by Karen Swan
St John lowered his head, and his voice. ‘The Vanity Fair piece. Haven’t you seen it?’
Flora slapped a hand to her mouth, not sure she wasn’t going to throw up. No, she hadn’t seen it but she immediately knew what had happened: Stefan. The filler article. The Urban Explorers . . . What had he done?
‘Oh, don’t worry, you’re not behind the curve. It only hit the stands this morning.’
‘What did it say?’ she asked.
‘Have a read for yourself. They’ve got some copies behind that hospitality stand over there. Don’t get too excited – it’s not a big piece, only a page or so, but it’s going to make a splash here today, I should wager.’
A man, passing by, laid a friendly hand on Max’s shoulder and he turned. ‘Oh, hello, Rick. How are you? Do you know—’
Flora took her opportunity to escape. ‘Hello,’ she nodded quickly, before smiling and kissing Max goodbye. ‘I’d better go and check out that thing we were talking about . . .’
‘Absolutely! Lovely to see you! Let me know you’re coming next time!’ he called after her as she skittered away and over to the pale-blue tented stand.
Flora found several copies fanned on a wicker coffee table. She grabbed one, flicking through the pages, her breath coming fast and shallow. She needed to know what they’d said.
It didn’t take long to find the article. They had used an old paparazzi picture of the family at a society event, taken a couple of years back judging by the length of Natascha’s hair. They were all in black tie, Lilian shimmering in pale Armani, Natascha in a skin-tight Balmain dress with heavily kohl’d eyes, Jacques like a retired Hollywood actor with his crinkled suavity, Xavier like a panther in his narrow-cut black jacket as he stared up from beneath his heavy brows. God, did he ever smile?
They looked very rich and very unhappy, Flora thought. There were other smaller photos too – of Lilian and the President’s wife, photographed together at Roland-Garros; Natascha dishevelled and head down as she stumbled out of a club, flashing her knickers (at least she was wearing some); Xavier flipping the bird from his scooter – no helmet again – a beautiful brunette riding pillion; Jacques crossing the road with a woman who wasn’t Lilian, her hand looped through his arm, a small red Cartier bag in his hand.
But it was the headline that made her gasp: The Hypocritic Oath! She hadn’t noticed it at first, her eye instantly drawn to the pictures of this photogenic, broken family, but it was unambiguous. She scanned the text quickly. How? How could they have known all this? They knew more than she did!
Her hands shaking, she delved into her bag and retrieved her phone, finding Stefan’s number.
He picked up after one ring.
‘Salut?’
‘Stefan?’
‘Yeah? . . . Flora!’ His panic and the ensuing silence – loud as a gunshot – confirmed her hunch. Her anger exploded as she felt his shock reverberate down the line.
‘You bastard! How could you do this to me?’
‘Listen—’
‘No! You used me! You took information that was confidential, information that was shared between friends, and you used it for your own selfish ends! Fuck it if I lose my job, right?’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand it fine! I understand perfectly! You had an opportunity to hit back at a guy you considered to have slighted you and you took it – to hell with anyone else if they get in the way. What do they call that? Collateral damage, yeah? You knew how big this project is for me. I trusted you!’
‘Look, I didn’t plan it like this, OK? I thought it was just going to be a case of name-dropping the Vermeils. When you said the apartment belonged to a client of yours, I guessed that was who you meant; you had already told me you were working for them so it was just something to put their names in there and make the article look better. I was desperate. But you know what our legal team’s like, Flora. Our researchers are on steroids! Nothing goes through till every fact has been checked and checked again.’
Flora didn’t reply. She rubbed her temples. She had the beginnings of a headache coming on.
‘We had the pictures of the apartment but we had to double-check who owned it; families like the Vermeils sue for smaller mistakes than that. But when it came back with Von Taschelt’s name on the deeds . . . what could I do?’
