Just before they arrived on the third floor, he suddenly asked: “Have you thought about it?!” Zara knew exactly what he meant, but acted as if she didn’t, however. She hoped that the doors of the elevator would open at any moment and would save her from having to answer. “What do you mean?” she asked, seemingly clueless, as if she had long ago forgotten his offer.
Zara was lucky; she couldn’t continue the conversation since the elevator doors did open and Nevill Bechat, the partner from the Paris office and three other men whom Zara didn’t know stood waiting for them.
Before she could leave the elevator, Gregor whispered quietly, “We’re not finished yet; we’ll speak about this later!” She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “We’ll see,” she replied.
Gregor thought about how beautiful she was and that he would have liked to kiss her at this very moment, despite the others in the room. In the anteroom adjacent to the Conference Room, Gregor handed his coat, which he had put over his arm, to a secretary. Bechat gave him a knowing smile as he noticed that Gregor had carried the young lawyer’s briefcase. Naturally each of the attorneys had already found out that he had requested her. It didn’t make any difference to him, and no one was surprised when they caught a glimpse of Zara. She had taken off her coat, and was wearing a tight, dark violet knit dress, combined with pointy-toe shoes with very high heels.
The two other men whom Zara had not seen before were bankers who apparently knew Gregor very well, and he called them by their first names. Finally, after an hour, the contracts finally came up for discussion, and Zara pushed her prepared notes across the table to Bechat. He sat at the corner, next to the fat investment banker and Gregor, who sat across from Zara. She had also prepared copies of her analysis for everyone and distributed them around the table.
By early evening the entire take-over process had been discussed, while Zara thought about her mother the whole time. The take-over process must have been very similar to this then. The current owner of the fashion label – and it had to do here with an old master of haute couture – was probably not even aware that his firm no longer belonged to him. His name would remain above the door and on the labels, but that was about it.
Finally Bechat laid his hands on the table and said: “Now we have only one more problem: Maurice Maire. We should get his signature?” Was that a question? Had no one informed the fashion designer? Zara shook her head.
Gregor leaned back and looked at Zara; he was actually thinking of something other than that stupid Maurice who, in his view, was quite creative but a bad businessman. They were all like that, creative, but they didn’t ask who would pay the bills at the end of the month.
Gregor was thinking about the woman opposite him. At that moment, she looked up from her notes and blinked briefly, which she always did, and looked directly at him. She had blood-shot eyes, he discovered. Probably from the entire day here in this stuffy room. He himself was hungry and quickly glanced at his wristwatch. It was 7:00 o’clock. How time flies! “And what have you come up with?” he asked the attorney after a long pause. Why was he paying so much money for these incompetent lawyers? “He’ll sign if he trusts us, perhaps in a nice atmosphere, not a hotel or restaurant, something more familiar; he’s a little old-fashioned in that regard,” Bechat advised and pushed the papers together, looking inquiringly at the group.
Zara put the files in her briefcase and looked at Bechat. “Perhaps in my apartment,” she suggested. Bechat raised his eyebrows. “Do you really want to do that to yourself? It’s a lot of work, there are about thirty people involved, and it’s tomorrow?!” he asked, skeptically. Gregor grinned and looked at Zara. Naturally, she, who had organized countless events, would have no problem with thirty people. “I think Mademoiselle Valois can take this on,” he said.
Zara didn’t look at him, rather she nodded and stood up. A good opportunity, she just had to create a familiar atmosphere, pictures from her family on the wall, and a few phone calls were necessary, but everything do-able! She had done other such gatherings and thirty people were nothing.
The fat banker whom Gregor called Gareth wasn’t sure. He didn’t read any of the society pages, the name of this dark-blonde meant nothing to him, only that it was hard to pronounce, and that she was pretty, if a little too thin. She wasn’t to his taste; he preferred larger women.
“But Maurice Maire, a famous fashion designer, is certainly used to top quality in everything. We can’t just -- forgive me, Miss Valois – invite him to some apartment for coffee and cake!” He shook his head.
