by Karen Clarke
‘Oh, Mademoiselle Bright, you are quite adorable,’ he said, dabbing his eyes with his napkin when he’d recovered. ‘Of course you don’t ’ave to sleep with me.’ He shoved back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. ‘Not unless you want to, of course.’
‘Who wants to sleep with who?’ A woman pulled up a chair and sat between us and as she did so, the temperature seemed to drop by several degrees. She didn’t bother introducing herself – she didn’t have to.
It was Fleur Dupont.
‘Fleur! What are you doing in La Rochelle?’ Nicolas didn’t sound too surprised as he scooped up Babette and kissed the dog’s nose before handing her to the waiter with a look of remorse. ‘Look after ’er, please, Fleur is allergic,’ he said, and I noticed that Fleur was looking at the dog as though she was the Devil himself. All the same, I was glad when Babette was whisked away, thrashing and snarling in the waiter’s arms.
‘I told you I was visiting my father today.’ Fleur turned to look at me through long-lashed eyes, her gaze impenetrable behind her rectangular glasses. There was no hint of the warmth she’d presumably deployed to get Brad Pitt to talk. ‘You mentioned your meeting with Mademoiselle Bright, so I thought I’d come and see the competition,’ she added, and my eager words of greeting died on my tongue. So that’s what I was. Competition. I supposed she was used to getting her own way at the magazine – getting all the high-profile assignments. ‘Nicolas tells me you know Jay Merino.’ Her accent was almost neutral, unlike Nicolas’s, but I detected a very slight croak at the end of the sentence. She must really want the job, but of course she would: an exclusive with Jay would bring her closer to winning Nicolas’s job.
‘I… yes, I do,’ I said, feeling somehow diminished. It wasn’t because she was beautiful, though she was, with her curtain of black hair pulled back to reveal high cheekbones and a swan-like neck. She was wearing a simple fine-knit sweater tucked into slim trousers that accentuated her slender figure, making me feel by comparison like an overweight teenager dressed for prom night. Close up, she appeared closer to forty than her photos suggested, with faint lines around her eyes and mouth, but they spoke of experience and probably enhanced her approachability – though not to me. ‘He, er, Jay is…’ I cleared my throat. ‘I spoke to him this morning,’ I stammered, picking up my glass. I sipped some wine, trying to hold on to the feeling of triumph I’d experienced moments earlier. ‘I thought, because we know each other, and he happens to be here filming, it was the perfect opportunity to—’
‘I have been trying for some time to arrange a meeting with him,’ she interrupted. ‘We were very close.’ It took a moment to realise she meant close to a meeting, not close to Jay. ‘That job was as good as mine, until you called Nic.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘I know him, he’ll talk to me, pleeease,’ she whined, ‘give me a chance to write for your amaaaaazing magazine, even though I have no experience.’
Wow. It was as if she’d been listening in on our phone conversation. Though her impression of me needed work. Unless I sounded like a whinging brat on helium.
‘Fleur does not like losing,’ said Nicolas, who’d been watching our exchange with a loose-lipped smile and a look of sly delight. I wondered whether this was some sort of fantasy for him – two women fighting for a job, with him holding all the authority.
Yet he didn’t. Boldness crept back in. I was the one holding the cards. Jay had agreed to talk to me and if Nicolas wouldn’t publish the interview, I’d offer it elsewhere. Jay wasn’t concerned about the publication – he’d simply agreed to honour his promise to me – but I was guessing that Nicolas wanted to publish it very much indeed.
‘Ultimately, it’s up to Jay Merino who he talks to,’ I said, concentrating on keeping my voice steady. ‘He’s chosen me.’
‘It sounds like you didn’t give him much choice.’ Fleur’s gaze turned stony and I understood. Jay Merino had become an enigma. An interview – even a quote – from him would be breaking news and she wanted the accolades as much as she wanted to run the magazine. But surely, I had as much right to pitch for my dream job as she did hers.
‘P’raps you should both write up an interview and I shall judge ze best effort. Maybe I put zem both on ze website and see which brings ze most traffic,’ said Nicolas, practically salivating with anticipation, and a faint flicker of distaste crossed Fleur’s face.
