Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

Hugh slipped his own invitation back into his jacket pocket. He was about to walk inside when he was distracted by a vignette too fascinating to ignore.

  A silver Rolls-Royce, a vintage model, pulled up in its turn in front of the red carpet. The chauffeur got out and opened the back door, head bowed, and a very old lady and a teenage boy disembarked together.

  The glittering crowd around Hugh drew back a little; he heard the discreet murmurs, the familiar sounds of well-bred gossip. Everybody was staring at the couple. Montfort himself took a step aside and observed them.

  There was a brief pause. The seated Massot staffer, in her pink Chanel suit, swallowed dryly, and asked, with great nervousness, to see the lady’s invitation.

  She drew herself up; Hugh admired her, she was splendid.

  “Je suis Katherine Massot,” she said, coldly, “et j’entrerai.”

  The crowd stared. The woman was utterly magnificent, shimmering in silver and lace, huge jewels on her hands, a sparkling collar at her neck; beside her the young man—Hugh guessed he might have been twenty—stood, also haughty, but silent, and possibly, Hugh thought, a little embarrassed. He wondered if this was it, a scene, already the party ruined, and he had not even gotten inside. Behind the velvet rope, the reporters and other predators were fascinated, snapping pictures, scenting blood on the red carpet.

  The door to the Massot showroom opened wide, and with a swish of silk, Sophie Massot came out.

  Hugh’s jaw dropped. And so, he noted, did Katherine’s, and the boy’s. The mother-in-law glared disdainfully; the boy looked shocked and hurt; his face was a picture of dismay.

  “Katherine! Tom!” Sophie said, clearly and distinctly. She leaned forward and kissed them both on the cheek; both were still as stone. “How lovely to see you! This is such a nice surprise. Please do come in,” and she stood aside, ushering them into the room.

  Katherine Massot paused, but there was nothing for it; she nodded icily at her daughter-in-law and swept inside, and her grandson followed, without another glance at his mother.

  For a second Hugh thought he saw a flash of pain on that pretty face, but Sophie rearranged her features and went back inside, once again the picture of serenity.

  The crowd closed ranks, murmured again, this time in tones of approval; the reporters sank back, annoyed; the crisis had passed.

  Hugh made his way inside. He wanted to observe the mother and the son. They were major stockholders. And he also wanted to see Sophie again—in that incredible dress. Montfort hadn’t thought she could get any more attractive, but he had been wrong. Sophie had ditched the black—she was not in mourning. Her gown was pink; what a dress, he’d never seen anything like it. As he entered the Massot showrooms to the low hum of appreciative conversation, the gentle strings of a quartet, and the chink of champagne glasses, Hugh Montfort was already looking for her.

  Judy moved inside and made straight for the cloakroom, where she was able to ditch the plain Joseph coat; she shrugged it lightly from her shoulders, using the tight muscles of her upper back. And she was rewarded.

  Just as she had foreseen, the gasps came. Judy stood out. She was admired; even the old women standing around her, in their clichéd ball gowns and overdone rocks—even the cream of Paris—they were admiring Judy Dean, the mechanic’s daughter from Oklahoma.

  Triumph and satisfaction mixed with her rage. It was a heady sweep of emotions, and Judy’s eyes gleamed as she made her way back into the main room. A waitress passed and offered her a flute of champagne; there was a choice, she was told: rosé, brut, or demi-sec.

  Judy accepted a glass of rosé. It was very good; she thought Perrier Jouët, certainly vintage. The pale colour, pink grapefruit, complemented her gown. Judy was chic, absolutely chic, in this room full of full skirts and lace shawls; her sequinned shift stood out a mile.

  Her sharp eyes scanned the room. She had the facts within ten seconds. Certainly the party was a success on the face of it; everybody had accepted, and they were all here, le tout Paris, of a certain social stratum and astronomical wealth. Most of the ladies present were wearing their free brooches prominently. But of course, Judy had anticipated this. Yes, everybody was here—but what did it matter?

  She had been right. Reckless, reckless spending—the evidence was all around her.

