Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  That could only be Fruits de la Mer, the seafood place Lazard had wanted to go to. Sophie winced at the memory, but nodded. “Why not?” she said.

  Eating out was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, but Judy had come all the way out here. Sophie could hardly say no.

  The restaurant was fairly large, for such a small village, and had a touch of arrogance about it; the proprietor, M. Foucaut, served the best fish dishes within a twenty-mile radius of Paris; he was booked all season, and his prices reflected his fame. He did, however, keep a few tables empty for villagers and possible celebrities; Sophie Massot qualified on both counts, and Henri Foucaut showed her and Judy, bowing, to seats by the bay window.

  The tables were country oak, the decor uncompromisingly old-fashioned: candles on every table, though not lit for lunch; prints of fishing; hardwood floors; sweet peas, gloriously fragrant; and roses in small vases.

  He asked if they wanted something to drink. Sophie opted for Perrier; Judy asked if she could have champagne.

  Sophie said of course, and ordered a split herself. She felt she had to, just to be sociable.

  Judy smiled; so many white teeth, Sophie thought; Judy Dean was so buff, so fit. Just looking at her made Sophie feel old and exhausted.

  “Let’s order,” Judy said. “I’m famished.”

  Sophie had no appetite. She chose a small rocket and endive salad and a dressed crab; Judy picked more extravagantly. She started with a dozen oysters, which Pierre had considered an aphrodisiac; it amused her to eat these in front of the frigid wife. Next she chose a risotto of fennel and rock shrimp, and finally ordered a raspberry sorbet served with coulis.

  She knew how to play her hand. After ordering, she made small talk, complimenting Sophie on the remodeling, lying about how well Sophie’s changes were being received. Her hostess just kept her face turned away, as though she couldn’t bear to think about it.

  “Please. Judy.” Sophie finally turned to face her, and Judy saw with a quick thrill of interest her eyes were red. “No business—it’s the weekend. We get enough of that Monday to Friday.”

  “Of course. Would you like to discuss Tom? It must be very painful for you—”

  “No—thank you, but no.” Sophie’s back was rigid with tension; Judy knew the pose all too well.

  “I understand.” Judy smiled. “Coming on top of the business with Gregoire,” she added, lowering her voice sympathetically.

  The barb hit home. Sophie breathed in sharply, as if in pain. “You don’t think—you don’t suppose Tom has heard about that?”

  “I don’t see how he could have avoided it,” Judy said, her malice a bright flame in the pit of her stomach. “The press printed the rumours—after all, Gregoire’s lawsuit, it is for sexual harassment, as well as unfair dismissal.”

  “Oh God,” Sophie groaned. She felt dizzy and reached for her champagne. It was cold, a necessary prop. She drank and let the alcohol take the edge off.

  “Shall we get some more? I’d love another glass,” Judy said brightly. She wanted Sophie tight, and indiscreet. Knowing her secrets gave Judy power. If she had to stay at Massot—for now—she would do it in control.

  “Whatever you like,” Sophie said, weakly, and Judy ordered a bottle of Cliquot.

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Sure,” Judy said, filling up Sophie’s glass. She took a sip of her own wine; delicious. She decided she was enjoying herself immensely. “Like what?”

  “Anything. I don’t know. You.”

  Sophie turned her grey eyes on her companion. “Tell me about yourself, Judy. We’re all business. Apart from those days when we were discussing—you know—”

  “Gregoire Lazard,” Judy said loudly.

  Sophie flinched. “Yes. Apart from then—we really only talk about the office. I’d like to know about you.”

  “Why’s that?” Judy slipped an oyster into her mouth, swallowed, and dabbed the juice away with her napkin. Mmm, it was good. “I’m not very interesting.”

  “But of course you are.” Sophie made an effort. “An American in Paris, the only woman executive at Massot—you’re fascinating.”

