“Then you’re going to look pretty stupid for hiring me back,” he hissed, surprised at his own venom. “And remember, you’re the one who put it on the front pages.Your hand round my shoulders—that Judy announcing me as your personal choice. Remember?”
Stockton did remember, only too well.
“This is all your fault,” Lazard said, calmly. “You’re the genius who fired Hugh Montfort . . .”
“You’d better thank your stars I did. He’d never have hired you. He held you in the same contempt I do.”
“Oh really,” sneered Gregoire. “The contempt Wall Street has for you is far greater, I’d say. Without Montfort you’ve been exposed as the talentless bully that, Monsieur, everybody always thought you were.”
“You snivelling little rat,” Stockton cursed. “I’ll have you fired, you worthless piece of shit.”
“I do not think you will.” Lazard laughed. “You fool, don’t you realize I’ll just go to the press? Tell them about this little ego trip you’re pulling, how you only keep Judy on because she’s dating the Massot boy? You’ve got bosses too. The board can fire you, and we both know that at this point you’re skating on the thinnest ice around.”
“Fuck you,” Stockton glowered. But then he chewed his lip, because it was true. “If they fire me, you go as well,” he pointed out. “Nobody’s going to stick with a hireling of mine who can’t deliver. You better hustle, you frog-eating loser. Because if I go, you go.”
They glared at each other with mutual hatred.
Mayberry’s takeover of Massot had been a total disaster. The markets reacted poorly to the loss of Hugh Montfort, but then word leaked of the mass resignation of the key showroom staff; the defection of the chief designers, who weren’t under contract; and the lawsuits filed in London, Paris, and New York on behalf of Tom Massot, demanding reinstatement as chief executive and millions of euros in compensation. Stockton had expected that they would be dismissed, but the Massot boy was fighting pretty hard. Motion after motion headed his way, from Elgin and Hartford of Lincoln’s Inn, Louis Foche of the rue Faubourg, and Roberts, Estrada, and Jones of Fifth Avenue, New York. Massot had apparently got wind of many of their cost-cutting drives and he objected to them all. Mayberry was being sued under every possible mode of international corporate law.
Aggravated, Stockton had offered to settle. But the spoilt brat informed him he wanted nothing except Pete’s resignation and Gregoire’s along with it. “Or you can both be sacked,” the note had informed him, “which I would find preferable.”
The press were loving it, of course. Any excuse to rake up the near-mythical story of the Massots again. Their spectacular wealth, the jewels, the château. And of Pierre Massot’s inexplicable disappearance.
And all of that was before the launch of Montfort Jewels.
Damn, Stockton thought, how he loathed Hugh Montfort. Detested him with every atom of his being. Just when he’d finally managed to kill off that arrogant prick of a limey, the asshole rears his ugly head like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Starting from scratch, he announces to the whole world that he’s founding a jewellery company, and that it’s everything Mayberry/Massot “should have been.” His exact words. And just to emphasize the point, he produces those croaky old Brandts, Claudette Chiron and her gang from the showrooms, and—best of all—Sophie Massot, to whom he’s freaking engaged.
The press went ape-shit.
Stockton couldn’t stop it. His overpaid mouthpiece Judy Dean certainly couldn’t stop it; she was another waste of space. Everybody ran rivalry articles. Everybody ran speculation about Montfort poaching the “best” Massot had to offer. And everybody featured pictures of the jewellery, along with the address of the Web site.
That was the last straw. Here he was, trying to battle overhead costs and staff problems, trying to design a way to show Mayberry crap in a Massot space, and Hugh had simply done an end run around the whole logistical nightmare. He sold his shitty brooches and rings online. Not a dime in rent, not a cent in salary. It was pure profit.
And, so the press delighted in telling him every few days, Hugh Montfort was raking it in. If it’d been publicly traded, his stock would be reaching for the stars right now. Meanwhile, Pete’s was in the toilet.
