That success was almost immaterial, though, compared to the reaction of the press. They would write the story up, with breathless approval. Sales would soar; the stock price would rise. Sophie exhaled; she was vindicated.
She thanked the staff, sent them home, and got into her waiting car. Richard knew better than to engage her in conversation; the traffic had cleared up, and Sophie was soon out of the city, heading for St.-Aude and the château, alone with her thoughts.
For the first time in months her thoughts drifted back to her husband. She thought of Pierre, how close she had come to losing his legacy, but she thought, with any luck, she had saved it.
It was a clear night; the stars were brilliant in the inky velvet of the sky as the neon haze of Paris receded into the distance. Sophie watched her home, the château, as it loomed into view, grey and forbidding against the moon, but nevertheless, sternly beautiful. What a life, what a gift her marriage had been. For all its flaws, she was beyond material worries. Pierre had not really asked so much of her, after all.
Tonight, she felt with weary satisfaction, she had repaid her debt. In saving all he had worked for, protecting the inheritance of their son. She settled back against the soft leather of the car seat as the tires crunched on the gravel drive.
Sophie felt free. Once this shareholder business was concluded, she would get to work. Real work; expanding, growing House Massot; she would hand it over to Tom, when the time came, in better shape than she’d found it, better even than Pierre had left it.
The thought gave her a strange satisfaction. Tonight had been a win, and she took great joy in it. She would not duck it. Sophie obviously enjoyed business; she was naturally good at it; even with all the drama, her self-esteem had risen during her time at Massot.
“Here we are, Madame.”
Richard pulled in, and came around to let her out of the car. The butler, Junot, was opening the front door; in her bathroom her warmed towels and cashmere robe would be laid out; the silk sheets on her bed would be turned down; cook would have the milk warming, in case she wanted a hot chocolate.
“Thank you, Richard. That will be all, tonight.”
“Very good, Madame.”
He got back into the car and drove off.
“Good evening, Madame,” Junot said. “Would you like anything from the kitchen, Madame?”
Sophie ordered a glass of milk and some fruit and cheese; she hadn’t eaten at the party, she was too busy mingling.
She thought about her son as she climbed the ornate marble stairs to her room. Tom had not spoken one word to her, had not so much as kissed her on the cheek. Katherine’s sumptuous dress and icy stare flashed back to her, and Sophie felt the press of anger, of chill resentment in her heart; at least Tom would have seen for himself that she was not mismanaging his affairs.
And now that the party was over, and the threat of public scandal had passed, she would reach out to him. Sophie would not surrender her baby boy to Katherine’s bejewelled claws. If necessary she would go to his apartment and wait there for him to arrive. When all was said and done he was still a teenager—hormonal and sulky—it was the order of the day.
She reached her room and ran her bath. When her snack arrived she dismissed all the servants; the Brie was delicious, the ripe pear and lightly sugared raspberries too. Sophie ate slowly, enjoying herself, and began her nighttime ritual.
But she could not put the thought of him aside forever. Hugh Montfort was there, constantly there, at the back of her mind. As she slid into the warm water, she pictured him, and her last image, before she fell asleep, was of his dark eyes, looking intently at her.
Chapter 29
Judy knew the perfect spot. She led Tom, who was weaving slightly, away from the city’s main arteries, the nightclub crowds, and the traffic; there was an all-night bistro just off quai des Augustins; it catered mostly to locals, and the food was, consequently, superb.
The decor was rough, and Tom might have thought twice about it under other circumstances. A young toff in black tie was too tempting a target. He could take care of himself, all right, but he was drunk, and there had been a few fights at Oxford, incidents enough to prove to him that without coordination he was liable to get his butt kicked.
But his companion had attitude, attitude that was proof against everything. Tom watched in admiration as she entered the dive, shrugged off her designer coat to reveal her cherry red column of sequins, and was subjected to a hail of wolf whistles; whereupon all she did was laugh and blow a few kisses, and the tradesmen and workers on their night shifts were eating out of her hands.
