Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Tom didn’t pay you anything,” Hugh Montfort said. “Nothing to speak of, at least. Meanwhile, selling the division at such a discount will certainly get you fired.”

  “If you call three million shares in the parent company nothing to speak of.” Pete rolled his eyes. “You don’t give up, Montfort, do you? Whenever he sells a piece, I’ll get a cut. Whenever he makes money, I make money. Let Mayberry fire me! I don’t need those fuckers. I prefer a private income. Work is for losers.”

  He tapped his contract, smugly. There it was, against his chest, reassuring in its crisp white envelope with the Massot monogram.

  “I didn’t grant you three million shares in the parent company,” said Tom Massot.

  Stockton stared. “Yeah, nice try, fucker. I read that sucker eight times over. Three million in Bagatelle Inc.”

  “I told you that Bagatelle was incorporated in Switzerland. You are the proud owner of three million shares in Bagatelle Inc., S.A. Bagatelle, South Africa.” The young man shrugged. “Which has no assets.”

  Stockton gasped; a huge wave of nausea rocked through him.

  “You little bastard! You cheated me!”

  “The same way you cheated me when you promised me the management of House Massot.”

  Stockton blundered towards the door. Horribly, he remembered the lawyer saying he was going to rush the deal through. And Tom asking the press release to be issued . . .

  “Fuck you,” he hissed. “You’re not stealing this company!”

  “That’s right. I’m buying it, for thirty million euros. The discount is deep, but not irrational. It will stand up in any court.” Massot smiled. “And I’m doing the shareholders a favour. Those who will own shares in the new House Massot will make a large amount of money. Those who own Mayberry may take a short-term hit, but once you are fired, management will improve. In the long run, this will benefit everybody.” He paused. “Except, of course—you.”

  “You asshole!” Stockton screamed. “And you too, Montfort, and you, you goddamned—”

  “I would be very careful how you address my wife,” Hugh Montfort said quietly.

  Pete backed away, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll cancel the deal. Call it off. Say I was threatened . . .”

  “Say you accepted a bribe?” Hugh Montfort smiled. “I don’t think so, Pete. You can sell your house, and give back your cars, and sell your wife’s jewellery—and then maybe there’ll be enough left over to rent a two-bedroom apartment in the Valley. But I’m sure you’ll agree, that’s a hell of a lot better than jail.”

  “The deal’s done,” Tom Massot informed him. “By now, it is all over the press. I suggest you try to resign with the shreds of your dignity.”

  “Go to hell!” Stockton screamed. “Go to hell!”

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and stumbled, blindly, from the room. Montfort and Sophie stood aside to let him go.

  “That was fun.” Tom smiled broadly, watching Stockton’s flight. Relief and the vindication washed through him. He had Papa’s company back. And this time, he wouldn’t mess it up.

  “Good work, Tom.” Montfort said.

  Sophie walked over to her son and hugged him. “I’m so proud of you, darling. I’m sure you’ll manage House Massot beautifully.”

  “I’ll certainly try.” He kissed her on the cheek. “We might do a deal with Montfort Jewels, if you play your cards right. You could do mass-market pieces, and we will make the bespoke.”

  “You want to merge?” Sophie asked.

  “No. Massot will be Massot. But perhaps we can forge an alliance.”

  Montfort said, “I don’t see why not.”

  Tom hesitated. “Hugh, would you mind? I need a few moments alone with my mother.”

  “Not at all. You have some splendid grounds; I’ll go and take a walk in them.”

  Sophie waited until her husband had left and she heard the front door closing. Then she turned to Tom. The triumph had vanished from his face.

  “Darling, this is about the baby. . . .”

  “Yes. I can’t marry her—not properly, anyway.”

  Tom recounted, as briefly as he could, the substance of his last conversation with Judy.

  “That was two days ago,” he finished, “and I haven’t heard from her since.”

  Sophie winced; she had imagined it would be bad, but this ... Judy seemed to be almost unhinged, coming unglued.

  “Do you think she’s had an abortion?”

  He looked ill. “My God, I hope not. But then she wouldn’t get any money.”

  “I suppose that’s right.”

  “But, mother, there’s something else. Something I didn’t want to discuss with you over the phone.” Tom gestured to the velvet-covered couch. “I think you should sit down. . . .”

  “I’m perfectly all right, darling. There’s nothing you can say to me that I can’t handle.” Sophie tried for a reassuring smile. “Not at this point.”

  Tom couldn’t hold her gaze. “Maman, he, Stockton, told me about Papa and Judy. And also, the other women.”

  Sophie closed her eyes, briefly.

  “Tom,” she said, as firmly as she could. “Pete Stockton doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Your father wasn’t like that. He was always faithful, and he . . .”

  “I found out.” Tom lifted one hand, to stop her. “Maman . . . I didn’t want to believe him. But I asked around. Everybody . . . everybody said the same thing.”

  Sophie’s shoulders slumped; she looked at her son anxiously. He had always worshipped Pierre. . . .

  “It was a different time,” she tried, insincerely.

