Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  Sophie nodded.

  “You’re right.” He sighed. “But I loved her so much, and so deeply, I didn’t want her to be gone.”

  “I don’t think she is gone,” Sophie said.

  “Ah, yes, you’re religious.”

  “You?”

  Hugh shook his head. “I’ve seen too much horror. And banality, and cynicism, which sometimes seem worse than horror. That doesn’t seem to fit in with a God.”

  “Well, I won’t try to convert you. Don’t worry.”

  “Feel free to try,” he said, lightly. “If anybody could make me believe . . . I think it might be you. You make me imagine that things are possible, things I had not hoped for.”

  Sophie looked down.

  “We hardly know each other,” she murmured.

  “But it doesn’t feel like that, does it?”

  “No.”

  “I want to see you again,” he said. “Soon. Will you see me?”

  Sophie lifted her head and smiled.

  “Of course,” she said. “You know I will.”

  Hugh took her hand in his and smiled gently at her. It was the strangest thing, he thought: he was happy.

  They lingered over dessert and coffee; finally, he called for the bill. Neither of them wanted the meal to end.

  “I should ring for Richard.”

  “Your driver?”

  “Yes, he’s parked a few streets away.”

  “You could cancel him; let me walk you home. It can’t be two miles to the château.”

  Sophie thought of the servants, and what Tom would say. “Better not.”

  “Of course.” He was terrified of pushing her; the night had been perfect. Peter Stockton, Mayberry, his exploded career, all seemed trivial, completely insignificant. Seeing this woman again was all Hugh cared about.

  “Dinner tomorrow?” he asked. “There are a thousand out-of-the-way places in Paris where nobody will ever find you.”

  “Yes. Just call and let me know where.” Sophie frowned. “I hate having to hide,” she said.

  “It won’t be long. Your meeting will take place soon.”

  “I can’t wait. I’m sick of it.”

  “Shall we walk to the car?” Hugh offered her his arm. He wanted to prolong every second. She was standing right next to him, and he was already missing her.

  “Thank you.” Sophie smiled at him, her gentle smile, radiant and kind; it danced behind her eyes, and seemed to come up from her very soul. “I’d like that.”

  Hugh leaned forward and kissed her.

  There was no question in his mind. He had to do it. She was so gorgeous, and hot, and sweet—and Hugh had wanted her for so long. Her mouth, her lips were inches from his. Hugh did not think about it. He took her in his arms, and kissed her, hard. And Sophie melted against him—didn’t struggle; just for that moment, she abandoned herself.

  It was that moment that told him he had fallen in love.

  Chapter 36

  Katherine tensed; every cell in her aging body felt vital and alive. Her hands tightened on the receiver.

  “Are you sure?” she said. Then she added, “Very good,” and hung up.

  For a moment she sat there, revelling in it. The stupidity of the girl. To bring him here, to Pierre’s own home, to Pierre’s village. As though Katherine would not find out.

  Sophie had never been right for him; that much, she was sure of.

  Now, at last, the boy would know it too.

  She grasped the armrest of her eighteenth-century chair and, carefully, hauled herself up. Faubert, her butler, materialized from nowhere.

  “May I assist you in some way, Madame?”

  “Yes,” Katherine said. “Call my driver. I am going to visit my grandson.”

  Judy exchanged smiles with Katherine as the old lady swept into the drawing room. They were the thin, unpleasant grimaces of women who would never trust each other. But this was a strategic alliance, and Judy thought of herself as a careful player. Katherine Massot was fond of the grand gesture—Sophie’s party had demonstrated that—and she instinctively knew that this was something important. She moved behind Tom, possessively stroking his shoulder.

  “It’s so good to see you, Katherine,” Judy said. “But do tell me—is this family business? I really wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  The old woman arched her neck, a ghost of coquettishness in the motion.

  “I—I really don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “It seems to bear both on the family and on the business. You’re advising us on the matter of Tom’s company, Judy . . . perhaps you ought to stay. . . .”

  What an actress, Judy thought.

  “If you think so,” she said lightly.

  “What’s the matter, Grandmother? You look upset,” Tom said. He had an ugly sense of foreboding. His grandmother normally never stirred from the dower house before noon.

  “I don’t think there’s anything for it but to say it, darling; your mother has formed an alliance with Hugh Montfort.”

  “Nonsense,” Tom said, flatly.

  Judy’s eyes widened. The shock of it rushed through the pit of her stomach. So . . . she was right? Montfort, too—Montfort, who’d rejected her . . . loved Sophie?

  “My father hated Hugh Montfort. Mother would never do that.”

  While Tom blustered, Judy tried to collect her emotions. If Sophie would date Hugh, she really hadn’t loved Pierre.

  “It’s quite true. They dined in the village last night.”

  “In St.-Aude?”

  “It was a romantic engagement,” Katherine added relentlessly. “They were holding hands. Courting.”

  Tom didn’t want to believe her. He felt sick.

  “Who told you such a thing?”

  “The proprietor of the restaurant. And my friend Mme de Gres, who happened to be there that night with her daughter.”

  Katherine’s reedy voice spoke with total certainty.

