Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  Judy was dumbfounded, but said carefully, “Thank you, Mme Massot.”

  The old woman smiled. “You may call me Katherine, Judy.”

  The parlour door opened again and Tom walked through it; silhouetted against the warm noonday sun and azure sky, he was so like Pierre that Judy’s breath caught in her throat.

  He looked at the two of them warily. “Everything go well, Grandmother?”

  “Oh, very well,” Katherine said sweetly. “Judy and I are going to be great friends.”

  Tom looked relieved. “Shall we all have some lunch, perhaps?”

  Katherine shook her powdered head. “I am tired, chéri; it’s time for my nap. And anyway, I think you should be calling . . . M. Stockton, is it?”

  Judy nodded.

  “You have no time to lose,” Katherine pronounced. “Goodbye, my dear.”

  Judy stood as Tom kissed his grandmother on the cheek; she shook hands with the woman, clasping her bony fingers in her own vigorous ones, and then the butler was bowing them out, and they emerged from the elegant gloom of the dower house into the blazing sunshine of August, with the hired limo purring impatiently on the gravel semicircle of her drive.

  “She’s right, you know,” Judy told him. “Let’s head back to the city, you call Pete. Once that’s done we’ll know if they’ll go for it. Then we can get some lunch.”

  “And after lunch?” Tom gave her a long look.

  Judy let her lips part; her tongue flicked out and moistened them.

  “Well, baby . . . I guess we’ll find something to do,” she teased.

  Chapter 33

  The heat was unbearable in L.A. Even his state-of-the-art air-conditioning didn’t seem to make much difference. As soon as Pete stepped out of the car, or the office, or his home, he was engulfed in a thick blanket of muggy, sticky heat you could cut with a knife. Six coats of Sure didn’t stop the telltale wet patches from appearing under his arms; he wore dark colours, but even so, he had to change his shirt up to four times a day.

  Anyway you cut it, August was a pain in the ass.

  He was glad to be in the air. First class was always a pleasure. And he was headed for Europe, where the weather was bearable.

  And of course, his task was pleasant.

  It had taken barely fifteen minutes after that wonderful call came in to persuade the other board members. A couple of them bitched about Montfort’s performance, but nobody could really argue against the deal; it was just too perfect, too much money.

  What would it hurt to give the kid some stupid title? They’d work out an ironclad contract that gave him no rights—full consultation, no action. Stockton wasn’t sure exactly who he’d put in charge. But it wouldn’t be Tom Massot. And it wouldn’t be Hugh Montfort, either.

  He loved the kid, right now. The kid could have any title he wanted. Pete would set him up with a fancy office, an expense account, and a Tootsie Roll of a secretary. Tom Massot was better than Santa Claus: he’d given Pete House Massot, and all its millions, and he’d managed to take Montfort away at the same time.

  “Champagne, sir?” The stewardess was hovering over him; she was in her late thirties, competent looking and heavyset. Not like in the good old days, when pleasing businessmen was more important than courses in air safety and disarming terrorists, and all the air hostesses were bleached blonde dolly birds in their twenties.

  But he wouldn’t let anything ruin his good mood today.

  “Sure,” Pete said. “Why the hell not.”

  Hugh had had a busy morning. Two days since the party, and it had been as he had feared: the press was slavering over House Massot’s must-have original pieces; it had compared Herr and Frau Brandt to the great masters, describing their work as a mixture of Paulding Farnham and Germain Bapst. He had visited the Massot showrooms on rue Faubourg and New Bond Street, both of them humming with activity; there was buzz, the stock was up, and the bourse analysts were tapping away at their reports.

  It had taken a lot of press spin just to stand still. Montfort’s line was, “Too little, too late”—one good party, even one good collection, could not wipe away eight years of mismanagement.

  He had also spent hours on the phone with his institutional backers, pension fund managers concerned they were missing a trick. Hugh believed all would still be well, but he was grateful the vote was not far away.

  He hung up on the latest fund manager with relief. It was noon, early for lunch, but he wanted to get out of the hotel, away from the business press, to give himself a chance to think.

