“She brought a lover into my father’s house?” Tom repeated. The betrayal and pain were overwhelming.
“While still dressed in her mourning weeds!” Katherine exclaimed. Then shook herself, deliberately. “Oh—my darling, forgive me; I must not criticize Maman in front of you.”
“I think we are past that stage, Grandmother,” Tom said flatly. “And so, now there is, what? A lovers’ quarrel?”
“One can only presume so.”
“And she dismisses him.” He brooded on it for a while. The man—he was disposed to loathe him, but how much more to hate his mother.This man saw only a death certificate. Meanwhile his mother had been twice a traitor: taking a lover, and then dismissing from his post the man his father had selected to run Massot while Tom came of age.
“It is almost as if she wants rid of every trace of my father,” he said aloud.
“You must try to forgive her,” Katherine said, without conviction. “But my Pierre—how this hurts, Thomas. And there is nothing we can do about it.”
He spun on his heels on the Manchu-dynasty silk rug and faced her.
“Ah, no, that is where you are wrong,” Tom said. “If you will help me, Grandmother, I think we shall be able to act.”
He persuaded her to take a walk with him on the grounds of the dower house; there was a fine walled garden, mostly laid to lawn, with gravel walks lined with rose bushes, lavender, and other formal plantings. The day was very hot for May, but Tom offered his arm and promised they would walk slowly. He did not want the servants eavesdropping on family business.
“Ah, yes . . . my shares.” Katherine had insisted on bringing her fan, an antique made of ivory, exquisitely carved with a filigree pattern; she swayed it quickly back and forth against the languor of the heat. “I hadn’t considered them for years. Finance is incredibly boring.”
Her white eyelashes flickered, almost as if she were batting them at him. “My Pierre took care of that sort of thing.”
“But there are rather a lot. I have half that amount myself, that I can use now. If, Grandmother—if you would trust me with your shares . . .”
Tom felt nervous; his entire plan depended on this. At Lin coln’s Inn it had seemed the natural and proper outcome; now it came to the point, he felt he was asking for a great deal.
“You want me to give you my shares? But of course, if you need the money. All I have is yours.”
He started. “No—not give them to me. Assign me your votes—make me your proxy. With fifteen percent of shareholder votes I would receive an automatic seat on the board of directors. Even Maman could not remove me.”
Katherine turned her snowy head. The rheumy eyes regarded him appraisingly.
“Well, well,” she said softly. “Perhaps after all there is something of your father in you.”
Tom squared his shoulders. “More than something, Grandmother,” he said proudly.
“I will summon M. Foche and draw up the papers today.”
“Make sure he knows it is secret; he is not to go running to Maman,” Tom said bitterly. “Foche is the one who gave her those papers and let her declare Papa dead.”
“Your mother was determined; Foche had no choice. It is foolish to blame him; he is nothing but a functionary,” Katherine said with contempt. “And what will you do with a seat on the board?”
“I was thinking of lawsuits. But there are some already, enough to delay her plans.”
“The law is a start.”
“And although I will not gain control of the shares until my twenty-first birthday, on the board I can force Maman to resign.”
Katherine smiled. “How, pray, will you do that?”
“I will show her how damaging her actions are, and if she will not resign, then I will go to the shareholders and ask them to pass a vote of no confidence. She would not be able to stay then. The stock would plunge.”
The old lady’s arm tightened on his support.
“Yes, that might work,” she said, quietly. “You are, of course, very young.”
“Young does not mean stupid,” he said.
“I know, my dear. It is convincing other people that will be harder. But not, of course, impossible.” The fan stilled; she concentrated; he was amazed at how roused she was, how far from her usual torpor.
“I know Pierre would have wanted that,” she said, with complete certainty. “And I will see to it his will is not overcome. You are his son.”
“His heir,” Tom said righteously. “Me—not Maman.”
“I prefer to say his steward.” Katherine looked sharply at the young man. “Or have you also given up on him?”
