by Susan Lewis
After she’d gone Susannah took several steadying breaths in an effort to try and calm herself down. She really didn’t have time to stand here thinking about this now, but at some point she and Alan had to have a very serious discussion about how they were handling things between them, or those bitter parting words were going to turn into a reality neither of them wanted.
Alan and Neve had been edging through the traffic for some time in silence, half-listening to the radio, but both still caught up in the scene at home.
‘Do you think I’m being unreasonable?’ Alan finally blurted.
Neve stopped pressing in a text to Sasha, but carried on staring at it as she said, ‘Personally, I can’t see anything wrong with letting Mum talk about how you got back together, but if you don’t want to be famous by association, then that’s up to you.’ Her head stayed down as she added, ‘I think you hurt her feelings though.’
Sighing, he said, ‘I’m sure I did.’
Still not looking at him, she said, ‘Are you going to say sorry?’
‘Do you think I should?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I can see it from your point of view too, so maybe you both have to apologise.’ She really didn’t want to be having this conversation. She wanted to talk about other things like what he’d meant the other day when he’d promised they’d work things out, but she didn’t know how to change the subject without seeming desperate, or obvious, or maybe annoying him for not talking about what was on his mind.
In the end she said, ‘Is it because … Are you angry with Mum because you don’t want your stepchildren to see you having a good time? You know, like your life has moved on and you’re not really bothering about them any more?’
Reaching out for her hand he squeezed it warmly. ‘You’re a very perceptive young lady,’ he told her, ‘because yes, in part, that is behind my reluctance to enter into the limelight. I need to consider their feelings, even though I’m not really a part of their lives any more.’
‘Do you ever hear from them?’ she asked, already jealous of the daughters whether he was still in touch with them or not. ‘You know, by text or email or anything?’
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘which is a pity, because I’d like to, very much, but it helps a lot to have you.’
Neve’s throat dried as she tried to swallow.
As they stopped at a red light he put his fingers under her chin and turned her face towards him. ‘You’ve come to mean a great deal to me,’ he told her softly, ‘so please don’t think I’m going to give up on my relationship with your mother, because if I did I’d lose you too. And I don’t think either of us wants that, do we?’
Neve’s eyes were burning with emotion as she looked at him. ‘No,’ she whispered shakily. ‘No, we don’t.’
Chapter Sixteen
I AM VERY sorry but I have small crisis which mean I cannot make the meeting this morning. Perhaps we can speak later on the phone to discuss strategy for tomorrow. Your Frank.
This time Patsy really did conclude an s was missing, mainly because she was angry and disappointed, so certainly didn’t want to lay any claim to him. She was a little concerned too by what kind of crisis might have arisen. If it came in the shape of a young comtesse whose ancestors had irritatingly escaped the guillotine, then she hoped they both turned rigid in the act and when surgically parted Fronk’s offending member remained plugged in. On the other hand, it could be something serious, so maybe she should call to see if there was anything she could do. She had his home number, naturally, but she didn’t want to appear interfering, or inquisitive, or God forbid jealous, and besides, if he’d wanted to talk to her, he could have picked up the phone instead of sending an email.
In the end she hit the reply button and typed a message back.
I’ll be in the labs until six, shall we speak after, say around six thirty? Meanwhile if I can offer assistance, please let me know.
Before sending it she read it through several times, worried that it might sound too formal, or intrusive, or even sarcastic, but after reminding herself that the French liked formal, she opted for that slant and clicked it on its way.
The rest of her day was taken up with meetings, mostly within the building, until she left at four to make her rendezvous at the labs. They had a new fragrance in the works, so she was going in person to see the ‘nose’ whose olfactory skill was in control of perfumery development. As ever, it turned into a contentious encounter, since Marcel Vigneau was as notoriously prickly in his attitude as he was gifted in his nasal concha and made little secret of his contempt for lesser mortals, particularly of the female variety, and very definitely for her. Still, she somehow managed to leave his peacock feathers in a less ruffled state than she usually did, and by the time she returned to the office she’d turned her attention to the scheduled phone call with Frank.
