Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

“But why would anybody care?” Now he was angry. “My grief . . . I didn’t talk about it; it is entirely private.”

  “You have to understand, you were famous at Mayberry,” Elizabeth explained. “What you did . . . it determined our pay, our Christmas bonuses, even our stock options. . . . People were always talking about you, asking about your love life.” She smiled disarmingly. “Most of those e-mails came from women, you see.”

  “Oh.” He had the good grace to smile. “I see.”

  “I wouldn’t discuss you.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “But your previous secretaries . . .” Elizabeth said delicately.

  Hugh winced. Of course—Rosa Vasquez and Charlotte Hurst—both had eventually broken down and sobbed their love for him into his chest or shoulder, ruining a couple of perfectly good suits.

  “They talked about me?”

  “They talked of little else. Your . . . dwelling on Mrs. Montfort.” The words used had been “obsession” and “morbid,” but she forbore to spell that out. “You know, sir, at first everybody dreaded you. The firings—the redundancies.”

  “I realized that.”

  “But later, as they got to know you—and that you apparently cared about the stockholders, and the staff—they liked you. They cared about you. It’s not all that surprising that they gossiped.”

  “And the conclusion?”

  “That without your work you would fall apart.”

  Hugh took a sip of wine and reflected. People were not as un-perceptive as he had assumed. It was, he knew, a perfectly justified view of his character.

  Mayberry, its revival and then its move to world dominance, had been his life. He enjoyed the game; it was chess against multiple partners, against the markets, the established houses, the press, the suppliers—winning had been everything.

  And now, when he was close to the deal that would have constituted final victory—pouf—with the gloating words of a fat slob, it had all evaporated.

  “Maybe that was true, once.” He admitted it. “But no longer. That’s not what my wife would have wanted.”

  “And what about you?”

  Hugh thought of Sophie.

  “It seems to me there are other things worth living for. Things that, on balance, are even more important than big deals.”

  He grinned. “You know what I’m realizing, Elizabeth?”

  She shook her head.

  “That Mayberry was just a job. And no job is worth getting bothered about.”

  Elizabeth Percy gaped. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “Never better.” He spooned up a little more puree. He was free, entirely free. All of a sudden Montfort felt a great rush of gratitude. “It’s a beautiful summer day in Paris, and I can do whatever I like. You’ve finished, Elizabeth. Can I tempt you with some pudding? They make a vanilla cake with bitter almond cream that’s absolutely sensational.”

  “Thank you. I’d like that,” said Elizabeth. She still wasn’t sure about Hugh. Maybe it would hit him later. He’d just been fired, and yet he was sitting here smiling like it was his birthday.

  “And then I’ll drive you to the airport and send you home. First class.”

  “That’s very kind,” Elizabeth said.

  He was gorgeous, so gorgeous. She couldn’t blame the other girls. She would miss working for him, but . . .

  Elizabeth glanced down at her wedding ring and thought of her lovely dependable Jack, and felt more than a bit disloyal.

  Yes, maybe it was all for the best.

  “Here, here, Madame.”

  Sophie looked up to see Celine, smiling and laying another article on her desk. “The agency just sent this over.”

  She scanned it quickly, and nodded. “Very good.”

  The latest piece was from Women’s Wear Daily in New York, the latest glowing review of the new haute couture collection, the pieces in the Fifth Avenue store were racing out the door.

  “There are new stories every day.”

  Sophie nodded. She’d hired Burston-Marseller, the PR giant, to handle her press for now; they were expensive, but they were also doing an outstanding job. The afterglow from the party was constantly fanned into fresh flames, and they’d told her the good coverage would last until the stockholders’ meeting.

  “That’s wonderful, Celine.”

  In truth, it felt a bit flat. She’d been busy, but even the chaos of the last few days—ordering more stock as fast as the Brandts and their apprentices could turn it out, managing the press, talking to analysts—even that could not banish the shock of Judy from her mind.

