Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “It is not necessary to pay us more money, Mme Massot,” he said with dignity. “You are one who cares about our life’s work. You will show the world what we have made.”

  “You are an artist, mein Herr. I will certainly try. But even artists deserve to be paid for their labour. Indeed you must accept it,” Sophie smiled gently, “because I promise you, I intend to make a great deal of money from the genius of you and your wife.”

  Spontaneous and prolonged applause broke out around the table as the old man sat. Judy groaned inwardly. They were clapping for Heinrich Brandt, but for Sophie Massot, too. Judy did not deceive herself. Sophie’s plans were imaginative and daring.

  She would have loved to have thought of them herself. Meanwhile, Sophie, the housewife, was standing here, lapping up the plaudits of her colleagues.

  She heard herself ask bitterly, “Sophie—how much will all this cost?”

  The applause was forced to die down. Judy went on doggedly, “Even with a discount, and less staff, your ‘uniforms’ will cost a hundred thousand. The write-offs of the fashion division . . . the interior design . . . it can’t come cheap.”

  She had scored a point. Concern registered around the table.

  “Yes, it will cost a lot of money. With the write-offs, and overtime to get the stores ready, I estimate around nine million euros.”

  There was murmuring then—discontent. It pleased Judy intensely. Sophie did not seem to care, but that must be a mask!

  “And there will be more costs to come,” Sophie went on, cool as you like. “This new direction must be publicized. But not in the traditional manner. You can brief your contacts in the press, Judy, and bring me releases—I must approve them all. But that will not be the main way we are going to announce our rebirth.”

  “Then what will it be?” a male executive asked her. Judy would never have given her the satisfaction.

  Sophie smiled. “We’re going to throw a party,” she said. She smiled at the old couple. “And Herr and Frau Brandt, I will need your help.”

  Chapter 24

  Judy locked the front door of her apartment and stepped out into rue des Cloches. It was another glorious day; two small white clouds were all that marked the serene blue of the sky. It was cool enough at present, but that was only because it was seven in the morning. Later it would get hot, maybe too hot.

  Judy always dressed carefully, but today she had taken particular pains. It was not enough to be chic and businesslike. Today she also wanted to be pretty.

  Today, she was going to see Hugh Montfort.

  It was an odd thing, she thought, as she walked carefully down the street, smiling at the young man on his bike who whistled at her, the baker, opening up, who shot her a wolfish grin. Once she had decided to fight, she had actually relaxed. The tension and stress of the last few months, the proximity of Pierre’s widow, it all melted away. Judy understood, this morning, the terrible cost of being out of control. She had felt trapped, like a bird that flies into a building and can see no way out again.

  Perhaps, too, it was more than the arrival of Sophie. That dreadful fact had brought things to a head. But as she looked back this morning, her heels clicking down the cobbles, Judy thought the claustrophobia had lasted much longer than that.

  Ever since her lover disappeared, in fact.

  She had stayed at Massot, where they paid her salary, and endured the stares and whispers for so long that they had become white noise, something in the background. But all that meant was she had been living under constant, never-ending strain.

  It was not enough for the vultures that Judy’s heart was broken.

  She had lost Pierre, first, and most dreadfully. But just when the keen pain had settled into a dull ache, then the rumours started—gossip, right in front of her, in pretended ignorance of her love affair. The tales of Pierre’s other women. How there were, while he had been seeing her, at least eight others, and hookers and one night stands on top. Pierre, they told her, was a goat. He would stick it in any girl willing to take it, Françoise had told her, with muted triumph.

  That had shattered her, those weeks.

  Only gradually was Judy able to talk herself out of the black fog. She would never know the full truth. But Pierre had been tender, he had been sweet; he had helped her career; he had bought her the apartment, given it to her, free and clear.

  Their love meant something; Judy clung on to that through all the years ahead, until Sophie Massot showed up, tore the scars from her wounds, and set her heart bleeding again.

  At first Judy had not been able to see her way. But Sophie Massot had now given her the opportunity, and she would not need asking twice.