Tom thought her quite splendid.The fog of alcohol was slowly lifting, the chill night breeze and exercise having made the first dent, but she still looked stunning—sexy and self-possessed, lean like a tigress. How different, how very different from the vapid society girls at the party at his flat. He loved women like this, women that made a man come alive—interesting women.
She kissed the proprietor on both his rough cheeks and cracked a joke with him, and he showed them to a booth in the back, deep in shadow and away from prying eyes. The man also produced, with a flourish, a candle in a bottle, and lit it; he laughed, he thought it was amusing, but Tom was grateful. Candlelight made even the toughest atmosphere more romantic. The café had grimy white walls and a breeze-block ceiling, but it was warm, it was dark, and the pretty girl was smiling at him; Tom felt a pleasant glow of contentment.
“And what will you two lovebirds have?” the owner asked.
“Coffee,” Tom pronounced. He smiled at the characterization; this man at least didn’t think he was too young. He imagined Judy’s body, sinuous and writhing; he would like half an hour to prove to her that he wasn’t a boy. “Lots of coffee. And some aspirin.”
“I’ll have a cognac,” Judy said. “And Perrier, and apart from that, Gaston, bring us whatever you recommend.”
The man grinned. “Hungry?”
Tom shook his head; Judy nodded hers.
“Fine. Leave it to me,” he said.
The coffee arrived first, served in bowls, as it was closer to breakfast than supper, with fresh milk; Tom added two heaped spoons of brown sugar and gulped down three aspirins; he almost instantly began to feel better. Judy meanwhile sipped her drink, alternating with gulps of Perrier.
“You come here a lot?”Tom said.The comment was banal, but he had to say something. There were plenty more questions, but he would not start on the seduction till the caffeine and aspirin had kicked in.
“About twice a week. I run, every morning.” Judy sighed with pleasure. “Five thirty to six fifteen, round here, sometimes. It blows out the cobwebs.”
“You look great on it.”
“Thank you.” She smiled confidently; Tom liked her all the more for not being diffident. He hated coyness; Judy was anything but.
“After I shower and dress, I find a café, somewhere with great food, and I eat a huge breakfast.”
“You like to eat?”
“In Paris, who wouldn’t?”
Tom thought of the rail-thin girl with the bad teeth. Judy showed the difference between skinny and slim; he beamed at her; every time she opened her mouth she said something he approved of.
“French food—the real stuff, not the muck they serve to the tourists—is one of the great pleasures of life. You wouldn’t believe the stuff they serve in Oklahoma, where I’m from.” Judy made a face. “When I go back to visit my family we go to diners. Ugh.”
“I can imagine. I’ve studied in England.”
“I heard you were at Oxford?”
“That’s right.” He took the pot and poured himself a second bowl of coffee, black this time. The drugs were working their magic; his headache was receding, his speech was clearing up.
“Try this,” the owner said. He laid down two dishes: Before Judy, a dish of sizzling pork chops cooked with peppers and tomatoes, rubbed with sage and onion, accompanied by a couple of thin slices of fried Camembert
; it smelled so good Tom even regained an appetite. In front of Tom, on a chipped white plate, he laid savouries and sweets; some pastries, apricot, and white chocolate, and tiny macaroons, handmade, so delicate he wondered how the thick-calloused fingers had produced them; toasted croutons with anchovies, stuffed mushrooms, and crumbly cheese straws.
“My God,” Tom said, wolfing three pastries. “These are spectacular.”
“The place is always full, day or night.”
“But they find a spot for you.”
Judy inclined her head. “I’m a good tipper.”
“It’s not that, Mademoiselle; beauty has privileges in France,” Tom said, gallantly.
“You flatter me, M. Massot.”
“I hope you will call me Tom.”
“Then Judy.”
She smiled at him, and he blossomed in the warmth of her approval. She looked wonderful, in the gentle glow of the candlelight, which made her sequins glitter and sparkle, eating her pork chops and fried cheese with relish.
