Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  But that was weakness. Sophie had to get back to the office: call more small stockholders, give more interviews, get her plan out there. The meeting was weeks away; there was no time, not a second, to rest on her laurels.

  Work had one other thing to recommend it, she thought, as the sun beat down on the back of her neck; she adjusted her Hermès scarf to keep her pale skin from burning. It was a wonderful distraction. It would take her mind off Tom and all the sacrifices she had to make to do what was best for him, in his interests, though against his will.

  Here it was . . . rue Tricot. Sophie sighed, pulled herself upright; she would call Lizzie at Burston-Marseller and see if she couldn’t get herself another couple of interviews this afternoon. Every small shareholder counted; they all had to believe in her....

  She walked into the lobby and smiled at the new receptionist, a pudgy, neatly dressed girl called Therese; the girl was wearing a cream twinset with neat Massot pearl earrings; Sophie had issued them with her hiring slip; of course the first face anybody saw must be wearing Massot. All the girls had the earrings, and the security guards on the night shift wore plain gold Massot cuff links in their shirts.

  “Good afternoon,” she said.

  “Good afternoon, Madame.” Therese smiled easily at her; Sophie was pleased the staff no longer trembled just because she bore Pierre’s name. “How are you?”

  “Very well.” Sophie headed for the ancient lift.

  “Excuse me, Madame, but you have a visitor. He said he didn’t have an appointment.”

  Sophie turned around; there, sitting on the couch, looking suntanned and incredibly handsome, was Hugh Montfort.

  She blinked, but it really was him.

  Sophie sighed. “Really, Mr. Montfort. Another surprise visit? Shouldn’t you be working on Mayberry’s offer for this company? If you’re still trying to persuade me to sell, you’re wasting your time. I have no intention of giving away my son’s inheritance to a bunch of cowboys hawking blue topaz and vermeil.”

  Montfort chuckled. “Blue topaz and vermeil; ouch, that’s cruel.”

  “I’m glad you’re amused.” Sophie turned away. “I really don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m not here as a representative of Mayberry.” Montfort glanced at the receptionist. “I really would prefer to speak to you privately, but if you aren’t prepared to see me, I shall, of course, withdraw.”

  Sophie hesitated; he was too polite to simply dismiss.

  “Very well. I can give you ten minutes,” she said, and pressed the button for the elevator.

  Sophie asked Celine for some coffee, then closed the door to her office.

  “May I sit down?”

  Hugh kept his tone neutral. He was taking a risk. A real risk, not a business one. He was about to gamble with his heart, and if Sophie was going to shoot him down, he preferred to be as little exposed as possible.

  “Please.” She waved him to a seat and sat behind the desk. “You do realize that your coming to see me will be everywhere in the next ten minutes. It’s hardly appropriate behaviour for somebody determined to mount a hostile bid.”

  “It would be, if I were such a person.”

  Again, Hugh delighted in the freedom of it.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you I was not here as a representative of Mayberry. I was fired this morning.”

  “What?”

  He loved that look of confusion on her face.

  “I was fired.”

  “Is this some kind of a joke, Mr. Montfort? Because it’s in very poor taste.”

  “No joke, I assure you. I was fired. I have called my broker and had him liquidate my entire holding of Mayberry stock. All intercourse between that company and myself is now at an end.”

  Hugh shrugged. “So you see, I’m not here on some nefarious purpose.”

  “But why?” Sophie asked. “What possible reason . . . ?”

  “The excuse was your party, in fact. That I should have prevented it.”

  “And how could you?”

  “That, they didn’t say.” Hugh inclined his head towards her. “The party was a wonderful idea, as was your identification of your core customers; had it been a little further from the date of the shareholders’ meeting I think it would have caused me real problems. As it was, I did not anticipate any.”

  “You think you would still have got the votes?”

  “I would have. I must tell you, I think they still will. Although Mayberry’s own stock, my broker informs me, dropped a point on the rumour I’d been dismissed.”

  He watched her bristle. She was a fighter; he loved that animal courage.

  “Then thank God they fired you,” Sophie cried.

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Excuse me.” Sophie stood up, agitated. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, Mr. Montfort. But if our revival wouldn’t have been enough, perhaps your firing will. I can use it. I can run stories about the chaos at Mayberry, persuade the small holders that long-term their shares will suffer—”

  “Of course you must try everything.” Hugh tried to let her down gently.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that I believe they have already mopped up enough votes for a majority stake.”

  “But that’s impossible. They’d need almost the entire independent float.”

  “Yes. So perhaps I’m wrong. I hope so.” He smiled at Sophie. “For your sake, Mme Massot.”

  “So you came here to let me know that you’d been sacked? So I could use it?” Sophie stopped pacing, sat down again. “Thank you, I’m most grateful.”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  She stared. “There’s more?”

  “Not about the company.”

  “Then what?”

  Hugh smiled. “Nothing to do with business. I’m asking you out.”

  Sophie gazed at him.

  “Out,” Hugh repeated. “You know, lunch, dinner. A date. We could do something, if you prefer; go to the theatre, or a concert. But I prefer a simple meal, at least to start off with.”