He’d lost money. This year’s bonus was down the can. Pete’s stock options had declined, and there were option calls on some investments he’d punted on. He might even have to sell the summer place in the Hamptons. Claudia bitched at him on the telephone—every night.
One day he’d have his revenge on Gregoire Lazard.
“If I go, you go,” Pete repeated sourly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lazard said rudely. He turned and flipped through the papers. There were more glowing reviews of the first Montfort collection out today. Vogue had hit the stands, and it approved. Big time.
“We have to stop all this good press they’re getting. We have to make the Tom Massot lawsuits go away.” Stockton chewed his lip some more, toying with the ulcer that had developed there. “How can we make these people seem like the tawdry little fucks they really are?”
Lazard paused. Then he shot up out of his seat like somebody had lit a firecracker up his ass.
Stockton cursed. “Don’t jump like that,” he said, clutching at his heart. “I don’t like shocks.”
Lazard ignored him. “We use Judy. Judy Dean.”
Stockton rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. She’s bullshit. PR director? She hasn’t been able to do jack for us. The novelty value of using Massot’s girlfriend wore off a while ago. In fact, I’ve been meaning to fire her. One more quarter-mil salary we can take back.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Lazard smiled thinly. “We use her to draw fire away from us. You want tawdry? I have a scandal so huge that nobody will pay attention to our restructuring anymore. And the Massot woman, at least, will retire from the spotlight. She’s a timid little mouse,” he shrugged. “She’s nothing. There’s no way they’ll take the heat. It will destroy mother and son.”
“I suppose you’ll get around to telling me what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Judy Dean isn’t just the girlfriend of Tom Massot,” Lazard said. “She was also the mistress of Pierre Massot. Or should I say, one of them.” His lip curled with disdain. “But she stuck around longer than most. Pierre bought her an apartment on rue des Cloches. Promoted her. He was the only reason Judy kept her job. Now that the kid looks like his father, she’s banging him too.” He smiled nastily.
“Let me get this straight. She screwed the father and the son?”
Lazard nodded.
Stockton grinned broadly. “Fucking beautiful. Did the wife know?”
“She knew about her husband. That’s why Sophie fired her.”
“And the kid?”
Lazard shrugged. “The kid’s a selfish little prick who threw a tantrum over mama taking his slot. I don’t know if they’re even talking.”
Stockton chuckled. “Wonder how she feels about her possible daughter-in-law. Or does the son ask what the dad was like in bed?” He smirked. “The press will have a field day. I can’t wait to see these hoity-toity aristos dropped in the shit. House Massot? More like the Addams family.”
“We can do better than that. Let’s play it smart.”
“Go on.”
“Call the Massot kid. He’s so concerned about his precious family name; tell him we’ll publish this whole affair unless he withdraws all lawsuits and signs off on a statement of support for us and the direction of the company. A real kiss-up statement. I’ll write it myself.”
“I like it.”
“And then we call the wife. And Montfort. Tell them to wind up their little rhinestone business unless she wants her boy’s name dragged through the mud.”
Stockton’s eyes sparkled. “Not bad, you devious little fucker.”
“And as soon as that’s done, we spill the beans on Judy’s affair anyway,” Lazard said, exultantly. He thought of Sop
hie’s expression, that proud bitch, as she’d fired him. He would enjoy humiliating her. He’d make sure to turn the knife, too.
“We’ll call a press conference. Announce that that’s why we’re firing Judy Dean. Go into detail. Have employees available to give background interviews on the record.”
“Perfect. Let’s do it.” Stockton nodded at Lazard. The little toad might just turn out to be a good hiring decision after all. “Call Tom Massot right away. Let’s see these stuck-up bastards dancing to our tune for once.”
Lazard kissed the tips of his fingers. “My pleasure.”