“Never,” Tom vowed. His voice trembled a little. “Never. Till I see his body.”
Katherine nodded, satisfied, and walked on. She wore custom-made pointed buckle shoes, very old-fashioned; they crunched on the gravel. His grandmother was so light he thought a slight breeze might have knocked her over. Yet when she spoke, her voice was iron.
“Our task is to ensure that you appear credible,” she said. “From now on, you must be a man, Thomas; nothing you say, nothing you do, must distract from it.”
They had turned past a wall of gloriously flowering clematis and were back at the house.
“You are staying at a hotel?”
“Yes,” he replied, surprised at the question.
“Take an apartment; something magnificent,” she said. “I will pay for it. You are not a guest in Paris, no tourist. Call me this afternoon when you have found somewhere; I will speak to Foche.”
She smiled radiantly at him.
“And after that,” she said sweetly, “you and I will go out to dinner.”
“Somewhere very public.”
“Exactly.” Katherine nodded. “You are learning, my dear.”
“I trust it meets your approval, Monsieur?”
The lettings agent nodded and rubbed his hands eagerly. “It is one of our finest properties . . . a jewel. Of course, you would know about that.” He laughed at his own joke, but the boy, the Massot heir, did not speak. “We have others if this is not to your taste,” he added hastily. “Several others . . . perhaps something more modern . . .”
Tom turned his gaze to the little man. “It will do, Monsieur. I gather my grandmother has already advanced you the necessary monies.”
He wanted to get this over with. He found the agent’s giggling and joking impertinent.
“Oh, yes, that is all arranged.”
“Then have you some papers for me to sign?”
The man practially fell over himself in eagerness. “No, no, Monsieur. With you that is not necessary. We are well acquainted with House Massot. It’s all yours.”
“Excellent.”
“Perhaps a drink to celebrate, then.” He produced a bottle of champagne. Tom glanced at it: Moët, nonvintage and nonimaginative. “Compliments of the agency, Monsieur. Shall I open it?”
Tom said, “No thank you,” very distantly and dismissively.
The man’s face fell; he finally got the message.
“Very good, Monsieur. I shall leave my card—if there’s anything further I can do for you, anything at all . . .”
“Thank you. Good day,” Tom said, instantly.
Discomfited, the agent put down the champagne, which had been hanging rather limply in his hand, on a side table, and fished out a card, which he placed next to it. Then he gave one last obsequious smile and let himself out of the front door.
Tom looked around the place with resignation. As he had said, it would do. It was a luxurious apartment, nineteenth-century, four bedrooms and two salons, somewhat baroque; fully furnished with real, though unremarkable antiques; the correct address on the Left Bank, and a glorious view of the Seine. It was rented at twenty thousand euros per month and would be an acceptable temporary headquarters.
But the soullessness of the place depressed him. It was not a Massot property, nothing like Château des Étoiles. He was here because his mother had force
d him to be—out of his home, out of his inheritance.
Grandmother . . . well. She had been a surprise. There was a hidden steel to her ancient frame, and it almost made him feel sorry for Maman. But she had brought this on herself, and, he promised himself virtuously, he would give her every opportunity to retreat with grace.
He tried to force himself into a more cheerful mood. He was back in France, there was that to be thankful for. And maybe he could set things aright. Hush up his mother’s scandals and take his place at the helm of House Massot. Perhaps there would not be any struggles after he showed his hand.
He strode to his rented windows and looked down, over the traffic, to the river glittering red and gold in the sunset. Perhaps things would all work out for the best. . . .
But somehow, he doubted it.
Chapter 22
At first Sophie was shocked at what she found. It was more, much more, than a little corporate thievery: Gregoire Lazard and the directors with their hands in the till. There had been waste, inactivity, rot, in almost every area of House Massot. The same staff, free from any threats of firing, had been on the payroll for years, and without Pierre there, with Lazard uninterested, the decline had been steady and constant.