  “But why are you asking me out?”

  “Why does a man usually ask a woman out?” Hugh smiled again; now he’d said it, he was absolutely at ease. “Well. Sophie, I should very much like to get to know you better.’

  Sophie looked at Hugh, and blushed. This moment had been hovering on the edge of her fantasies; she’d tried not to think about it. And now that it was here, Sophie felt frightened.

  Just a little.

  “I don’t know if it’s such a great idea.” She thought of Gregoire, of her frigidity. “I don’t think I’d be very good company.”

  “I wish you would allow me to be the judge of that.”

  “Relationships with men are not my strong suit, apparently,” she said. And then wanted to kick herself. Apparently? Would he ask her what that meant?

  But Montfort held off.

  “If I might make an observation, Mme Massot—”

  “As you’ve asked me out, it better be Sophie.”

  “Sophie.” He smiled. “A beautiful name, and it suits you. English and French; I suppose you’ve become a little of both.”

  “I suppose so.” She smiled back; it was impossible not to bask in the warmth of his attractiveness.

  “Anyway, I was going to observe that all I am asking for is the pleasure of your company at dinner. We could enjoy a meal, and if you still feel uncomfortable, I won’t pursue it.” He gave a sudden, wolfish grin. “At least, not indefinitely. I will confess to planning a little persistence.”

  “Just a meal?” Sophie asked suspiciously.

  “That’s all; just a meal. I realize this is a stressful time for you. I am aware of some of the pressures you have lately been under, from people in whom your trust has been misplaced. You are still trying to fight the Mayberry bid. I understand that you may be feeling overwhelmed.”

  She couldn’t help it; she gave a bitter little laugh, very unlike
herself.

  “Excuse me,” Sophie said. “But you don’t know how true that is.”

  “I know some of it. It used to be my business to know.”

  “Do you have children?” she asked.

  Montfort shook his head. “I lost my wife and child long ago.” “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a child.”

  “Unborn,” he said. “But real to me.”

  Her throat thickened, and she had to turn her head away; she thought of Tom’s cold face.

  “I was hoping,” he said, “that a good dinner with me might reduce some of those pressures. But I will understand if you feel unable to, right now. In which case I shall return with the request once the Mayberry bid is decided.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Sophie smiled weakly at him. “I think I’m tired of sitting here calculating what people will think.”

  “I’m pleased,” he said softly; Sophie looked down. “Can I pick you up from this office?”

  “Better not.” She could imagine the stories. “Do you know where my house is?”

  “The Château des Étoiles? Very well. It’s quite magnificent.”

  “I would rather not meet there, either. At least, not yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s a little restaurant in St.-Aude, the village. The last time I went there it was with Judy Dean, but I can’t let that spoil it for me.”

  “Fruits de la Mer; I’ve heard of it.”

  “I’ll book a table for eight.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Montfort stood, smiled at her, and walked out.

  There was a knock on the door; it was Celine with Sophie’s coffee.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Madame.” Celine could not contain her curiosity. “What was that about?”

  “Just business,” Sophie lied airily. She took a sip; it was cinnamon-scented, her favourite. Her mood had lifted. All of a sudden, things didn’t seem quite so black or so desperate.

  She smiled warmly at her secretary.

  “Madame, I was wondering,” Celine began.

  Sophie sighed. What next?

  “About the invitations to your party, Madame. There are some leftover . . .”

  “I don’t think that’s a problem.”

  “Oh! No, Madame. I was just wondering if . . .” Celine’s courage failed her. “If I might . . .”

  Sophie smiled; light dawned. “You would like one of the brooches?”

  “If it’s all right, Madame. They are very beautiful, and I could never afford . . .”

  “Take them all.” Sophie pulled open her desk drawer and fished out the last four envelopes.

  Celine stared. “Oh, thank you, Madame! Thank you so much! I don’t know how to thank you!”

  “Well, you can start by getting me Burston-Marseller on the phone,” Sophie said, grinning. “Right away.”

  “Of course.” Celine fled back outside her office, clutching her prizes, and within thirty seconds Sophie’s phone was lit up.

  She took the call, glancing at the clock on the wall. Half three. Time for one radio interview. Then she would have Richard drive her home.

  The rigours of the day had exhausted her. Thank God for coffee, she thought. All Sophie really wanted to do was get back to the château, take a long, luxuriant bath, and dress for dinner.

  Something stirred inside her when she thought of Montfort, and however her son might disapprove, Sophie was determined to be beautiful.

  “Well, you kept your word,” Sophie said. “You were waiting.”

  Montfort stood up as she approached the table.

  “Half an hour,” he said. “And worth every second of it.”

  She blushed. “You’re very kind.”

  He pulled out her chair, and Sophie sat down. She was wearing a red velvet dress, cut with perfect simplicity.

  Montfort drank in the beauty of her face, without staring. Her grey eyes were luminous; the handful of freckles, the fine lines around eyes and mouth, these were also attractive; hers was not a face that had experienced a great deal of fun, or pleasure. It was very serious, and yet quite innocent. She was expectant, he decided. Waiting, still waiting for something,

  He calmly summoned up a vision of his Georgie, the only woman he had ever loved. She was still smiling, still beautiful to him, but the pain was fading.

