Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  Last time she had arrived here, Sophie saw now, it had been a charade. An expensive, shameful charade. A dreadful calm descended over her. For that, she had nobody to blame—not Gregoire Lazard nor lazy shop assistants—for that, she could blame only herself.

  Well, she had promised Claudette that things were going to change. No time like the present. She told Richard to park the car, and walked into her husband’s offices.

  Chapter 18

  “Nothing but a diamond can scratch or cut a diamond,” the children chorused. “Because a diamond is the hardest thing known.”

  Vladek was silent; he sat in his thin, raglike clothes and stared at the book.

  “Vladek, I don’t hear you.” The teacher, Mr. Kovec, was angry. “You don’t join the class. Do you understand?”

  The boy lifted his head and stared back impassively.

  “I understand perfectly, sir.”

  “Then you are insolent.” Kovec couldn’t stand Vladek. Skinnier than most of these little brutes, he had those dark, brooding eyes that disturbed the older man. Most of the orphans were easy to manage; they cowered in fear, or fawned, in the hope of an extra scrap of food or clothing. They never answered back and knew their betters. In time they would grow up and be given jobs by the state—the boys, at least; the girls would try desperately to marry, or fall into begging and prostitution. And the orphanage was so poorly heated, at least a handful did not survive each winter.

  Kovec, a Pole who had taught in this place for fourteen years, had initially felt some guilt. And then, to relieve himself of the guilt, he discovered anger—which was much easier to handle. And vodka. Now there was a bully’s casual cruelty in everything he did. Once a bright man with a future in Warsaw, he had crossed a party apparatchik and been exiled to this hellhole. Unable to take it out on anybody else, he made sure to share his misery with the children.

  Vladek most of all. Firstly, someone had dared to give this little Russian bastard a good Polish name. Secondly, Vladek was strange. He could not be cowed. He seemed to live in a world of his own. There was a hard shell about him that no amount of physical pain could crack.

  But Kovec liked to try.

  “Get up here,” he snarled. “Put out your palm.”

  Some of the children winced. One little girl whimpered—Kovec glared at her, and she subsided. A few of the larger boys jeered. Like any prison, there was a hierarchy in here, and the rules were strictly enforced. Yet Vladek refused to go along with them. He kept to himself, and the playground thugs, unsettled by his large eyes and fixed stare, left him alone.

  Kovec reached behind him and took out the larger of his two rulers. He struck it menacingly hard, on the desk.

  Vladek slipped out from his chair and came up to the front of the room. He didn’t say a word; he merely extended his little palm.

  Kovec felt a momentary pang of shame. But he ignored it. He slammed the ruler down, hard, on the boy’s open hand. A white pressure mark appeared on the palm, to be replaced by a red welt. Viciously, Kovec hit him twice more.

  He was about to tell Vladek to extend his other palm. But then his eyes met the boy’s.

  Vladek was staring at him. The hate was to be expected. But there was something else in those eyes. Something so cold, so terrible, that Kovec physically flinched. The evil eye—that was something they still believed in, in the East, when the fires sunk low in the evenings.

  “You may return to your seat,” Kovec blustered, to cover himself. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,Vladek.”

  The boy sat down again, but did not reply.

  “Tell me about diamonds,” his teacher said.

  “Nothing but a diamond can scratch or cut a diamond, because a diamond is the hardest thing known.”

  “Yes. And what else do you know?”

  Mother Russia was not very good at providing warmth, or food, or medicine. But knowledge—she offered that, and lots of it, to her children. And Kovec had an inkling that the boy Vladek was highly intelligent.

  “They are made of carbon; coal, under great pressure. They are cut from rough. They are very beautiful.” The seven-year-old was solemn. Kovec glanced at his hand; it was swollen from the beating, yet the child acted as if nothing had happened; his young voice did not quiver or shake. “Rich people own them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when I am grown I will have many diamonds,”Vladek said.

  The class erupted with laughter and derision.

