Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  However, it was Louise’s house, not hers, and Ghislaine naturally had no intention of telling Louise what she truly thought. But Louise’s indifference was worrying her: she had expected opposition, she had expected quibbles. So far there had been none. Ghislaine began to think that there was indeed something seriously wrong.

  They were to have lunch on the terrace. Over lunch, Ghislaine returned to the attack; Louise sat there sipping her wine, her eyes on the sea beyond. Ghislaine, feeling her audience slipping away from her, began to feel desperate.

  “Simple,” she said. “I see it, my dear, as terribly terribly simple. Audaciously simple. In simplicity is elegance—but you know that, you are the very embodiment of it…”

  She paused hopefully. Louise acknowledged the flattery with a dreamy smile.

  “Cool cool colors,” Ghislaine went on, warming to her theme. “Those wonderful creams and off-whites darling Syrie used so well, the old monster. Some blue, to remind us of the sea. That delicious gray-green—the color of rosemary.”

  “Green? I’ve always rather disliked green. Any shade of green,” Louise said ruminatively.

  Ghislaine, who was wearing a green dress, drew a deep breath. “Well, perhaps not green,” she said hastily. “Dare we use some pink, do you think? I would so love to. That very pale rose pink, shell pink—if we used it terribly carefully. Nothing too obviously feminine. No ghastly frills and furbelows. Everything rather calm and understated. And for the furniture, nothing in the least grand. Wouldn’t that be amusing? Louise?”

  “Simple things?” Louise smiled vaguely. “Oh, yes. That sounds perfectly charming.”

  “Some interesting paint treatments,” Ghislaine went on doggedly. “All that dreadful wallpaper must come off—it’s quite inappropriate in a house like this. And the windows—now we must emphasize those marvelous windows. I wonder—maybe we should bring in Clara Delluc. Let her work on a textile scheme for the whole house—she really is so marvelously original. Dear Clara! I adore her…”

  Louise gave a little sigh. She pushed aside her wineglass with just the smallest suggestion of irritation.

  “Of course. Of course. I’ve already told you, Ghislaine—your ideas sound delightful, quite delightful. I’m happy to leave all the details to you. I really don’t have the time, and when you get excited, Ghislaine, well, you do rather bombard one, you know…”

  Ghislaine gave her a glance of pure dislike, which Louise fortunately did not see; she intended, she thought, to charge Louise the earth…

  “Very well,” she said crisply. “But it’s going to be a great rush, you know. The preliminary work’s been done, of course, and everyone is standing by. I’ll pull out all the stops, my dear—since it’s for you…”

  Louise did not bother to thank her. Her face was dreamy once more. “It’s such a woman’s house at the moment, don’t you think, Ghislaine? That’s what’s wrong, perhaps. That terrible pansy who did it before, I can’t think why I asked him. I was driven to distraction, Ghislaine—he would nag. But you’ve such a wonderfully masculine imagination, I’ve always thought. So I know you’ll do it beautifully. I’d like…” She paused. “I’d like it to be the kind of house in which a man felt comfortable—yes, that’s what I want. I see it now.”

  Ghislaine looked at her narrowly. Of course, she thought: it was perfectly simple. Louise could never manage to think about two things at once. It wasn’t that she lacked interest, she was simply too busy thinking about Philippe de Belfort.

  When they boarded Edouard’s plane, which was to fly them back to Paris, Louise’s spirits rose. She behaved as if she had been absent several months rather than a few hours. She was being met at the airport, she confided to Ghislaine, with a coquettish glance; Ghislaine smiled ingenuously.

  “By Edouard? He’s just back from New York, isn’t he?”

  “Edouard? Goodness no, Ghislaine. By Philippe de Belfort…” Louise was, at that point, halfway up the steps to the aircraft. On the top step, she turned, sighed, took a deep breath of carbon monoxide fumes, lifted her face to the sun, and smiled radiantly.

