Sophie felt ill. Her head was swimming, and she was just trying to hold it together. The worst thing was to see the pity in her young secretary’s eyes. Celine wanted to hug her—that was obvious; she, the great chatelaine, the millionaire widow, was the object of empathy.
And where Celine pitied, Sophie had no doubt, others held her in contempt.
Sophie was angry at herself. It was an open secret? Everybody knew but her. She imagined all those dutiful years of parties, all that socializing. Were they talking behind her back? Laughing at her? Did Katherine know?
She struggled to appear calm.
“And it didn’t stop? Once we were married?”
Celine shook her head. “Not from the stories the older women here tell me. But as I say, I wasn’t there.”
“Then how do you know it’s true?”
“I don’t, Madame,” the girl said simply, “but everybody else says it. I could get one of the older women up to talk to you, if you would prefer.”
But Sophie believed Celine, every humiliating word. But then again, she had trusted Gregoire. And Judy.
And Pierre, she reminded herself.
No more; even if it cost her further anguish and shame, she wanted it proved.
“Yes,” she said. “Who do you recommend . . . wait . . . let me call personnel. I will select somebody myself.”
Celine sat there, feeling sorry for her, as she dialled human resources and asked for names of some women who had been with the company over ten years and worked in publicity.
“They are sending me Françoise Delmain and Marie Pousse,” Sophie said.
“They would know, Madame.”
“Show them in when they get here. Hold all my calls.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“And Celine—merci.”
“C’est rien,” Celine said, sympathetically. She let herself out. She would bring up the brooches some other time.
Judy immediately knew something was wrong.
Marie disappeared without saying a word to her, and then, barely five minutes later, her phone buzzed.
“Judy Dean.”
It was Sophie.
“Come up to my office immediately,” Sophie said. Then she hung up.
Judy replaced the receiver carefully. She stood up, removed the photo of her mother from her desk and calmly put it in her bag. She also walked out to the coatrack at the end of the floor—head up, head up, Judy—and unhooked her Burberry mackintosh from its peg.
There was nothing else to take. Judy was not one of those women who cluttered her desk space with stuffed animals and plastic mascots, or tacked up posters of handsome film stars or snapshots of Hawaii.
On some level she had always been expecting this day. From the moment Pierre left. It had been seven long years of danger, and she was ready at any moment to make a dignified exit.
Sophie knew.
There was no other explanation for it. Sophie knew about her and Pierre. Judy was surprised by her own reaction. She went through the motions, as she had rehearsed them in her head; slowly, refusing to rush, she put on her coat in front of the typing pool; she arranged her bag comfortably; she smiled to herself. But inside, she was far from calm.
It didn’t matter, not anymore. Not now that she had the boy. Judy felt no fear, only an odd, wild elation—even a relief. She would be able to confront Sophie, indeed she would have to. Finally, she would be able to say everything she’d ever wanted to, from the first moment, all those years ago, when Judy realized that because of this little mouse of a limey, Pierre—great, spectacular Pierre, as she’d thought of him—would never be hers.
She walked over to the elevators and pressed the button. The door pinged, and a manicured hand drew the ancient folding iron grille aside—Françoise, with Marie close behind her. Françoise stared at Judy with naked triumph; Marie, however, blushed, and looked slightly sorry, under the veneer of her pink-faced excitement.
“Au revoir, Marie,” Judy said.
“Il faut dire ‘adieu,’ ” Françoise sneered.
“Pas du tout,” Judy corrected her. “Je reviens.”
Marie started to say something, but her gloating friend dragged her away. Judy pulled the grille and pressed the button for the top floor; she could hear the breathless gossiping starting, a low hum, as the creaking machinery began to haul her upwards.
Oh yes, there was no doubt about it. Sophie knew. The little chit of a girl, Celine Bousset, was sitting bolt upright in front of her office, a look of defiance on her unimpressive face. Judy wanted to ask her if she had been the one to tell, but decided against it. She would not waste time, would not be caught bandying words with secretaries while security was summoned to haul her from Pierre’s company.
There was only one woman worth speaking to.
Judy opened the door to Sophie’s office without bothering to knock; she closed it behind her, and then stood in the middle of the room, facing her.
Sophie Massot looked her over, taking in the coat and handbag.
“Sit down,” she said.
Judy stayed where she was; she tilted out her chin.
“I think not,” she said. “Let’s make it short, shall we? I’ve got things to do.”
“And that’s all you’ve got to say? No apology? No excuse?”
Judy laughed. “Apology? For what?”
“For sleeping with somebody else’s husband, for a start,” Sophie said coldly. “Of course, I now know you were nothing special, just one in a long line of girls. I daresay he had you on a schedule. Did you have to coordinate dates with the other women?”
Judy’s face flamed; the barb struck home.
“At least none of us coordinated with you,” she said.
“I’m disappointed, Judy.” Sophie thought she was such a cool cucumber; Judy loathed her. “I would have thought you would have too much spirit, too much individuality to be part of such a production line. Being in a harem is so terribly dull.”
Judy fought back.
“Maybe there were others—”
“Apparently there’s no maybe about it.”