However, to her dismay, when she opened her emails it was to find one from him apologising for being unable to keep to their arrangement, but he was attaching the notes he’d made in preparation for the morning.
Not sure whether she was more angry or worried by this uncharacteristic lapse in his company loyalty, she opened the first of three files and began to read his suggestions for how to proceed. To her relief, though not surprise, he had some very good ideas which suggested he really had been giving the matter his attention. Whether he was being tipped off by the pert little comtesse herself she wouldn’t allow herself to contemplate. What mattered was that though the ideas were easy to expand on, they were not necessarily straightforward to present. So, just in case he was holed up in a genuine crisis, she decided to devote her evening to putting together a detailed document incorporating his brilliance, and her own flair for concise and comprehensive delivery that even the stupidest of bimbos could understand. Not that the comtesse was that, she felt sure, but just in case.
By the time ten o’clock came round she was so tired and hungry that she was becoming word blind. Accepting that to push herself any further tonight would inevitably prove self-defeating, she attached what she’d come up with so far to an email and sent it to Frank in his love nest, or centre of crisis. She would come in at six in the morning to finalise and add more polish, in the hope that by nine, when her secretary was due to arrive, it would be ready for her to assemble in a user-friendly PowerPoint file.
As she started to pack up her desk, careful to store confidential material in a locked cabinet, and placing pens, Post-its, paperclips and a pile of brochure proofs in a top drawer, she kept glancing at the screen to see if Frank had emailed back yet. Not that he’d have had time to read anything by now, especially if he was in a restaurant, or even in flagrante, but he might confirm having received her email, and perhaps reassure her that he’d be at the meeting tomorrow.
After drawing out her departure for over twenty minutes, she finally shut down her computer, turned off her desk lamp and started through the concourse to the lift. All the partitioned offices were in semi-darkness, a Mary Celeste sort of look about them with so much seeming to have been abandoned halfway through. Apart from a cleaner, and the security guard at reception, she saw no one else on her way out, and didn’t pass many in the streets either as she made the short walk home.
Once inside Claudia’s apartment, which was very typically Parisian with its lofty ceilings, elegant furniture and shuttered windows, she kicked off her shoes and went to pour herself a drink. Though she’d brought Frank’s phone number with her, she had no real intention of using it, but she did keep checking her BlackBerry to see if an email had popped its way through.
By the time she’d prepared and eaten a sandwich, replayed a programme on Sky that featured an interview with Susannah, sent a text to congratulate her on being fabulous again, then wandered through to the bedroom to start getting undressed, she’d finally managed to persuade herself that she wasn’t going to hear from him tonight. He was probably whirling it up at the Moulin Rouge, or maybe he’d fallen into a post-coital slu
mp, or perhaps he was still dealing with a very real crisis, and she felt awful for hoping he was.
Lying down on the bed, she turned out the light and lay staring hard at the darkness. She’d known Frank for two months now, but apart from being in the throes of a divorce, she had no idea what his personal circumstances actually were. She didn’t even know where he lived, though she could easily find that out from human resources. Not that she’d bother, because actually she wasn’t all that interested, it was just another missing piece in the puzzle that was Fronk. And now she came to think of it, there seemed to be a lot more blanks in that particular jigsaw than there was any kind of discernible picture.
The following morning there was still no sign of Frank. Though Patsy tried his home, and involved both their assist ants in trying to track him down, by the time ten thirty came round there was still no word.
‘Has he ever disappeared like this before?’ she asked Virginie, his PA, who, for once, was looking genuinely perplexed, rather than face-smackingly superior.
‘Mais non,’ she replied. ‘Only when he has to …’
Patsy’s eyes narrowed as the girl stopped. ‘Has to what?’ she prompted.