  “Tom—if she would bring him to your father’s village, and parade him before your father’s friends—how long before she moves him into his house? Into my son’s house?” she added for good measure. She walked across the room to him. “You are his heir, his protector.” Katherine placed her hand on his arm. “You must do something. . . .”

  Judy watched in fascination as Tom shrugged it off. The disbelief in his face had shifted to rage. He was like Sophie in that, she thought detachedly; Pierre would never let his emotions show.

  “Oh, I will do something.” His young voice, so angry. So hurt. “Watch.”

  Katherine sank into a chair in the corner of the apartment as her grandson picked up the phone.

  “Room 612,” he snapped when it was answered. “Stockton? This is Tom Massot. I agree to your terms. Fax the contract to me at the apartment. Yes, right away. I want to be installed in that office this afternoon. Can you do it that fast? Good.”

  Judy exchanged a glance with Katherine; the old lady never flinched, but her eyes were glittering with excitement. She almost shuddered; one wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of that woman.

  Tom was punching more buttons.

  “Delors? This is M. Massot. I will be taking possession of the château today, Delors. Mme Massot will be moving out. Have all the staff start packing her personal effects immediately.” There was a pause; he reddened. “Do as I say, damn your eyes, if you want to keep your position! Do you understand me . . . ? Very well. The moving vans will arrive at six p.m. Be sure that none of Mme Massot’s things remain behind, not so much as a locket.”

  He slammed the receiver down.

  “Judy, can you arrange the removal vans?”

  “But . . .” She thought it behooved her to say something. “Honey, didn’t you say she’d been to see you? That she was trying to reconcile?”

  “She’s dating my father’s rival,” Tom said flatly. “A man he hated. If she wanted to reconcile with me, that was not the way to go about it.”

  He took a deep breath and walked to the
window of the apartment, staring down at the Seine, obviously trying to stay calm.

  “Take care of this for me, Judy. I am going to the office to see my mother.”

  “Shall I come too, darling?” Katherine asked.

  Tom shook his head. “If you would arrange the end of this lease. I shall be taking possession of the château, tonight.” His young face was hard with anger. “It’s mine. And this is going to end. Right now.”

  Sophie sat in her office, humming to herself. The calls had slowed now; instead of giving interviews, she was reading the delicious results. The press coverage was overwhelming. The weekly magazines were just being published; next it would be the monthlies. Her party would get two months of exposure. And sales—sales were through the roof. . . .

  She was miles away from the timid widow that had walked into this building. She had had the courage to battle her demons, inside and out. And she’d rescued the firm.

  Sophie was proud of herself.

  Independence. It was new, but it suited her.

  Still, she couldn’t deceive herself. It wasn’t just the sense of the threat lifting that was making her happy.

  It was Hugh Montfort.

  These feelings—they were amazing.

  Her whole world felt new—like coffee on the terrace overlooking the lake—a life suddenly, surprisingly, full of possibility. Like thirty-nine wasn’t old; it was the start of something strange but wonderful. She had started to sing in the shower, started to wear heels, to shorten her hemlines.

  Of course, it was early days yet—very early.

  But today, Sophie was happy.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes, Celine?”

  Her secretary entered, full of excitement. “Excuse me, Mme Massot, but you have a visitor! It’s M. Thomas.”

  Sophie jumped to her feet, overjoyed. Tom! Coming to see her? Could it be true? A wild hope rushed through her. If he wanted to talk . . .

  “Sweetheart—come in, come in,” she said. Tom entered, but did not sit down; Sophie saw he was upset. “Celine, could you give us some privacy, please? And hold all my calls.”

  “Of course, Madame.”

  Celine shut the door.

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true? Tom—calm down. Sit down, you just got here.”

  “That you are dating Hugh Montfort. Father’s enemy. And that you brought him to our village.” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Without informing me.”

  Sophie sighed.

  “I didn’t want you to find out like this—”

  “I see.”

  “We haven’t even—”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Tom said. “Please spare me the couple talk.”

  “I understand you’re angry, Tom.” She was surprised to find herself so calm. “But I’m an adult, and this is my business.”

  “An adult. Yes, and as I have repeatedly told you, so am I.” He held up one hand, and his mother was almost amused; so imperious, but still, technically, a teenager. “And I’ve made some decisions. Since you pointedly refuse to respect Father’s wishes.”

  “Your father has nothing to do with my seeing Hugh.”

  “He would have hated it,” Tom replied flatly.

  Sophie said nothing. That was true, of course. And since Judy’s little bombshell, nothing she cared about.

  “Firstly, you’re fired. The company has been sold. I’m here as a courtesy to allow you to get out of my office before the press arrive. Secondly, I am taking possession of Château des Étoiles. I will not have Hugh Montfort entertained there as a guest. Your lover is not welcome in Papa’s house—in my house.”

  Sophie blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me, Maman.” Tom’s youthful features were implacable. “The staff are packing away your things. The removal vans are heading there now. You may tell me where you want them sent.”

  “The château is yours,” she said numbly. On that point, Pierre’s will was clear. “You’re throwing me out?”