“At the time, I didn’t know.” Her lip curled. “I was as in the dark as you, Sophie—well, almost.”
“You certainly knew there was a wife and child.”
“Don’t come over all virtuous with me,” Judy snapped. “Please. You married him when you knew next to nothing about him. Oh, I’m sure it was his sparkling personality that attracted you. Nothing to do with the huge castle and millions of francs.”
“Pierre had a family.”
“I loved him,” Judy said, drawing herself up. She spoke proudly, looking Sophie full in the face. “That’s what you don’t seem to get. I loved him. We had passion. And I wasn’t just another girl. I was with him for years. He gave me my flat. . . .”
“Very bourgeois; I’d have expected Pierre to stump up with something a little more elegant. But I daresay he wanted you somewhere nobody of quality would recognize him.”
“He was with me three times each week.”
“And you probably got drunk by yourself every Christmas. Oh, I know the type. It’s such a cliché, Judy.”
“You can say all the clever things you want.” Judy stared at her. “Oh, yes, you have style, Sophie, I’ll admit that. Plenty of style. But not an ounce of warm-blooded love, or passion. Your marriage was nothing but duty. You told me so yourself.”
She forced herself to stand firm. “Pierre came to me for love.”
“He came to you for sex. You, and the others. Hookers too, I’m told. I daresay buying you a flat and having you in the office simply worked out cheaper.”
Judy burned. She would not allow this woman to have it all her own way.
“I’m no hooker,” she retorted. “Maybe you should look in the mirror, Sophie. The difference between me and you is that I loved Pierre. You already told me you didn’t. But you stayed married to him. We had sex—yes, great sex—and he gave me companionship, and I loved him. With
all my heart. You can’t say the same. You’re the one who married without love and stayed married without love. Who’s got integrity here? Me? Or you? You say he only wanted me for sex; I say he only wanted you for a child.”
Sophie recoiled; there was too much truth in Judy’s barb. Her whole marriage had been a lie, all the years of her married life just a fantasy, a hollow fantasy where the only real love was Tom.
“Get out,” she said, wearily. “You’re a snake; you don’t value yourself, and that’s why you don’t value others.”
Judy smiled; she had landed a good blow there. Little miss perfect could feel things, then. Like Judy, she could feel pain too.
“My husband may have chosen me to bear his son,” Sophie said, as Judy picked up her handbag. “But that’s something, Judy Dean. That’s family; the love I gave my baby, the love he gave me back. I’m sure you tried your damnedest to make that go away, to make Pierre pick you over us. But he never would, would he?”
“Goodbye, Sophie,” Judy said.
“He chose me,” Sophie said, calmly. “In the end, he chose me. Always remember that, Judy. Pierre could have been with you, but he didn’t want to. It’s as simple as that.”
Tears prickled in Judy’s eyes; Sophie’s words ripped the scars on her heart, made the wound fresh and new again.
Sophie didn’t love Pierre; his betrayal of her would never hurt as much as his rejection of Judy. The widow was right, and they both knew it.
“You couldn’t split my family,” Sophie said, with terrible clarity. “And now, goodbye.”
But instead of crumpling, instead of fleeing in tears, Judy paused, and turned back, and said, with a terrible little smile, “Really? We’ll see.”
Then she turned smartly on her heel and walked out.
Sophie sat there for a couple of seconds, then snapped out of it. She wasn’t going to let Miss Dean play head games with her, not anymore. She rang the front desk and security and informed them that Judy Dean had been terminated, and was not to be allowed back in the building after she had left it, not even to fetch personal belongings. Next she called personnel, dictated the letter of dismissal, and instructed them to pack up anything Judy had left behind her and courier it, with the letter, round to her apartment.
Then she called Françoise Delmain again.
“You used to work for M. Keroualle, before Miss Dean had me dismiss him?”
“Yes Madame. Eight years.”
“Then you know how to distribute a press release?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Very well. Send this out immediately to our list of magazines: ‘Ms. Judy Dean, former director of publicity at House Massot, has been terminated. Her replacement has not yet been announced.’ ”
“Certainly, Madame,” said Françoise triumphantly.
Sophie passed a hand across her forehead. Her temples were beginning to throb with stress, and she felt sick. She had no doubt Marie and Françoise would have spread the news of the confrontation; it would be all over the company by now. By the end of the day, boyfriends would know, the gossip columnists would be all over it. Bitchy little pieces wondering how long Sophie had known. Recaps of her husband’s apparently legendary career as a philanderer.
How stupid, how blind and passive she would seem. Or worse, like Celine had assumed—like one of those gold-digging trophy wives for whom not caring about adultery is the only sophisticated attitude.
Sophie was a private woman. The thought made her ill. She wanted to talk to Fr. Sabin. Or even just to go home, and be alone.
That was not an option.
“We will need to find somebody to fill Judy’s slot,” she said firmly. “Françoise, e-mail me the names of contacts at the top three publicity agencies in Paris. For now we will outsource.”
“At once, Mme Massot,” said Françoise, respectfully.
Sophie made up her mind. She would have somebody blue-chip and respectable hired before lunchtime; for three weeks it hardly mattered who. And after briefing them, she would have to track down Tom.