  She saw the little café on the corner of rue Tabac. Jacques, the owner, was outside, serving a customer; he saw Judy and waved cheerfully.

  She smiled and waved back. It occurred to her, depressingly, that these relationships, with waiters, people who served her every day, were the closest she came to friendships.

  Judy Dean had trusted nobody for years.

  She shrugged her cardigan round her shoulder. She would not think of anything depressing today. Today, she was going to change her life and bring the Massot nightmare to an end.

  Judy was ready to move on.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” said Jacques, flatteringly. “Très belle aujourd’hui.”

  He kissed his fingertips, extravagantly.

  “Merci.” Judy took her seat at an outside table for two. She did not have to be ashamed of sitting alone, she thought; a pretty woman never was.

  Jacques brought her usual breakfast. Sweet, milky coffee—so good—and a warm, buttery croissant, flaky and delicious. Judy refused cheeses and meats. Not this morning; it was all she could do to manage the croissant. She was nervous, in a delightful way. This might be the last day she would have to dance attendance on Sophie.

  And then, finally, she was going to take back control. She would bring House Massot crashing down, and all her tormentors with it.

  “Good morning, Judy.” Sophie Massot gave her a businesslike smile that annoyed Judy intensely. One staff meeting and the housewife thought she was a Harvard MBA.

  “Hi,” Judy responded.

  “You look very pretty this morning,” Sophie said.

  “So do you,” Judy lied. She thought Sophie looked tired; the black dress and jacket she had chosen today just showed up the pallor in her face, and there were no pearls to soften her complexion. “You know, I think we shouldn’t bother with a press release.”

  “Oh?” Sophie leaned back in her chair, one groomed eyebrow raised enquiringly.

  “Yes,” Judy said confidently. “You see, your strategy is all about luxury, haute couture. I think a press release would trivialize it.”

  “You may have a point there.”

  “I can give the press background briefings instead.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Of course it does. A press release Sophie would see; it would have to be positive. Unlike the poison Judy was pouring into the fascinated ears of her press contacts: off-the-record tidbits about costs and waste, about the insane whims of a spoiled woman, somebody who had dismissed, to date, about three hundred Frenchmen from their jobs—men with families to support. . . .

  “Tell me what you think of this,” Sophie said.

  She slid a heavy envelope across the mahogany desk. Despite herself, Judy was curious.

  “What is it?”

  “A sample invitation. They are being hand-delivered right now, across Paris, to four hundred of the most aristocratic ladies in the city. Old money, and the best families.”

  Judy flushed. Was her department working behind her back?

  “Who gave you that list of names?” she asked casually.

  Sophie shrugged. “Oh—they are just out of my address book, you know.”

  “Of course,” Judy acknowledged, hating her.

  “Contacts of Pierre’s,” Sophie said, making it worse.

  J
udy broke open the envelope, which was sealed with red wax, bearing the logo of House Massot, the eagle and diamond. A stiff cream card, with embossed black letters, requesting the pleasure of the company of Baron and Baronne de Chantilly. Inside the envelope there was also a small package wrapped in pale green tissue paper, shot through with tiny eagles in gold. It was addressed, with a tiny handwritten label, in beautiful calligraphy, to Madame la Baronne.

  “Our new wrapping paper,” Sophie said. She sounded childishly excited, Judy thought. “You like it?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Open it up.”

  Judy obediently peeled off the label and unwrapped the tissue paper. A glittering object fell out; it was a brooch, a beautiful piece shaped like a leaf, the rich, almost orange colour of twenty-four-karat gold, effortlessly chic and simple. Judy admired the workmanship; it was impossible not to. There was a bale on the reverse, discreetly hidden, so it could be turned into a pendant.

  She could think of hundreds of ways to wear the design. Conventionally, or round the hat; holding an Hermès scarf in place; funky, in the band of a hat, or on a belt. It was a gorgeous and very practical piece of jewellery.