“How long have you worked for my father?”
“I’ve been working for Pierre for fifteen years now,” Judy said.
Tom noted her use of the present tense.
“I won’t accept he’s dead,” Judy said quietly, “until I see a body.”
He nodded and ate an anchovy savoury, so that she would not see his eyes redden—almost automatically. Look how loyal she was, and she merely an employee. If only his own mother had half her devotion.
“That’s how I feel,” he said. “And so now you work for Maman?”
“I do,” Judy replied noncommittally.
He could not contain his curiosity. “How is she, as a boss?”
Judy carved off a small sliver of fried cheese. “I’m afraid I will offend you.”
“Try me,” he said, darkly.
“I don’t like it. She treats the company like her toy. Changes . . . many changes. Spiralling costs.” Judy shrugged those strong shoulders. “The party tonight was a success, but still . . . ,” she looked directly at him. “To be honest, Tom, I always assumed if Pierre did not come back I’d be working for you.”
“And you should be.”
“Tell me.” Judy went fishing. He was hooked, now, this handsome boy; she felt powerful, and she was enjoying it. “What does the dowager Mme Massot think of this situation?”
“She disapproves. It is not what my father wanted.”
Judy sighed. “And meanwhile, that limey bastard Montfort is sniffing around.”
“Yes,” Tom replied glumly. He was sure he could save Massot from his mother; not so sure he could save it from Hugh Montfort.
“He was there, you know.”
“Tonight?” Tom stiffened. “I didn’t see him.”
“Oh, no, he was there. Which is typical of your mother, I’m afraid.” Judy drank deeply of her iced Perrier. “It’s all a game to her.”
“Well, I’m going to put a stop to it,” Tom said, with great bravado. “First thing in the morning. I will call a press conference. Announce to the world my father’s wishes and that Grandmother and I will vote our stock against Maman.”
“But how would that stop Hugh Montfort?” The pretty girl in front of him zoomed in, with unerring accuracy, on his major problem. “Won’t the shareholders just see a family quarrel? They’ll throw their hands in the air and go with Mayberry.”
“I’ll figure something out,” Tom said, with more confidence than he felt.
“You know, I wouldn’t call that press conference,” Judy said softly. She drained the last of her cognac and set the glass down, twirling the stem between her strong fingers.
“You wouldn’t?”
She shook her head. “If you are serious about taking over, Tom . . . there may be another way.”
He looked at her; she was so quiet, and sure, and sexy; he wanted to believe her, with everything he had.
“And it would get rid of Montfort too?”
“If you are prepared to suffer a little compromise . . . yes, it would,” Judy said.
The plan had come to her while she was sipping the cognac; it was due in part to the alcohol, loosening her up, presenting her with imaginative possibilities she would normally be blind to. But it was perfect. It was obvious, once she’d come up with it; it would work; it would screw Sophie and Hugh Montfort, both, equally.
She would finally be revenged.
“Yes . . . it would,” she repeated, and smiled.
Tom looked at her gleaming eyes, and saw the excitement. He wanted her, more than anything. It had been weeks since he’d had any women. And this American was not just any woman.
He thought triumphantly of Polly. If only she could see him, right now. Judy Dean was not a placid pudding like Flora or a simple roll in the hay like Gemma. Judy was a woman worth courting. In her mid-thirties, sophisticated, with all the guts of Polly, but all the polish his ex-girlfriend lacked. She would not cling to some stupid English rugby player. She was independent, free, and clever.
“I would like to discuss it with you,” he said. “But I would also like to see you again. Not to talk business, just to see you.”
“You’re right.” Judy turned and signalled for the waiter, and Tom threw down two hundred euro notes.
“Come again anytime, Monsieur,” he said. “But wait here till I get a taxi. It’s a rough neighbourhood.”
Tom agreed with him; he was sober now and wanted to get Judy back to his flat, and out of that dress.
When the cab arrived he helped her into it and gave the driver his address on the Rive Gauche.
Judy widened her eyes. “But why there?”
