Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  He walked into his spotless kitchen and reached for the coffeemaker; they had thoughtfully laid out some decaffeinated blends. Tom selected a Jamaican Blue Mountain, poured in a little cream; he chose a couple of moist macaroon cookies—the sweetness, and the richness of the coffee, was soothing.

  He felt a touch uneasy. More than a touch. What was Grandmother planning? To see Maman at this party for the first time? They must quarrel. It might ruin the party, but it would also damage the reputation of the House, and more importantly, of his family. Surely Katherine could not want that. Yet he was sure, for all her correct words, that his grandmother had little time for Maman.

  Tom could not be so harsh. Yes, she had behaved appallingly, but it was all new. Some kind of midlife crisis. Since Papa . . . went away . . . his mother had been the picture of ladylike elegance, keeping her state in the castle, throwing the right parties, and doing nothing improper. He thought all those years of good behaviour had to count for something. She must be corrected. But it must be done with respect.

  He perceived a malice in Katherine’s bloodshot old eyes that disturbed him.

  On the other hand . . . she was right. He could not be shut out of that party. He, and not Mother, was going to control House Massot. In three years he would get all his shares, including the large block she voted.

  To stay away would be to concede defeat. To legitimize her takeover of the company.

  So, he would go, then. But he would not create a scene. He would need to speak to Grandmother about that.

  Tom took his Limoges cup over to the window; even at this hour, cars were streaming past, lighting up the soft night with garish lights. Paris was a modern city, full of bustle, full of money. It was in this city that his father had raised himself from a poor apprentice jeweller, eking out a living repairing watches and resizing rings, to the founder of a great empire, a great marque. Papa had wanted Tom to carry it on, as his heir and only child, and his mother, who had never had to strive a day in her life, was dismantling it.

  He was dreading the party. There must be some kind of confrontation. He loved his mother, but right now he disliked her heartily for making him go through all this.

  It sounded like an insane extravagance. Sending Massot jewels free to hundreds. This on top of outrageously costly renovations and closing the fashion division. Well, the shareholders would have had enough. He would let Maman enjoy her last hurrah, and then there would be the shareholders’ meeting, and it would all be over.

  He would have to grow up fast. To rebuild Papa’s empire, first. And then try to rebuild his family.

  Chapter 27

  “The body of Christ,” said Fr. Sabin.

  “Amen,” Sophie responded.

  She extended her tongue; the altar boy held the paten beneath her chin, and the old priest reverently laid the Host upon it. Sophie stood and made her way back to her pew; Holy Communion was over; she knelt down again and tried to pray.

  It was hard, today. Sophie stared at the smooth wood, its knotted surface worn glossy and soft from hundreds of years of parishioners kneeling, clutching, sitting. The dark pews were a little small for twenty-first-century bodies, but nobody complained; they were beautiful, as was the tiny church.

  Sophie fixed her gaze on the bronze statue of the Sainte Vierge above the altar and tried to concentrate, to give thanks for the Sacrament. But the Virgin was holding her son, clutching him to her as though she would never let him go.

  The image of motherhood filled her eyes with tears, and she had to turn away. Tom was here. In Paris—with that interfering old witch! With Katherine—but no, she mustn’t call her an old witch—that was not Christian charity. Sophie struggled, and turned her gaze to the stained glass windows; they had a nice safe picture of Sainte Genevieve.

  “Let us pray,” Fr. Sabin said.

  Sophie breathed out, relieved, and got to her feet. Father finished the last prayers, asked them to bow their heads, and gave them God’s blessing. As soon as he had pronounced the final “amen” of the dismissal, Sophie quietly slipped from her pew, genuflected, and hurried from the church.

  She emerged into the dazzling sunlight blinking back tears, and looked around for her driver. Where was he? She didn’t want anybody to see her crying. The family breach was all over the village, and this would only make it worse.