  Montfort told Mrs. Percy he would be back at two. Normally he abhorred long lunches, but it might be just as well to be unavailable for as long as possible. Allow some of the fuss to blow over, and the investors to regain their senses. There was a feeding frenzy, but he thought it would soon die down. The more he seemed unconcerned, the better.

  “And will you have your mobile with you, sir?”

  “No. You know I can’t stand the wretched things.” Hugh pulled it out of his briefcase and handed it to her. “In fact, you take it, Mrs. Percy. That way I can’t be tempted to answer.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Mrs. Percy gave him the crisp smile he so approved of, and Hugh left his suite.

  It was good to get out of that room. He hated air-conditioning, hated anything artificial.

  Step outside in Paris in August and you feel the power of summer. Tourists sweated, heat reflected so strongly off the pavements that if you walked barefoot, you would burn. Montfort relished it; he turned his face towards the sun, closing his eyes, and let the heat permeate his skin.

  He would find a really good restaurant and have a wonderful meal. It was ideal not to have his phone with him; no tiresome journalists could call and interrupt, and he couldn’t call anybody, even if he wanted to.

  And he did want to, very much. Although it would be suici dally stupid, he wanted to call Sophie Massot.

  There were any number of pretexts; he could thank her for inviting him to the party. Or he could ask her again to vote him her stock. She would say no, but at least it was a legitimate reason to call. . . .

  He didn’t care in the least about the deal; Montfort wished it were done. Would she still see him, afterwards?

  The feeling simply would not go away. It would not evaporate. He thought about Sophie constantly. She itched in the back of his mind. He didn’t think it was just another passing fancy; he wanted to take her out, to get to know her.

  His need for hookers, for the urgent relief of sex, had dwindled lately. There were girls in Paris—skilled, well-off, discreet—but he had not felt tempted. His thoughts were on Sophie, which was insanity, of course; of all the women in the world, to fall for his target—

  “Sir.”

  Hugh looked behind him, startled. Mrs. Percy was running towards him, out of the hotel. He was immediately annoyed; no phone call could be that important. But he stood and waited for her as she stumbled towards him, trying to run in her heels.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” Mrs. Percy panted. “But it’s urgent. It’s Mr. Stockton, sir.”

  “I’ll call him back, after lunch.” Sod Stockton; Hugh hadn’t liked his manners lately.

  “But he’s not on the phone. He’s here. In your suite.”

  “He flew to Paris?” Hugh asked. Stockton hadn’t said anything about that. What the hell was he playing at?

  “Yes, sir, and he’s waiting for you. I’m awfully sorry, but he demanded I fetch you right away.” Mrs. Percy lowered her voice, as though Pete Stockton could hear them through double glazing and the roar of the traffic. “He watched you walk away, from your window; he can probably see us right now. I couldn’t put him off till after lunch, I’m terribly—”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Percy; you did the right thing.” Hugh nodded reassuringly at her. “Quite right to come and fetch me. Are you very out of breath?”

  She leaned over, nodded, gasping; Hugh offered her his ar
m.

  “We’ll walk back together,” he said. “No rush.”

  “But Mr. Stockton—”

  “He can wait,” Hugh said firmly.

  Pete Stockton was indeed waiting in Hugh’s hotel suite when he got back. He was sitting in one of the chairs, his body uncomfortably squashed into its elegant lines; he made no attempt to get up as Montfort and his secretary entered the room.

  “I just managed to catch him, sir,” Mrs. Percy said brightly. “Can I get you anything for your meeting? Some tea or coffee, or mineral water?”

  “No. This is gonna be short.”

  “Very good, sir; I’ll wait through here.”

  Pete waved a fat hand at her. “Stay here, honey. This affects you too.”

  Elizabeth Percy blinked; she didn’t like being called “honey,” unless it was by Jack, certainly not by a fat sleazeball like Pete Stockton who, rumour had it, was a world-class sexual harasser. And what could he possibly have to tell Hugh that would involve her?

