They talked for hours after that - not as mother and daughter, a mother might have been censorious and Yvette was never that, but perhaps as grandmother and granddaughter, or perhaps just as friends.
Seeing Kate's troubled expression Yvette said, "Do you remember when you used to sketch as a child? All those problems with perspective. Isn't it the same now?"
Kate frowned.
"So you've had your first lover. You were lucky, were you not? He loved you, he was kind, bought you presents, gave you a good time. What is there to regret?"
"Aunt Alison would say I've ruined my life."
Yvette chuckled, "Yes, she might, but she also said that when she thought you were nursing an old man. Dear Alison sees everything in such simple terms. What she wants is you to have a big white wedding and lots of babies."
"You make it sound wrong."
"Wrong? It's not wrong. Or right. It's irrelevant. The only thing which counts is what you want."
But defining that was difficult. In the short term Kate wanted a reconciliation with Tim. She was bitterly hurt by his attitude. They were brother and sister, orphans, they should remain close, always, for the rest of their lives. So she told Yvette everything - the details of Mark's letter and his subsequent will - and Tim's bitterness. She even described the scene in her apartment.
"He called me a whore!"
"What does he know about such things? He called Ziggy a whore too, didn't he? Your brother was behaving like a jealous woman, and using spiteful woman's language."
"Oh Yvette," Kate hugged her. "It's such a relief to talk to you. I was so terrified you would disapprove."
"Approve, disapprove, what does it matter? I want only you to be happy."
"Can a whore be happy?"
Yvette laughed, "Will you stop using that silly word. You haven't seen enough life yet my child to understand what the word means."
"But to ... to have sex outside marriage -"
"Oh, marriage. A wife wants a fur coat. So what does she do? She withholds her favours in bed, or she teases, or gives herself according to how well she understands her husband. Eh? That happens every night of the week. Is she a whore? To be a whore is a state of mind. It has nothing to do with marriage."
And so Yvette taught Kate "perspective" for the second time in their lives. But the conversation often turned back to Tim. What was Kate to do about him?
Yvette shrugged, "He is upset because of what you took. First you took Mark's time. Well, there wasn't a thing you could do about that - and it's too late to worry now. Then you took some of Mark's possessions. So, if your brother believes they are his, and if you believe that too, give them to him. See if that makes him happy."
"But... how would I live -"
"Perhaps your brother loves you enough to give everything back."
"Well that's just it, I don't think he does -"
"So where is the problem? If you don't think he loves you, then don't do it. Keep the possessions. Mark wanted you to have them."
"But then Tim -"
"Still won't love you. So what have you proved? That you can't buy love?" Yvette smiled. "There you are, you've learned two important lessons in one day. I think your old tutor deserves to be taken out to lunch for that."
And so they went. In fact they went out quite a lot. Kate loved Paris and Yvette was proud of her city. They made a striking couple; Kate, tall and slim, with her vivid red hair; Yvette, petite, ram-rod straight and as nimble as a cat despite her years. They both dressed well. Yvette was now quite comfortably off. The two houses her family had owned had been blitzed to rubble in the war and German reparation payments enabled her to live in a pleasant apartment. She led a cosy middle-class existence which included meeting her friends in various cafes, visits to the ballet and the cinema, holidays - she even, to Kate's amused surprise, had two ardent admirers, each of whom took her out to dinner once a week. Both were retired widowers, and both had proposed marriage.
"What do I want with marriage?" Yvette chuckled throatily, "I am comfortable as I am. Besides I can see them both this way. If I married Henri he would forbid me to see Gerard and vice versa. What a ridiculous waste that would be."
So two nights a week Yvette went out to dinner with her admirers and Kate stayed at home - at least she did until the end of January, by which time she had admirers of her own. They were just casual dinner dates whose company she enjoyed and the amusing young men knew it. They struck poses and made her laugh, but provoked no excitement. Being young they lacked ... she struggled for the right word ... and then defined it as presence.
