Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Or what? You’ll make me?”

  “That’s right.” Tom stared at the arm, which had tightened possessively round Polly’s small stomach.

  “You and whose army, mate?” Allston said dismissively. He turned back to the bar.

  Tom reached out and pulled Allston sharply, viciously, to face him; the Englishman considered him a moment, then shook his head.

  “Just fuck off, will you,” he said. “I only fight people my own size.”

  Massot coloured. He was five foot ten, but Allston had at least fifty pounds on him.

  “Time for a new rule, cochon,” he said, and pulled his hand back to strike. But Polly stepped forward and caught it.

  “Stop it, Tom,” she hissed.

  “Stay out of it,” he said.

  “I will not. I can be with whoever I want. You’re just making a fool of yourself.”

  He had to turn and look at her. “And what are you doing? Standing here, draped over this—this monkey?”

  Allston said “That’s it,” and started to roll up his sleeves.

  “Don’t,” Polly said to him. “Look, Tom, you cheated on me, okay?”

  His heart ached. “You’re mine,” he said. He couldn’t believe how much it hurt.

  “I’m not yours. Or his. I make my own decisions,” Polly said, and started to cry. Allston stared at her.

  “You with me, Poll?” he asked.

  She came to herself, threaded her arm through his. “Yeah. I’m with you.”

  “Now get the fuck out of here, Massot, or I’ll take you out myself,” Allston said to him with menace. “And stay away from her.”

  Tom ignored him. He looked at Polly; she turned away, and he had to see her fingers stroking Allston’s arm reassuringly. She had done that to him, before, and he’d liked it.

  “Polly—”

  “Just go, Tom,” she said.

  And he did; out through the bar, and the crowd of sniggering students, some even his drinking buddies, laughing at him. His eyes were blinded by tears; he angrily blinked them back, but of course there was no going to see Simon now. He stormed out of the front gate, under Tom Tower, ignoring the insolent porter who never tipped his cap, and walked quickly, stiffly up to Corn-market, where there was a taxi rank.

  “The station,” he said.

  Come, compose yourself, Tom thought. This weakness is inappropriate. He’d been wrong about Polly being the one. She was nothing, an easy lay; he’d forget her. He wrenched his mind elsewhere. There was a train leaving at quarter to seven; assuming no delays on the broken-down British railway system, perhaps the worst in Europe, he would get to London, and then on the last Eurostar out, tonight.

  There was only one question, Tom told himself as he began to calm down. Would he book himself into a hotel? Or go straight to see Grand-mère?

  But no, the hotel was wiser. It was hard enough to avoid detection during the day; at night, the sound of a car trundling up the château’s gravel drive would be unmistakable. He had no wish to alert Sophie—not yet. When the confrontation came, it would have to be on his terms.

  Chapter 17

  Sophie woke to the sun streaming through the windows of her bedroom. Their bedroom; it had been Pierre’s and hers for many years, and he had thought it the finest in the château. At first she had found it overwhelming, the green silk wallpaper, the priceless antique furniture, Louis XIV and earlier; there were pieces from the 1500s in this room, and their magnificent canopy bed, draped in deep gold silks and carved with oak leaves and vines, he had told her, was from the reign of François I.

  She had grown to love the room; it was incredibly rich, but so, so beautiful. Usually, waking in her bed, the whole expanse of it hers, was a glorious moment. Sophie would lie still for a few minutes, soaking in the light from the easterly windows, and plan the day, with baby Tom, and later, in her garden.

  Today she felt nothing but unease. She groped for the reason, and as she stirred into full consciousness, it came back to her.

  Gregoire. And last night.

  The girl, the shirt, his impatient anger.

  There was an ancient bellpull to her left, which still worked. She tugged on the worn red rope, and within a couple of minutes Bernarde had appeared.

  “Good morning, Madame. Your usual breakfast, Madame?”

  Rather surprisingly, given her anxiety, Sophie felt hungry. She ordered a large breakfast.