  “And . . . you have sent every one of these ladies a twenty-four-karat brooch?” Judy asked, disbelievingly.

  Sophie nodded proudly. “Of course, not everybody has got a leaf. The Brandts created twenty different moulds; each piece is a limited edition of twenty. Every design is nature-themed. We have bees, lilies, roses, moons, suns, fish. . . .”

  Judy made herself say “Everything classic.”

  “Absolutely. I think the swan is my favourite.”

  “That’s quite an invitation,” Judy said. Her mouth felt dry. “How much did it cost?”

  Sophie winced. “You don’t want to know.”

  Oh, but I do, Judy thought.

  “I suppose you must have your secrets,” she said lightly. “But, Sophie . . . all this stuff has to be costing a bomb.”

  “We must spend money to make money.” Sophie Massot’s eyes were determined. “The company was falling apart.”

  And I think you just pushed it over the edge, Judy mused.

  “I wonder . . . I have a crunching migraine today.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Would you mind if I took a few hours off?”

  “Go ahead.” Sophie nodded. “We’ll need you rested.”

  “Thank you.” Judy’s hand hovered over the leaf. “May I borrow this? It might be useful for PR.”

  “You can have it,” Sophie said. “It’s only a sample. We sent Baronne de Chantilly a stallion. She keeps a large stable of horses.”

  “Well,” said Judy, before she could stop herself. “Isn’t that just lovely,” and she turned and walked out of Sophie’s office.

  There’s something wrong with that girl, Sophie thought. Maybe she was working her too hard. But it couldn’t be helped, not at the moment. The future of the House hung in the balance.

  After the party . . . that’s when she would give Judy a vacation.

  Clutching the brooch in her hand, Judy raced from the office. She saw the new girl on reception, a mousy brunette, and told her to direct all calls to Marie. And then, as she emerged into the blazing sunlight of rue Tricot, she was free.

  Judy pulled her sunglasses from her bag and took off her cardigan. Her reflection, attractive and slim, stared encouragingly back at her from the window of the pharmacy opposite the office, and the approving glances of the women passing her warmed her like the sunshine on her skin.

  She headed to the Left Bank and hailed a taxi.

  “L’hôtel Crillon,” she said. “Vite!”

  It was still only half eight. Sophie had arrived early. With any luck, her quarry would still be there.

  Hugh Montfort glanced over his agenda. Mrs. Percy had faxed it to him promptly at seven. She had offered to come to Paris, but he didn’t think it necessary, at least, not yet. The office in London had to be manned. And anyway, he could summon her and have her here in a few hours if it came to it.

  His first meeting was due to start in twenty minutes. The M&A team, over from Boston, were putting the finishing touches to their offer. Montfort had to review the financial PR one last time, and after that, House Massot would be in play.

  It was going well. He had a splendid appetite and had ordered a large, French breakfast—pastries, coffee, some delicious cured ham, tiny cheeses—it felt rather indulgent to be packing these away at breakfast, but he enjoyed every bite. The hotel had a good gym, and a large pool; he had enjoyed a fifty-lengths swim at day-break; then towelled off and completed a punitive circuit on the rowing machine, and followed that up with weights. His muscles were now pleasantly warm, the endorphins from his workout mingling with the pleasure of the coffee and food, and perhaps the anticipation of battle.

  There were still some variables. His lack of knowledge of quite what Sophie Massot was planning. Louis Maitre had hit a brick wall; it had to happen sometime. But he thought, on reflection, that he may have been overly concerned. House Massot’s share price was in free fall, and she had barely three months. What could she possibly do in that time?

  His main concern now was speed. He had to make his offer before the shrinking share price attracted bigger, badder buyers than Mayberry. Fortunoff, Tiffany, or one of the big American chains, perhaps.

  He pushed the breakfast tray aside and looked out his window. A beautiful day: clear skies, plain sailing. Hugh breathed in, deeply. He had the scent of his elusive quarry, and the chase was almost over.

  He reminded himself to enjoy it. He would choose not to think too much about the emptiness that almost certainly waited for him on the other side of victory.