"Ah, presence!" Yvette said. "An inner confidence born of success. Pierre and the others are too young to have acquired that. Perhaps they never will, only time will tell."
Which reminded Kate of Sean Connors, simply because he had more presence than any man she knew - "He suggested I telephone him when I go back."
"And will you?"
Kate thought about that. "I'd like to see him again - but no, I don't think so, at least not until I've decided what to do with my life."
And that was a constant topic of conversation.
"Why do anything?" Yvette asked one day. "You have a big house, servants, an allowance. Why not just spend time with your artist friends and listen to them talk about life? You might find it amusing, perhaps even instructive."
"No. I don't think I want to live in that house again. Not even in the apartment."
"Good! Then you can stay here with me."
But they both knew that was not the answer. Yvette enjoyed having Kate to visit but a permanent arrangement would have been a strain - and they both knew it. Yvette had come to cherish her independence.
"You're a lot like Ziggy," Kate said one day. "I know I never met her but we wrote to each other all the time, and Mark used to talk about her. She was remarkable. She dealt with life on her own terms and relied on no one. She must have been very strong."
Yvette seemed lost in thought, then she said, "Kate my darling, I remember you as a child. You tried so hard to please. Always spinning your little schemes, so anxious for everyone to form a high opinion of you. But at times you cannot please people. Look at Tim. Give him your inheritance if you like, he will still resent you because Mark was your lover. There is nothing you can do. Ziggy sounds to have been a wise woman, but her secret was very simple. She never made herself a slave to other people's opinions." Yvette laid a hand on her heart. "It's what you feel here that's important, that's all that matters. Remember that and you'll be every bit as strong as your friend Ziggy."
Kate never forgot that advice, no more than she forgot so many of the lessons Yvette taught her. Few people who knew Kate, the journalists in London, or her dinner-dates in Paris, or Yvette's friends, most of whom Kate had met by February - few if any suspected the fragility of her self-confidence. They were blinded by her poise, her dazzling smile, the flash of silk-clad legs as she alighted from a taxi. But Yvette was not blind. Kate had been deeply hurt when her brother called her a whore - as Yvette realised, which is why she worked hard to restore Kate's self esteem.
By the end of February Kate could even joke about it. "I'll have to come over every so often for you to boost my morale, you know that don't you."
But Yvette shook her head. "Just take a quiet moment now and then to question your opinion of yourself. Remember, even your friend Ziggy had her rose garden."
So by the middle of March Kate felt able to cope again, which was fortunate because it was then that she met Marcel Crispin in the Cafe de la Paix. Sunday lunch at the Cafe de la Paix was part of Yvette's way of life, a pleasure Kate had come to share. They always sat at the same huge oval table with a dozen or so friends, the number swelling occasionally to include someone's relative from out of town. Everyone talked at once on every subject under the sun - politics, the newspapers, the latest scandal, food, wine - reputations were attacked, opinions were argued, the conversation was boisterous, amusing and fun. Kate had never known anything
like it. The atmosphere was that of a large, happy family. People hugged when they met as if they had been parted for years. They began at noon and the long leisurely meal rarely ended before four. Even before March Kate had realised she would miss Sunday lunch at the Cafe de la Paix when she returned to London - and then, on the third Sunday in March, Pierre Dreher introduced Marcel Crispin.
"He's not from out of town," Pierre explained to the gathering, "but he has a very special reason for wanting to join us for lunch." But before the reason was revealed a heated discussion broke out on French politics which embroiled everyone at the table - Crispin included, who argued so good-humouredly that he might have eaten at the Cafe de la Paix every day.
Later Kate looked up and caught him watching her. Pierre had embarked on a story and most people were looking at him - but Crispin's eyes were on Kate. She smiled and turned back to Pierre - but knew Crispin was still watching her. Then everyone was laughing at Pierre's story and Kate forgot about it - at least she did until the end of the meal.