  “I came over here young. Met Pierre,” Judy knew it was dangerous to be talking like this. But sitting in this restaurant, in Pierre’s own village—discussing it with Pierre’s wife—gave her a sick feeling of triumph. And besides . . . she still loved discussing him, even after all these years. Even with Sophie. It thrilled her just to hear his name spoken. “Pierre hired me right away. Gave me my chance, you might say. And I’ve stayed with House Massot ever since.”

  “What was my husband like to work for?”

  Judy gazed at her evenly. “He was a lot of fun,” she said, softly. “A lot of fun.”

  “You sound like you miss him.”

  To her horror, Judy felt her own eyes prickle. No. She would not cry. “I do,” she agreed. “He was one in a million.”

  “Everybody says that—how unusual he was.”

  “Well, you would know.”

  Sophie sighed. “I never saw that side of him. I think he must have left it in the office.”

  Judy teetered. She wanted to know, of course—wanted to know everything. And yet she thought she might hate to hear the answer.

  “Was it,” she heard herself say, “a very happy marriage?”

  Sophie looked into her champagne flute for a few seconds. But she trusted Judy, and anyway, she couldn’t wear the mask forever; she was tired of wearing it.

  “Not as much as you might suppose,” she said.

  Judy felt relief flood her soul. She was weak with it. Then it was true, Pierre hadn’t loved Sophie; he had loved her, not Sophie, he was Judy’s. . . .

  “I married too young.” Sophie was still talking. “I didn’t feel the same about Pierre as he felt about me. We had our differences, but he always said his family was everything to him—me and Tom. He said he would die before he gave the two of us up.” She looked at Judy shyly. “Now I wonder if I felt the same.”

  Her words were ice water, drenching all the warm hope that had been there a second ago. My family is everything. Pierre had said that to Judy, also, once. And she had tried to ignore it.

  Judy tried to say something, but the words would not come out. She was saved by the waiter, bringing their main course.

  “Well,” she managed when he had gone. “I’m sure that your family troubles will be over by next week. After the party, we only have three months till the shareholder vote. And then you can relax.”

  “Yes.” Sophie shook herself, shook away the memories that clung to her like cobwebs. “I will have saved my husband’s company. It’s what he wanted. And it’s for our son.”

  She smiled bravely at Judy.

  “I can’t bring him back. But I can save his company. House Massot feels like more than a business, Judy. It feels like our legacy—that saving it is saving the Massot family.”

  Judy calmed herself—all the jealousy, all the anger. She nodded at Sophie, her eyes bright.

  “Oh, sure,” she said.

  And she knew what she had to do.

  Chapter 28

  There was no way he could not go, of course. For one thing, he had accepted, and Hugh was old-fashioned; his word was his bond.

  For another, it promised to be the most important event of his business career. Sophie Massot’s party would eclipse even the Oscars in that respect.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. Montfort’s black tie was always the same; he merely checked, briefly, to see that everything was as it should be: no creases in his jacket, his tie angled correctly.

  He picked up the small package sitting on his dressing table and weighed it in his hand. It had taken Hugh a little while to select the perfect gift. It was a difficult case. He invariably brought his hostess a present, and it was usually jewellery—one of the more tasteful pieces in the Mayberry line.

  Obviously, he could not give this hostess Mayberry jewels
. And even without their battle over the multimillion dollar company, he would never have offered Sophie Massot a Mayberry piece anyway. Her background was solidly middle class, but her bearing, her intelligence, her grace, all made him think of her as more noble than many stuffy duchesses or contessas. Montfort would have found an antique for Sophie, something not necessarily of huge value but definitely lovely.

  As it was, he could not offer jewellery. Wine or chocolates would have been completely out of place; a painting or piece of art, too ostentatious.

  He had chosen, therefore, with extreme care.

  His telephone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Your car is ready, Monsieur.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Montfort said.

  He put on his coat, picked up his gift, and left his suite. His limousine was purring right at the entrance to the hotel. It was a clear night, some stars visible even through the lights of the city; the cold snap had passed, and the air was refreshingly cool, not chilly, a perfect night for a party.

  His driver shut the car door behind him and Montfort settled into his seat.