  She looked uncertainly at her boss; Montfort made the smallest of hand gestures, to tell her to relax.

  “I was just about to go for lunch, Peter,” said Hugh. “Care to join me?”

  A distasteful task, but it had to be done. He could hardly refuse to invite the chairman.

  “I don’t think that would be such a great idea.” Pete Stockton drew a metal cigar case out of his shirt pocket, theatrically withdrew a Monte Cristo, bit the top off it, and lit it up.

  “Are we celebrating something?” Perhaps he had news on some more stockholder commitments.

  “We’re not. I am.” Stockton drew in a mouthful of fragrant smoke and let it drift out of his nostrils.

  “How shall I put this,” he said with evident relish. “Let me see. . . . Hugh—you’re fired.”

  “What?” gasped Mrs. Percy.

  Pete turned to her. “You’re his assistant, sugar? Great. I want you to go to your laptop and change all the passwords. Zip up all his letters and files and send them straight to me. Make sure he’s denied access to any and all Mayberry data, starting immediately.”

  Hugh tried to take it in. “May I ask why I’m being fired?” he said.

  “Sure,” Pete said expansively. “You’re being terminated for cause. Lousy performance with the Massot deal.”

  “We’re still going to make that deal.”

  “We certainly are, but you’re not gonna be a part of it. You failed to prepare for this party—look at the stock price, for Christ’s sake. And you failed to investigate all the avenues.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Montfort snapped.

  Stockton smiled smugly. “You’ll find out—once Mayberry owns House Massot. Now you’re fucking fired, so get your shit together and get the hell out of the hotel. Mayberry is paying this bill. Same goes for you, sweetheart. Get back to London, you can take that underwater train. Pack up his office. Make sure he takes nothing, I mean not even a goddamn Biro. He walks away with anything, you’re out on your pretty ass.”

  Elizabeth Percy said, “Screw you, fatso. I quit.”

  Hugh turned to her in surprise, then started laughing. “Priceless,” he said.

  Stockton’s piggish eyes narrowed; he’d expected Hugh to plead, not laugh. Everybody knew Mayberry was the limey’s life, gave him a sense of purpose. And who did the bim think she was?

  “I expect you want to know the full story, Montfort,” he sneered.

  “Not at all; I couldn’t be less interested.” Hugh offered his arm to Elizabeth again. “Mrs. Percy, I believe we were going to lunch?”

  Pete Stockton stared at them, furious, as they walked out the door and down the corridor. He was so angry to be cheated of his moment of glory he found his face had gone all red. Then a column of ash dropped onto his fresh-pressed pants.

  “Fuck!” he said.

  Laughter drifted back to him from the corridor. Well, they could both go to hell. It was an act, he thought, calming down. Any way you cut it, Hugh Montfort had just been unceremoniously canned right before closing the biggest deal of his career. He’d made enough enemies at Tiffany and Cartier and Garrard . . . he was done, that arrogant fuck, done like a Thanksgiving turkey!

  That thought made him feel a little better. Montfort and his girlfriend could stiff-upper-lip it all they wanted. He knew they were wrecked inside.

  He was hungry; he’d order some food himself, a burger and fries, not any of that French shit that always made his stomach so upset. And then he’d take a car down to the Massot showroom, see what he was about to take over. Maybe pick out a piece for Claudia. That should stop her bitching for a day or two.

  Hugh flagged down a taxi and gave it directions to place de la Madeleine.

  “Where are we going?” Mrs. Percy, her bravado evaporated, looked a little shell-shocked.

  “I think we deserve a splendid lunch,” Hugh told her. “Something really French. Lucas Carton is acknowledged to be one of the great restaurants in the city. I have known M. Senderens, the sommelier, for years.”

  “That sounds wonderful, sir.”

  His secretary was white and shaky. Hugh was almost glad; concentrating on her meant he didn’t have to think overly hard about his own position.

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore, Mrs. Percy. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes.” She tried to smile. “Then you should call me Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth,” he tried to reassure her. “You mustn’t worry about what just happened in there.”

