Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  The waiter arrived back with their menus, announced the gratitude of the formerly angry monsieur, and waited for their order. Lazard decided on a steak au poivre. There was a pause, then Sophie realized they were looking at her.

  “Oh—give me a few seconds,” she said. It came to her that she had been waiting for Gregoire to choose something on her behalf, the way Pierre had always done. But he had not; he was waiting for her to make her own selection. Sophie wasn’t used to that. She decided she liked it.

  “The salade niçoise,” she said.

  “Of course, Madame. Some wine for the table, Monsieur?”

  Gregoire looked at Sophie; she shook her head.

  “Just a bottle of Perrier. It’s a business meeting.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the waiter, vanishing.

  “If you can bear it, I will summarize the position for you,” Gregoire said to her. He was all seriousness, and Sophie willed herself to concentrate and not think about his charming manners or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Naturally I will provide you with all the reports and documentation when we get back to the office. But for now, an overview?”

  “That would be fine.”

  He sketched things out for her. House Massot was thriving. The stock price had increased by 9 percent since the disappearance of Pierre. The jewellery business was magnificent; they boasted some of the world’s finest pieces, and their reputation was undimmed. Accessories and fashion continued steady—though there had been some slight resistance to the last collection, his excellent PR department was working to overcome it.

  “Judy Dean,” Sophie said, recalling the hard-looking girl in the raspberry suit.

  “She is very efficient.”

  “I am sure she is.”

  Gregoire Lazard paused. “Perhaps you would like to get to know her better; as you said, she is the most senior woman at Massot. Apart from yourself, of course.”

  “I’m hardly ‘at Massot,’ ” Sophie said.

  He smiled back at her. “We all work for you; you must get used to it.”

  Sophie loved how he did that. He was so respectful, and he treated her without any condescension.

  “I would like to get to know her, although I probably shan’t stay long in the office.”

  Gregoire groaned. “You’re not going to run away to the château and leave me all alone again, doing boring business all day long?”

  She giggled. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “You have no idea of the tedium.”

  “Well,” Sophie said. She paused as the waiter laid their dishes in front of them and withdrew. “You seem to have everything under control, Gregoire, so I’m afraid I shan’t spend more than a week or so over there once I have read all the papers.”

  “The papers?”

  “Yes, the papers and reports you said you would give me.”

  “Oh, those.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Of course you want to read them. I had hoped to save you the trouble.”

  “I suppose I had better check over everything,” Sophie said apologetically.

  “But certainly,” he said, grinning. “Why should I be the only one to suffer?”

  She took a bite of her salad. It was exceptional: the beans were fresh and crisp, the salad dressing used lemon juice instead of vinegar, and they had added some fresh chopped herbs that made the whole thing smell like summer. She saw that the new potatoes were flecked with tiny specks of truffles, and sighed with pleasure.

  Gregoire was poised over his steak, which looked excellent, very tender and bloody. He nodded towards her salad.

  “I’ve always observed that the truly great chefs distinguish themselves in simple meals, rather than complex ones.”

  “I feel exactly the same.”

  He smiled at her. “Madame—Sophie, I hope you will not consider me very forward if I say that it is a real pleasure for me to have you with us. And indeed, I hope that once you have returned to your home—if you truly feel you must—that you will not be a stranger to us.” He paused. “Well, to own the truth, I want you not to be a stranger to me.”

  Sophie laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were flirting with me, Monsieur.”

  “Ah! No, Madame,” he said, seriously. “Not that—not flirting.”

  She blushed and took refuge in another forkful of salad.

  “Excuse me,” Lazard said ruefully. “I am out of practice, not very good at this. For me it has been too long. Forgive me.”

  “Oh,” Sophie said. “You’re doing very well. I mean—I wasn’t offended.”

  “But I said things too fast. You know already how beautiful you are, and do not need an old fool like me to tell you so. I will just hope we can become friends.”