  “It’s okay. I don’t want to know.” Tom had a look of pain in his eyes. “It was very wrong of him. But why did you allow it, Mother? And why, why didn’t you tell me . . . about Judy?”

  She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder; her heart ached to see him hurt. “My darling,” Sophie said. “I didn’t know . . . about your father. Our marriage was happy.” That was a white lie, but so what? “He kept it from me . . . it might have been a Gallic thing. I was younger, content to stay home with you. He had an office . . . I never suspected.”

  “I see.”

  “When I first went to Massot, I didn’t know they were all talking about me and Judy. Judy befriended me. She wanted a kick-back from Gregoire, and she wanted to turn the knife.” Sophie sighed. “And perhaps she was curious. For what it’s worth, I believe that in a sick, obsessive way, she truly loved your father. . . . Or at the very least, was infatuated by him. She is much younger than I am.”

  “But she came on to me,” Tom cried, agonized. He had tried to hold it in, but his mother’s words ripped through his heart. “I dated her . . . my father’s mistress ... Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Don’t you see that I couldn’t?” Sophie asked, her eyes filling with tears. “Don’t you see that, Tom? You love your father so much . . . and you were always accusing me of betraying his wishes, and you . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Maman.” Tom turned away so he wouldn’t cry. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.You were loving.You were loyal. I tried to warn you not to date Judy, but I couldn’t give you the true reason without shattering the past . . . the way mine had been.”

  He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.

  “She played me like a violin.”

  “And me too.”

  “Yes, well, you didn’t father her baby.”

  Sophie sighed. “Love, the baby is innocent. It’s not the baby’s fault.”

  “I know. And it won’t affect how I feel about the child. But you see why I can’t marry her. Not even for the baby’s sake.”

  Sophie hugged him.

  “Yes, darling, I do see that.” She kissed his hair—such a man now, so strong, but still, and always, her baby. “But we’ll fight for that child, and we’ll get through this. Our little family is still here.”

  She pulled away; outsid
e the lead-paned windows she could see Hugh walking under the willow tree.

  “And I’m glad, Tom, in a way. I’m glad you know. Because now everything’s out in the open. And at last, there are no more secrets.”

  Pierre sat in the warmth of the hired car. And nobody glanced his way. Not one of them: not his son, not his wife, not the Englishman. They emerged, from his château, laughing and smiling; the fat American had already drove off.

  He watched his wife and the Englishman bid farewell to his little son. Of course, Thomas had grown up. Tom bore the stamp of his father on every inch of his face.

  But there was no loyalty in his soul.

  Rage washed through him. The loss of control, the visceral feelings it evoked, shocked him.

  He was back. And all those who had betrayed him would soon know it.

  Chapter 53

  The day started like any other.

  Tom woke up in his bed. The alarm was buzzing on the night-stand, incongruously modern in his room full of glorious eighteenth-century antiques. It was still dark, but he was not tired. In barely two seconds he had leaped out of bed.

  It felt like it had when he was very young, on Christmas morning. No matter how broken the night, there was no sleeping after Père Noel had come, at half past five, with his sack of gifts.

  There was no wake-up call to match sheer joy.

  He was going to take over the family firm. And this time, for real.

  Tom rushed into his bathroom and climbed straight into the marble shower. The press had gone beserk; he had referred them to a bland, A-list PR agency, the first hire he had made with company funds. No more Judy sabotaging Massot’s press. Doubtless they would gather, looking for a photo or an interview. Tom had no interest in either. If he never saw another paper for as long as he lived, it would be fine with him.

  He admired Hugh Montfort’s very English restraint. No interviews. No photos. No comment. The Lazard murder was being investigated by the gendarmerie—all questions about that to them. Mr. Stockton had been fired by Mayberry and was under investigation for corruption—call Mayberry. He had nothing to say.

  Tom’s next order of business was to find a chief executive.

  He would get somebody competent—bloody good, in fact; somebody with flair, but fiscal conservatism. And when he’d found a name, he would have Hugh check them out.

  Tom had discovered something important. He intended to run the greatest fine jewellers in the world. That would take time, and patience. And expertise, which he had to acquire.

  He didn’t know enough. He could admit it. He would find a wonderful caretaker.

  And then—he was going back to Oxford.

  Tom wanted to finish his degree, and then take an MBA. He was tired of rushing to grow up. He would learn for the sake of learning, and study business; keep an eye on House Massot from across the Channel, support his child, pay Judy off . . .

  And court Polly.

  He dressed, and ran downstairs; the kitchen was awake, and cook had left him a pot of fragrant vanilla coffee and some warm, crumbly croissants. They were delicious, and he tossed the coffee down black and scalding.

  The car was waiting in the driveway, the engine purring, headlights flooding the gravel, steam rising in the predawn chill; Richard was silhouetted in the front seat; Tom could see the orange gold streaks of light breaking in the east.

  He felt flooded with possibilities. He would get to the office, and the first call he would place would be to Polly. Whether she’d still be interested in a single dad with this kind of emotional baggage, he didn’t know, but there was only one way to find out.

  Richard saw him and got out of the car; he held open the back door.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Please call me Tom, Richard.” He smiled. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll ride up front with you.”

