Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  He summoned her from memory. Karen, she was the brunette, the former Miss Wisconsin. Five foot eight, about a hundred thirty-five; her breasts were real, although he thought she might have had them lifted. She was thirty-four—he never saw a girl under thirty—and lived in a luxurious condo in Back Bay, a full-service, doorman building, the kind that comes with its own pool and health spa. Karen told him she owned the condo herself, which meant she was relatively affluent; that she’d be getting out of the life shortly.

  All these things reduced his guilt. The women he picked were never too young, nor too poor; Montfort hated to think of the girls as vulnerable.

  But of course it was all a joke. They did it because they needed to. Possibly this girl had debts—gambled, most likely, did cocaine. He picked the ones who at least didn’t seem to be hurt, but it was the same as adding diet gin to your tonic. Well and good, but in the end, just window dressing.

  His pulse quickened as her telephone started to ring. Maybe she wouldn’t be there, and the need would be ignored, this time, because he had no choice.

  “Hello?”

  She was there. Hugh sighed inwardly.

  “Karen? This is Hugh Montfort.”

  “Baby.” He could hear the smile in her voice, and no wonder. He never asked what the girls charged; he left an envelope with a thousand dollars on the bed once he was finished.

  “Are you free this evening?”

  Memories started to crowd him now: the hollow in her long neck; the scent of her expensive shampoo; her white, straight teeth; eyes brightened by drops; the carefully toned body.

  “Nothing I can’t get out of,” she said.

  “I’d like to drop by now.”

  “Fine by me, sugar.” Karen purred into the phone; he remembered her as like a cat, sleek and sinewy. “You sound tense. Maybe we should start with a massage. I have all these different oils. . . .”

  Montfort stood up. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “You can’t stay?”

  Hugh looked over his shoulder at the girl, lying naked and unembarrassed in the middle of her satin sheets, her eyes, a kind of muddy green, flickering appreciatively over the taut muscles of his body, the scars along his back. She didn’t ask about the scar, being sensitized to Hugh, which was half, more than half of what made a good hooker. But he knew it turned her on; when she was bucking underneath him, her fingernails always went there, scratching, tracing the line.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” He continued to button his shirt.

  “That’s a pity.” She stretched luxuriantly, arching her back, displaying herself for him. “I could give you another hour, two even. No charge.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t look so depressed, sweetie,” she said, with a slight touch of annoyance. “Nobody died.”

  Montfort wondered if that was true. Afterwards, he felt as though something had died. Pride, perhaps, or hope. Just a little, every time; death by inches.

  Karen’s condo had floor-to-ceiling windows with a fabulous view of downtown Boston: the skyscrapers jabbing upwards, silhouetted by neon against the night sky; many windows still ablaze; like all American cities, it didn’t sleep.

  He dressed quickly, but still neatly. Montfort had a soldier’s habit about that. His bed was always perfectly made, his shoes always gleamed.

  “Don’t be such a stranger the next time,” the girl said. “You’re always so long between visits.”

  She used a kind of diction that made him imagine this was rote, her customary send-off. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the envelope, laying it gently on the bed beside her.

  She received it with a gracious nod of the head. “Thanks much, hon.”

  “Thank you,” he said, politely. “Have a good evening, Karen. See you next time.”

  “Hey—it was fun.” She lay there and looked up at him, and a slight gleam entered her eyes. “I get a lot, and you’re one of the best.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “We could try some other stuff next time you’re here. Dress-up maybe. Or toys . . . you ever used props? I got friends, too. Girls, boys . . .” she shrugged. “I guess just girls, for you. . . .”

  Hugh shook his head, mutely. He felt the embarrassment as hot over his body as the need for her had been an hour before.

  “You’re great, baby. Imagine if you loosened up.” She sighed. “You’re so vanilla.”

  “I have to go,” he said, and let himself out, as fast as he could manage it.

  As he stood waiting for the elevator, he thought he heard her laughing, back in the apartment; yes, she was definitely laughing. But it didn’t sound amused, it sounded bitter. They were sometimes like that, particularly when the sex had been especially athletic, or passionate. Because no matter what happened in bed, he was up and dressing seconds after he had finished. It offended some of the girls; too brutally honest, perhaps, about the transaction.

  Karen had revenged herself nicely, though, if that had been her intent. Talk of sex toys and other girls . . . boys . . . dressing up.

  Because it was just sex, wasn’t it? Any kind of friction or titillation, she didn’t care, and she didn’t see why he should care. He found every such suggestion disgusting, and felt cheapened, completely, by it. They were the same motions, the same sensations, as with Georgie, but that had been so precious to him. There was nothing in common except the relief.

  The elevator came and he climbed into it, pressing the button for the lobby. He wished he wouldn’t have to think of Georgie at times like this. But he always did. This time seemed worse than usual.