  “Get something straight, boy. You’re a penniless orphan, a bastard. Your parents didn’t want you. Same as all the children in here. You need to get your head out of the clouds and understand reality. You’ll be a working man—if you’re lucky.” Kovec turned his head and spat into the wastepaper basket. “Most likely you’ll wind up a drunk or a beggar. With that attitude of yours.”

  The boy gave him a contemptuous smile. Kovec pretended not to see it. He would beat Vladek another time. For now, he just wanted to move on.

  The kid was a creep.

  Chapter 19

  “Gregoire,” Judy said.

  He did not look up from his desk, which annoyed her. Judy thought she’d spoken pleasantly enough. She cleared her throat.

  “Gregoire—excuse me.”

  “Yes, what is it?” he asked, irritably.

  Instantly she was enraged. How dare he act irritated? He was the one at fault here. She bit her lip to stop from snapping at him. Dealing with obnoxious people was one of Judy’s key strengths. I will not let him overthrow my composure, she thought.

  She pressed her hands to the sides of her new suit. Chanel, real Chanel: yellow tweed, two inches off the knee, and fitted to her slender body like a calfskin glove. It had cost more than she wanted to think about, but it was a celebration of her new paycheck.

  Judy assumed she could afford it, and she’d bought it. A fabulous feeling, to be wearing something as fine as anything Pierre’s placid widow would have hanging in her expensive closets.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she lied, “but there seems to have been a slight problem.” She gave him her most winsome smile. “My new raise—the two hundred thousand you promised me—it hasn’t come through.”

  “What?” Lazard demanded. He was staring into space, tapping a pencil smartly against the side of his desk. The sound was most irritating.

  “My money isn’t there,” Judy repeated, more directly. “My last paycheck—there was no difference.”

  “These things take time,” Lazard said distantly.

  Judy smiled briskly; she was not about to be put off.

  “Not if they come from the chief executive,” she said. “You only need say the word.”

  He dragged his eyes to her, as though reluctantly; the pretti ness of the suit, and aptness of the matching enamel daisy earrings, apparently lost on him.

  “Later, Mademoiselle,” he said.

  “I understand your busy schedule,” Judy said, doggedly. “So I’ve taken the trouble to prepare this for you.” She presented him with a neatly typed company memo, authorizing her raise in salary—two hundred thousand euros to VP Judy Dean, effective immediately. There was even a little dotted line. “If you’ll just sign there,” she said, offering him, uncapped and ready to go, her own pen.

  “Suka!” Lazard exploded.

  Judy drew back. Her French was good, but that wasn’t French. It wasn’t welcome, either.

  “You think to crowd me—you women—”

  The fair eyebrows knitted above his pale eyes. There was threat in them, and Judy shrank back. She had good instincts and snatched up the memo before he could destroy it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quicky. “It doesn’t matter—I’ll come back another time.”

  She retreated at once, thinking, with a queasy feeling in her stomach, of her groaning credit cards. The repayments alone were going to be difficult; if he did not come through she would have to call the bank. . . .

  But he would come through. Calm yours
elf, Judy thought. He wants you to get close to Sophie . . . he wants you for that.

  She had been overwhelmed for the last few days. Giles Keroualle, with his elegant, disdainful air, had returned from New York—without good news on the collections—and demanded updates on all her work. And she had had the trouble, although welcome, of moving from the windowless top-floor cubicle back to her own office.

  There had been no time to call Sophie. And Lazard was no longer right next to her. Maybe that was the trouble; out of sight, out of mind. . . .

  Judy returned to her desk. Even the admiring looks of the secretaries, all Marie’s friends, at her chic flash of yellow and white did not console her. Gregoire’s rage was unexpected, and had left her shaky. Angry, but also fearful. Her connection with him had been all her hope of breaking out of this rut. She couldn’t afford to upset him.