  “Isn’t it the most wonderful day? You know, Ghislaine, I feel positively young…”

  Once they had taken off, Louise asked for champagne. She and Ghislaine both smoked and drank, and the mood between them became quite confidential. Ghislaine was almost enjoying herself, and she knew Louise was too. They talked about dresses, and hats, and the virtues of this vendeuse as opposed to that one. They discussed the taste of the many acquaintances and friends they had in common, and agreed it was execrable. Though neither, essentially, liked the other very much, there were links between them, and on such an occasion, warmed by champagne, it was almost possible to feel, if not friendship exactly, then some kind of warm alliance.

  “I adore Balenciaga.” Louise sighed. “Such a genius. But I can’t wear his clothes. I simply can’t. I’m not tall enough. Now on you, Ghislaine, they are perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  “Ah, yes. But you can wear Chanel, my dear, which doesn’t suit me at all. Do you know, I remember you in a Chanel dress, in the great days. I can still see it so clearly. It was pink—you were with Xavier, and I remember thinking how exquisite you looked. Goodness, what an age ago. It must have been 1930, somewhere around then…”

  Ghislaine had been about to add that she had been fifteen at the time; she just managed to stop herself.

  “Ah, yes! I remember it, Ghislaine—quite distinctly!” She gave a sigh. “How young we were!”

  On another occasion this bracketing, as if they were the same age, would have annoyed Ghislaine so much that she would have felt bound to make some sharp rebuke. But not now. The champagne was making her benevolent; she did not want the mood spoiled.

  They continued to talk, woman-to-woman, and the tone became more confidential still. Ghislaine managed to get in a few questions about Edouard, but Louise was not very informative.

  “He’s a disappointment to me in some ways, Ghislaine. I shouldn’t say it, but it’s the truth. We were never close, of course, and now—well, I never quite find him sympathetic. He can be a terrible prude. And of course, with women—quite hopeless, in spite of all those affairs. He doesn’t understand us, Ghislaine, and I begin to fear he never will…”

  Ghislaine shook her head. “What man does understand women, Louise? When it comes down to it?”

  Very few, Louise agreed—though there were occasional exceptions…The two women looked at each other. There was a moment of unspoken but perfect understanding between them. Now was the moment for more intimate revelations, but such revelations had their own code: they must be mutual. This nice balance produced the equivalent of trust.

  Ghislaine knew that, and so she began.

  “My dear, do you know, I never speak of this, but sometimes…”

  Louise leaned forward eagerly, wide-eyed. Ghislaine told her certain things about Jean-Jacques, things she was certain Louise knew anyway. To her own surprise, she found it was almost a relief to talk. When she had finished, Louise asked for more champagne, and took her turn.

  “No! Louise! Not Xavier—I can’t believe it! It can’t be true!” Louise nodded solemnly: They were now both enjoying themselves very much. The moment had come to move on from husbands to lovers, and Ghislaine took the plunge. Louise followed suit; certain names were mentioned, and they discovered that—a long time before—there was one young man who had, for a period, entertained them both. This made them laugh.

  “Louise, imagine—now you must tell me—I never found him quite…”

  Louise wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

  “Neither did I. Neither did I! Ghislaine—why ever did we bother? How absurd we were!” She paused, hesitated. “Tell me—the truth now. As a married woman, did it ever make you feel guilty?”

  Ghislaine looked at her; a dry look. “Actually no. To tell the truth, quite the reverse.”

  “Oh, Ghislaine—I do so adore you. You’re so wickedly frank…”<
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  The second bottle of champagne was finished; the seal on their newly warm relationship was set. The plane banked, and turned; Ghislaine was aware that she was more than slightly drunk. It was at that moment, when she was quite off her guard, that Louise, also unguarded by this point, made her major, her irreversible, mistake.

  It sprang from intimacy and good will, delicately shaded with patronage, and perhaps also from an irrepressible urge just to use Philippe de Belfort’s name. She leaned across and pressed Ghislaine’s arm.

  “My dear—you know you were saying about Jean-Jacques—how mean he is…”

  “Mean! He won’t part with a sou. If it was up to him, I’d dress at Printemps. I pay for everything, all the couturier’s bills, myself…”

  Louise’s eyes rounded with shock and sympathy.

  “Look at this.” Ghislaine held out her hand and displayed the ring she was wearing.