  Sophie’s mouth felt dry. It had been so many years since she had been talked to like this. In fact, she wasn’t sure she ever had been. Lazard was strong, tall, handsome, and clearly a successful businessman, and yet he seemed to be genuinely fascinated by her. He was sitting there all discomfited—over her. Of all things!

  She began to feel herself uncurl, a little, in the unaccustomed warmth of male appreciation. And there was no guilt. She was a widow, she was a free woman. Not that it would go that far. . . .

  Although, why not? Why shouldn’t it? said a very small voice inside her.

  “I believe we are already friends, Gregoire,” she said, smiling shyly.

  Chapter 9

  Judy was proud of herself. Everybody had been watching, she knew that much. It was simply too delicious a piece of gossip to pass up. The widow and the mistress; very well, one of the mistresses. But the only one that worked in this company. House Massot was a small, close office. Few people were hired here and fewer fired; many of the secretaries had been working here when Pierre was still around, courting her boldly, the fresh flowers—orchids and other costly out-of-season blooms—landing on her desk every day.

  Life at Massot was not that interesting lately. Nothing much had happened since Hugh Montfort and Mayberry had come sniffing around like wolves, but the last time he had tried had been a few years ago. Damn Montfort; Judy couldn’t get a thing noticed right now because his blasted citrines were everywhere. The fashion was for all things spiky and chunky, not for Massot’s sedate, important pieces.

  She glanced at her secretary, who had been positively bristling with excitement ever since Mme Massot had deigned to show her face. Judy was no fool. She was well aware that as soon as she left the office for lunch, the excited buzz would have swelled around her desk.

  She shrugged. She was confident that she had carried it off beautifully. Let them gossip.

  “Marie, bring me the New York reviews of the last collection.”

  “Right away, Mademoiselle,” her assistant said.

  Judy sat proudly behind her desk as Marie brought in the sheaf of clippings and laid it in front of her. She really didn’t need to see them, but she wanted to assert her authority.

  “Thank you. And a cup of coffee, please.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Marie said meekly. She had the guilty countenance of one who knows she has been caught out. Judy didn’t really blame her. It would be hard not to gossip, wouldn’t it, with the widow so surprising. No, not what she had expected at all. Judy had imagined Sophie with the years thickening her, getting fat and letting herself go once Pierre had disappeared. Of course she would be able to afford the best tailoring, which can slim up to ten pounds off a woman.

  But no, she had not expected Sophie Massot to be so elegant. She was, what, a hundred and eighteen, maybe a little less. Petite, at five foot five, Judy guessed, once you subtracted the heels. But gorgeous skin, glossy chestnut brown hair, and bright eyes. And simply wonderful style. She looked perfect in black, with that touch of white at her neck, the huge, lustrous pearls. It would be hard to put a value on those pearls. Certainly more than several years of Judy’s salary.

  Judy silently thanked
the gods of fashion that she had decided to go completely jewellery free for the encounter. Yes, she had those few, good pieces, but she had correctly guessed that nothing she owned could compete with Sophie Massot and her personal collection.

  She looked down at the raspberry suit. It was bright, unafraid. She was so glad she had taken the extra time this morning with her hair and makeup. True, Mrs. Massot was much better looking than expected. But, Judy thought fiercely, she still cannot compete with me. Not then, and not now.

  Let her wear those insane pearls; Judy would compete with her beauty, and let it be all the ornamentation required. She knew all the Frenchwomen in the office had been judging the two of them, and she imagined herself to be the victor.

  It is all so much nonsense when women say they dress for men, Judy thought. What do men know about style? Nothing. She wanted the respect of her peers, and in France, for an American, that was quite something to achieve. She was proud of the fact she had made it. Daily she compared herself to the effortless chic of the women around her; her style was far from effortless, but she was sure it could pass muster with any of them.