These French people, what were they thinking, did they want to conclude a contract between a kitchen table and a living room – maybe with cheap wine? Okay, the French didn’t drink cheap wine, but . . .
Gregor smiled and awaited Zara’s reaction. She remained completely composed and only looked at Gareth with a mocking smile.
Nevill Bechat cleared his throat. He knew where Zara lived; it was definitely not a little lawyer’s . apartment. It was a residence that most CEO’s in Paris would happily claim as their own.
“My dear Gareth, you can calm yourself. Zara will not disappoint you with her little lawyer’s apartment.” He had to stifle his laughter.
The other banker got up and said: “Alright, then we’ll see one another there tomorrow. Where is it, exactly?” he asked Zara. Zara told him the address; she lived near the Tuileries, on the Rue Saint Honoré, not far from the Place Vendôme.
Gareth sighed. “Well, at least a nice area,” he said, not very impressed, and stood up. Zara looked at him and said nothing. She looked at her watch. In half an hour she was supposed to meet her mother.
“Nevill, I have another appointment,” she excused herself, shook the bankers’ hands, and said good-by.
Bechat nodded and asked briefly with whom she was meeting. “Please say hello to your mother for me,” he said. He had once had an affair with her, but she was far too demanding and he wasn’t wealthy enough.
She had hardly left the room when Gregor laughed aloud and said to Gareth: “My dear man, you have insulted our little attorney! The reference to the small lawyer’s apartment was really funny!” Nevill also had to laugh. “The woman means nothing to me,” Gareth said, a little put out. “You apparently don’t read the society pages, you read the Wall Street Journal,” Nevill diplomatically excused Gareth. “Right you are, damn it, and who is this thin Frenchwoman?”
Gregor said quietly: “Let’s put it this way – in earlier times, Mademoiselle’s ancestors were diminished in size by a head!” Gareth shrugged his shoulders. History was also not his thing. He looked at Gregor, who was very amused by this conversation.
Naturally, Zara could organize a dinner. Nevill had no doubt, as he and his wife were among the first to arrive at the elegant Parisian apartment building, where Zara’s duplex residence was located. He was impressed by its splendor, all the more so as a girl in an apron and black dress opened the entry door and greeted them. He saw the marble floors, the gilded furnishings, it was as if he had entered another world, the elegance of a lost world, which no longer had a place in the current century.
It was actually once the residence of Zara’s grandmother, whom everyone called Madame Duchess, who had died last year. After that, he had seen parts of the apartment in the newspaper, the antiques, the pictures, but in person it was far more beautiful. His wife, Estelle, pulled on his sleeve and whispered only a stunned “Wow, look at that!”
Zara had hired professional help, which also included a cook. The apartment spread out over two floors, in which the one with the entrance encompassed the public rooms, the salon, the music room, the kitchen, and a very large dining room, which Zara oversaw at this very moment with a very strict glance, as her French boss entered the room. She turned and also saw Nevill’s wife, a gaunt dark-haired Frenchwoman about forty years old in an elegant dark green evening dress.
She approached Zara and extended her hand. “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she sai
d reverently. Zara smiled, exactly as one would expect from an aristocrat, arrogant and yet warmly. “I hope you like the apartment,” she said politely.
Zara was wearing a midnight blue silk dress with a wide pleated skirt and a draped bodice, with a low neckline down to her waist and held in place over her shoulder with a clasp. Her shoes were silver-color sandals with high heels and her hair had been blown into waves. Long sapphire earrings, the color of her dress, hung at her ears. She had chosen the dress deliberately; it was from an old collection by Maurice and had been lent by her mother, who had a great trove of designer dresses.
Zara also wore her hair down, since she had noticed that Gregor seemed to like it that way. The expression on his face always became soft, his eyes became so . . . she described them as Bambi-eyes. Some people assumed this expression when they saw little children.
Little by little the other guests also arrived with their escorts – and hardly a one of them was not impressed by the apartment, its elegance and furnishings.