  A nasty idea occurred to her. What if Sophie Massot left, Gregoire lost his connection with her, she returned down here, and it was as if the last month never happened? She would be back writing press releases, keeping her head down . . . but this time with more debts, and no hope of promotion.

  It hadn’t just been the suit. Judy had upgraded her life to that of the woman of consequence she’d felt she had become. There was a gorgeous, fast little car—a Porsche Boxster in racing green. And she had purchased an investment piece, a pendant shaped like a peacock feather—twenty-two-karat gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and lapis. Something she had seen in the rue Faubourg store over five years ago, and always coveted, but passed it by because she could not afford it.

  Now it was hanging in her leather-lined jewellery case, but apparently she still could not afford it.

  Judy thought of the repayments on her present salary, and paled. Maybe she should return it. Say she’d changed her mind....

  Tears came to her eyes, and she flushed with shame. Return it . . . they would all know the real reason why, those snobby bitches in the showroom. No, she could not bear the shame. She would have to find a way, somehow.

  Sucking up to Gregoire Lazard, she understood with a sinking heart, was still her first, best hope.

  But somehow she no longer felt confident that he was her ally. He seemed totally preoccupied.

  Once again, Judy Dean was on her own.

  It was just before lunchtime when she looked up from her papers; the latest slew of magazine clippings, few of them good.

  Marie was standing in the corridor, giggling with Françoise Delmain, M. Keroualle’s assistant. She had hushed her voice, and the two of them kept glancing back towards Judy’s office. They were whispering animatedly.

  Judy put her head down again, a dull glow on her cheeks, as she considered her options. Goddamn Marie. Judy had shut the door to Lazard’s office, but what if Marie had been listening in? Or what if it was simply too loud, and her secretary had overheard?

  Confront them? No, that would make it so much worse. Judy imagined being exposed to whispers and giggles wherever she went. Anger at Lazard bubbled up in her. He had humiliated her, exposed her to this. . . .

  Judy stood up. Marie wears a plain brown dress and carries a cheap bag, she reminded herself. Let them giggle away, I’m the most senior woman in this company. Marie doesn’t have enough ambition to fill an eggcup. She’ll never be anything, and I’m going to make it.

  She put on her brightest, happiest smile and walked out into the corridor.

  “It’s a great morning, isn’t it, ladies?” she said sweetly to Marie and Françoise. They had returned to French, and Judy’s was ac centless, whereas their English sounded Gallic. She enjoyed this small demonstration of skill, especially while they were laughing at her. “Marie, can you cover my calls? I think I may step out to lunch. I’m in the mood for a croque-monsieur.”

  That was a joke, and they all knew it; one did not maintain a figure like Judy’s on ham and melted cheese.

  “Of course, Mademoiselle,” said Marie humbly. It didn’t fool Judy for a second. Instantly she assumed her carpeting, upstairs, had indeed been overheard. High spots of colour returned to her cheeks, but she smiled as though nothing had happened.

  “Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” said Françoise pertly. “But don’t you think you should wait, given what has happened?”

  Judy squared her shoulders, feeling the silk lining of her beautiful suit move against her toned skin.

  “And what, exactly, has happened, Françoise?” she asked ominously, daring the other woman to be open.

  “Why, Mademoiselle.” Françoise rounded her heavily lacquered eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Have you not heard? Mme Sophie has returned to the office.”

  Work was impossible, of course. Judy, after a request for coffee, which they saw as the feeble grab for composure it was, retreated to her office. She felt light-headed, dizzy, as though she could hardly breathe. She was not safe. It was not over. Pierre’s wife had changed her mind. She would be here permanently, interfering with Judy.

  I’ll never get that money, not if she stays, Judy thought, bitterly. It was too much of a jump. Mme Massot would query the expenditure. . . .

  She thought of Pierre, with a momentary flash of hatred.

  How dare you go, she thought. How dare you go and leave me with her? And then a few seconds later, the old, almost forgotten wail, a keening from her soul—why her? Why would you choose her, and not me? I loved you, loved, loved you . . .