  Sophie couldn’t see Richard. There wasn’t a parking spot to be had anywhere in the street. She supposed he was circling the village. Inside the church the sounds of the last hymn were dying away. Sophie started to walk hastily in the other direction. She had to get away; she could call Richard on the mobile, have him pick her up outside Café Marianne. The walk would distract her long enough to regain some composure.

  “Sophie.” Fr. Sabin, old and out of breath, had rushed out to catch her, soutane flapping, one bony hand on his hat. “Sophie. Where are you going?”

  “Excuse me—excuse me, Father. I can’t stay.”

  “But you must, indeed. Go round to the rectory. The door’s open.”

  “Not this Sunday—”

  “Certainly this Sunday.This is about young Thomas, ma chère?”

  “I—”

  She couldn’t manage it. The lump in her throat resurfaced, too thick to be swallowed, and a fat tear trickled down her cheek.

  “Just go,” whispered the old priest. A fat lady trundled from the vestibule, eyes narrowing as she saw Sophie crying. She moved animatedly towards her, but Fr. Sabin intercepted her with an expert grace.

  “Mme Estelle—how nice to see you again. Where is monsieur this morning? Sick? I am sorry to hear it . . .”

  Sophie fled through the priest’s garden to the safety of the house.

  “Where is your driver?” Fr. Sabin said, handing over her mug of stewed Tetley.

  “He’s parked up the street. I called him. He’ll wait.”

  “Sophie,” the priest scolded. “It is very bad that you have him work on the Sabbath. You must stop it immediately. You can drive your own car, for once.”

  “I never learned.” She hadn’t gotten around to it as a teenager, and then Pierre found her, and there were always drivers. Sophie had broached it once, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Mme Pierre Massot did not drive; she was driven. “Anyway,” she went on, since Father had opened his mouth again, no doubt to tell her to walk, “Richard is Jewish, Father; he takes Saturday off.”

  “Oh. Humph. Very well, then. I keep an eye on these things, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “How is your tea?”

  “Delicious,” Sophie lied.

  Fr. Sabin took a sip of his own coffee. It smelled wonderful. Sophie looked at it wistfully.

  “I heard about your son’s return,” he said.

  She was jerked back to her sorrow. “From whom?” Sophie demanded. “Who could know that?”

  “Everybody, my dear,” said the priest, as though it were a foolish question. “You know St.-Aude.”

  Sophie bit her lip. Well, of course everybody knew. Why not? She was starting to understand just how sheltered, how controlled, her life at the château had been under Pierre. It was a big world, and she needed to get up to speed. She was not the obedient little woman—not anymore.

  “I think he hates me,” Sophie said. “My—my baby.”

  “Of course he does not hate you.”

  “I finally found out on Friday. From my secretary,” Sophie said, humiliated. “Celine came to see me and asked if I knew. She was so nervous, telling me. But she didn’t want me to look foolish anymore.” She swallowed. “They’ve been giving parties—Tom and Katherine. And going to dinners, the theatre—always with our friends, people I thought were my friends. It’s been in the papers, even. I just don’t read the gossip columns.”

  She fished a handkerchief out of her black quilted Chanel purse and blew her nose loudly.

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “I don’t know where he is.” Sophie shook her head.

  “And
Mme Katherine?”

  “She is not at the dower house, not when I call. Her butler will not admit me. She does not take my calls.”

  “She deliberately refuses to talk to you?”

  “That, and she seems to be mostly in Paris. Thick as thieves with my child.”

  “He is also her grandson.”

  “She has no right to come between us!” Sophie said, with a fresh burst of tears. “What is she doing? She’s always hated me, always! Tom should be in Oxford, studying for his examinations. He’s thrown everything away!”

  “You can’t be sure. Perhaps he has come to some arrangement with them.”

  “Not likely.” Sophie thought of the parties, the womanizing, the drunkenness, the tutors’ warnings. “He never bothered with his college.”

  “You could call and ask.”

  “I won’t ask strangers for news about my own son!” Sophie burst out.

  Fr. Sabin took a calm sip of his coffee.