  The vintage champagne was just the beginning. The insanity of dressing assistants in Chanel had been exceeded, utterly; waiters were circulating with the kind of foodstuffs restaurant writers dream of eating: caviar, naturally, mounds of it, but also entire trays of the finest Provence truffles, sliced and delicately fried; petits crottins, little cheeses studded with wild herbs; miniature mousses scented with lavender honey; bitter chocolate soufflés in porcelain pots as small as eggcups; fried flowers of courgette; olive tapenade; a sorbet of elderflower; lemon and strawberry ice creams; tender medallions of beef in coarse pepper. . . .

  Sophie had hired for the night, at impossible expense, one of three chefs in France whose restaurant had four Michelin stars, and the food was sublime.

  The showroom was glorious, much as Judy had already seen. Sophie had kept it, apart from the circulating waiters, exactly as it was during business hours; the only ornamentation were the tall fountains of pastel roses, whose fragrance mingled with perfume and the delicious smells of the food. Sophie wanted to show her guests a House Massot showroom, just as it was.

  But there was one key difference tonight—one which, Judy thought triumphantly, would finally convince any observer that Sophie Massot was an irresponsible rich playgirl, not to be trusted with running a public company.

  There were no cases over the jewels. The glass had been removed—removed everywhere. Necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings—priceless, absolutely priceless gems, many million euros of retail value in this flagship store—were left open to the air, to the eyes, and fingers, of any party guest who wanted to touch.

  And not just touch. They were picking them up, trying them on, dandling strings of emeralds between their fingers, the dowagers playing with Massot stock like it was a pile of toys.

  Judy smiled. No doubt some of these old bitches were slipping the odd diamond ring into a pocket or an evening bag. With this crowd, who would ever catch them? It was madness!

  She glanced around, checking the room for her tame reporters. There they were, conveniently standing together in a knot: Pauline Vente from Paris Match, Bernard Frimes from Le Figaro , and Jeanne Anse from Vogue. Judy could see from the raised eyebrows, the excited huddle, that they were just as shocked as she was.

  She beamed; her plotting was falling into place. Savaging Sophie was going to be child’s play.

  Judy took a large sip of her chilled champagne, and strode expectantly towards them. Of course, she had to be subtle. . . .

  “Chérie,” the women greeted her. Judy exchanged air kisses and shook hands solemnly with Bernard, as she always did.

  “What a party!” Pauline said. There was a catty tone to her words, music to Judy’s ears.

  “Isn’t it?” she said. “Very expensive, of course, but I’m sure it’s all worth it.”

  Her tone was deliberately evasive; the reporters circled.

  “How much, exactly, Judy?”

  “Why are the jewels unprotected?”

  “This clientele is very old. I haven’t seen anyone here at the fashion shows. Perhaps one or two. . . .”

  “Who authorized the free brooches?”

  “Is that real Chanel that assistant is wearing?”

  “Great decor. How much was it?”

  “I heard Lionel Teron was catering tonight.”

  “My dears, my dears.” Judy held up one manicured hand and looked pained. “You can’t ask me to comment. You know my loyalty is to Sophie.”

  “It’s a fabulous dress, darling,” said Bernard, to soften her up. “But tell me, why are the widow Massot—the elder widow Massot—and the heir here?”

  “Where?” Judy asked.

  He gestured, and Jud
y’s head snapped around. My God, she thought, it is true—they are here; they have come. Katherine Massot, resplendent in silver, looking almost pretty, and a tall, louche young man next to her—handsome, sullen. They were talking together, animatedly.

  The young heir, Thomas, suddenly turned his head and looked in their direction. His gaze fell on Judy without seeing her. He was staring into the middle distance, talking to Katherine.

  Judy gasped. The boy—the man, he was a man now—he was the picture of Pierre. Maybe about the chin there was that touch of Sophie, he had her slight cleft, but for the rest of it—it was Pierre, dear God, it was him. . . .

  She felt the room go dark. She swayed dangerously on her Manolos.

  “Judy,” said Jeanne sharply. “Are you all right?”

  “Are you drunk?” asked Bernard, naughtily.