  Her eyes flickered over the press clippings. The best you could say about them was mediocre, but Judy was still quite satisfied. The last collection had been about damage limitation. It had been booed off stage at one of the shows; she had had to do some fast spinning to keep that story from running everywhere.

  In a way, we should be grateful for Hugh Montfort and his amazing Oscar-winning protégée, Judy realized; that story had taken up so much ink that the implosion of their fashion brand was relegated to just a few pages.

  She sighed. Working for Massot right now was like The Shaw-shank Redemption, trying to tunnel her way out of jail with a spoon. And that was assuming she was able to concentrate—

  Her phone buzzed.

  “Yes, Marie?”

  “M. Lazard asks if you have five minutes to see him in his office, Mademoiselle.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right up.” Judy depressed the button with triumph. Ah—wonderful. M. Lazard—no, Gregoire, she reminded herself—had managed Sophie Massot, had got her to leave, to trundle on back to Château des Étoiles, and do whatever the very rich do. And since she had managed not to lash out at the woman, at least not too obviously, her patience was going to be rewarded.

  Senior vice president.

  Judy smoothed down the fabric of her suit, checked herself in the full-length mirror she had installed on one wall of her office so she could always be certain a hem had not fallen nor a button come loose.

  The fog in her mind blew away. Sophie Massot was relegated to her proper place. It was Lazard, working him, that was to become her priority. Immediately, Judy had banked the senior vice president, and her mind was now on the next goal. Getting Giles Keroualle fired—he was worse than useless—and placing herself in charge of the division.

  She rode the elevator up to the executive suite in a wonderful mood.

  When she reached Lazard’s office, she knocked delicately.

  “Gregoire?”

  “Come in, Judy,” he called.

  She entered.

  “I’m so glad—Oh, excuse me.”

  Sophie Massot had not left. She was standing there next to Gregoire, smiling foolishly, Judy thought. She thrust her own annoyance down and returned the smile with a brisk one of her own.

  “I hope you had a good lunch, Madame,” she said to Sophie, through gritted teeth.

  “Very nice indeed,” Sophie replied, with a slight blush.

  “Judy, Mme Massot is to set up an office here while she goes over our reports and financials.”

  “How nice,” Judy said, since she couldn’t think of anything else to say. The widow was beaming at her. She struggled to contain her annoyance. Go over the financials, huh? How great, for the mousy hausfrau to take an interest. Judy sure felt honoured.

  “Yes, we are fortunate to have her with us.”

  Judy looked sympathetically at Gregoire. No doubt he wanted her help in getting this well-dressed monkey off their backs. I’ll come up with something, she thought.

  “I was thinking perhaps you and I could work together,” Sophie said.

  “What?” Judy replied sharply. Then she flushed. The comment had taken her completely by surprise. Hastily, she moved to cover. “I mean—wow. I wasn’t expecting that . . . I mean . . . you being the owner, and everything,” she blurted.

  “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” Sophie replied, smiling.

  Condescending bitch.

  “That’s good to know, Mrs. Massot,” Judy said, easily. She had recovered herself now and felt utterly alert. Her palms were damp from the adrenaline.

  “But you must call me Sophie, please. And I’ll use Judy, if that’s okay.”

  “It’s absolutely fine.”

  “It will be nice to work with another woman.”

  “Certainly,” Judy said heartily. Does she know, she thought. She must, she must know! Why would she be doing this? The tiny hairs on the backs of her arms and neck were rising. She wondered if Sophie was looking for an excuse to sack her; Judy would hand her no such victory.

  “And I believe you are the only native English speaker in the company.”

  “That’s true, although everybody here is fluent. We take language skills very seriously at House Massot.” Judy couldn’t resist.

  “I can see that,” Sophie said. The younger woman looked brittle and tense, somehow. Was Sophie being fenced with? But why? No, it must be nerves. “Well, I’m sure we’ll get on famously.”

  “No doubt. I look forward to it—Sophie.”