Every year since his death, revenues had fallen, market share slid, the share price stagnanted. The more she uncovered, the more Sophie understood it was only because the analysts were not paying attention that their shares hadn’t dropped through the floor.
The banks had been asked for more and more capital. They were now pressing for a repayment of their loans. It was debt that had already been restructured, more than once. Sophie was not technically minded, but she learned fast. Her intelligence was keen, although her personality was mild, and the more she bent her mind to it, the more incompetence she uncovered. Letters, reports, sales charts, banking summaries; the dry, precise figures, so unemotional on paper, told a shocking story: a great company, crumbling into dust.
If the truth be told, on the brink of destruction.
The first thing she did was to find herself some competent advisers. Judy Dean was a true support. She gave Sophie lists of executives she thought should be replaced. They were long lists; Sophie fired them all. M. Giles Keroualle, Judy’s boss in PR, was the first to go.
She hired independent lawyers and accountants and began a lightning-quick review. Every meeting confirmed it; House Massot was on the verge of ruin.
Sophie reflected that if she thought about this too much, she would be terrified. And she did not have time to be terrified. She had a company to rescue, for herself, and for her son.
There were still assets, still things House Massot had to offer. A brilliant, and underpaid, team of jewellery designers; stores in the best locations; pipelines to De Beers’ site holders; contracts with independent suppliers of the best gems in the world. And, of course, a handful of people she could trust.
Apart from the last, it was these assets that Hugh Montfort wanted. It made House Massot a takeover target. There was a shareholders’ meeting in three months, and Sophie knew exactly what would happen; word of the disaster behind the serene grey facade of their offices would leak out. The share price would plunge. Hugh Montfort would make a bargain-basement offer, acquire Massot for a song, be the big hero, she reflected bitterly; and her son’s inheritance would be decimated, while her husband’s life’s work would be lost forever.
She was not about to let that happen. Sophie was determined. She would save the company, fight off Montfort, restore House Massot to glory, and leave Tom what Pierre had intended for him.
The place to start, as ever, was with people she could trust.
The last report was delivered to Sophie on a Monday morning. By the time she closed the slim blue file, she had already determined what to do.
She picked up the phone and called down to reception.
“Good morning, Madame.”
“Celine,” Sophie said, glancing at the personnel list in front of her. “Could you come up to my office a moment?”
There was a quick intake of breath—the girl was frightened. But she said “Certainly Madame,” meekly. The receptionist’s manners had greatly improved, ever since that first day, and Sophie had been kind to her, always smiling at her and wishing her a good morning. Even before she’d fired Gregoire, Sophie had seen gratitude, real gratitude, in the girl’s eyes.
The knock on the door came promptly, less than a minute later.
“Come in,” Sophie said.
Celine Bousset, the receptionist, entered Sophie’s office timidly and stood in front of her, eyes lowered. She was wearing a smart, simple shift dress in dusky pink, with a matching cardigan, neat pearl studs, and flat shoes. Sophie noted the hair in a formal pleat, the rose pink nails, her groomed eyebrows. She had mentioned to Celine once that dress was as important as manner when you sat on reception, and since then, the girl had striven to dress well, on her limited budget.
Sophie appreciated it. Celine was making an effort. It was more than you could say for half the vice presidents in the company.
“Please sit down,” she said.
The girl sat, opened her mouth, then thought better of it.
“Don’t worry.” Sophie smiled at her. “I’m not going to fire you.”
She breathed out a ragged sigh of relief. Sophie thought there were even tears prickling in her eyes. She recalled Celine’s panic on the first day, when she’d thought she was going to get fired, how she’d pled that she needed the money.
“I have a lot of work to do here, Celine.” Sophie glanced out of her window, Gregoire’s old window, to the fine view of rue Tricot, basking in the summer heat. “And not a lot of time.”