Pierre tapped the rim of his glass and called for attention. "And now," he said, "Marcel will explain why he was so insistent on joining us today."
All attention focused on Crispin. To Kate's surprise he looked directly at her and began to address her in very poor English.
Pierre shouted, "For God's sake, say it in French. Kate's French is perfect. We'll never understand your attempts to speak English."
Which brought a shout of approval from everyone.
Pierre beamed around the table, "Marcel wants to put a proposition to Kate ..." He was interrupted by shouts of "Oh la la!" and minutes elapsed before order was restored, "But I told him," Pierre continued, "that as we are Kate's friends and advisors, he should put his proposal to her in our presence."
Kate cast an astonished look at Yvette but met only an amused twinkle in reply ... and a moment later Crispin was taking a magazine from his inside pocket. It was a copy of Seven Days. The first issue. Kate glimpsed Mark's face on the cover. But Crispin quickly turned to an inside page - it was the photograph of Kate in the drawing-room of Belgrave Square. Crispin apologised for his inability to address her in English, then went on to introduce himself as an advertising agent. One of his clients was a perfumier and - "We have a new perfume, soon to be launched. The advertising campaign will be massive, the biggest ever in France." Everyone at the table hung on his every word.
"And we need a face," Crispin continued, "of course we have looked. We have scoured France. Hundreds, thousands of photographs have been studied. But we wanted a new face, not known to the public. Our top models here, they do everything, you understand - clothes, cars, wine - well that is not good. Our face must be exclusive to us, as exclusive as our perfume."
They wanted Kate.
Crispin waved the magazine, "Our president came across this. He took one look and said this is the girl. Find me this girl. We must have her."
The magazine was passed down the table. People exclaimed over it. Paul Lemercier even took it to the door to examine the photograph in a better light. He returned smiling broadly to blow kisses down the table to Kate.
"But I'm not a model," she kept telling Crispin. He threw up his hands, "That is the whole point. Here is this beautiful woman, so different, so unspoiled ... and so unknown in France. She is a woman of mystery, you see the intrigue ..."
It developed into a riotous party. Pierre and Paul Lemercier insisted on acting as Kate's agents. What was the fee, they demanded. Crispin implored them to be sensible - "Besides you know nothing of advertising. Pierre, you are a lawyer -"
"And I am a businessman," Paul interrupted, "Kate could not be in better hands."
They adjourned to Yvette's apartment, Pierre and Lemercier still arguing about Kate's fee. It was taken for granted that she would do it - why not, she was the most beautiful girl they knew. "But the money must be right," Pierre said, wagging a finger under Crispin's nose, "and if you want her exclusively it will be very expensive for you."
They drank wine and coffee and cognac - and whenever Kate asked a question she was told to be quiet - "Leave this to us," Paul said firmly. The atmosphere was so full of laughter and argument that she suspected an elaborate joke - but when she went out to the kitchen to help prepare supper Yvette was positively aglow - "Isn't it marvellous! Your face will be the most famous in France -" "But I haven't said I'll do it -"
"Of course you will. It's exactly right. You will be famous and rich ..."
Rich by Averdale standards was out of the question, but Pierre and Paul struck a hard bargain. When they joined Kate in the kitchen they had negotiated a fee equal to her allowance - not only that but - "If the promotion goes well the contract extends another three years, for twice as much money!"
And so Kate agreed to become a model, but not without adding a condition of her own - although she did not broach the subject until the next day. She had slept on it by then - besides the mood in Marcel Crispin's office on the Monday was a good deal less frenzied than in Yvette's apartment.
Kate presented her argument well ... but, as she admitted to Yvette afterwards, perhaps the idea merely needed a launch-pad. And Marcel Crispin, Kate decided, made a perfect launch-pad.
The modelling assignment would be finished by May - which left her with time on her hands for most of the year. Of course she would take holidays and spend time with Yvette - but she wanted more from life ...