  The phone rang.

  “Hugh Montfort.”

  “Good morning, sir,” said the receptionist in impeccable English. “I have a young lady here waiting to see you. Her name is Miss Judy Dean.”

  Judy Dean? He didn’t remember any women on Lowell Epstein’s team.

  “Ask her what company she’s from,” he said, warily.

  “Very good, sir.” There was a brief pause. “She says she works at House Massot.”

  Well, well, Montfort thought.

  “Ask her to come up,” he said. “And tell the meeting in conference room two I’ve been delayed. They can start without me.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  He waited a minute or so, then the knock on his door came, and it was with a most enjoyable curiosity that he said, “Come in.”

  Judy forced her heart to slow down. She had removed her sunglasses in the elevator, checked her appearance for a final time. There was no point in being nervous; she was playing a grown-up game, right now.

  Montfort would be incredibly grateful. She had to make sure that gratitude translated itself into dollars.

  She opened the door. His suite was every bit as sumptuous as she had expected. I want to be rich, Judy thought. I want to be able to stay in places like this, and go first class, and wear important jewels. People made it, all the time. This guy had. Why not her?

  He was standing silhouetted against his large window, but he took a step forward, hand outstretched.

  “How do you do. I’m Hugh Montfort.”

  “Judy Dean,” she said, her voice trembling just a touch.

  Oh, forget it, she thought. He was just so attractive. Her eyes took him in, in a split second inventoried him: the urbane, confident face; dark eyes and hair; the supremely muscular body. Judy, the fitness fanatic, could imagine perfectly what it was like. He was that rare creature, she thought, the strong man who would also be fast. She’d read up on Montfort. He had been in the British Army, decorated for valour in the Falklands. The well-cut suit and crisp shirt and tie did nothing, absolutely nothing to hide what was underneath it—an unreconstructed male, a killer.

  She couldn’t help herself. Feelings she thought had died when Pierre did tumbled in on her. She blushed with confusion as warm, trawling ten
drils of longing curled in her belly, in her breasts and groin. She looked down, then took his hand.

  He had a firm, dry grip, but she could sense he was holding his hand loosely, that if he wanted to, he could crush hers.

  Judy was dry-mouthed. She felt guilty for the first time that day. Hugh Montfort was so much more attractive, even, than Pierre had ever been to her. Pierre was dominant . . . ruthless, yes, a big businessman. But Montfort, Montfort now, versus Pierre then—he would have made mincemeat of her lover.

  Pull yourself together, she thought, sharply.

  “Have a seat, Miss Dean.” He showed her into the sitting room of his suite, and Judy sat carefully in one of the armchairs. Her fingers curled around the gold leaf brooch, gripping it tightly.

  “Are you here in some official capacity?”

  Judy shook her head, mutely. She noted, with a thrill of sheer pleasure, that Hugh Montfort also liked what he saw. His eyes were trickling over her body, running slowly, assessingly up her long legs, her firm, well-turned calves; his gaze lingered for a second on her breasts, not long enough for discourtesy, but long enough for her to see; then it stopped at her neckline, on her collarbone, before breaking evenly to hold her eyes.

  Judy felt weak with lust. She ran her tongue over her lips.

  “Unofficial,” she managed. “Very unofficial.”

  He spread his hands, leaned back in his chair. “I’m all ears.”

  The girl was aroused. That much was obvious. Hugh was used to women flirting with him, and sighing after him, but this girl was sitting in front of him, so turned on he could practically smell it. She was blushing; her pupils were dilated a little. She was somewhat hard-bodied for his taste, but undeniably attractive, and Montfort found her interestingly responsive.

  He would enjoy throwing this girl casually over his bed and fucking her brains out. But afterwards . . .

  No. He got hold of himself.

  “I have information on House Massot,” Judy said, boldly. “You can use it in your takeover bid. Expenditures . . . huge costs incurred. The shareholders will go nuts. Once they learn of this, they’re bound to support you.”