Gregor arrived alone. He heard a Quartet quietly playing Jazz in the salon next to the piano. He didn’t discover Zara immediately, but he knew that she was taking care of dinner or tending to the guests.
The fashion designer had not yet arrived and Gregor hoped that he would actually appear, which was not a given since the man was quite difficult.
He looked at the rooms and thought that he had been transposed to the last century. In one room, he found photos of Zara’s childhood, in a ballet tutu, in a modest school uniform, in which her face looked unhappy.
Zara caught him standing in front of the photos and said, “You’re quite curious . . .” It wasn’t that it bothered her, for actually she had only hung up these photos two hours ago, so that he could see them. Moreover, there were very few photos of her as a child – so without further ado, she had gone into a shop and bought some children’s photos with girls that resembled her.
He turned around and smiled at her. She was holding a tray with Champagne glasses, caviar, and paté in her hands and offered him some. No one could say about a Valois that she didn’t know what was appropriate. “Not poisonous,” she said briefly, as he hesitated. He should already take the damn Champagne, she thought, since normally she didn’t serve it and did it only for him. The help was there for that!
“The apartment is huge,” he offered, in order to say something at all. A tense, crackling atmosphere lay between them.
As he picked up a glass and was about to reach for some paté, since it looked very good and he was hungry, Zara pulled the tray away. He looked at her, startled – that was not in keeping with her perfect manners. “No, that has pork,” she said, apologizing. Oh, yes, my dear, she thought, you can eat it if you want, but not here and now.
He laughed. She was really sweet; actually, he had expected that she would say nothing and only tell him later that it was pork. Because of her demeanor, he felt there was still hope, and in his mind he saw images that hadn’t been diminished here, and only confused him more. In order to think of something else, he asked her, “Our designer hasn’t arrived yet?” and looked again at the photos, above all so that he could stop looking at this woman with the deep neckline and the incredibly delicate face, and could avoid losing himself in those large cat’s eyes.
“Maurice is never on time,” Zara explained.
Gregor looked at her on an angle over his shoulder. “You know Maurice Maire?” he asked, startled. Whom didn’t this woman know? “He is a friend of my mother’s,” she said briefly. Yes, he knew Maurice, too; but that was a long time ago . . .
Gregor looked at a large painting: Father, mother and the daughter, it was without doubt of Zara and her parents; the mother still looked entirely normal, he discovered. No injections to the lips, no lifted face; and the father, the ancient noble line could not be denied: the long, narrow face, not unpleasant -- but incest could also not be denied. And finally, Zara, a young girl with curls and a shy smile.
Where did grandmother dig out this picture, it was ugly, the pits, Zara thought. Finally, she said, and it sounded quite bitter, “The ideal world . . .”
How old she was then, Gregor thought. “Your father was still minister here?” Zara nodded. “yes – that was the last year that my parents were married, before their divorce . . .”
She really didn’t want to speak to him – or to anyone, but especially him – about how she suddenly became the laughing stock at boarding school when it became known that her father had had sex with an underage girl, who was almost the same age as his daughter, and that they had been photographed. That was something she could tell her therapist, but certainly not Gregor Levy.
All this went through her mind and actually Zara had to concentrate and control herself so that she could maintain the cool demeanor which one expected of her; that she didn’t scream or hit this tall blond man. It was he who had turned her mother’s head, he was at fault for everything. And she thought about the conversation she had had with her mother after the meeting in the evening at Le Grand Véfour.
Her mother, dressed in an elegant dark brown Armani suit -- one could also describe her as fresh from a facelift -- her hair perfectly styled, was waiting for her. She appeared to be drinking her second glass of Taittinger Champagne and leafing listlessly through a fashion magazine as Zara arrived at her table.
Aceline looked up and stood to embrace her daughter, while at the same time saying “You’re late . . .” Zara shrugged her shoulders and handed her white coat to the waiter.