  “Certainly, Madame.” Bernarde smiled her approval; the staff were always trying to mother her. “And M. Lazard has already called for you four times, Madame, but I told him you were not yet risen.”

  “Yes, thank you, Bernarde. If he calls again you can take a message.” Sophie nodded to herself. “And ask Richard to have the car ready in an hour. I will need him most of the day.”

  “Yes, Madame,” Bernarde said. Her eyes betrayed concern, but Sophie was not inclined to be forthcoming, and she withdrew.

  She ate well, knowing now why she was hungry; she had work to do, and there was much of it to get through. In her heart she knew, although perhaps the shirt was not conclusive—and somebody who wanted to could make excuses, all kinds of excuses: maybe Lise owned a similar shirt, maybe she had spilled something on what she’d come to his house in and needed to change. Nevertheless, Sophie knew better. She had seen it with her own eyes. It was too convenient, his hiring a new assistant. No, they were lovers, and she felt dirtied, even though he had never slept with her.

  And even more than that, there was the hurry—his insane rushing to the altar. She had not liked that. It made her feel uneasy, even before she suspected him. Sophie finished her food and rang for a servant to clean it away, then went into her bathroom. She ignored the antique tub and its marble surround and headed for the modern, American shower she’d had installed last year, despite Tom’s protests. Its powerful jets blasted and scrubbed her, and she stepped out feeling invigorated.

  Her closet, a vast thing, formerly a small study, had two or three outfits laid out for her perusal. Sophie glanced at them all, but rejected the choices. She wanted something altogether different today, something businesslike.

  There was a black, wasp-waisted Richard Tyler suit with jet buttons, extremely fitted, tapering off exactly at the knee. Sophie chose that, with a sage green shirt underneath and plain, stylish shoes. She made up quickly, just some base and a little blusher; Sophie had long learned not to overpower the beauty of her skin. Then there was a spritz of her custom-blended perfume, and jewellery; Sophie picked fast, the way she always did.

  She checked herself in the mirror.Very good. Unaccountably, Sophie felt a burst of pleasure and excitement. Now, why should that be? She ought, by rights, to be miserable.

  The answer danced behind her consciousness. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge it at first. Relief, of course there was relief; it suddenly seemed as clear and luminous as the sunshine through her lead-panelled windows: she had not loved Gregoire. Sophie was lonely, and flattered, and she had enjoyed, even revelled in his company—those pleasant, easy manners; the deference; the well-aimed compliments to her mind, as well as her body. But love, no. It was why she had shrunk from his touch. She knew that this morning perfectly well, as though somebody had sat down next to her and patiently explained it in words of one syllable.

  But the excitement she felt, she wasn’t sure exactly . . .

  It will come to me, Sophie thought. She turned away from the mirror, satisfied, chose the day’s bag, a Kate Spade number in crocodile skin with a bamboo handle, and headed for the sweeping marble stairs, her heels echoing on them as she hurried, almost ran, down to the car.

  “Are we headed for the office, Madame?” her driver asked.

  Sophie shook her head. “Rue Faubourg, Richard. Take me to the Massot showroom.”

  There was, she supposed, nothing actually wrong with it. The carpets and drapery were clean, the long display cases were not dusty, there was an adequate supply of staff, more than adequate, indeed, for the four cust
omers who were wandering, looking bored, down the length of the cases, guessing at the prices out loud and clearly not about to buy anything. The staff had reached the same conclusion, apparently, since nobody was offering to help them; there were four women and two men, and they were all standing around looking bored.

  The place has the atmosphere of a library, Sophie thought. There was the Massot logo, a gold eagle holding a diamond in one claw, painted on a beige background on the walls and stamped into the matching colour of the carpet. It was an uninspired pattern. Today was Thursday; she might have hoped for more of a crowd.

  It occurred to Sophie that if her best first impression was merely “nothing wrong” then, of course, everything was wrong.

  She walked in through the doorway and headed for one of the cases. The display ran the length of the showroom, one case on each wall, the pieces grouped by type. The first case was for rings. That made sense; rings were always the greatest sellers, followed by earrings.