  “Excellent,” Gregoire Lazard said. He looked from one of them to the other with satisfaction. “I am preparing the rooms opposite mine for Sophie, Judy, and there is another vacant office right next to hers.”

  Judy knew it. It was a small, windowless cubicle, half the size of her present office.

  “Perfect,” she said furiously.

  “If you could ask maintenance to start moving your equipment and files today, you can start in there tomorrow.”

  “Of course. And since they will be moving everything, perhaps I should work from home this afternoon.”

  Gregoire inclined his head.

  “Where do you live, Judy?” Sophie Massot asked.

  “On rue des Cloches,” Judy said. She would have given six months’ pay to be able to add “in the apartment Pierre bought me, where we made love every day.” Instead she had to content herself with “I have lived there for seven years now.”

  Judy bit her lip. Unbidden, a sharp image flashed into her mind: Pierre, after a wild lovemaking session here, in this very office, telling her to get into his Corvette, driving her through the city . . .

  She’d asked where they were going. He wouldn’t say. But when he stopped outside the building, that lovely, eighteenth-century pale grey stone lit up by the fading sun, he’d pointed upwards.

  “See that?”

  She nodded.

  “The penthouse.” And then he’d fished that dangling key out of his pocket. “All yours, baby.”

  It was the greatest present she’d ever received. An actual place of her own. That had been the one moment, the one golden, glorious moment, when Judy felt Pierre truly loved her.

  Gregoire Lazard’s eyes lit up with amusement; he looked discreetly down at his desk.

  “Rue des Cloches? Oh, how lovely,” Sophie said, warmly. “I believe that’s a very up-and-coming neighbourhood.”

  Yes, I definitely hate her, Judy confirmed.

  “Well then, until tomorrow,” she said, smiling brightly. “Ex cuse me.”

  Back in her office, Judy informed Marie, as calmly as she could, that they would be making the move to the tenth floor.

  “Mais pourquoi, Mademoiselle?” Marie asked, dismayed.

  She doesn’t want to move any more than I do, Judy thought. All her friends are down here, and she too has access to a window.

  �
��Mme Massot has decided she wants to work more closely with me,” Judy said, daring the other woman to say something.

  Marie swallowed. “I see,” she said, reverting to English.

  “It is a wonderful opportunity to work closely with the chairman of the board,” Judy said cheerfully. “We must be on our best behaviour, Marie.”

  She felt a wave of tiredness sweep over her. PR taught one how to act happy and upbeat at times when you felt the opposite, but this—this was going to be exhausting. Smiling and bowing all day long. She hoped to hell Sophie would tire of this charade soon; that woman as an executive? It was like Marie Antoinette playing the shepherdess.

  “Marie, have maintenance take care of it. Supervise the installations. Then you can take the rest of the day off. I am going home now.”

  “If someone should need you, Mademoiselle, how can they reach you?”

  “They can’t,” Judy said firmly. “I’ll be back in tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

  Judy picked up her purse and walked downstairs and out the front door as fast as she could. She needed some fresh air, to breathe and to collect herself. Hastily, she walked towards the centre of town. She would break her own rules about eating in the middle of the day and find somewhere to have something sweet. A pastry or two, or a tarte tatin. And a coffee, although she was so jumpy that perhaps it should be decaf.

  The day had started out so well, so promisingly. And now. . . .

  Ah well, she was back to her first rule. Do not think about unprofitable things, things you cannot change. She was Judy Dean, who looked for the advantage in every situation. Every businessperson knows the old chestnut, she told herself as she walked, and felt her heartbeat slow, about the Chinese word for “crisis” being made up out of two characters: the one for “danger” and the one for “opportunity.”

  She had to find a way to see the opportunity here. Of course it hurt to have the woman that Pierre had preferred to her rub her triumph in her face, but Pierre was long gone. What mattered now was her career. Sophie Massot was, at present, an obstacle. But Judy believed in “know thine enemy.”