  “Excuse me—excuse me,” Sophie said, wretchedly.

  He waved it away.

  “And did the young woman tell you anything else?”

  “Yes.” Sophie put down her mug of tea. “She said they are planning to come to my party. The relaunch of our brand. Both of them, although they weren’t invited.”

  “You can hardly shut them out.”

  “Exactly. The press will be there, Father. I have no time, you see, to turn the company around before the meeting, but I have to make sure the shareholders believe I can turn it around.”

  “So this party is highly important, for your work?”

  “It’s everything.” Sophie dabbed at her eyes.

  “And you fear your son and Mme Katherine are out to ruin it.”

  “That, and . . .” Sophie shivered. “they have access to a significant block of stock. I checked with our lawyers. Fifteen percent, if you combine them.”

  “But you have more. . . .” The old man scrunched up his face. “Business bores me, Sophie, I’m afraid. I am more concerned with your son. With your whole family. It seems to me, my dear, that if you reconcile with your son, the danger in your business will also go away.”

  “There is still Katherine.” She wanted to add “that bitch,” but he was a priest. “I’ll never convince her.”

  “Mme Katherine has . . .” he chose his words, “a highly developed sense of propriety. With your son and you in harmony, she would not dare to vote against you, because it would cause talk.”

  “You might be right.”

  “And do not be too hard on her, Sophie. We must love our enemies.”

  Sophie gritted her teeth. It was easier said than done.

  “Besides, you have only lost a husband. She has lost a son. You are a mother—you must feel for that. You will not stop loving Tom when you are eighty.”

  “I suppose,” Sophie said, softening marginally.

  “Without Pierre, Tom is her only blood. It is true he is your son and only her grandson. But he is Pierre’s boy. Consider that she may feel he is all she has left.”

  Sophie tried. She really did. But all that would come out was, “She is a spider.”

  Fr. Sabin smiled. “You know, you’re changing. I see it in you, ever since you went to the office. You’re more independent—more confident. Happier underneath, even with the stress.”

  Sophie was surprised. “Thank you.”

  “You’re finding out that you have a brain, and you are enjoying using it.”

  “There may be something to that, Father.”

  “You can handle this situation. Now, more tea?” Fr. Sabin looked at her rapidly cooling and almost full mug. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”

  “Oh—it was lovely. But no thank you.” She looked at his cup of rich, creamy coffee. “Maybe some coffee, for a change?”

  “Oh no. Too much caffeine is bad for you.” Fr. Sabin went triumphantly into the kitchen. “I got some decaffeinated Tetley. From Cardiff. I’ll make you a cup of that.”

  Sophie went home an hour later. The priest had turned the conversation to other topics—her garden, the village’s new mayor, the August fête for the Assumption. But Sophie’s mind had never left Tom.

  Of course he was right. He usually was. She had been afraid to reach out, since Tom was so obviously here to plot against her—coming in behind her back and going to Katherine.

  But that was stupid. Tom was her baby. He was throwing a tantrum, that was all. She would only be playing into Katherine’s hands if she let it escalate. She had to find out where he was living and speak to him, right away.

  Sophie ignored the tray of cold cuts the cook had left out for her in her garden room, and reached for the phone. Celine would know—she would be able to find out. She was a good girl, and Sophie was very glad she’d promoted her.

  But there was no answer. Celine must be out, enjoying the summer weekend with a boyfriend somewhere.

  Sophie tapped the phone against her chin.Who else? Who else might know?

  Of course. Judy Dean. She dialled her cell phone.

  “Sophie?”

  “Hi, Judy. Is this a good time?”

  There was a pause. “Of course. For you, anytime.”

  “Oh—thank you. I hate to bother you on Sunday.” Sophie, blushing and stumbling, explained. What Celine had said, and did Judy know; had she heard . . . did she have any ideas . . . ?

  “Of course I’ve heard,” Judy said innocently. “The whole of Paris knows Tom is around. You mean you didn’t?”