Crispin frowned and wondered where it was leading. He had been delighted to capture Kate for his perfumier. The perfume account was huge. The agency would make a great deal of money. He wanted no complications now.
Kate described the "Britain in Africa" campaign. She had enjoyed herself with the journalists. She had established a rapport with them. When they published stories sympathetic to the cause she had been delighted - "You can't imagine the hostility we had to overcome."
Crispin remembered Seven Days. Kate had certainly obtained some very favourable press comment for the late Lord and Lady Averdale.
"Well," Kate summed up, "I've been thinking. You must have clients who export to Britain. How about me running a press office in London on their behalf?"
Crispin was intrigued. And relieved. Most models wanted to become actresses but since few had talent they invariably complicated their lives, and his. He promised to discuss the matter with his President that very evening.
A week later, after Kate had lunched with the President, the idea was taken a step further. The agency was planning a London office - "Not immediately, you understand, but at the end of the year. Perhaps when you finish your modelling engagement you could work in our Paris office for a while, learning the ropes - then, who knows, perhaps you could take charge of Public Relations in London."
The challenge gave Kate a much greater thrill than becoming "the most famous face in France".
Then a letter from Tim arrived which seemed to crystallise everything. She had written to him twice, long chatty letters, full of her life in Paris and asking concerned questions about him. But his single reply was coldly unyielding. He said it was unfair to expect the Averdale estate to provide her with a mansion in London if she spent so much time away - "Not only that but staff wages, heating bills, rates all mount up - and the cost of insuring those paintings is a scandal. The whole lot should be sold off as soon as possible."
"Well," Yvette said when she read it, "what do you intend to do about that?"
"He can sell the house," Kate said happily, "and the apartment. In fact everything except the paintings. They are the Averdale Collection. I shall arrange to loan them to the Tate, or perhaps even the National for public exhibition."
A tiny smile lit Yvette's face. "And you? Where will you live in London - when you take up this very important post as a Public Relations consultant?"
"My trustees can buy me a little mews cottage. I'll pay them back, so much every month from my earnings."
"Bravo!" Yvette clapped her hands. "Vive la Independence. But you wi
ll still have your allowance - that is, unless you plan to marry?"
Kate shook her head, "No, I won't need the allowance. I shall support myself. As for marriage," she mimicked Yvette's scornful tone, "what do I want with marriage? I shall be comfortable as I am. I'll find an Henri to take me to dinner on Tuesdays, and a Gerard for Thursdays - and I shall have long lingering lunches with my journalists - just like you at the Cafe de la Paix."
"Ah," Yvette shook her head in smiling admiration. "This whole conversation reminds me of your friend Ziggy Beck - someone dealing with life on her own terms, relying on no one."
Kate just smiled. For the first time in her life she felt free.
Sean Connors felt anything but free. His marriage had turned sour and his wife was pregnant. How was a source of amazement - their sexual couplings had been so clinical that pregnancy constituted a miracle birth. In a moment of wry humour Sean imagined the baby being born wearing a surgical mask and already in diapers. Not that he shared the joke with Gloria - in fact sharing anything had become rare.
Of course they shared the obvious - the house in Hill Street and a king-sized bed, so large that Gloria could turn in the night without even brushing him. It was a token bed, purpose built for a token marriage. In fact, Sean realised, it was exactly what Gloria wanted - a symbol of marriage without the messy reality. She wanted to be known as "Mrs Sean Connors, wife of the international tycoon." That was how she saw herself - she even used the word. He overheard her on the phone once to a girl friend over from New York - "Of course Sean's into everything these days, real-estate over here, papers over there - these international tycoons never stop, you know."
The worst part, he mused, was she really believed she was the perfect wife. Nobody ran a cleaner home - or organised a better dinner party - or cared more for her husband's clothes. But all it amounted to was a little girl playing in her doll's house - and he was the doll.
She discovered she was pregnant in November, four days before they were due in New York. "I can't possibly fly now," she told Sean, "we shall have to sail next week on the Queen Mary."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 154