‘I don’t think Jay would like that,’ I said quickly. ‘He’s hardly going to let both of us interview him.’
‘You know that for sure?’ Fleur’s voice was hard and I struggled to hold her gaze.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You know, she wants to replace me as head of the magazine,’ said Nicolas, with a confiding twinkle in my direction. ‘I told her, if she can triple ze readership, she can do it. Maybe.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘It was our leetle gamble.’ I didn’t say I’d read about his challenge and cringed a little when he laughed, as if it was all a big joke. ‘Now, she will ’ave to try and get your Kate Moss instead,’ he said. ‘She eez next on my leest. She ’as refused us fourteen times now. A record, I believe.’
Fleur’s expression didn’t budge, as if she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of responding, but I noticed a twitch underneath her eye.
‘Darling, ’ave some wine,’ urged Nicolas, beckoning the waiter back. ‘Eat with us, we’re ’aving the monkfish.’
I hoped Fleur would refuse – any excitement I’d felt at meeting someone I’d so admired had fled – and felt a flash of relief when she shunted her chair back.
‘No, thank you.’ She rose in a graceful movement, slipping a black leather bag over her shoulder. ‘The exclusive should have been mine and you know it,’ she said, pinning Nicolas with her frosty gaze. ‘It is your loss.’
Nicolas roared in apparent delight. ‘Fleur, you are my best girl.’ He tried to catch her hand, but she swiped it away. ‘We will ’ave someone else lined up for you very soon,’ he said in a low, intimate voice.
‘I don’t want anyone else. I wanted Jay Merino, as well you knew.’ A mantle of tiredness fell across her face and I wondered whether she had a crush on Jay, like everyone who’d seen his films, and wanted to spend some time working her magic on him; to get to know him for her own lustful reasons. Then I caught the icy look that Nicolas missed before she turned to leave, and realised it was simpler than that. She was angry that his focus had slipped away from her and onto me.
Ten
Part of me wanted to rush after Fleur and tell her she was being ridiculous; that I was hardly a threat to her career with her track record, even if I interviewed Jay Merino, but all I could do was stare at her departing back, noting what great posture she had, and how she drew admiring glances as she swished out through the door.
I felt sure she wouldn’t have thanked me anyway; she would have hated the fact that I’d caught her in a vulnerable moment, and probably denied it. Even so, the shine had been taken off the evening and, worse, I couldn’t honestly say that Nicolas hadn’t been playing us off against each other, especially as once Fleur had gone, he said I was audacieux (I think he meant ‘ballsy’), his eyes full of admiration, and dismissed Fleur’s abrupt departure with a casual shrug.
‘Do not mind ’er,’ he said, as our plates of food arrived. ‘It is good to ’ave ze feathers a leetle ruffled.’ I wasn’t sure about that. I had a feeling that ruffling Fleur’s feathers would only end badly – for me. ‘She will work ’arder to prove ’erself.’
‘I don’t think she needs to prove herself,’ I said, staring at my meal, not sure my stomach was up to digesting food, no matter how delicious the glistening white fish looked, nestled among tiny quails’ eggs and sprinkled with truffles. ‘She could easily take over a rival magazine.’
Nicolas chuckled as he forked an asparagus spear into his mouth. ‘She ’as been wiz Magnifique from the start, when I was ’er mentor.’ He dabbed his chin with a napkin where butter had dripped. ‘Fleur will never leave,’ h
e said, and I couldn’t help thinking that maybe she should. Poor Fleur, if he’d been dangling the editor-in-chief carrot for years, providing she landed an interview with this elusive star or that, only to move the goalposts. Perhaps he’d insist on the Pope next. ‘Is she in a relationship?’ I asked, trying to picture Fleur with a partner, wondering whether what she’d said in an article was true – that she fell a little bit in love with everyone she interviewed, and ordinary people simply couldn’t match up.
Nicolas drew his head back, as if the idea was preposterous. ‘She is married to ’er job, just as I ’ave been,’ he said. ‘Like me, she ’as no time for a family.’