“Are . . . are we all going to lose our jobs, Madame?” the girl stammered.
“Why do you say that?”
“Some . . . of the girls say the company is going to be closed down,” Celine replied, nervously. “And we are all to be dismissed.”
Sophie stiffened. “The girls are wrong. Anybody who wants to work hard will still have a position here. But I do not want you to be the receptionist anymore.”
“I hope I have not offended you again, Madame.”
“It’s not that. I need an assistant. Somebody I can trust. Somebody who is not linked to the previous management.”
“Me?”
“You fit that description, don’t you?”
Celine’s hazel eyes rounded. “Certainement, Madame, I am not linked to management. I am not linked to anybody,” she said artlessly. “I only answer the phone.”
Sophie grinned. “Good. Then you are hired. The salary is twenty-two thousand euros.”
The young girl’s face creased in delight. “Oh, Madame! Thank you. I know computers . . . I can type . . .”
“You’ll need to come in very early. We start work at eight sharp. And you will not leave until six.”
“No problem, Madame . . . oh, thank you, thank you, Madame.”
“Your first job is to find me a new receptionist.”
“I know just the girl,” Celine said, confidently.
“Then as soon as she is installed, you will come up here.”
There was another knock on the door, and Judy Dean opened it.
“Sophie, hi,” she said. “I’ve arranged the meeting with the designers, like you asked. They’ll be here today at eleven. And all the PR staff.”
“Excellent.”
Sophie smiled at her friend. Then she noticed little Celine Bousset was also staring at Judy, with an expression she did not approve of; it was cold, a little contemptuous. She had a moment of unease. She hoped Celine was not one of those girls who hated to work for other women.
“Mlle Judy Dean is the new senior vice president in charge of our publicity, Celine,” Sophie said coolly. “She now runs one of the most important divisions in our company.”
“Yes, Madame,” Celine said, her eyes snapping back to Sophie’s at once.
“If Mlle Dean wants to
be put through to me, or to see me, her calls take priority. And I expect you to render her every assistance. Is that clear?”
Judy smiled tightly.
“Perfectly clear, Madame,” Celine said meekly. “I will always be ready to assist you, Mlle Dean,” she said to Judy.
The American girl nodded; Sophie felt herself satisfied.
“Then I will see you shortly, Celine. You may go,” she said.
The younger girl got up and quickly excused herself from the room.
“Do you have a moment now?” Judy asked.
Sophie smiled at her. “You heard what I told my new assistant.”
“Thanks.” Judy came in and sat down in front of her. “Mind if I ask you some questions?”
Sophie leaned back in her seat. “Go right ahead.”
Judy smiled. She looked strained, though, Sophie thought. Despite her promotion, and the salary increase that had accompanied it, Judy had a brittle quality to her—tiredness around the eyes that the best makeup couldn’t conceal and a taut, tense way of holding herself that made her seem uneasy, out of place.
Her clothes were pitch-perfect, but Sophie thought they too contributed to the impression the younger woman gave. Judy Dean always looked as though she’d marched straight off the pages of Elle, but that was the problem; it was like she was trying too hard.
Everything about Judy was always of the moment. She would carry the latest bag, wear the hot shoes of the month, and the result was she looked like she’d been dressed by a stylist. There was so much effort in it, Sophie thought.
Today Judy was wearing a BCBG Max Azria dress in silk georgette, purple with little cap sleeves; it had a lilac lining and a pink trim. Very summery and flirty, but Judy had carefully teamed it with lilac pumps and a sweet little bag—this summer’s pale blue from Coach—and she wore a large, heart-shaped amethyst drop down the vee of the neckline. Her earrings were dangling bezel-set blue topaz, a stone cheap enough for Judy to wear in a decent size; she had rose blusher, white pencil to brighten up her eyes, everything coordinated. She looked like a model on a photo shoot. It was Identi-Kit dressing, far too matchy-matchy.
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