  He said to Sophie, “I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.”

  Her head lifted, and she blushed, deeply.

  “Come on, Hugh, don’t say things like that,” Sophie murmured.

  “It’s perfectly true.”

  “I know something about you,” Sophie replied, with a touch of spirit. “You’re not the only person who can do research. There are photographs of you in magazines with girlfriends, models—even film stars. Women in their mid-twenties with retroussé noses. Famous beauties. So it’s hardly the truth. I appreciate compliments, but you don’t need to lie.” She smiled. “Although I admit I took my time choosing the dress.”

  He smiled back; it was amazing, the ease of it; he liked her, immensely.

  “Is that what you think?” Hugh asked.

  “It’s what everybody thinks. The press—everybody.”

  “Then everybody’s wrong. Those women were not my girlfriends. I went on some dates, certainly.” He shrugged. “None of them worked. And as for the legendary attractiveness of these women, although I wouldn’t deny they were pretty—”

  “What a concession.” I’m teasing him, Sophie thought, amazed at how relaxed she was.

  “Some of them very pretty. Even beautiful. But none of them had that spark that raises a woman to what you are now.”

  A waiter appeared, and Hugh ordered a bottle of Chablis.

  “Beauty is not wholly on the inside, whatever the platitude may say. But it does take more than even features and a certain level of proportion in the figure. A pretty woman without a spark of grace is a cipher. And one possessing that spark, though in photographs she may be outshone by a model, in real life will always be the one who attracts an intelligent man.”

  Sophie paused. “I think that’s the loveliest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

  Hugh grinned. “It’s funny, I never thought it through until seeing you. But it’s absolutely true. I wouldn’t trade one meal with you for a year in the company of fifty models.”

  “And this is your first glass of wine?” Sophie asked.

  They smiled at each other, like children sharing a secret, and Sophie started to feel very strange, almost spellbound; something was gradually stealing up on her; she thought that maybe it was hope.

  They probed each other over the food; Sophie ordered moules marinière, a speciality of the house; they were delicious, faintly scented with garlic and parsley, in a white-wine broth she mopped up with crusty bread; Hugh, who didn’t care what he ate, chose a plain Dover sole with lemon and butter; it was excellent, and his salad was crisp and full of summer herbs.

  It was easy to talk. Sophie felt as though she’d known Montfort forever. He instictively understood her; he didn’t belittle her, or say flowery things; he listened gravely and made her feel that what she had to say mattered.

  He seemed interested in Tom, and when her love overwhelmed her, and she started to cry, there was no awkwardness; he merely said, “I’m sorry,” and waited for her to calm herself.

  “It’s because he loves his father.” Sophie dabbed the tears away. “I know that. Whatever Pierre was, he was Tom’s father. But I’m the one who’s always been there. Even when Pierre was alive, he was out—always out.” She thought briefly of Judy. “I never wondered why, and maybe that was wrong. I was at home playing with our baby.” Her shoulders hooped again. “And yet it seems that he prefers his father to me . . . it’s almost as if I didn’t count.”

  “I doubt that.” Hugh took a slow sip of his wine. “Tom doesn’t love his father; he hardly knew his father. Rather, he loves the idea of his father, w
hich without the man there to contradict it, is a stupidly rosy picture.”

  He put his large hand over her small one, and Sophie didn’t pull away.

  “It’s not a unique situation. Divorced women all over the world go through it. The children, when they grow up, realize the falsehood of the image. Tom has nothing more sinister than a longing for two parents.”

  “But what he said about me . . .”

  “He’s still young enough to feel repulsion at the idea of his mother as a sexual creature. He’ll grow out of that, too.”

  Sophie flushed. “My gown wasn’t sexual . . .”

  “Indeed it was.” Montfort winked at her. “Although perfectly modest. But Tom is not quite done with his adolescence. He’s still at the stage where he would prefer you in a burka.”

  Sophie laughed weakly. “I suppose so. You’re very good at making me feel better, Hugh.”

  “I hope I am,” he responded seriously.

  “And you.” She turned those shining brown eyes to him. “Why haven’t you remarried? Are you . . .”

  Sophie’s voice trailed off.

  “Am I what?”

  “I’m sorry.” She twirled the stem of her wineglass. “I was about to say something impertinent.”

  “Please go on.” He gazed at her. “I mean it, I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Then I was going to ask if you, too, have been holding on to a fantasy image.”

  “You mean about Georgiana?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was no fantasy.” He sighed. “If only you could have known her.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was asking if you have not connected with any other woman because of your wife. . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the fantasy part is that to you, on some level, Georgiana was still alive.”

  Hugh stared.

  “I’m sorry.” Sophie drew back. “I knew I shouldn’t have said that. Now I’ve offended you.”

  “No—you haven’t.” He paused. “You mean, I suppose, that I have been feeling as though another woman would be a betrayal; something that would only be true if my wife were still living.”