There were rumours online that Nicolas had an ex-wife tucked away in Italy, silenced by a generous divorce settlement. Perhaps Fleur should interview her. The thought made me want to giggle, and I decided I’d better not drink any more wine.
‘Natalee?’
I realised I was staring at my plate, and hadn’t heard what he’d said. I hoped he wasn’t about to order Babette be brought back to the table – I’d been snapped at enough for one evening. ‘What did you say?’
‘I offered you a sum for the interview,’ he said. ‘But I can see it ees not enough.’ He named a figure that was triple what I’d had in mind and I tried not to gasp.
‘That sounds… reasonable.’ I stabbed a quail’s egg with my fork and took a tentative nibble. ‘I’d rather have a permanent position at the magazine, though,’ I said when I’d swallowed, made bolder than usual by the wine, ignoring a queasy flicker of worry as I imagined Fleur’s reaction. I wouldn’t be welcome there, but I couldn’t let that put me off. I’d just have to work hard to win her round, pick her brain for the best interview techniques, that kind of thing. Flattery makes friends. Wasn’t that the saying? Or was it, flattery gets you nowhere?
Nicolas planted a hand over mine, making me jump. ‘Let us take it one step at a time,’ he said in his lover’s voice, and I nudged my knife to the floor so I had an excuse to shuffle my fingers away. ‘There is much to do in the meantime.’
As we resumed eating, he outlined his plan to publish Jay’s interview in the July issue, and which photographer he would send (‘beautiful visuals are a vital accompaniment to good-quality writing, Natalee’) as well as a translator for the French edition, and I started to relax a little – though it might have been the wine and the absence of Babette – and managed to finish my meal without making a fool of myself.
‘I don’t eat dessert,’ he said, waving away the waiter once we’d finished, and although I was tempted to say that I did, I couldn’t face eating one while he watched.
‘So, Natalee,’ he said, resting his hands on the table as if to show he meant business, ‘as you ’ave probably guessed, I love women.’ His raised eyebrows required an answer, and I couldn’t help it this time. I rolled my eyes.
‘Honestly, when men say that I always think what they really mean is, they love the idea of women. Their idea of women, not actual, real-life women, who don’t bother shaving their legs in winter, or eat too many cakes, or cry at sad puppies online.’
‘What a fascinating insight into your life, Natalee, but I can assure you, I adore women, particularly smart, successful women—’
‘Like Fleur?’ I said, cutting him off.
His brows rose. ‘Of course, like Fleur. She eez one of the best.’
‘Good enough to do your job?’ Natalie, shut your mouth.
Nicolas gave me a sizzling look. ‘Nobody ees good enough to do what I do, if I may be honest, Natalee.’ He pressed a big hand to his heart. I had the sense it was a reflexive gesture – unless he had indigestion. ‘It ees a blessing and a curse, because I cannot truly imagine my baby being in somebody else’s ’ands.’ He cradled his arms and made a rocking motion. ‘I ’oped to ’ave a son to leave my empire to, but eet ’as not ’appened yet,’ he said with apparent sorrow, and I wondered if he still hoped to father a child, despite being Dad’s age. Then again, if it was good enough for Mick Jagger… ‘Now,’ he shrugged and picked up his wine. ‘I do not know what will ’appen.’
Except he did, I thought, watching him empty his glass in two big gulps. He was the sort who’d keep going until he died, and had no intention of handing the reins to Fleur. Though maybe that wasn’t an entirely bad thing. I couldn’t imagine her wanting to employ me, for a start.
‘Well, that’s a shame.’ I balled my napkin and reached for my bag. I should leave, before the conversation became even more personal. I had the feeling Nicolas was in an expansive mood. ‘How much do I owe for the meal?’
‘Natalee! You are enchanting,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘I invited you, so I shall pay, of course. A leetle old-fashioned per’aps, but I insist.’
Suspecting the cost of the meal would bankrupt me, I didn’t argue. ‘Well, thank you, Monsieur Juilliard, it’s been… lovely,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. ‘I promise I won’t let you down. Regarding the interview,’ I added, in case there was any doubt.
‘I believe you.’ His eyes warmed up as they travelled over me once more. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for coffee?’