  “Maison Massot, rue Faubourg St.-Honoré,” he said.

  The car melted into the fast-flowing traffic, and Hugh felt something odd. Anticipation. That was it.

  Excitement was to be expected, perhaps. Sophie appeared to be under the delusion that one party would rescue her ailing company and win back the hearts of her shareholders. He would be there himself—he would see it wasn’t true.

  Tonight was the last gasp of his old adversary, Pierre Massot.

  But something told him that he wasn’t being quite honest with himself. It was more than being satisfied that House Massot would soon be his, that he would have achieved his goal for Mayberry.

  He was looking forward to more than that. He was looking forward to seeing Sophie Massot again.

  Tom sat with his grandmother in the car, his heart thumping.

  He wondered if she felt the same. Katherine was stiff-backed, and hadn’t spoken a word to him for the last twenty minutes. She had arrived with her driver to pick him up, quickly perused his dress, accepted compliments on her own, and they had set off for rue Faubourg.

  He wanted to say something. Other than to praise his grandmother’s gown once again. She had certainly pulled out all the stops. Tom didn’t think he’d ever seen Katherine Massot in such fine estate. She was so dressed up, it was almost as if she wanted to look good, rather than maintain her normal elegance. Her coiffeur had constructed an elaborate updo, winding her fine white hair into a gleaming knot, spraying it with something that gave it an unnatural sheen, and then securing it with three splendid combs encrusted with pavé diamonds; her face was powdered, her cheeks had an extremely careful rouge to them, enough for a rosy cheek—not overdone and clownish. Katherine’s gown was of pale grey silk fringed with silver lace, and she wore, around her neck, an enormous choker of seed pearls and diamonds, as thick as a collar; it concealed all the crepey skin of her old age, and a boned bodice and skirt gave her a figure she had not possessed in nature for many years.

  His grandmother had neglected no detail. Tom had to admit she looked magnificent. A dowager queen of France would have found it hard to outglow Katherine Massot tonight. Her feet were clad snugly in pointed slippers made from antique Chinese silver brocade, shot through with gold thread worked into birds and dragons; her bony hands were concealed in pure white calfskin gloves from Hermès, and her whole body was wrapped in a hooded cloak of gunmetal cashmere, perfectly soft and luxurious. When she removed the gloves, the long sleeves of her ball gown ended in silver lace that would cover the backs of her hands; and as for her fingers, which could not be completely hidden away, Katherine had chosen gems that would distract any eye: on her left hand, a flower worked in flawless marquise diamonds; on her right, the Tiger’s Eye ruby, a Massot signature—a huge oval Burmese, pigeon’s blood red, perfectly translucent; a fourteen-carat stone set between two three-carat light green sapphires.

  Her bag was a beautiful pouch of silver satin with a white gold handle, secured to her slender wrist by a silken thread, and she was tapping her ubiquitous ivory fan against her knee, thoughtlessly.

  Tom was glad to see the fan. It provided the only familiarity in his grandmother’s appearance. Katherine’s magnificence tonight was unmistakably scored with malice. He had mentioned to her that he hoped they would not embarrass Maman, and that Papa wouldn’t have chosen any scandal, and Katherine had said, “Of course,” coldly and superbly; that was the sum total of his conversation on the subject.

  He shifted in the back of the car, his mind ticking. They were approaching rue Faubourg, for which he thanked God. Tom was sure tonight was going to be miserable, and he wanted to get it over with.

  His mother had been trying to reach him. She had somehow got hold of the unlisted telephone number at the flat and had left him five messages, with entreaty in her voice that plucked at his heartstrings. He wasn’t quite ready to talk to her, had screened out the calls.

  But although it felt disloyal to Grandmother, who had offered her help when he needed it, perhaps he would take the opportunity tonight. Draw his mother aside into some corner, talk to her, become friends again. If Maman had betrayed Papa, declaring him dead, refusing to wait a few years—even devaluing the stock—he still had to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  Tom missed his mother. The more time he spent with Katherine, the more he missed those things he had previously dismissed, latterly, even despised—Sophie’s warmth, her calmness, her demonstrative love of him. She was gentle, and her son had mistaken it for stupidity.