‘It is nothing. I … No, I do not know where he is, and it is not like him to vanish without telling me where he is going to be.’
Since her own assistant was announcing the comtesse’s arrival, Patsy had no time to pursue this, but had every intention of doing so as soon as the meeting was over.
Slightly cheered by the fact that the comtesse was downstairs so therefore not shacked up somewhere with Frank, she grabbed everything she needed and hurried towards the lift. She’d intended all along to greet the comtesse and her team in person, and Frank’s absence hadn’t changed that. As she went she could sense the buzz following in her wake. Madame le Directeur is looking for Frank who has gone missing. She is angry, she will screw up the presentation, she will soon be history. It is OK Frank to come back now.
As the lift doors opened for her to step into the lobby, Patsy performed a quick mental shakedown and glanced at the receptionist. The woman nodded towards a small but extremely elegant older lady in a fur stole and navy two-piece, whose photograph Pats had seen in the top right-hand corner of the Louvens website. Clearly the illustrious founder was still breathing. Hiding her relief, she assumed her most welcoming smile and went towards her.
‘Madame la Comtesse,’ she said warmly, hoping it was the right form of address and wanting to kick herself for not having checked. ‘Thank you for coming, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
The old lady’s hyacinth eyes were like a bird’s, quick and watchful, and reasonably friendly. ‘My dear,’ she said, taking Patsy’s hand between both of hers as she rose to her feet, ‘it is a pleasure for me too. I have liked very much the products you have send for our approval. My board of directors also. It is my hope now that we shall do some business together.’
Patsy glanced towards the door. ‘Are we waiting for anyone else?’ she ventured, having expected a marketing manager at the very least, but more likely an entire team of advisers.
‘No, Frank call this morning and ask me to come alone, so it is just me.’
Patsy blinked in astonishment. ‘You’ve spoken to him this morning?’ she blurted.
The comtesse nodded, and Patsy couldn’t be entirely certain, but she might have smiled. Then the worst imaginable suspicion struck her a terrible blow – had Frank spent the night with this bony old crone? Was that how he was drumming up business?
Quickly pushing the absurd suspicion aside, she said, ‘Did he happen to mention whether or not he was going to join us?’
The comtesse’s thinly pencilled eyebrows rose. ‘He is not here yet?’ she said. ‘Well, I suppose I am not very surprised, but I think we can continue without him, no?’
‘No. Uh, yes, of course.’ Why wasn’t the old lady surprised? How come she seemed to know more about what was going on than Patsy did? ‘Second floor,’ she told a security guard, who was waiting to call the lift, and a few minutes later she was walking the comtesse into a small but fully equipped conference room, its windows already blacked out ready for the on-screen presentation.
‘Can I take your stole?’ she offered, not really wanting to touch a dead animal, but this was hardly the time to get activist. ‘Nancy will serve us some coffee, or tea if you prefer,’ she said, pointing the comtesse in the direction of a catering assistant who’d made an excellent job of laying out refreshments for twenty people.
After requesting a coffee the comtesse sat down at the table and treated Patsy to a charming smile.
‘I’m sure Frank will be along any minute,’ Pats told her awkwardly. ‘So perhaps we should wait?’
The comtesse nodded agreeably, and they proceeded to spend the next ten minutes making small talk about Paris and New York, and Claudia, who, it turned out, the comtesse knew well.
‘She is coming to Europe at the beginning of next month, I believe,’ the comtesse said, placing her tiny coffee cup back into its saucer.
Patsy nodded, and wondered if the comtesse knew that Claudia was simply passing through en route to Switzerland for yet another facelift. Even if she did, it was hardly the kind of detail one mentioned without being certain. ‘Are you planning to see her while she’s here?’ she asked chattily.
The comtesse twinkled. ‘You are living at her apartment, no? So I have invite her to stay at my home with me.’