  “I take it you will not give Montfort up?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I won’t be blackmailed, Tom. Things are complicated.”

  “I believe they’re perfectly simple. Where should I send your dresses?”

  She looked away, bitterly hurt. Unwilling to let her son see her cry.

  “Give them to charity, for all I care. I want no part of them.”

  “And you must leave the office.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Sophie snapped, losing patience. “You don’t have the stock to vote me from the board and you don’t have the votes. And nor does Mayberry. Not since the party . . .”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Tom said, and she hated the tone of triumph in his voice. “We’ve done a deal.”

  “A deal?”

  “With Mayberry. Grandmother gave me voting rights over her stock, too. When we sold to Mayberry, they had enough for control. I’m to be installed as chairman and CEO.”

  Sophie felt all the joy whoosh out of her. Her stomach turned over.

  “Tell me that’s not true,” she said weakly.

  “It’s quite true.” Tom set his jaw mulishly. “I told you I was going to take my inheritance. You could have stopped this at any time.”

  “Tom,” Sophie said. She felt panic rising, rushing at her throat. “They’re tricking you—they’re all tricking you. Don’t you see that?”

  “I’ve already signed the papers. You’re a minority shareholder now, Mother. And you’ve been removed.” Tom marched to the window. “I think you should leave.”

  “I will.” Sophie picked up her handbag. She wanted to say something. To tell Tom she loved him. To explain. To warn him. . . .

  But it all seemed too late, and his back, hostile and set against her, told her not to try it.

  Sophie’s eyes watered. She wasn’t even sure if Tom loved her, not anymore. He had expelled her from her home, from her business. Left her with the clothes on her back. And he’d done it for Pierre . . . for that cheating, betraying, controlling bastard.

  She had never realized it before. All those nights she had cried for Pierre, prayed for his safe return, refused not to give up on him. He had gone, leaving her and her son in a prison of his own making.

  “I love you, Tom,” she said quietly. Then she walked out of the office and shut the door behind her.

  She had never hated her husband. Until that moment.

  Chapter 37

  He never forgot the first moment he saw her.

  She was standing there in the market square, and she was wearing red. Amid all the grey, drab clothes of the merchants and the workers, she stood out, brilliant and unafraid. She walked with the confidence of a rich woman, and the peasants scuttling along under the shadow of the mediaeval buildings drew aside as she passed, for she was obviously important.

  Vladek stared. He swallowed the last of the pastry he had expertly stolen from a baker’s shop two miles away, and saved for his lunch. It had been good, with cheese and real meat; he could feel the protein landing, solid and comforting, in his empty stomach. But the pleasures of eating faded instantly when she strutted by.

  He catalogued everything that was great about her. The soft red wool of her clothes, like something from the West. The neat, high-heeled black shoes. A quick glance at her calves told him she wore real American nylons. Her hair, dyed black, he thought, was carefully swept up into a pillbox hat. She had a neat little handbag, black leather with a golden clasp. It was quilted. It must have been imported, he thought. No way that came from Russia.

  But she was walking away from him, that fine, rounded bottom mincing towards the edge of the square.

  Vladek thought she was the most elegant female he had ever seen. Nothing like the fat farmers’ daughters or the gaudily painted whores with their bruised skin that he encountered around Tallinn every day. Not even like a party member’s wife, well-fed and nicely dressed. No, she had style, true distinction; she was a monarch butterf
ly in a room full of moths.

  She looked . . . rich.

  He stirred. He wanted her. But not just physically;Vladek felt a sting of white-hot desire. He instantly needed to do more than screw her. He wanted to possess her. She was the kind of woman who was destined for him.

  It bothered him that he was in the shabby clothes of a petty thief. But he had kept himself neat, as always. And he still had confidence, and pride.

  He strode up to her, and caught her by the arm.

  “Excuse me, Madame,” he said.

  She wrenched her arm away, trying to stride on ahead. “Leave me alone,” she snapped. “I don’t give to beggars.”

  She was icy cold. His admiration deepened. He said, firmly, “Look at me.”

  His tone demanded assent; she turned around, reluctantly, and glanced down at him.Vladek held her eyes.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  She did a double take; then arched those plucked brows.

  “I’m a married woman.” She gave an artificial laugh. “And you’re just a boy.”

  Vladek noted that she was not shoving him away, nor calling for help.

  “Your husband does not please you,” he said. He could tell this in the way she walked. “And I am not a boy.” He reached out with one calloused fingertip and stroked her down the side of the cheek, a soft gesture of claiming, as though she were a thorough-bred mare that belonged to him.

  She drew back, but not before they had both felt her move, just a tiny bit, under the unexpected caress.

  “You’re young enough. And I’m not so very beautiful,” she said.

  Vladek answered with scorn, “Your husband is a fool who does not know his woman. You are a jewel.”

  She had stopped pretending to walk away; she smiled a bitter little smile.

  “What kind of a jewel?” she asked.

  “A diamond,” he said at once. “Very fair, and very cold. But with light around the heart.” He moved closer to her, invading her space, thrusting his face near hers; he could see the liner she used around her lipstick.