  “Well, it was my decision.” Elizabeth wrung her fingers in her lap. They had just bought a flat with a horrendous mortgage, and they needed every penny of her salary and her bonuses. “I just don’t know what I’m going to tell Jack. . . .”

  “That’s Mr. Percy?”

  She nodded mutely. Montfort had never taken a close interest in her personal life.

  “I have plenty of friends who will be very glad to employ an assistant of your exceptional worth,” Montfort said. “And for the moment—what were you making a year with me?”

  “Thirty-six thousand,” Elizabeth whispered. Montfort had been incredibly generous. Where would she find somebody else to match him?

  “Then I shall give you two years salary. Possibly as a nominal payment. I’ll talk to my accountant as to the best way to avoid gift tax.”

  She stared at him. “But that’s seventy-two thousand pounds, Mr. Montfort.”

  “If you’re to be Elizabeth, I may as well be Hugh.” He took her hand in his. “It’s quite all right; I am a rich man, and what you did in there was very brave. It gave me far more than seventy-two thousand pounds’ worth of pleasure,” he added, thinking of Stockton’s pudgy face.

  The taxi drew up; Montfort paid and led Elizabeth into the restaurant. They were seated immediately, and she tried to relax; the sumptuous surroundings and quiet hum of monied diners made her slightly uneasy.

  “It’s just good food.”

  She smiled; he was a real old-fashioned gentleman, Hugh Montfort, trying to put her at her ease.

  “So what’s good here?” she asked.

  “I can confidently say, everything,” Hugh said. “Shall we start with some appetizers?”

  He ordered a couple of glasses of champagne, Perrier Jouët La Cuvée Belle Epoque, and smoked oysters for himself.

  “Oh, pick for me,” Elizabeth said. Her French was shaky, and the menu seemed frighteningly complex.

  “Very well.” Hugh ordered her a salad of Breton lobster and white beans, followed by lamb brochettes in a thyme sauce.

  The food was, indeed, outstanding; Elizabeth chewed slowly, savouring each bite; she ate with Hugh in companionable silence for a few minutes.

  It took another glass of champagne before she got the courage to ask, “Why did he do that?”

  Montfort shook his head. “He has always disliked me, but apart from that I see no reason for it.”

  “Was it Mrs. Massot’s party?” Elizabeth pressed timidly.


  “That’s an excuse.” Hugh gazed down at his meal. “No, something’s happening that gave him the courage to dismiss me.”

  “But why? It’s insane. Without you there wouldn’t even be a Mayberry.”

  He smiled thinly. “I believe I have made some difference to the company’s shareholders, yes.”

  “What are you going to do?” Elizabeth Percy was pink-cheeked with outrage. “You have to sue them, sir—I mean, Hugh.”

  “I shall do no such thing,” Hugh shrugged. “There’s no need; I have every confidence that the business press will represent my service to the company for what it was. Lawsuits are expensive and long-winded, as well as terminally dull.”

  “Then you’ll go to somebody else? To Cartier. Or Tiffany.”

  Montfort shook his head. “Fifteen years at Mayberry haven’t made me too many friends.”

  Elizabeth said fiercely, “Start your own business then. You can do it better than any of them.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. It’s almost always a mistake to make major decisions on the spur of the moment.”

  Elizabeth fretted. “But you need to work, Mr.—Hugh. You need to have something to occupy you. You’ve always been like that. Otherwise you’ll . . .”

  She realized she was getting too close to the truth for comfort, and her voice trailed off.

  “I’ll think too much about my wife?” he asked gently.

  She blushed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “It’s quite all right. I’m just surprised you knew.” Montfort looked closer at Mrs. Percy, as though seeing her for the first time. “Did other staff talk about that? In the London office?”

  “About you and Mrs. Montfort?” Elizabeth nodded. “Lots of them. Most of the staff around the world, actually. I used to get e-mails. . . .”

  Now Hugh was shocked. “E-mails? From staff, asking about Georgiana?”

  “I deleted them all,” Elizabeth said defensively.