  Surely Maman had not meant to betray his father. Surely she was just misguided. She had maintained her mourning, shown him the proper respect. And that story of a lover, well. That was Grandmother’s story. Tom didn’t know his mother’s side of it. Perhaps he had been wrong in not waiting to find out.

  Yes, as the car slowed to a crawl in the party traffic, Tom made up his mind. Maman was just misguided. They could be reconciled. Anyway—maybe she was doing a little better at House Massot than he’d given her credit for.

  Tom didn’t believe Sophie had had a total personality transplant. She would still have respected Papa. Mistakes could be forgiven.

  Tom’s mood lifted. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Judy’s taxi had stopped moving. She resisted the temptation to bark at the driver. That was Paris traffic; you had to be Zen about it, or say goodbye to your blood pressure. She didn’t want to arrive flustered, either; this party was important, and Judy wanted to appear at her best.

  Judy had handpicked the press for the evening, and she was to be there, to see that they reported it for what it was: a disgraceful waste of shareholders’ money.

  Judy would paint a vivid picture: extravagance, selfishness, recklessness. Little old ladies with their pension funds ruined by Massot’s plunging share price. Far from reversing that course, she was sure tonight would confirm it. The opulence of the details Judy had seen took her breath away.

  She would not even need to do much planting. The spending would speak for itself.

  The taxi was moving again. Judy snuggled into her pashmina; she was warm, but her hatred was cold inside her, hard as any jewel.

  She wore a contemporary dress. There would be plenty of ball gowns there tonight; Louis XIV opulence, nothing Judy could compete with. She had gone carefully for contrast, instead. Judy was no stuffy dowager in diamonds. She would shine as what she was: modern, fresh, American. The anti-Sophie, perhaps.

  Her outfit was a one-piece in scarlet; it was silk, embroidered with tens of thousands of sequins, heavy, made to fit her perfectly, in the atelier; it was long and had a fish tail and a fitted bodice, a tank-style neckline that showed off her graceful arms and strong, polished shoulders. Judy had spent ten thousand euros on the dress. She did not regret one cent.

  She carried no jewels, of course; the dress was all glitter and r
equired none. And Judy did not choose to compete in that area. One day—when she could out-dazzle the lot of them. Not tonight. She was absolutely bare of ornamentation. Even her earlobes were free of studs.

  She had a small, solid-metal, red-sequin Judith Leiber bag and cherry Manolos, perfect matches to the dress. That, and her fire red lipstick, was all the accompaniment Judy required. She had a simple black Joseph coat over the top, and she was certain that when she divested it, there would be gasps.

  Sophie told her Hugh Montfort was going to be there, just mentioned it in passing. That made it all the more vital. Judy was confident. She looked stunning. She would let that bastard know just what he’d missed.

  “Good evening, sir. May I see your invitation?”

  A courteous man in one of the Massot uniforms, a bespoke suit, smiled briskly at Hugh. He had been speaking French.

  “Here,” Hugh said in English, handing it over. A little test.

  The man examined it quickly. “Very good, sir, thank you very much,” he replied in excellent English. “Enjoy your evening.”

  Hugh was impressed. The pavement was swarming with invitees: plenty of middle-aged ladies in furs, despite the heat; a number of cloaks; gentlemen in cashmere coats. Everybody looked very grand indeed, and despite the crush, the Massot employees were handling it beautifully; drawing this banker to one side, that countess to another; invitations were getting checked, and invitees ushered in, without any pushing, or unseemly bottlenecks.

  He glanced to his right and saw, a discreet distance away behind a velvet rope, the section for gate-crashers. There were a number of them: well-dressed types, but without the opulence that distinguished the real guests; enterprising members of the press, perhaps. Massot security men in dark coats, their biceps like steel, stood arms folded and implacable to any excuses, and there was a patrol car of the gendarmerie parked close by, just in case any frustrations got violent.