  He wouldn’t use this girl again, but it made no difference. There was that vile sense of having betrayed her, somehow; yet he had never cheated on her, never wanted to, not even for a minute.

  I’m sorry, he said to her, quietly. Forgive me.

  She would always have forgiven him, of course. He wasn’t sure that he could forgive himself.

  It was a balmy night, and he decided to walk back to his hotel instead of taking a cab, to breathe and think, and work through the disgust. He was tempted to promise himself he would never do it again, but that resolution was so shallow, this time he didn’t bother even to make it.

  Somehow that was the most depressing thing of all.

  The street lights beckoned him on. WALK, DON’T WALK . . . everything spelled out. He wished life were that easy. Oh well, at least, if his pattern were to repeat, he would not need a woman again for at least two months. Karen had been unusual, for him to succumb quite so soon after the last girl. He wondered what the trigger had been; the deal, the stress? Montfort doubted it. He lived for work.

  After a few moments it came to him. He had been restless, charged, since the night of the benefit gala, since his meeting with Sophie Massot.

  He took another shower as soon as he got back to the hotel, washed the smell of her off him, the sweat and heavy perfume she used.

  Hugh was relieved to find himself ravenously hungry. Karen had been supple and enthusiastic, and the physical act of sex for him was as strenuous as a workout. He rang room service and ordered a steak and fries. He polished off everything and was enjoying the coffee when the phone rang. He sighed; it was late, and he had wanted to get to sleep. This could only be Pete.

  “Yes?” he said.

  It wasn’t Pete. It was Louis Maitre, and he sounded incoherent with excitement.

  “Monsieur! I am glad I track you down at last. Monsieur . . . there is news.”

  Montfort forgot everything else. “Yes? Tell me.”

  “The widow Massot has gone mad,” Maitre said.

  “Slow down, Maitre,” Hugh said carefully, “and tell me exactly what has happened.”

  The flight back to London took an eternity. Montfort could not sleep, and the distractions of films, indifferent meals, and champagne had no power for him. He took out a notebook from his briefcase and began to jot his thoughts down on paper.

  S
ophie Massot was “on the rampage,” Maitre had said—an image that made him smile, despite the blackness of his mood. That woman in the dress of raven silk, with the briolette diamonds, as cold and proper as a dowager queen—he could not see her “rampaging” for anything or anybody.

  And yet the facts were there. A few phone calls had confirmed them. House Massot stores in London, Paris, New York, and Tokyo, closed—shutting their doors to visitors. Nothing but their lacklustre brand of fashion and accessories was trading. Staff had been fired across the globe—not made redundant, but dismissed for cause. The predictable lawsuits had been filed; the company had hired a London firm—Brocket, Sterns—to take care of those cases.

  Montfort knew Brocket, Sterns; they were sharks—ruthless—the kind of firm he might have selected himself, in the circumstances.

  The chief executive, the indolent Gregoire Lazard, had been escorted from the Paris offices by security guards. He too had filed a multimillion euro lawsuit. Meanwhile, at Sophie’s request, Brocket, Sterns was apparently investigating compensation and expenses for the rest of the board of directors.

  Maitre’s network of informants told him House Massot’s bankers were nervous. Their stock had dropped a full 3 percent and continued to slide. Meanwhile, shareholders and analysts were demanding information, but the PR department had not released so much as a statement.

  “She is completèment folle,” Maitre triumphed. “Your task will now be easy, Monsieur.”

  Montfort had asked when the next shareholders’ meeting was.

  “Six months, Monsieur. By then the collapse will be complete.”

  I wonder, Hugh thought.

  He had good instincts for any kind of threat, and they were prickling now. Montfort didn’t like it. Any of it.

  He glanced out of the window; the thick clouds below him meant it was dull over the Atlantic, but up here, above them all, it was as clear and sunny as ever. Usually his mind worked best on planes; no phone calls, no distractions.

  But today he was frustrated. No matter how he turned events over in his mind, he could not make sense of it.

  A stewardess passed him.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling warmly at the gorgeous Englishman.

  “How long until we land?”

  “With the tailwinds, approximately four-and-a-half hours, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Hugh said. His fingers drummed impatiently on his armrest.

  “Can I bring you something? A drink . . . champagne . . . coffee . . .”

  “I’m fine.” He smiled impersonally. “Thank you.”

  “I could fetch you a portable video unit if none of our selections appeal,” she said, unwilling to move away from him quite so soon. Some girls married people they met on flights. Look at Lisa Halaby, she’d met the king of Jordan and turned into a queen. This guy was so sexy, with that clenched jaw and strong body. I could relax him some, she thought wickedly.

  “Do you have a copy of the Financial Times?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll bring it to you.”