Flora closed her eyes, able to see how they’d worked it out: like her, they’d discovered there was no François Vermeil and never had been, the two men’s histories converging at the date when the apartment was closed up, one man appearing on the face of the earth just as suddenly as the other was wiped from it. ‘Come on! It’s a fucking sensation, Flora! I had to do my job. They are hypocrites! The public has a right to know.’
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She felt literally mute with rage.
‘Look, you’re my friend and I like you, Flora. A lot. You know I do.’ The stress in his words told her exactly how he liked her. ‘But I’m a journalist. We would have got there with or without your help. We were getting there. We already had the photos . . . Please, I wasn’t trying to hurt you—’
‘It’s not just about me, you fool! You’ve got no idea of what you’ve done,’ she said, her voice like a whipcrack down the line. ‘Not just to their reputation but to the charities they support, all the good they do. Everyone will turn their backs now. They’ll have to or be accused of hypocrisy.’
There was a half-pause.
‘I’m sorry about that. But all I have done is tell the truth.’
‘Oh, yeah? And what good has it done? No one benefits from this, Stefan! No one but you and your fucking magazine sales! I could lose my job over this. I only found it out myself yesterday! I only told them yesterday. They’ll know it came from me.’
‘But it didn’t,’ he argued.
‘It did and it didn’t. Are you going to reveal your sources to them? Are you going to tell them it wasn’t me that told you?’
There was a long pause this time. ‘No.’
She gave a contemptuous snort.
‘Flora, I’m sorry. Tell me how I can make it up to you.’
‘Fuck you, Stefan!’
She hung up and leaned against the wall, her limbs tremulous from the adrenalin. She was screwed and the family was damned. The secret was out now in the most terrible of ways, printed and distributed around the world and they wouldn’t be able to take out an injunction against it or sue, because it was all true – every single word. Lilian had been right about everything but one – the sins of the father will be visited on the children.
Noah was standing at the top of the steps, a champagne bucket under one arm, two flutes in the opposite hand, scouring the crowds for her when she walked back over.
‘There you are, I was—’ He stopped, taking in her pallor. ‘Hey, are you feeling all right?’
‘Uh, I’m not . . . No, I don’t think I am, to be honest.’ She wanted to get out of here. She couldn’t stand to be here any more.
‘Perhaps you’ve had too much sun?’ he asked, taking her gently by the elbow and leading her towards the nearest table. Without hesitation, he approached the couple sitting there. ‘I’m sorry, my friend’s feeling unwell. Would you mind if we—’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence; they were up and offering their seats in a flash.
‘Thank you,’ Flora smiled wanly, not sure if she might throw up.
A shrill laugh made her look up. A group of twenty-somethings were racing across the lawns, bare legs flashing as the girls tucked their skirts in their knickers and ran barefoot, the guys’ shirt tails untucked as they chased after them. Flora looked away, feeling too miserable to cope with them right n—
Oh God, no!
She looked up again as she realized who she’d seen, her stomach lurching so violently at the sight of Xavier and Natascha Vermeil that she actually heaved forwards, slapping a hand over her mouth.
‘Jesus, Flora, I think we should get you ly
ing down somewhere. You really don’t look well.’
But she barely heard him. She couldn’t take her eyes off the rowdy group now, watching as a couple of wardens held their arms out to stop their stampede towards the lakes and herded them towards the steps instead, away from the cars. The concours was about to begin.
They dropped out of her sight below the steps for a moment but Flora could still hear them – the dominating laughter, bitchy comments – and then they were back in view, a muster of brightly coloured peacocks on the top steps. They spotted an older couple sitting at one of the larger tables, ‘saving places’ most likely, and plonked themselves down without asking, so that the older couple were effectively hustled off. The guys sat slouched in the chairs, legs spread, as the girls got out their phones and started taking selfies. Natascha Vermeil had her back to Flora’s table but Xavier was sitting in profile to her, one arm outstretched on the table as he silently surveyed the cars being reversed off the lawns.