  “Can I help you, Madame?”

  Sophie looked up. A young woman had sauntered over, and was giving her a perfunctory smile. At least she offered to assist me, Sophie thought. But she was not about to give her any prizes; Sophie Massot knew perfectly well that her manner of dress exuded money. Any shop she entered, they rushed to serve her.

  “I’m just looking, at present,” she said.

  “But of course, Madame,” said the girl, distantly. As she walked away, Sophie examined her. She was wearing a plain white blouse and navy skirt, tights, and pumps, but the top button on her blouse was frayed, and there was a dusty smudge on the waistband of the skirt. The display case hid her legs, or Sophie would have looked for ladders.

  Angered, she glanced down at the merchandise, and softened a little. Yes, the pieces were very fine, still. This side of the case was obviously the cheaper rings: smaller stones, less ornamentation. Nevertheless, each piece was beautiful. Massot used good stones, nothing worse than very slightly included diamonds, and each coloured gem had to be translucent. Sophie admired the stock. Their cutters still used the more expensive methods, old mine-cut and rose-cut diamonds, and there were unusual designs on the shanks, engravings of leaves, and serpents.

  Not that you could pick much of this out. The beige velvet of the background did not show off the stones; there was no light on them to make them sparkle, and there were too many pieces, too close. To someone less interested than she, Sophie knew, they would all blend into one, a pretty, glittering blur, but nothing remarkable; no single jewel would stay with you.

  She moved on round the room, methodically examining each case. Bracelets, earrings, brooches, necklaces, even a few tiaras. House Massot did not go in for anything else. There were no anklets, no toe rings, nothing indecorous. But the stock there was glorious, things she would have worn with delight—though everywhere shown to least advantage.

  Sophie lifted her head from the last case, containing a set of very beautiful fire opal and orange zircon necklaces, bold and imaginative pieces all jumbled together, and dull against the beige. She would have chosen a dark green damask to set off so much fire. She looked around the showroom. The four window-shoppers had left, and it was now completely empty.

  Sophie regarded the small knot of staff evenly. They were now chatting with each other, ignoring her. Sophie noted sloppiness of dress in each of them: the men had ties loose, or not even present; the other women had on too much makeup, in one case, and straggly hair, in another.

  The door to rue Faubourg opened and a young woman came in. She was wearing a Burberry coat, and Sophie could see a flash of neat tights—no ladders—and smart blue leather heels. She walked straight into the back, and reemerged a second later. Sophie watched as she marched up to the other staff and said something sharp in a low tone, nodding towards Sophie. The first girl responded—rudely, from her manner—and the young woman, smoothing down her dress, hurried out from behind the counter to Sophie.

  She was a brunette and younger than the rest; Sophie judged her age to be no more than twenty-three. She was wearing an inexpensive but serviceable blue dress, a modest sheath, with a crisp plain cardigan, and basic makeup; Sophie caught a hint of Chanel No. 5.

  “Pardon me, Madame,” said the girl with a bright smile, “but are you being assisted?”

  Sophie shook her head. “It is a little late for you to be coming into work, isn’t it?”

  She could see the question had thrown the young woman, but after a second’s pause she responded politely, “Yes, Madame, I do apologize. There was an accident on the Métro and our train was delayed. Madame is right, of course, the staff should be present when customers are here.”

  Sophie smiled warmly. Her manner, as well as her dress, was a million miles from that of her colleagues.

  “I was looking for a pair of earrings,” she said. “What do you recommend?”

  The girl stepped back slightly and looked earnestly at Sophie, studying her face for a brief second.

  “You have an oval face and a pale complexion, Madame. Most stones will look good against your skin; you can certainly wear longer earrings, and for evening I would recommend them. We have some beautiful things that I believe would suit you; but not everything we carry will complement you so well; some of the bolder choices that mix primary colours would not suit your style, I believe.”

  “Why don’t you show me,” Sophie said, neutrally.