  Well, not Judy—Pierre.

  Judy didn’t matter. She was just a bitter ex-mistress. Sophie was determined to forget her, and simply to resolve never to trust anybody so easily again. That was her own fault; she hadn’t learned from Gregoire.

  But her husband . . .

  That was humiliation, real humiliation; it had been with her every time she closed her eyes to sleep, and every moment she woke up. She imagined that every woman in the Massot offices was discussing it; she imagined it was the talk of all Paris.

  And she, Sophie, had been blind; hadn’t suspected . . .

  Hadn’t cared?

  When Pierre had to “work late” she’d never murmured. Never questioned. And now she had to ask herself why.

  She had promised, at the altar, to love Pierre. Had she ever kept that promise? If she examined her conscience, Sophie wondered. She recoiled from the tag of gold digger, and it hadn’t been overt avarice, that was true. But still, Judy’s words had stung. Maybe Sophie wasn’t looking just for money, but she had wanted to escape. Very much . . .

  Was it love, with Pierre? Or just gratitude?

  Had he ever loved her? For some men, sex and love don’t mix. They can be quite separate, so she was told. Was it that way with her husband?

  “Celine.” She looked up. “Did you try my son’s numbers again?”

  Her assistant nodded. “I’m very sorry, Madame.”

  They were all set to answer: his cell phone, his apartment, his private line at the château; Sophie was tired of leaving messages.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “Please call me a taxi, and take my messages. I’m going out for the rest of the day.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was so inherently ridiculous, what she was doing, that she should smile about it, but Sophie felt her mother’s love reduce her to this, skulking in a bistro just off the Left Bank, watching the entrance to the building where her Thomas had rented a place—rented just so he would not need to live in their home. And that thought made her throat thicken, and set her eyes prickling with tears.

  But it had to be done. If Tom wouldn’t speak to her, wouldn’t take her calls, she would have to see him. In person. And if that meant waiting here all day for him to show up, so be it.

  She had some camouflage. She had a novel, an old copy of Persuasion ; it was a story she loved, but couldn’t concentrate on. Sophie just sipped her indifferent coffee and toyed with her salad; this was a tourist restaurant, with menus and prices in English, and the food was appropriately subpar.

  But they wouldn’t bother her. She could spin it out all day. She would have a salad, then soup, then a soufflé; coffee, petits-fours; then herbal tea, and cakes; and so on to supper, if necessary. She had already done the important thing, found the maître d’ and tipped him a hundred euro note, saying she wanted to be left alone to think.

  “Something else for you, Miss?”

  The waitress was German, Sophie thought, benefits of the common market.

  “I’ll take an ice cream . . . strawberry is fine . . . ,” she paused; that was him, that was Tom! Walking down the street. “On second thought, nothing.” Sophie hastily snapped open her Coach handbag and pulled out a fifty euro note. “For the bill.”

  She jumped to her feet and rushed out of the door, leaving its little bell clanging behind her.

 
; Crazy broad, the waitress thought. But what the hell, it was a twenty euro tip. She crammed the fifty in her pocket and headed back to the kitchen.

  Sophie ran; he was walking slowly, head down, lost in thought. Her heart pounded; she felt ridiculously nervous. Passersby were staring; she couldn’t have cared less.

  “Tom,” she said. “Tom, stop. It’s me.”

  He looked up, startled, and his mouth opened; he just stood there. He made no move towards her.

  “This has to stop,” Sophie said, and to her horror her self-control deserted her, and she started to cry, right there in the street—great sobs, tears rolling from her eyes.

  “For God’s sake!” He swore. “What are you doing?”

  “Tom,” Sophie said, miserably. “You’re my baby . . . you have to talk to me.”

  He flushed. “Come inside. Stop making a spectacle of yourself, Maman!”

  Hastily, he fished out his keys and fumbled with the lock, letting the heavy white door swing open; he glared at the small crowd that was forming and gave his mother a gentle push to get her inside.