“It’s my apartment,”Tom said, kissing her hand. He was already anticipating his lovemaking. She thought he was a boy, so he would need to be rough, teach her otherwise.
“And why would we be going there?” Judy drew back from him. “I only just met you,Tom.You don’t take me for one of your easy college girls, do you?”
Tom’s lust withered and died. He sat back from her, frustrated, but still glad. So she had refused him. All to the good; she was a worthy woman. He resolved to court her, properly. She sat there on the ripped and stained leather of the cab seat, stiff and haughty, with the perfect amount of froideur.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Rue des Cloches,” Judy told the driver. He swung around, and she unsnapped her glittering metal bag, the crystals glinting under the neon streetlights. “Here’s my card,” she said. “If you want to see me again, you can call me.”
“You can be sure I will.”
Judy turned her head away; he admired the firm lines of her long neck under the close-cropped hair. “We’ll see,” she said maddeningly.
Tom dropped her off; she did not so much as give him a chaste kiss on the cheek before he waited, watching her enter her apartment building. But that was fine, just fine. As the car headed back to the Left Bank he was quite sober, but light-headed with pleasure.
Who would have thought it? Some good had come of that wretched party—after all.
Chapter 30
“You like the purple?” Claudia held up a swatch. “Or the beige?”
“I don’t give a shit,” Pete Stockton grunted.
Mayberry’s chairman was sitting in his vast mock-Tudor mansion in Bel Air, listening to his wife. He thought he’d rather have been almost anywhere else. Ugh! He wasn’t cut out for the family thing. Why did she have to bother him?
Claudia made a face. “Pete! Enough with the potty mouth. Paulie will be back from camp soon, you want he should hear his father talking like that?”
Pete glanced at his wife with dislike. By now she should know he didn’t give a damn about interior decor. Every goddamn season Claudia had to draft some new high-priced faggot, the latest “it” designer, to redo the Malibu mansion. His furniture changed around so often he could never find anything.
“I guess the beige,” he said.
It was the right choice; she beamed at hi
m. “You know, honey, I thought the beige. Purple is a little out there. Donna said we should think about toile de Jouy, but I can’t stand that stuff. It’s so year two thousand. It’s over, you know? And any kind of print gets so dated. Ellie Krebs did her place in shabby chic. Shabby chic! That’s insane, nobody’s done shabby chic since the mid-nineties. . . .”
Claudia was well away. She let loose a stream of babble, seeming not to care when Pete flopped into his couch, the big leather sectional he wouldn’t let her change, and grabbed the remote. There was a baseball game on, Dodgers losing to the Red Sox, and it suited him fine. Pete didn’t give a shit about sports, either, but eventually Claudia would get the message and go away.
He had to stick around to welcome Paulie back from camp. He’d eat supper here, their cook had some kind of roast beef thing going, and then he’d take a ride to one of the girls—Pete was in the mood for Lily today, blonde and stupid and pliant enough as long as he kept the presents coming.
Mostly he let his mistresses slide at the weekends—it was too much trouble to make up excuses—but today he needed it. Claudia’s bleating was too much to take. Pete worked hard and he needed to unwind.
The House Massot deal was the perfect excuse. Even Claudia knew about it—there had been so many urgent phone calls and demanding memos from that self-righteous prick Montfort. If Pete said he had “work,” Claudia would buy it. Sometimes he suspected she knew about his little diversions and she didn’t give a shit.
Well, that was fine. Pete liked his life how it was. He had no reason to disturb things. As long as Claudia didn’t embarrass him by getting herself a bit on the side—everybody knew it was different for men. But he didn’t think there was much danger of that. Claudia hated sex with him, so how horny could she be?
She got excited about shopping. Home decor. And, of course, jewels.
She’d stopped talking now and moved back into the kitchen to yell at the cook. The House Massot diamond earrings he’d given her, three round bezel-set canaries that dangled from her lobes, flashed in the California sunlight; Claudia loved them, never took them off even in the daytime.
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