The whine of a tannoy whistled around the park, making everyone stop in their tracks – although seemingly, most of them had been stopped by the clique of socialites anyway – as Max St John took to a small podium on the lawn, opposite the steps.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began in flawless French, in his element as he addressed the crowd . . .
‘Could I wear your hat? I’m . . . I think I have caught too much sun,’ she said quickly, knowing she needed to remain out of sight.
‘Of course,’ Noah said, rushing to help, eager to be of assistance in any way he could. (God, her mother would just love him.)
Flora put on the hat and kept the brim dipped low. She couldn’t cope with the thought of the Vermeils seeing her here. Did they know? They must know! Surely people in their circle must know by now . . . phones would be ringing . . .
But then again, if they did know, surely they wouldn’t come somewhere like this? They wouldn’t be laughing and braying and bringing attention to themselves, hijacking the sale as though it was their own private party, even if it was patently clear they could afford every lot here.
No, they didn’t know. Not yet.
Flora closed her eyes, wondering how the hell she could get past without them noticing. The only way back to the car park was via the steps and she couldn’t bear to think of how Natascha, in particular, would react, here in public with her friends, her clique – although she could well imagine.
The guttural thunder of a V8 rolling up the gravel drive drew shouts of admiration as the Concours d’Élégance began, each of the cars up for grabs doing the automotive equivalent of a beauty parade, showing off its curves and moves for the cheering crowd.
Noah, looking anxiously between her and the catwalking cars, laid a hand over hers on the table. ‘Do you want to get out of here? We don’t need to stay.’
‘No, it’s fine. You said you liked the pale blue Bugatti.’ He’d already told her he’d been waiting nine years for one of this model to come to sale. ‘You’ve got to bid.’
He shrugged. ‘I still can. I can register my top bid and they can notify me later. I’m more concerned about getting you somewhere you can rest.’
The Vermeils’ group gave a roar of laughter at something one of them had said. Even Xavier, sitting in profile to her, was smiling. The sight of it was arresting. It changed his face completely. She had almost begun to believe it wasn’t physically possible.
But he wouldn’t be smiling if he saw her . . . She looked back at Noah, feeling ever more desperate. ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind . . .’
Noah patted her hand. ‘I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.’
Flora sat back in the seat, her chin down, trying to hide even as she strained to hear what it was on that table that they were all finding so amusing.
The bidding had begun and Flora listened with interest as the numbers rose in steady increments. It wasn’t the same level as the art market – even the rarest car was never going to break into that league, but there was parity with the wine market perhaps, another solid returns portfolio for the serious investor.
The Vermeils’ crowd were throwing their bids into the ring of course. Flora wouldn’t be surprised if they were just bidding to drive up the prices for a laugh.
Flora watched them – well, him – from under her brim. She couldn’t make him out. He seemed somehow on the outside of the circle, smiling at the jokes but not appearing to make any, everyone directing the conversation to him even though he barely said anything, his concentration more on the actual sales action than the girl to his right who kept looking over at him and rubbing his thigh. Flora watched, unable not to. She couldn’t remember – was that the girl who’d run into her on the steps? His girlfriend, the passionate one he kept breaking up – and then making up – with?
An oxblood Aston Martin DB2/4 Mark 1 that Noah had admired earlier came to a stop at the podium and Max began to sell, using the same mix of humour and clubby, inclusive tone that had always been her father’s trademark. She looked around for Noah, desperate to get away from here, but her arm caught her champagne glass as she twisted round and it shattered on the limestone flags.
Flora froze as everyone turned to see what had happened. Mortified, she moved to try to pick up the larger shards but waiters were by her side with brushes and pans within moments, ushering her back into her chair, worrying she might cut herself.
She apologized, glancing up in embarrassment – and found he had seen her. She sank back into her chair, unable to look away, feeling the blood draining from her as what she knew that he did not ran through her mind again; she knew how much blacker that look was going to become.