This was Paris. Rumour and gossip moved faster than lightning. He would read about this in tomorrow morning’s papers; reporters might track him down, hound him for a quote . . .
Sophie had to tell him.
She stood up from her chair, edgy, and paced around the room.
But wait, wait. Don’t do anything rash.
Tom worshipped his father, still. And Pierre was dead. It hurt him enough when Sophie had to declare that legally. Could she now wound him again by destroying Pierre’s memory?
Yes, the gossip columnists would run with the story. But it would be a blind item, a sneering little number without the real names of the participants. After all, they couldn’t prove anything, and Pierre, when alive, had been highly litigious. The papers would all assume Sophie would be the same way.
She had money, and power. No, they would not name names.
So then, why should she?
Sophie knew now, and it was bitter, and dreadful—what a humiliating lie her marriage had been. But their son didn’t need to share that pain.
I will not tell him, she thought. I will never speak of it to anyone. My husband is dead. Let them gossip; let them say it to my face, if they dare.
Nobody would. After all, nobody had ever said anything to her, not for fifteen years.
Sophie blinked back the tears in her eyes and took a moment to compose herself. Then she returned to her chair and clicked on her e-mail. There would be press reaction from the party last night; she needed to hire somebody to deal with it, and as soon as possible.
Chapter 32
“Yes, I see. Thanks for your time.”
Hugh hung up, snapping his mobile shut. Another investor who wouldn’t sell to him. Nick Chambers-Darling was a small fish by objective standards—a successful stockbroker on the private client side, he had ten thousand shares in his personal portfolio. But Montfort’s window was closing. He had to chase everything in the pond, even the minnows. Chambers-Darling was sitting tight. Said he liked what Sophie was doing.
Yes, so did Hugh.
His conversation with Stockton had aggravated him. That fat slob was obnoxious; it sat ill with Hugh that he worked for him. But there was some point to Pete’s gibbering rage. Hugh had not anticipated Sophie’s success. He’d underestimated her.
Well, she was beautiful, elegant, impressive. He had not thought she could be much of a businesswoman.
But he’d been wrong.
The sun beat down on the Champs-Elysées, and Montfort was hot. He passed a hand across his forehead in frustration. Unable to concentrate in his suite, he’d thought a walk would clear his head. So far, it wasn’t working.
He decided to go to the Massot showroom. See how sales were holding up. Was it a blip? A temporary effect? Perhaps, if the store was empty now that the party fuss had died down, he could call back—convince some of those reluctant sellers that the honeymoon had been brief. This time, though, he wouldn’t buy so much as a cuff link. They needed no further publicity from him.
A cab rolled past and he grabbed it. Normally Montfort would have walked, but it was just too hot; he didn’t want to start sweating through his shirt.
His mind rolled over names and figures as they pulled up. Unthinkingly, he pulled out ten euros and pressed it into the driver’s hand, not waiting for the change. There was House Massot, as freshly beautiful and luxurious as it had been when he bought the aigrette. But unlike that occasion, the shop was packed.
Hugh’s heart sank. He shut the door of the cab and crossed the street. Now that he was here, he might as well look.
The doorman saluted smartly and wished him bon matin. Montfort entered the room with some difficulty; the place was seething. He glanced at the registers; they were busy, too; customers were buying, not just browsing.
Damnation, he thought. He turned around to go, and bumped into Sophie Massot.
She was wearing an attractive silk suit, but her eyes were
red; she looked pale, drawn, still utterly beautiful. From a business point of view, this was an awkward meeting; she had caught him in her shop. But Hugh didn’t care. He was instantly and fiercely glad.
His eyes ran up and down, across her body, her slim curves perfectly visible through the well-cut suit. Even like this, she was attractive. He wanted her, but when he saw the strain in her eyes, he wanted to protect her, to hug her.
But they were opponents. It was not his place. He contented himself with a handshake; the feel of her thumb, the little swell of flesh next to her palm, he found electrifying. The smallest things about her engaged him.
“Mrs. Massot. Good to see you again,” he said, truthfully, and smiled warmly at her. “I must congratulate you on the number of people here.”
“Thank you.” She seemed unenthused.
“I hope you’re well? You look a little tired.”
“Tired? No. Upset, perhaps.” She smiled wanly. “I suppose I must thank you for warning me about Judy Dean. I discovered the truth. . . . Fired her.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.” Montfort was concerned. “It must have been very difficult for you.”
“I felt such a fool.” She bit down on her lip; how he wanted to gather her into his arms and kiss the life out of that mouth. Here and now. “I didn’t know,” she said flatly. “Had no idea . . . it’s the oldest cliché, isn’t it?”
He wondered what to say. “You weren’t at fault for believing in your marriage. Others are to blame here, not you.”
She shook her head. Hugh could see she was trying not to cry. But she smiled at him, bravely.
“At any rate, it was kind of you to warn me.”
“I’m not the monster people say I am.”
“I believe you,” Sophie said. Now the smile was a little warmer, and Hugh longed to be able to court her, properly. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to . . .
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