  As soon as the door shut she turned to him. “Darling, I—”

  “We have a doorman,” Tom said, low and urgent. “Please, Mother, for heaven’s sake. Just follow me to the lifts, okay? You can talk in my apartment.”

  She nodded, blinded by tears, and followed him. This wasn’t going anything like she had wished; Tom hadn’t looked guilty, or moved; he seemed only concerned with getting her out of public view.

  He was still estranged from her. The pain was acute. Sophie swayed; she thought she might pass out.

  “Here.” Tom took his mother’s arm and led her into the elevator, firmly waving away offers of help from the concerned doorman behind the desk.

  The lift took them up smoothly and Tom let her into his place; it was as sterile and soulless as she had imagined, millions of miles from his set of rooms at the château, with their wonderful view of the pear orchards and the stables.

  “Sit down,” he said coldly. “Do you want a handkerchief?”

  “I have one.” Sophie fished a neat square of cotton from her handbag and blew her nose.

  “Are you feeling faint? Do you need something sweet? Hot tea, perhaps.”

  The words were solicitous, but the tone was not. Sophie dabbed at her eyes. She didn’t know where to start.

  “I’m fine. Look, darling, I know you’re upset about Daddy—”

  “I believe you have no idea how I feel about my father,” Tom replied flatly. “You have declared him dead with no proof—”

  “Not this again.”

  “You defy his wishes and try to usurp my inheritance, making the family an object of ridicule. I only had three years to go.”

  “I didn’t have three years . . .”

  “What, mother? You think that somehow you were qualified to come in and take over the company, but I wasn’t? You don’t have any business experience; you didn’t even go to university.”

  Sophie flushed deeply.

  “I was studying at Oxford. What made you think that you would be my superior?”

  “Well,” she said, carefully, wounded. “You weren’t exactly studying very hard, sweetheart. I didn’t think you were mature enough . . .”

  “If anybody’s showed immaturity, it’s you.” Tom struggled to control himself; he ticked off the points on his fingers. “You declare him dead. You defy his wishes. You denigrate me. You embarrass the family. While you’re still in mourning you start an affair—no, don’t say anything, I know it all.”

  “I didn’t sleep with him!”

  Tom winced. “Please. As if I want to know. You romanced him while wearing black for Papa. And then, then,” he said, “as soon as six months ticks off the clock, off goes the black. I suppose my father isn’t worth a year’s respect? He gave you everything.”

  “Tom—”

  “I’m not finished.” He looked at her and his eyes were flint. “You then crown it all by debasing House Massot with that little party. You give our jewels away for free, and you show up, in front of all Paris, in pink—pink! Like Father didn’t matter. And you are wearing a dress that’s practically indecent.”

  “Indecent?”

  “Designed to show off your cleavage. Mother, you’re thirty-nine ,” he said with withering distaste.

  “It most certainly was not indecent. It was empire waisted—”

  “Well, you embarrassed me. Again. As though you hadn’t learned from the disaster of your last lover. You laid us open to all of it.”

  Sophie struggled with herself and regained a little control.

  “Tom, I love you,” she said. “I did all this for you. You have to believe that.”

  He sighed. “I wish I could, Maman, I really do. But I think this was some kind of midlife crisis on your part.” Tom sat down in a chair opposite her and looked at her gravely.

  “I want you to come home. Back to the château. Your rooms are waiting.”

  “I don’t think that’s the best idea right now,” he said.

  “But why isn’t it, Tom?” The tears were threatening again. “We can work this out.”

  “I don’t think we can. Whatever you may believe, I am an adult, Maman. I am going to look after my interests and Father’s interests, where House Massot is concerned.”

  “There’s another three years—”

  “No, there isn’t. It will shortly be no longer your concern.”

  Sophie blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Tom shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Look, of course I love you. I’ll always love you,” he said. “But at the moment I’m afraid I don’t like you very much.”