  “No—I’m fine, fine,” Judy managed. She steadied herself. “I’m just fine. It’s the heat.”

  The others exchanged looks. The party was air-conditioned.

  “I expect it’s a great shock to see those two here,” Jeanne said, with a sly grin. “Rumours are that Mme Katherine is none too pleased with Mme Sophie. And nor is the heir. Any truth to it, Judy?”

  Judy shook her head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Aha!” said Pauline, triumphantly.

  “I’m sure Thomas and Katherine Massot fully support Sophie. We’ll see at the shareholders’ meeting.”

  “We will indeed,” said Bernard. “A family feud! How delicious.”

  “And Hugh Montfort.” Pauline Vente chimed in. The woman hadn’t aged well; she was a crow in black velvet and unimpressive diamonds. What a lack of style, Judy thought, to wear your diamonds to a party like this if they aren’t much to write home about. Pauline’s two-carat ring might as well be a chip in here, so dwarfed was it by everybody else.

  But Pauline, the least chic woman employed by the bible of chic, did not care. Her job was to report on gossip. And her eyes were sparkling brighter than Sophie Massot’s briolettes.

  Judy followed her eyes. Yes, there he was, Montfort. Just as handsome as before, but it had no further effect on her. He was sipping champagne and watching the room. Gauging his competition.

  Montfort had nothing to worry about with Sophie. But plenty to worry about with her.

  “Why is he here?” Pauline asked. “He’s the opposition. Is Sophie playing games with her shareholders’ money?”

  Judy tried to look shocked. “What a suggestion, Pauline!”

  “This whole party is a risky, pompous gesture.”

  “I can see it now,” Jeanne said. “Sophie Massot. The new Marie Antoinette!”

  “Let them eat caviar,” Bernard agreed.

  “Oh, you mustn’t write anything of the sort,” said Judy, unconvincingly. She glanced back at Thomas Massot, then at Hugh. She had to excuse herself. Her work here was done; the journalists were ready to eat Sophie alive.

  “You must be kind,” Judy said. “Sophie means well,” she added, damningly. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  She squared her shoulders and moved off towards Montfort. Not that he mattered; he did not. But Judy had to let him know she was not scared of him.

  The crowd parted as she moved through it—her lean, muscular body red and predatory in its glittering sequinned sheath. Judy flattered herself that there was a look in her eyes that forbade too much argument.

  A few of the men present, old barons and counts and other social lions, bankers and ministers in their fifties, looked at her approvingly as she passed. Judy saw the flickers of appreciation, the corresponding anger flashing in the eyes of their wives, and she fed off it; adrenaline crackled through her, she pulled back her shoulders, better displaying her still-high embonpoint; Judy did fifty chest flies a day, and if she couldn’t firm the fatty tissue of her breasts, she kept the muscles just above them so tight and hard that they still faced north.

  She felt alive when these men looked at her. It salvaged her pride; the mirror told her she was still attractive; now these men, the cream of Paris, pre-Revolutionary money, told her the same.

  Montfort be damned. Judy lifted her head. She would go to him, defy him to his face. Then let him find Sophie, wherever she was, and the two of them could fence little barbs at each other all night long.

  Judy had other business. A brilliant idea, a flash of inspiration had occurred to her. She would find Thomas Massot. And with his help, she would destroy them both.

  Tom moved to a corner. His grandmother had excused herself to go to the bathroom; he was alone. Thank God.

  He drained his champagne flute and beckoned a passing waiter.

  “You were drinking rosé, M’sieur? I only have demi-sec. Allow me to fetch—”

  “It’s fine,” Tom said, cutting him off. “I’ll take this.”

  Alcohol. It was all alcohol.

  He felt weak and depressed. The shock, the dreadful, shaming shock. Just as he had planned to speak to Maman and put an end to all this, as he had been convincing himself of her respect for his father . . .

  Sophie had greeted him and Grandmother. And she was not in mourning. There was not a stitch of black anywhere on her body. Not even anything sombre—purple or navy. Instead, she was wearing pink.