“Sorry, Mama.” She sat down as the waiter adjusted her chair. Aceline looked at her daughter with raised eyebrows, as far as the many Botox-injections would allow. Zara looked a little tired. “So, what’s going on?” Zara asked and took a glance at the menu. She quickly said to the waiter, “Bring me a Taittinger rosé as well and some foie gras,” that will do. “Don’t you want to eat properly? You’re getting thinner all the time,” Aceline said, without a trace of real concern. Zara laughed. “Mama, as you always say, ‘a moment on the lips, forever on the hips,’ and ‘one can never be too thin!’” Aceline smiled. She was beautiful, her daughter, in her lilac knit, and the severe hairdo. No wonder that all the men were after her.
“So tell me, is the next divorce under way?” Zara asked and reached for the glass of Champagne, lifting it high. She toasted with her mother every time she divorced. Aceline laughed. “How well you know me!” “I’m your daughter,” Zara said without hesitation. How could she forget; after all, she also had a divorce behind her. Who knows, perhaps in thirty years she would look like her mother. This was a thought that she wanted to suppress quickly.
“And who is the lucky fellow?” Aceline sighed. “A banker,” she mumbled softly. “Mama, don’t touch that type!” referring to Gregor indirectly. “He’s no Levy, if that’s what you mean!” She looked into the gold-framed mirror behind Zara and pulled nervously on a strand of hair on her perfectly coiffed head. Zara sighed and took a long sip of Champagne.
“Okay, may be. Where did you find him?” “I have to clean up my finances. We’re broke,” she said in passing, while she poked around in her caviar, which had just been brought to the table. Zara thought that the finances would certainly be in better shape if her mother ordered fewer meals that cost $600. “How bad is it then?” Zara asked hesitantly. Aceline swallowed and said, “Bad.” Zara looked at her, wide-eyed. “What do you mean ‘bad’? Are we talking about millions, property, land . . . ?” What the devil had her mother done with all of the money? “A little of everything. The Paris apartment is mortgaged – and the bank wants to auction it off – and so on . . .” “You can’t be serious, Mama!” Zara was in shock. “Yes, unfortunately. The money was suddenly gone and I’ve never been good with finances,” Aceline sighed. “Well, great!” Zara pushed the food away; her appetite had disappeared without a trace.
“But Owen has a lot of money!” “Nice for you, but may I remind you that the property actually belongs to me, according t
o what Papa explicitly stipulated in the divorce papers!” Zara was furious. “On paper, my dear daughter! I’ve got to have something to live on!” “And you’re not starving, are you?” “Owen . . . “ Zara interrupted her, furious. “Leave your new lover out of the discussion; your men haven’t brought you much luck anyway. Now I’ll have to take over!” Aceline flinched noticeably; she wasn’t used to such a tone from her own daughter, although she knew her daughter well, and she was aware that she wouldn’t put up with anything not to her liking. For Zara, men were a red flag, she used them, dropped them, changed them like her underwear, and kept real feelings at a distance – she actually did it right, Aceline had to admit.
“What do you mean?” Aceline asked. Zara crumpled the napkin on her lap and played with her glass. “Tomorrow, you have to put everything that doesn’t yet belong to the bank in my name, then I’ll find a way!” She considered whether she should tell her mother about the situation with Levy.
As she remained quiet for a while, Aceline noticed that her daughter still had something on her mind. “What else are you thinking? Would you like dessert? I recommend the mango sorbet.” She waved to the waiter and looked questioningly at Zara. Zara shook her head. “No, thank you.” After the waiter had taken Aceline’s order and left, Zara said straightforwardly, “Levy wants to marry me!” Aceline dropped her glass. The couple next to them looked at Aceline, startled. Everyone knew Aceline.
Aceline held her hand in front of her mouth. Zara sat there quietly and looked at her mother. “Calm yourself, Mother, you’re causing a stir here,” she said coolly and tossed her napkin over the wet spot on the tablecloth. The color in Aceline’s face turned from white to red. She thought for a moment that she had misheard. “Can you repeat that?” she asked in a deliberately softer voice. At the name Levy, various thoughts crossed her mind: she saw Gregor’s face in front of her and her heart pounded to the point of bursting. How long had it been – ten, fifteen years, or more?
Love under contract Page 9