‘Sorry about that. Tedious paperwork, took longer than I thought,’ Noah said, rejoining her, one hand on her shoulder, sweeping up to cup her neck. ‘Oh, what happened here?’
The waiters finished sweeping up and said they would bring a replacement glass over.
Noah sat down, grasping her hand and holding it in his. ‘How are you feeling now?’
Flora, wrenching her gaze away from Xavier, looked back at him. ‘. . . Sorry?’
‘You’re still very pale.’
‘Yes, I . . . uh . . .’ She looked across to Xavier again. He was still staring and she felt her mouth dry up again, her stomach plunge, as though her world was made of paper and he was punching a hole through it.
What? She wanted to scream at him. What do you want from me?
He looked away, raising his arm in the same moment, jaw thrust forward.
‘Thank you!’ Max cried delightedly from the podium. ‘A new bidder, ladies and gentlemen! Do I have two three thirty?’
Flora blinked at Xavier’s sudden action. What was he doing? Did he actually want that car? Did he even know which car he was bidding on?
She watched as he raised his hand again. And then again.
‘That price is getting toppy,’ Noah murmured, watching interestedly as the bids were batted back and forth like a tennis ball over a net.
Flora couldn’t speak. She just watched as Xavier raised his hand again and again. She recognized the body language – auctions were her lifeblood, she knew exactly how to read the players in them and he wasn’t going to back down, she knew. This wasn’t about buying. It was about winning.
But winning what? She didn’t think it was that car.
When the gavel finally did come down, the Vermeils’ party were on their feet, cheering, Xavier himself completely still as they all smacked him on the back, tousled his hair, the girl on his right leaning in to nuzzle his cheek.
‘A new world record, ladies and gentlemen!’ Max cried, more excited than anyone.
‘Well, he’d better hold on to it for a while,’ Noah said, unimpressed. ‘I don’t see it appreciating beyond that price for quite some time. He must have really wanted it to pay that.’ He looked at Flora. ‘Your colour’s a bit better.’
‘Is it?’ She realized she’d been holding her breath.
‘Still want
to go?’
She glanced at Xavier’s table again. A man was walking towards them, something in his hand. She felt her jaw drop open as he approached.
No, wait . . .
‘Congratulations!’ the man said loudly. ‘That’s quite a bidding arm you’ve got there.’
Xavier, still seated, nodded back at him. He looked wary.
The man gave a laugh, thrust one hand into his trouser pocket. ‘Yes. We were all just saying you had your hand up so many times, it was practically a Nazi salute.’ He paused. ‘But then again, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’
A hush descended as the man’s unfriendly tone broke through his passive demeanour.
‘Sorry, what?’ Xavier asked, his back straightening as he woke up to what was happening here.
‘After all, I guess you’ve got to spend that stolen fortune somehow.’
Xavier was on his feet in a flash. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me,’ the man said, chest puffed as though squaring up to get physical.
‘You’d better watch your mouth! You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t I?’ the man asked, throwing a battered hospitality copy of Vanity Fair onto the table. ‘Well, they certainly seem to.’ He turned to go.
‘Hey! What the hell is this?’ Xavier demanded, angry now, grabbing the man by his arm; but the stranger jerked it away, shrugging his jacket back on neatly.
‘Why don’t you read it and find out?’ the man sneered. He jerked his chin towards their table. ‘You think you’re something special? You’re not. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You disgust me. You disgust us all. Why don’t you just do us all a favour and get out of here. Your sort isn’t welcome here.’
Xavier’s fight dissipated as he glanced down and saw the title on the magazine’s open page. He looked back up again, saw that everyone was staring now, even Max, several feet below on his podium on the grass. There was a buzz of conversation as people broke into titillated groups, all discussing the contretemps, heads shaking in disapproval as they looked back and forth between Xavier and his sister. Word was getting round.