  “It’s lovely, darling. I was admiring it earlier…”

  “It’s borrowed,” Ghislaine said bitterly. “Like most of my jewelry.”

  “Darling! It’s so unfair. Now, listen to me. You’re obviously being given all the wrong advice. The money you earn, Ghislaine, you could double it, triple it on the market. And all without doing a thing. Philippe says—”

  She broke off, and gave Ghislaine a coy and almost flirtatious glance. “He’s terribly clever, you know. Since I began to take his advice—I can’t tell you, Ghislaine, what fun it’s been. And you could do the same…”

  Ghislaine stared at her.

  “Philippe’s been advising you? Philippe de Belfort? But I thought Edouard…”

  “Oh, Edouard!” Louise made a little face. “Edouard’s so stuffy. So conservative. Clever, of course, but he lacks daring. Now, Philippe…”

  Ghislaine’s mind was growing alert. Louise leaned closer, so her mouth was close to Ghislaine’s ear. She lowered her voice to a whisper; she said, “Imagine. One hundred thousand, Ghislaine!”

  She drew back again, her eyes sparkling. Ghislaine felt confused.

  “Francs?”

  “Darling Ghislaine, don’t be silly. Sterling. All perfectly above-board, arranged through my Swiss bank. In two months.”

  Ghislaine swallowed.

  “Two months?”

  “That’s what I’ve cleared, in two months.” She gave Ghislaine a little conspiratorial smile. “I was dying to sell and take my profits, but Philippe says no, I should hang on. He thinks it could go up another twenty percent—maybe more. Isn’t that delightful? It’s that kind of little tip that makes all the difference, Ghislaine. Now do you see what I mean?”

  Ghislaine did. One hundred thousand pounds. In two months. She could imagine herself spending it; real jewels, serious jewels, and all of them her own. Resentment rose like bile in her stomach; she knew suddenly that she had never hated Louise so much as she did at that moment, when Louise thought she was being kind. One hundred thousand: chicken feed to Louise, and yet she looked as thrilled as a small girl who had just won a raffle.

  “Yes, that’s all very well,” Ghislaine managed eventually. “You have the capital to do that, Louise. My position, unfortunately—”

  “You have to speculate to accumulate, Ghislaine. Never forget that. Then it’s just a matter of being on the inside, of getting the right little hints. Now, listen, Ghislaine. Do you have some money at the moment, something that isn’t tied up?”

  “I suppose so. I’ve just been paid for the Rothschild designs. And Harriet Smithson’s house was finished a month ago, so…”

  “Darling. I’m going to say one little word to you. Well, three little words actually. But you’ll have to act fast. And then you’re to forget it was I who mentioned them, you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Not a word to anyone. Above all, not a word to Edouard—I can rely on you, Ghislaine? If Edouard knew I hadn’t consulted him, he’d be cross, and that would spoil everything…”

  “Not a word, my dear, naturally, I swear.”

  The two women looked at each other, and then Louise smiled. Very carefully and distinctly, she said, “Rolfson Hotels Group.”

  And in Ghislaine’s head, as a thousand alarm bells started to ring, came the most marvelous sense of calm. She saw at once all the advantages that the betrayal of this confidence could bring.

  In his Paris office, the next day, Edouard sat still at his desk. In front of him were pages of figures; opposite him sat Philippe de Belfort. It was the first meeting they had had since Edouard returned from New York the previous morning; it had been called by Edouard, with some urgency. De Belfort, however, seemed quite calm.

  Edouard looked at the figures in front of him tiredly. He was blaming himself for the fact that he had lost a day. Yesterday there had been a thousand matters to attend to; he had spent time choosing the present for Catharine; he had spent hours reading the Angelini screenplay at St. Cloud; and all the time there had been this time bomb ticking away. True, he had to delegate; true, this was, strictly speaking, de Belfort’s responsibility and de Belfort’s domain—but still, it was ultimately his responsibility: Edouard traced and retraced the figures angrily, blaming himself. When he looked up, finally, his voice was very cold.

  “We were in touch constantly while I was in New York. Would you tell me why you didn’t raise this issue then?”