Tom glanced again at the papers he had set off to the side. The first, a NewYork Times profile of Montfort Jewels. They had a large photograph of two of the pieces from the first collection. There was a mermaid brooch, gold with inlaid mother-of-pearl on the tail, minute diamonds scattered through the hair, and jet eyes, and a choker, an intriguing piece of very fine strands of gold shaped like a series of spiders’ webs, with an onyx spider sitting in the hollow of the throat.
It was unique. He understood at once that this was some of the finest work the Brandts had ever produced. No wonder the markets were going crazy.
His mother’s new company was a unique success. Despite his troubles, he was proud; he admitted that. He was proud of her.
Hugh Montfort. Tom still loathed him—so he told himself. But it sounded a little less convincing every time. As the press sniffed around, printing lots of ugly innuendo about Maman from that pig Gregoire Lazard, Hugh and Sophie said nothing. Absolutely nothing.
It dignified them; it was a gentlemanly response. Just like Camilla Parker Bowles, his mother said nothing. Which left the muckrakers with nowhere to go.
But once Tom filed his lawsuit, Sophie and Hugh put out a short statement:
“Sophie Massot and Hugh Montfort support Thomas Massot in his lawsuit against the chairman and chief executive of Mayberry. As former executives of the companies involved, we note with dismay the plummeting sales and declining stock price that have accompanied the new management’s regime. Fine jewellery is not fast food.”
Style. Tom knew something about Montfort’s manner of speaking; he knew that note had been written by him.
It was brilliant. It was savage. All the papers ran it.
Tom could almost see Stockton gnashing his teeth.
He was tempted to pick up the phone. But in the end, events took over. There were too many flights to New York and London to meet with the lawyers.
For the first time in his pampered life, Tom Massot was working hard.
And the strange thing was, he enjoyed it.
Tom saw clearly now. He’d been a fool, gulled by the promise of a fancy-sounding title into surrendering complete control. And he’d done it because—well, because he was a sexist. And childish.
Tom wanted Maman to stay exactly what she was—a mother; to stay home, to garden, to give parties. He’d wanted her to wait, so that Papa could—one day—come walking back down the drive.
Tom passed a hand across his forehead. Yes. He’d brought on this disaster. And why?
Because in his head it was still that warm summer’s evening when Papa had come to kiss him goodbye.
He’d waited for Papa to come back.
And in his heart, Tom knew he was still waiting.
Sophie had changed all that—blown away the idea that things could be restored to where they were. Which was why Tom fought her so hard. His mother had never worked, never dated. Why should she start now?
Tom was slowly coming to understand her motivations. She’d done it for him, and herself, too. And he’d been wrong to blame her.
In a short time, she’d successfully relaunched the brand, hired competent staff, and almost fought off a hostile takeover.
Hostile. It sure was. He knew that now. And he, Tom Massot, together with his grandmother, had handed victory to them.
He tried not to blame Judy and Katherine. What could they know? It had been his job to see that the deal was sound. He was at fault, nobody else. Judy had no shares, and his grandmother was an old woman.
But how wrong she had been.
Tom picked up the phone and dialled the dower house. Faubert, Katherine’s ancient butler, answered.
“Salut,” he said.
“This is M. Massot. Is Mme Massot at home?”
“She is, Monsieur.”
“You may expect me in a few minutes.”
“Very good, Monsieur.”
He’d go and have tea with Grandmother. Why not? There was nobody else left to talk to.
“Tom, my dear.” Katherine walked towards him with stately deliberation; he feared she had a poor hip and might find walking painful. She was elegant as ever, in a long gown of moss green silk, a string of pearls, and a flawless Indian emerald on her left hand; the familiar scent of powder and her custom-blended rose perfume enveloped him. “How good to see you. Tea? Cakes?”
“Some coffee would be fine.” He wanted nothing, but Katherine would feel cheated if she couldn’t make a fuss of him.
She signalled to Faubert, who withdrew.
“I have not seen you much lately,” Katherine chided him. “You must not leave an old woman on her own. You are my only support, you know.”
“But what of all your friends from Paris?”