  The girl led her back to the earrings case, opened it up, and selected five or six pieces, all choices Sophie might have made herself: cornflower blue sapphires, teardrops of pure gold, dangling lines of cabochon emeralds and peridot, angular shapes in mother-of-pearl. She displayed them reverently, describing the stones and the workmanship.

  “Very lovely, but I don’t think these are for me,” Sophie said.

  “If budget is a problem, Madame, I can suggest some different pairs, not made with the same gems, but they would look equally lovely against your neck.”

  “I’m not in the mood to shop today,” Sophie said.

  The girl’s politeness did not vary for an instant. “Very good, Madame; I hope you will return soon and permit me to show you some more pieces. It has been a pleasure to serve you.”

  Sophie glanced at the girl’s colleagues. They were lounging against the wall, watching her with expressions that ranged from amusement to contempt.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle, you have been most helpful,” she said to her. “Tell me, have you worked at House Massot long?”

  “No, Madame, just these six months.”

  “You seem to have a great appreciation for jewellery—what is your name?”

  “Claudette, Madame; yes—I love it,” she said passionately. “It is a most beautiful art form, and one in danger of being forgotten—amongst all the flashy things.”

  Sophie sighed with pleasure. At least, then, she would have someone to start with.

  “Claudette,” she said. “I am promoting you to manager of this store. I am Sophie Massot, head of House Massot.”

  Claudette’s eyes widened, but she was too shocked to say anything.

  “What is your current salary?”

  “Eighteen thousand euros, Madame,” Claudette whispered.

  “That’s all?” No wonder we cannot attract serious staff, Sophie thought. “Never mind, as of now it is forty thousand euros.”

  Claudette swallowed hard.

  “Your first task as manager will be to terminate the other staff.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them,” Sophie said implacably. “Do you not see how they are dressed, Mademoiselle? House Massot sells pieces aimed at very rich women.They are used to being served by people who take pride in both their work and their appearance. When one is selling fine gems, the two things go together; don’t you think?”

  Claudette nodded.

  “But, Madame, who will run the place?”

  “You’re in charge,” Sophie said. “Don’t you have any ideas?”

&nbs
p; “Actually . . . I do. There are some staff in the other stores who think as you do, Madame. Maybe too many staff. . . . You could take the best ones and dismiss the rest, and you would still have enough in each showroom, I think, for the current volume of customers.”

  The store was empty; nobody had entered in the last quarter of an hour.

  “Delicately put,” Sophie said with a smile. “There will be changes coming, Claudette, plenty of them.”

  The girl glanced back at the others, who were now openly staring at them, expressions hostile.

  “But what shall I say is the reason for their dismissal?”

  “You could always try the truth,” Sophie said. “Inappropriate dress, inattentiveness to customers, socializing on company time. You can handle it, can’t you?”

  Claudette looked at the group again, and gave a small, resolute toss of her head.

  “Oh yes, Madame,” she said. “Certainly.”

  Richard discharged Sophie at rue Tricot an hour later. She had anticipated Claudette and visited all the Massot stores herself; besides, although she had confidence in the girl, Sophie was in a mood to trust no one.

  It was not that surprising to find it the same story everywhere. Exceptional jewels displayed, and served, with a sloppiness of presentation and lack of enthusiasm that was simply breathtaking. The shops were either empty of customers, or contained the barest trickle. Sophie wondered how they stayed profitable. Presumably the prices were so high that a very few sales could keep the stores afloat.

  But a 9 percent rise in the stock . . .

  Ideas came to her so thick and so fast that she felt almost overcome. Sophie’s throat rose with tears and embarrassment. She was bitterly ashamed of herself. Such basic questions, questions she had not thought to ask. She had been blinded by Gregoire’s smile and dancing eyes. As she disembarked at the offices, she resolved instantly to put a stop to it all. But there was fear, too, of him and his reaction, and of what she might find once she started to dig.

  The vast majority of their family wealth, Tom’s money, was bound up in this company’s stock. It was his inheritance. And more than money, it was a name. She knew what it would mean to her son to see House Massot destroyed. Hugh Montfort, the threat from outside, was still there, but before she could think of a defense, there was the danger from within.