  There was a knock on her door.

  “Your coffee, Mademoiselle.”

  Judy forced herself to smile, though it felt like a rictal grin.

  “Thank you, Marie,” she said, switching back to English. “That smells heavenly.”

  “Shall I prepare to have our things moved again?”

  “Has Mme Massot instructed us to move?” Judy asked calmly, and then when Marie shook her head, “So we will wait for her.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Marie said, her plump body tense with the deliciousness of renewed scandal.

  “Find out if Mme Massot is available, would you?” Judy asked brightly. She would take the only course of action open to her; she would meet this head-on. “I want to introduce her to M. Keroualle, now that he is returned. She’ll want to know every member of this department.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Marie said. She stared at Judy, slightly puzzled, which Judy took as a great triumph. No, she would rip out her newly manicured nails before she would cry in front of any of them.

  A second later she buzzed through on Judy’s phone.

  “Mme Massot cannot be found at present, Mademoiselle—she is in with M. Lazard.”

  Judy heard only the excitement in her assistant’s tone.

  “Come in here a second, Marie.”

  When she appeared, the older woman was fidgeting, almost bursting with secrets she wanted to spill. Judy didn’t need prompting. She made herself smile conspiratorially.

  “Something is happening up there?”

  “Oh—Helene Facteur told me, Mademoiselle—there is shouting.”

  “Shouting?”

  “From M. Lazard’s office,” said Marie, dropping her voice to a whisper.

  Judy hadn’t expected that. She shivered with excitement herself. And fear; something was happening—whatever it was, she sensed at once, it would mean a fresh chance for her.

  “Who is doing the shouting?” she whispered back.

  “Madame and monsieur,” Marie said. “It is very loud,” she added.

  Judy leaned back. “Very exciting, but keep it to yourself, Marie. We mustn’t gossip.”

  “Of course not, Mademoiselle,” said Marie, as complacent as Judy about the hypocrisy. She withdrew, and Judy spun her chair to face her window. Her heart was thumping in her chest. What could it mean?

  And more importantly, how could she use it?

  Well, fortune favours the brave. Her daddy had always said that, back in Oklahoma, and Judy had believed it—enough to travel to New York City, and then take a job in Paris. Trust in that motto, sh
e thought, was why she was wearing Chanel right now, instead of worn-out duds in some worn-out farm town.

  She stood up. She was going upstairs.

  The elevator discharged her a few moments later. Judy strode out. The employees in their cubicles all had their heads down and were tapping at keyboards or shuffling papers in an attempt not to be noticed. But they were worker bees. Judy was not.

  She heard the rage long before she got to Lazard’s office. Sophie, despite Marie’s report, was not shouting. Judy could hear her tones, low and clear. Gregoire was doing the shouting, and he was very loud indeed.

  Judy thought, I will knock on the door and attempt to make peace. They will both be grateful. . . .

  But as she got within a few steps of Gregoire’s door, it was wrenched open. Judy halted, shrank back. Sophie was standing by the window, rigid and pale; Judy noted her knuckles were white as she gripped the top of Gregoire’s chair. Gregoire himself stormed out, his fair skin flushed with anger, his eyes blazing.

  He turned round towards Sophie and said, in rapid-fire French “You will be hearing from my lawyers.”

  Sophie Massot inclined her head minutely; then the grey eyes were trained on Judy, who had flinched away from the towering anger of her boss.

  “Judy, good to see you,” Sophie said coolly. “Come in, please.”

  Lazard looked down, as though noticing Judy for the first time. He looked back to Sophie and cackled. “Suka,” he said. “Very good—the two friends.”

  “I am quite prepared to call security,” Sophie told him calmly. “Leave now, Monsieur, your services are no longer required.”

  “We’ll see,” Lazard responded. But he turned on his heel, stiffly, and marched to the stairway.

  The worker pool watched him go in total silence.