  She recoiled; a stab of agony surged right through her, worse than any heartache Sophie had ever known. The dizziness returned, and she swayed on the chair.

  Tom noticed; he was concerned and came over to her.

  “Maman,” he said, urgently. “We can put this behind us. Just leave the company alone. Leave it today. Sign over the stock you vote to me, now. You know it’s all coming to me anyway. Just go back to the château, and I’ll come back and be with you. I can introduce my girlfriend—”

  “You have a girlfriend?”

  He hesitated.

  “You won’t like her at first,” Tom admitted. “But once we’ve explained everything, I know you’ll come around. You want us to be a family again, and so do I. You just need to stop standing in the way of what Papa wanted.”

  He pressed her hand and stood up.

  “House Massot was my father’s. And now it’s mine. As soon as you see that, this can all be over.”

  Sophie looked at her tall, strong son; almost twenty, so like his father, his shoulders square against the blazing sunlight streaming into the room; stubborn and proud, half man, half boy. She was sure he believed he was ready, but she knew otherwise.

  It was the worst thing about being a parent. Having to deny and refuse somebody you loved so much more than yourself.

  She would die for Tom without a second thought. But love for him meant not letting him destroy everything he had in the world.

  “I can’t do that, Tom.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “I can’t—I won’t—you’re not ready.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Tom said. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Mother.”

  Sophie stood up. “So you won’t come home?”

  “Later,” he said. “I told you, I intend to assert my rights to the company.”

  She knew Tom couldn’t do anything; he didn’t have enough stock. But perhaps this wasn’t the moment to point that out. Sophie went over, kissed him on the cheek; Tom awkwardly patted her on the back.

  “Then I’ll see you soon. After the stockholders’ meeting,” she said bravely.

  Tom walked to the door and opened it. “Can you see yourself out, or should I come with you to get a taxi?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll walk.” Sophie set her lips tight. S
he didn’t want to say too much, didn’t want to start crying again.

  “Goodbye, Maman,” Tom said. And as she walked over to the lift, he shut the door firmly behind her.

  Chapter 34

  They were coming in faster now. They always did. Summer was over, and autumn was curling dreadfully, inevitably down towards winter; the deep, long dark of winter in northern Russia, where the cold was so desperate it ran down into your bones, and the beautiful blanket of snow wrapped the frozen earth up, hard as death. No wonder people drank.

  It was a prosperous business, selling vodka and beer to miners and party officials, on the outskirts of Minsk. The tavern had a supply of alcohol, a blazing fire, tables for cards; it wasn’t hard to fill, even in the long summer evenings. But when winter came around, the place was packed. Men didn’t want to go home to their fat wives in the dark. They chose to drink a little, gamble, look at the blaze, laugh, talk about women. Leer at women, if any were ever brave enough to show their faces. Mostly it was just the whores, and Pyotr discouraged them inside his bar; he didn’t want any trouble for the party bureaucrats. They could drum up their trade outside the door.

  Vladek despised those women, too. Young and desperate . . . and selling their bodies. Why should those sluts pollute the bar? If they were poor, then they could work. They could make something of themselves, the way he,Vladek, had done.

  His real name wasn’t Vladek. But he had decided to call himself that. Vladek means “ruler.” He had learned that in the orphanage, along with many other facts taught by Mr. Kovec and others—the history of the glorious Communist revolution, with geography, with tales of capitalist aggression. And while the other kids sat there, sullen, thinking of nothing but the hunger that gnawed at their bellies,Vladek had sucked it in. He would better himself, for such was his destiny.

  Vladek swept the floors for the eighteenth time that afternoon. He smiled, nodded at the patrons as they swaggered in, blowing on their hands and calling at Pyotr to pour them a shot—or six. Blowsy, rolling drunks, they were all peasants. Like the other kids at the orphanage, mining or chopping wood, manual labour, that was their destiny.

  He had noble blood in his veins, though; things were going to be different for him.