Wondering about the rarefied world of these rich old biddies, and shuddering again at the thought of the role Frank might be playing in their boudoirs, Patsy glanced at the time and said, ‘Perhaps we should make a start?’
‘Yes, why not? I am happy for you to speak me in English, but if you can do in French, it will maybe be a little better for my hearing.’
‘Of course,’ Patsy assured her, and really wanted to wring Frank’s neck now, because they’d agreed he would take over if the comtesse preferred to hear French. She’d had no time to prepare, so her translation would have to come off the cuff, which meant that if the dear old soul went away fully appraised of the amazing package they’d put together for her, a minor miracle would have occurred.
In the event, a slightly bigger one turned up just as she was about to begin, when the door opened and Frank himself breezed in, all five o’clock shadow, psychedelic shirt and a takeaway carton of frothy cappuccino.
‘I am so sorry to be late,’ he cried earnestly. ‘Everything takes so long to achieve these days, and the traffic was terrible … Céline, how are you, chérie? Tu es ravissante, comme normale.’
Patsy could only stare as he kissed the comtesse on both cheeks and kept hold of her hands. Clearly they knew one another well, given his use of ‘tu’ and their air of intimacy seemed to increase as he continued to murmur to her in French.
‘Et tu,’ he said, smiling affectionately as he turned to Pats, ‘tu es enchanteresse. I hope I have not caused you to interrupt. Please, continue.’
‘Actually,’ Patsy said, almost failing to keep her tone sweet, ‘Madame la Comtesse would prefer to hear it in French, so perhaps you would like to take over.’ Let him get out of that, she thought feistily.
‘Mais bien sûr,’ he responded, and binning his coffee he went to take up position at the computer, where, to Patsy’s amazement, and no little frustration, he launched into an extremely relaxed but no less professional presentation of their proposals for the comtesse’s salons and spas. It was as though he’d been up half the night compiling and rehearsing it, which couldn’t have been possible, when she’d only emailed her final draft to him an hour ago.
By the end of the morning she was fighting more sinister misgivings than a sane mind could cope with, but fortunately she managed to appear perfectly calm as the comtesse made her farewells and Frank took her downstairs to the waiting taxi.
Patsy was waiting when he came back to the conference room, her green eyes flashing with outrage. ‘What the hell is going on?’ she deman
ded. ‘Where have you been for the past twenty-four hours, and why didn’t you tell me how well you knew the comtesse?’
‘Patreesha,’ he cried, throwing out his hands in surrender, ‘please do not be angry. I am in a bad situation with my wife and so …’
Patsy’s eyes boggled. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you went AWOL because of some wrangle with your wife?’ she cried furiously.
He frowned. ‘Excuse me, what is AWOL?’
‘It means you disappeared off the face of the planet as far as I was concerned, and I want to know why.’
‘I just explain I have a bad situation with my wife …’
‘That’s not good enough. There are phones and computers. You could have let me know where you were, and at least put my mind at rest that you would be here for the meeting. Or was this some deliberate ploy to ride in at the last minute to rescue the comtesse from my inferior French and make me look …’
‘Stop, please, Patreesha,’ he said, assuming his most mournful expression. ‘There was no ploy, only a small crisis that I must deal with. It is over now, and I think we do very well for the comtesse, no?’
‘Yes, and I’d like to know how you were able to turn it on like that, when you’d hardly had the final draft an hour, and most of it was put together by me.’
‘But we have had many discussions about the presentation,’ he reminded her, ‘and when I send you my suggestions I can make very good guesses how you will incorporate them. So when I see what you send by email this morning, it is then not difficult for me to, how you say, turn it on.’
Only just buying it, she said, ‘That still doesn’t explain why you asked the comtesse to leave her team at home.’
Still not appearing in the least bit fazed, he said, ‘To put it very bluntly, I was concerned, if I did not get here in time, that it would be a little intimidating for you to present alone in front of so many French people. Especially if you have to do it in French, which I suspected she would prefer.’