  The older man smiled, and shook his proffered hand.

  Tom slipped in and buckled up.

  “The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times, sir—I mean Tom.”

  “Thanks.” Tom took the papers and flicked through them as Richard pulled smoothly into the long driveway. “And Richard, allow me to apologize if I’ve been an insufferable git.”

  Richard glanced at him, then laughed.

  “That’s quite all right, M. Tom. Most rich people are, you know. Not your mother. If you ask me, you’ll turn out just like her.”

  Tom grinned. “Thank you. That’s quite a compliment.”

  It was barely eight o’clock when he got into the office, but many of the staff were already there. They applauded as Tom entered the building, and he thanked them. Mostly, he suspected, it was simple relief not to have to see Stockton again. Winning their trust for real would take time.

  Today was a start.

  He moved back into the corner office on the top floor. A beautiful young girl with enormous tits was sitting, simpering, behind the secretary’s desk; she looked about nineteen.

  “Hello, M. Massot,” she purred, thrusting herself forward.

  Ah, yes, Stockton’s choice.

  “Good morning. What’s your name?”

  “Lucille, Monsieur,” she replied breathlessly.

  “How do you do.” He shook hands. “Lucille, please report to the typing pool for a new assignment. It’s nothing personal, but I want a secretary with experience—at least ten years’ experience,” he added hastily, before she could say she’d “worked” for Pete.

  She pouted. “Very good, Monsieur.”

  He closed the door and called personnel. “Get me the best assistant in the company, a mature woman with a track record.”

  “Certainly, M. Massot. You do not like Lucille?”

  “I’m sure she’s very good, but I am looking for competence. Do you understand?”

  A note of respect.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And tell whoever you select to find me the names of the managing partners of at least six top head-hunting firms.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tom hung up. The phone instantly rang again, and he looked at it with irritation. Couldn’t they handle a simple request for a good secretary without having their hands held?

  “Yes?” he said, annoyed.

  “Tom?” A chill shot through him. “It’s Judy.”

  Okay, he thought. You can handle this. In fact, you have to. It’s good that she called.

  “Judy,” he said, trying for warmth. “How are you? You haven’t called; I’ve been concerned.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she said. He was instantly struck by the change in her tone; it was indifferent, distant. “I owe you an apology.”

  Relief. “That’s fine, Judy—forget about it. We can work this out. . . .”

  “I can only tell you that I’ve been under a lot of stress. That’s my excuse for my behaviour.”

  “Unexpected pregnancy is bound to—”

  “There is no baby, Tom.”

  He felt sick. “You had an abortion?”

  “No. There never was a baby. When you wanted to break up with me I was hurt, so I pretended I was pregnant.”

  Tom’s knuckles whitened around the phone. Could it be true?

  “Really?” He struggled to keep the exultation from his tone. “Honestly, Judy, there’s no baby?”

  “No. And I don’t know why I acted that way. We were never serious and never in love. I regret the whole thing.”

  Her voice was flat, almost mechanical. Tom instantly decided he believed her about the baby, and need not placate her anymore.

  “I hope we can part as friends.”

  “I very much doubt that,” he said coolly. “I found out you were my father’s mistress. You deceived my mother, and myself.”

  There was a pause, but when Judy answered, she did not sound concerned.

  “I loved your father, which accounts for all my actions. I don’t believe your mother ever did. And you resemble him physically. I was trying to recapt
ure a great love with a man I thought was dead.”

  At the time, this phrasing didn’t strike Tom’s ear.

  “My parents were married,” he responded. “Their feelings for each other were none of your concern. And my mother is his widow. That is all you need to know.”

  A laugh. “That’s what you think.”

  She hung up.

  Tom’s eyebrows lifted. Weird—but Judy had always been a little weird. He smiled, then laid back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  Dear God. It was over. It was over, and he was free! A wave of bliss washed over him; a life with a proper family, a wife who loved him, who wanted to have his children; a wife he could love . . . it was possible now, everything was possible!

  He dialled his mother’s number from memory.

  “Sophie Montfort.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” he said. “But I have some very good news.”

  It was time.

  Pierre Massot regarded himself in the mirror with approval. He had recovered, in barely a week, sufficiently. The worst part had been on his slow journey home; that was when he had added the basic weight he needed for health. Now, with the pliant Judy Dean providing him whatever he needed—clothes, toiletries, a great deal of excellent food—he looked respectable. His hair was trimmed, his teeth white. The scars were hidden under a beautifully cut Dior suit. And sex with her, daily, multiple times, had offered adequate exercise.

  He would not go to a doctor. Nobody knew his body like he did; nobody controlled it. The quack would recommend therapy. He did not need therapy. That was for fat, weak Westerners.

  He needed revenge.

  Gregoire, first; it had been almost too easy. But he had enjoyed the gibbering terror, the pleading, the muffled screaming from the duct-taped mouth. Still, over too quickly, for the years of darkness, the long fight against despair. Pierre accepted the consequence of his own moment of weakness. But it would not happen twice.

  All that remained was to punish the traitors.