  And not just any pink. His mother had been wearing a glorious, certainly antique, empire-waisted dress of the palest rose pink, decorated with white seed pearls, so it glittered and shone, opalescent against her fair skin. Her hair was secured into a chignon with ivory combs set with diamonds, and she wore pink diamond earrings—true pinks, one of the most valuable diamond colours on the planet—pear shapes, four carats apiece, worth millions, and a necklace, quite exquisite if not so valuable, of naturally pink conch pearls threaded with pale green peridot. The centerpiece, a rare large peridot, round-faceted and ten carats, sat just above her cleavage. Drawing attention to it. His mother, in an eighteenth-century gown that actually showed her cleavage, and this in front of the best, the noblest couples in Paris.

  Tom had actually struggled for breath, so embarrassed, so furious, was he. Maman debasing not only his father’s legacy, but also his name.

  He had nodded to her stiffly, and walked away, with his grandmother.

  Tom took a slug of his fresh champagne flute. As soon as Grandmother returned he was getting out of here. They’d come; they’d made their point. Now they should leave and allow his mother to debase herself without a family audience.

  So much for keeping it quiet. He had no compunction about that, not anymore. He would call a press conference first thing tomorrow morning and announce to the world that he and Katherine would vote their stock against his mother.

  Montfort watched her.

  There she was. She did not see him; her attention was taken up by some dowager in a pale blue ball gown. The old lady was examining a ring; it had some kind of green stone, and she was slipping it on and off a wizened finger.

  Sophie, a vision in rose, was talking to her with polite attention. Her manners were as beautiful as her gown.

  Damnation, but she was beautiful. And sexy—so incredibly sexy. He wondered what the slender figure looked like, under that gown. Still in her thirties, and it showed; the woman seemed younger and more vibrant every time he saw her. She stirred his blood, profoundly.

  Hugh wanted her.

  He struggled with himself. The guilt was ever-present. He tried to summon the vision of his Georgie, his dear Georgie. And she was there; she never went away, but the idea did not work the way it usually did.

  Normally, one thought of Georgie and the woman before him would lose all her power, become plain and dull, and put him in no danger.

  Not this time. The old woman said something, and Sophie laughed; he watched her, and his guilt withered. Something sparked inside him, something strong. Hugh felt a rush of gladness; at that second, he didn’t care about Massot, or the deal, or anything related to business.

  His soul, which had been so long dead i
n its own winter, started to crack open, just slightly, but perceptibly, like the pale green shoots of snowdrops thrusting up, through snow and ice, into the weak light of a January day.

  Hugh’s breath quickened; he felt engaged, immensely glad; he took a step towards her. He had no idea of what he was going to say. Something. It almost didn’t matter.

  “Well. Good evening.”

  Reluctantly he turned around.

  The American girl was there. Standing in front of him. Judy—that was her name—Judy Dean. She was wearing a scarlet dress, a glittering, flashing column of red sequins; it was a perfect choice for her, Montfort thought; it matched the bright rage she took no care to conceal.

  She was younger and harder than Sophie in every way. Her personality, but her body too. Attractive arms, tanned and gleaming with body oil, came out of the dress that showed off every trim curve.

  But Judy was less attractive now than she had been to him before. The athletic look appealed to a certain type of man; Hugh, however, was not that type.

  “Good evening,” he replied, without interest.

  That seemed to fan the flames.

  “I’m surprised you would dare to show your face,” Judy said.

  Montfort looked at her. Her entire outfit was calculated: no jewellery, so on paper she knew the elements of style; the highest heels, the right bag. But she was trying too hard. Everything was a challenge with this girl, he thought with a flash of insight.

  He pitied her.

  “I might say the same about you,” he responded wearily.

  Judy tossed her head. “Like you’re so lily-white.”

  “Nobody is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must—”

  “Judy,” Sophie said. “How nice to see you.”

  They both spun around. Sophie had wandered through the crowd; Judy hadn’t noticed her, and she flushed, an unattractive red; Montfort also felt discomfited.

  “Chérie.” Judy moved forward smoothly and kissed Sophie on both cheeks. “You look stunning,” she said, dutifully.

  “And so do you. What a dress,” Sophie replied.