  De Belfort spread his hands. “I knew you’d have been watching the market. I assumed you knew. You did raise the question on one occasion, if I remember correctly…”

  His tone was negligent, almost insolent. Edouard’s mouth tightened. “I raised the question, and you assured me you’d been keeping a watch on it, and would continue to do so. I was then very tied up with the Partex negotiations, as you know. It was you who were in London, you who were handling this. This is your responsibility. Yesterday—you could have spoken to me yesterday, as soon as I returned…”

  “I didn’t contact you yesterday, or before that, and for one simple reason. I looked at the situation, and I considered there was no cause for alarm. That is still my view.”

  “I see.”

  De Belfort’s tone had become slightly aggressive, as it always did whenever his judgment was questioned. Edouard bent his head again to the figures in front of him; after a while, he raised his head, and looked de Belfort straight in the eye.

  “The message of these figures is perfectly clear. There’s something wrong.”

  “I fail to see it.”

  “Then I suggest you look again. It’s now May. The price of the Rolfson Hotels Group stock has been rising steadily since February.”

  “Not that dramatically.” De Belfort shrugged. “That happens. Our security has been impeccable. But certain rumors always fly about. The market gets jumpy…”

  “Jumpy. Precisely. That’s exactly what I would expect. A pattern of rise and fall in the Rolfson stock. It’s the classic pre-takeover pattern. And it isn’t the pattern we have here. Look. A steady rise, from February onward. Virtually no fallback at all.”

  “It’s unusual, I admit.” De Belfort’s tone was dismissive. “But these things don’t always conform to pattern. There are exceptions to every rule. It was like this for the Mackinnon’s bid, in 1959. If it continues, I admit, we may be forced into revising our offer upward a little…we’ll still be well within our margins. And in any case, I don’t think that will be necessary. It won’t go on climbing. It’ll fall. We’ve still got over a week to go.”

  Edouard frowned. There was some sense in what de Belfort said, but he still knew he was uneasy. After a while you developed an instinct for the market; Edouard had been born with that instinct, and use had made it sharp. He looked at the figures once more, and they still said—wrong. He looked up again.

  “You’re sure the security has been absolutely tight?”

  “Totally. We’ve used codes from the first. Not more than four or at the most five people know the name of the company, or the timing of the bid. We start printing t
he letters to Rolfson shareholders tomorrow, and then it gets more difficult, of course. I personally think that a lot of leaks stem from the printers, and I’d like to have delayed it. But we’ve been very careful. It’s being done by a small firm near Birmingham. We’ve used them; Montague Smythe’s used them. There’s never been trouble in the past…”

  “And there’s only been this one story in the press? Nothing else?”

  Edouard slipped the clipping across the desk. De Belfort hardly gave it a glance.

  “That rag? No one pays any attention to that. No one else has picked up on it. The man’s a Fleet Street joke. Pure speculation on his part…”

  “I see he’s hinting at the possibility of a counterbid…”

  De Belfort sighed. “We’ve discussed this. Obviously, it’s a possibility that you can never absolutely rule out. But in my opinion, given the scale of our offer, and the timing of the bid—just after the Rolfson trading figures have come out, and we know how their shareholders are going to react to them—we have nothing to fear. I have to admit—” he eased himself forward in his seat—“I don’t quite see the necessity for any alarm on your part—”

  “Someone’s been buying,” Edouard cut him off, his voice like ice. “You’re not a fool—you can see that in the figures as well as I can. Someone has been buying, to be precise, for two months, since February, and at regular intervals, in fairly substantial amounts…There can be only one reason for that. There’s been a leak about our bid.”

  “I don’t accept that…” De Belfort raised his voice.

  Edouard continued, as if he had not spoken at all.

  “Someone has been buying. And someone is continuing to buy. There’s a seven-point rise in the last three days alone. Which suggests to me that someone not only knows about our offer, they have a strong indication that there’s going to be a counterbid.” Edouard frowned, and his voice became very quiet. “Someone has already made substantial profits. If there’s a counterbid, then, of course, they’ll stand to make a great deal more.”