtaking: briolette diamonds that tumbled like raindrops, throwing out light everywhere and swinging with every slight movement of her head. They showed, to beautiful advantage, her long neck and the slim curves of her face, and softened the severe lines of her hair, her chestnut locks pulled up into a formal chignon.

  Montfort approved immensely; she was very dignified. But still, stylishness was one thing and business sense quite another. This was the wife who had allowed her husband to cat around France, quite openly, all those years. He reminded himself of that and was a little ashamed of his shallowness in changing his opinion of her just because of the way she looked.

  He sipped his champagne reflectively and looked around the room for Gregoire Lazard. There was no sign of him. Hugh was patient; he might be in the loo, or fetching Sophie a drink, any number of things. He toyed with his glass and waited a full ten minutes, but Mrs. Massot appeared to be on her own. Eventually the lady in red drifted off, and Sophie headed towards her table, a look of boredom crossing her face, which, he noted, she quickly banished.

  Well, it’s no surprise she has social graces, he reminded himself; what else has she had to do all these years?

  This was the moment. Never one to require an opportunity present itself twice, Hugh walked boldly towards her.

  “Excuse me—Mrs. Massot?”

  She turned towards him, her head lifting automatically at the English voice and English title. It made the briolettes dance and sparkle in the candlelight. She has grey eyes, he thought; unusual, very pretty.

  “Yes?” she said.

  Hugh bowed slightly. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said. “But I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time, madam. My name is Hugh Montfort.”

  She reacted with a little start, then calmed herself. Oh well, it would have been asking too much to hope she’d never heard of him.

  “Certainly, Mr. Montfort,” she said, coolly. “How may I help you?”

  And a pretty voice, he acknowledged; southern England modulated by years and years across the channel.

  “I have a proposition to put to you, Mrs. Massot, and would rather do it when you are not surrounded by advisers,” Hugh said. He gave her the dry smile that had women panting after him on three continents. “You’re in charge, and I would like to talk to you directly.”

  “Mr. Montfort,” Sophie said, her voice now pure ice. “This is a social occasion, sir. I trust you are not planning to bring up business.”

  Hugh stiffened. For all he regarded himself as unsnobby, he had an innate sense of his place in the world. Sophie was beneath him in class, for all her elegance and style, yet she had just rebuked him on etiquette.

  And she was right. It stung.

  For once he had no comeback. He simply could not continue; she had as good as accused him of behaving in an ungentlemanly manner.

  “You are perfectly right, madam,” he said. Damnation, was he actually about to blush? Hugh could not recall having felt more discomfited. It was the last thing in the world he had expected her to say to him. “This is not the time. Please excuse me.” And he bowed again and began to walk away.

  “Just one minute,” Sophie said, halting him in his tracks. “Permit me to save you some trouble, Mr. Montfort. The answer is no, and it will remain no.”

  “You have not seen the figures, Mrs. Massot.”

  “The chief executive of my company is M. Gregoire Lazard,” she said. “I believe you know him.”

  “He is not a man with your shareholders’ best interests at heart, madam,” Hugh said, firmly.

  She was not to be swayed. “If you have a proposal to put to him, please do call anytime during business hours. I am sure he will see you.” The grey eyes and dark lashes, he did not think she used any mascara, they were so naturally dark, swept over him disdainfully. “Our number,” Sophie said, “is in the phone book. Good evening, sir.”

  And she swept away from him in a marvellous silken rustle, leaving Hugh standing there, frustrated and furious, and yet, despite himself, somewhat admiring. He had to admit, it was a stylish insult. Our number is in the phone book. Yes, excellent. She didn’t sound brainless, but on the other hand, the alternatives were worse, he reminded himself.

  He went and found his own table, where he was, necessarily, sitting with a bunch of strangers, but they all knew each other, and after perfunctory introductions, left him to his thoughts.

  I hope I’m not such an amateur as to be swayed by a pretty face and good conversation, Montfort told himself, sternly. If Sophie Massot were not as stupid as he’d thought, she must then be a very calculating woman, and incredibly selfish. She had permitted a charade of a marriage, and now she was prepared to deny her shareholders, and her son, value for their stock, for what? To indulge a lover? Pathetic, and he was pleased to feel his resolve harden again.

  “And what brings you to Paris, M. Montfort?” asked one of his companions at the table with a smile. Her husband was an investment banker, and he noticed now that she was wearing Mayberry earrings, beads of lapis interspersed with iolite and sapphires and flashing white zircons—from last season’s Icicles collection.

  Hugh returned her smile and made sure he spoke loudly enough for her husband to overhear.

  “I’m in Paris to take over House Massot,” he said.

  When he got back to the hotel the first thing he did was call L.A. Hugh was often gra
teful for the time difference; if he had ideas in the middle of the night, it didn’t matter—he could still get Pete Stockton on the phone.

  “He’s playing golf, sir,” said Maisie, Pete’s assistant. She had a breathy little-girl voice that annoyed him, but he was trying to get used to it.

  “Put me through please,” Hugh said, tiredly.

  Pete was more likely to go somewhere without his wallet than without his cell phone. He could hear Maisie sighing in disapproval, but ignored it. It was Monday afternoon; more work, less play would suit his chairman better.

  “Hugh, old bean,” Pete said resentfully. “Is it important?”

  Pete fondly believed he had the Brit lingo down pat, and Hugh never had the time to disabuse him.

  “Sorry to interrupt your game,” Montfort lied. “I’m in Paris, and I’m about to launch a full takeover bid for Massot.”

  “Something’s happened then? Excuse me, Peter,” he said to his companion. The resentful tones had vanished, as Hugh expected. The call was about money, Pete’s favourite participation sport; golf could not compete.

  Hugh brought him up to date.

  “They’re treading water,” he concluded. “The shareholders will hate the idea of the widow and the CEO.”

  “And even with the family holding there’s enough of a float out there?”

  “It will be difficult,” Hugh conceded. The mother had stock of her own, too. “But they do not have fifty-one percent even if they all vote the same way. We need to convince the shareholders.”

  “You’re confident.” It was a statement, rather than a question.

  “They have no sentiment about the name; they care about their portfolios. Yes, I’m absolutely confident. I want authorization to proceed with a bid; assemble the financing, legal, everything.”

  “I got my Blackberry with me.” Of course you do, Montfort thought. “I’ll have it faxed to you within twenty minutes.”