He probably thought I should sober up, but I really wasn’t that drunk. ‘I’m fine.’ I stood, wavering a little. ‘I’ll be in touch when I have the details. Regarding the interview.’ Had I already said that?
‘I will look forward to it,’ he said. ‘Now, ’ow are you getting ’ome?’
As I cycled to Saint-Martin the following morning, I found myself humming Kylie Minogue’s ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’. The sun was shining as I breathed in the salty scent of the air, and I didn’t even have a hangover. In fact, I’d slept extremely well after arriving home in a taxi that Nicolas had poured me into, chuckling softly as if I was an amusing toy he’d like to play with again. I was sure he’d said, ‘I think I am going to enjoy you being part of my team, Natalee,’ but thought afterwards I might have imagined it.
And now, I was going to meet Jay Merino, and this time I wasn’t nervous. I’d even managed some breakfast with Dad before leaving the house.
‘You’re seeing him then?’ He’d poured me some coffee in an eager way that had made me feel guilty for escaping to the café every morning, reluctant to fall back into the role of dependent daughter. ‘The actor?’
‘I am,’ I’d said, feeling my face flush red. ‘But you’re not to tell anyone, Dad. Even Marie.’
He’d shot me a baleful look that had compounded my guilt. ‘It should go without saying that I won’t, Natalie.’ It had almost sounded odd, hearing my name without an extra e, the way Nicolas said it. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘Why do I need to be careful?’ I’d dug into the rather rubbery scrambled eggs he’d made with too much force. ‘Jay wasn’t like his brother, you know. I doubt they’re even still in touch.’
‘I don’t mean that.’ He’d gone into full Dad mode. ‘He inhabits a different world from what you’re used to and I don’t want you getting hurt again.’
‘He’s nothing like Matt, and it’s only an interview, Dad. I’m not dating him.’
I wondered, as I approached the harbour, what it would be like to date Jay Merino. He wouldn’t want anyone to know about me for a start, so we’d never be able to go out, and while that would have its upside – lots of bedroom action – I couldn’t imagine a life in the shadows while Jay pursued his career. He’d been hotly tipped to be the next Bond, which would catapult him to a whole new level I wasn’t equipped to deal with – though trying might be fun. I indulged a fantasy where Jay confessed he’d fallen for me that night on the swing but had been scared off by the intensity of his feelings after our kiss, which was why he’d rushed into the night without asking my name. Then I reminded myself he met beautiful, talented women all the time, and while I was OK for a normal person, I was hardly in the same league. Plus, I wouldn’t want to be wondering what he was up to all the time. Even the most committed boyfriend might struggle to rememb
er he had a partner while surrounded by stunning actresses. Although Max Weaver was a ‘loner’ whose heart had been broken the night his wife and son were brutally murdered, he occasionally succumbed to erotic encounters with women who then tried to kill him. (‘You’d think he would know by now,’ Charlie had said, during the second Maximum Force film, when a sexy, mysterious Russian called Anya began her doe-eyed seduction, while hiding a vial of poison in her clutch. ‘Shows how stupid men are.’)
I parked my bike round the back of the hotel, and checked my clothes for oil stains. I’d decided not to dress up again. I didn’t want to look as if I was trying too hard, plus Jay had seen me in a similar outfit and hadn’t looked repulsed. After last night it had been a relief to slip on a pair of jeans and a stretchy top, and leave my hair alone. The waves I’d created for my meeting with Nicolas had miraculously survived the evening, as well as a night in bed, and when I checked my reflection in the mirror before I came out, it looked as though I’d applied a filter to my face. Probably because I’d forgotten to remove my make-up the night before and my eyeliner was still intact.
Sucking in a breath, I entered the double doors, and immediately spotted Simon in the chic reception area. Not that he was easy to overlook, with his big, bald head, bristling beard and tank-like proportions. When he saw me, he came over and gave a surly nod.
Would it kill him to crack a smile? ‘Morning,’ I chirped, a nervous tightness in my stomach now that I’d arrived.
He didn’t respond, and I only managed a cursory glance at the delicate blue décor, deep-set sofas and fireplace before he was leading me up a flight of stairs, muttering, ‘He’s in the Duke of Buckingham.’