  “I didn’t,” Sophie admitted, utterly humiliated.

  “I wonder.” Judy said in her singsong voice. “I can make a few phone calls for you. And then I could drop by the château, if you like. That is, if you want company.”

  Sophie exhaled. “Oh, yes, please. Thanks so much, Judy.”

  Judy brought her new car sharply, crisply to a halt in front of the main entrance; the Porsche’s wheels crunched on the gravel. She stepped out, careful to close her knees together, as she had seen Sophie do.

  Pierre’s widow was waiting eagerly for her on the steps in front of the large, arched wooden front. No jewellery today, just her wedding ring, and her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders.

  Sophie looked horribly elegant, even without ornamentation. Judy felt the adrenaline course through her again. By contrast, she had gone the whole hog.

  Bloody Sophie. Trust her to make Judy feel overdressed.

  She didn’t know why she had wanted to come out here. Only that she could never resist. It was like worrying a tooth. Though it caused her pain every time, Judy could not leave it alone. There was that curiosity, that horrible curiosity of the mistress, which had never left her. What was his family house like? How had he lived? What was his bedroom like? His bathroom? Their child’s quarters?

  Well, she had seen the château now—all through it. Sophie had given her the grand tour. And her answers. Pierre and his family had lived—sumptuously. While she, for years, had been living in her one-bedroom apartment.

  Judy had thought the apartment was quite the gift—proof of Pierre’s devotion—until she saw this place. And realized it was nothing. Perhaps he saw it as merely a convenience. More discreet than a hotel room.

  Walking through the grey stone house, with its elegant rooms and its formal parks, and antiques that might grace the Louvre, Judy had felt her thoughts go into such turmoil she hardly knew what she was feeling.

  Sorrow, loss, rage at Pierre; and at Sophie: glad, ferocious triumph, that the wife had no idea she was hosting the mistress.That secret, at least, she still possessed. This may have belonged to Sophie. But Pierre’s heart had not—had it?

  Would it have amused him, seeing the two of them there? Wife and mistress? Or infuriated him?

  Judy wasn’t sure, and didn’t care. She hated Pierre for choosing Sophie and staying with Sophie. And she hated him for dying, and leaving her.

  She smiled and waved at Pierre’s wife. “Hi!” she said.

  “Hi.” Soph
ie kissed her. “You look fabulous today. Dressed up for something special?”

  She does think I’m overdressed, Judy thought with loathing. “Just summer,” she said lightly.

  Her tone sounded brittle; Judy told herself to be careful. She was on edge; it had been a bad couple of days. She felt so tense she was almost cracking up. It was that English bastard, Montfort. Judy had been overcome, immediately overcome.

  She hated him. Hated Mayberry. Hated Massot. Hated all of them.

  Her first impulse had been to quit. But she needed money. Where the hell would she go? And so here she was, today, sucking what pleasure she could from the fact that Sophie Massot was unhappy. A breach with her boy, Pierre’s boy. And his mother. Trouble in paradise,Judy thought snidely, and although it sounded petty, she really didn’t care.

  “Did you discover anything?” Sophie asked, eagerly.

  “Oh, certainly. He’s staying at a rental in the Appartements Dauphin on the Rive Gauche.”

  He had rented a place? But Château des Étoiles was his home!

  “And the phone number?”

  “That I couldn’t get you. But I know people. Firms . . . private detectives. They could find it out.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Probably not. Depends how badly you want to know,” Judy said brutally, and covered it with a smile. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  “I see.” Sophie’s pretty face fell.

  “I’m sure it’s just a teenage whim,” Judy said. “Whatever the problem is. What is the problem, Sophie? If you feel like talking about it, of course.”

  “Oh—certainly.” Sophie looked back at the forbidding height of the château. “It’s Sunday, everybody’s day off—I only have an assiette to offer you.”

  “I saw a nice restaurant in the village.” Judy opened the side door to her green Porsche. “Hop in. We’ll do a girly lunch, set the world to rights. What do you say?”