He knew his grandmother had calls and visitors every day of the week. For all her age, she was an important social beacon of Paris; she sat like a queen and received fawning tributes.
“They are not true friends.” Katherine snapped open the small ivory fan lying on a mahogany side table next to her couch, and started to fan herself. “I have no true friends, you know.”
“Who knows what a true friend is, these days.” Tom thought of Polly. He hadn’t spoken to her since that day under the willow tree.
“How are you, darling?”
“Well.” He hesitated, not sure how much to burden her with. “You know, Grandmother, things aren’t good at the firm.”
“Pierre’s company will survive,” Katherine said complacently. “You worry too much.”
“It will survive—perhaps.”
The watery blue eyes turned on him. “What do you mean, darling?”
“We made a bad deal, Grandmother. When we sold our shares. They’ve fired me, and they are doing a dreadful job. Our shares have declined in value.” He paused. “Quite steeply.”
A momentary flicker of concern. “We are still wealthy, of course?”
Tom nodded. “Right now, yes.”
“This house is your father’s.”
“Mine,” he corrected her.
“Darling.” Annoyance flashed across her features, and Tom made out the ashes of a ruined beauty there. “I thought we were agreed that your father is still alive. I won’t have talk to the contrary in my house. . . .”
Tom mirrored her annoyance. Had Katherine even noticed that he said he’d been fired? All she seemed to care about was the value of her trust fund.
“Technically, it is my house,” Tom repeated. “I don’t know, Grandmother. I am starting to think that Maman was right. As she was right in what she did with House Massot.” He sighed. “Certainly she made less of a hash of things than me.”
“Your mother knows nothing,” Katherine snapped. “She is the one who gave up on Pierre. And now she has poisoned you.”
“Please, Grandmother,” he protested. “I haven’t spoken to Maman for over a month. This is my own conclusion. You can’t read the balance sheet without seeing the same thing.”
“Business!” Katherine frowned. “Your mother is a housewife. She knows nothing of business. That is Pierre’s sphere. She made a fool of herself. . . .”
“On the contrary.” Tom was rather angry now. His grandmother had no cause to sound so . . . spiteful, there was no other word for it. “Mother has started a new business, and it is doing very well indeed. Rather better than House Massot. She has an instinctive flair for jewellery.”
�
�Pierre would hate that.”
“My father is not here.”
“And is she still shacked up with that man?” Katherine demanded.
Tom hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of Hugh with his mother. Perhaps he never would. It was disconcerting to think of one’s parents as romantic. But the venom with which Katherine Massot was talking called for some defense.
“Grandmother,” he said calmly. “I’ll trouble you not to use that tone when you speak of Maman. She is a legal widow, and she is engaged to Montfort. We’ve had our differences, but we are all still a family, aren’t we?”
There was a little pause.
“Of course we are, darling.”
Her tone was placid. But Tom was uneasy. He was noticing subtleties he’d missed before. Tension in her voice. Her eyes sliding away from him.
“And speaking of family,” Katherine said brightly. “When are we to welcome the new Mrs. Massot?”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Why, Judy, of course, darling.” Katherine smiled. “Your choice is certainly courageous. She’s so much older than you, so children may be a problem. And she isn’t well-regarded in Paris—no family, no status. A working girl I believe the term is.”
“That’s a term for a prostitute.”
“Really?” his grandmother drawled. “Some other expression, perhaps.”
“A career girl.”
“And yet, her career doesn’t seem to be doing all that well. In fact, from what my friends are saying, darling, she appears in the newspapers and on the radio saying nasty things about you. They say she supports you being fired . . .”
“She’s employed to do Massot’s PR.” He looked at Katherine, sharply. “I thought you didn’t know I’d been fired.”
Another minute pause.
“Of course I knew, darling, I said how shocked I was.You must listen, Tom.” Her eyes slid away again. “But perhaps it’s all for the best . . . I do think that maybe you weren’t the best person to run the company either. . . .”
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