  All business, she thought with a sigh. What a pity.

  Against his wishes, Montfort was tired when they touched down. The temptation was to go straight to the office, possibly stopping by the Massot showroom in Bond Street, but he did not want to make any moves when he was exhausted. He had the driver deliver him home, took a long bath, and went straight to bed.

  When he awoke, he considered everything again. It was 2 p.m., so he made himself a Gruyère omelet and a large pot of coffee, flicked through the papers, and headed for the office. First, though, he stopped to see the Massot store for himself. Montfort believed that one should always check a site, if possible. You could find things out that weren’t immediately apparent on paper, sometimes.

  It looked horrible; in the middle of the opulent prosperity and conspicuous consumption of London’s main shopping artery, there it was: the venerable storefront covered in plywood, all the windows completely sealed.

  There was, however, a small notice fixed to the front door. He bent closer. In neat black lettering, it said, simply: CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. OPEN JULY 14.

  July 14, Bastille Day.

  Montfort felt a wave of unease, and then a pressing sense of urgency. If his suspicions were correct, he had to call the investment bank, and the board. And he would need a financial PR firm—experts. There was no time to lose, no time at all.

  And he, himself, must get back to Paris. At once.

  Chapter 21

  “M. Thomas Massot,” the butler said.

  “Thomas.” His grandmother stood in a slither of silk and held out her rail-thin arms to him. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”

  “And you, Grandmother,” he replied. He took a deep breath, drinking it all in. Relief flooded him: to be speaking French again, to be announced properly, as a man of stature. Everything in the dower house exactly as he recalled it—his grandmother, elegant as ever, ladylike in every particular.

  It was as though the last few months had never happened. The house was a sanctuary for him.

  “Do sit down,” Katherine Massot said. “Let us have some refreshments. Tea?”

  He shook his head. “Too English.”

  She smiled at that. “Of course, darling. Then coffee and petits fours.”

  As he had gotten older, Tom had lost his childhood sweet tooth, but he would not have dreamed of contradicting her. His grandmother was still formal, and despite her words, possessed a detachment, a distance when she spoke to him; but today he was inclined to see that as a virtue. She had not changed one degree. His father had always approved of Grandmother, always been proud. If only Maman would imitate her—then there would be no need for what he was about to do.

  “That sounds delicious. Thank you,” he said.

  “Come closer to me.” The old lady patted the chaise longue beside her with one wizened hand, and Tom rose obediently and sat beside her.

  She smelt of Violette de Parme, exactly as she always did. Katherine had used the same scent since he was a child. It was blended especially for her on Faubourg St.-Germain, and now the memories, rosy ones, rushed in on him. Tom squeezed her forearm.

  “Dear Grandmother,” he said, with feeling. “You’re not going to scold me for leaving Oxford?”

  The old lady tilted her head subtly.

  “Oxford is your mother’s concern, my dear,” she said coolly.

  Tom sensed the disapproval. He felt supported.

  “Your destiny is with Papa’s estate, here. Not in some English town among dusty books,” Katherine pronounced.

  “And with Papa’s company,” Tom said, carefully.

  Katherine sighed. “I do not know if there will be much of the company left, Thomas. You will need to content yourself with the château. Of course, there is plenty here to occupy a young man; the grounds need supervision, and the lake must be restocked every year. And the staff managed . . .” she shook her head slightly. “I had hoped, of course, to see you working with Papa, at House Massot, if he would return, and carrying on his legacy if not.” She shrugged. “But as it is . . .”

  One of the maids materialized with the coffee and petits fours and served them. Tom helped himself to a tiny macaroon, even though his appetite had entirely deserted him; he was concerned not to upset Grandmother any more.

  “But what do you mean?” he asked when the woman had gone. “Surely Maman can’t have done that much damage. It has only been a couple of months.”

  “You have not heard?”

  Katherine’s old eyes stared out of her tall, lead-paned windows, gazing up the park towards the château. “Perhaps I ought not to say anything,” she murmured, not looking at him. “It is delicate; a mother and her son. . . .”

  Tom swallowed; his mouth was dry.

  “Grandmother, if something is wrong, I beg you will tell me now. It is my company, after all.” Resentment burned in his cheeks. “Or it ought to be.”

  “Well,
that is true.” His grandmother turned her eyes back to him, then gazed at her lap. “It seems your mother has dismissed the men Papa hired. She has involved the company in legal struggles. She has closed the jewellery stores—not just in France but across the world.”

  Tom paled. “You are joking.”

  “I wish I were, my dear.”

  He removed his hand from his grandmother’s arm, sprang to his feet, and began to pace around the room. Katherine watched him intently.

  “And what is the cause? What explanation has she given for such behaviour?”

  “None,” Katherine said, crisply. “She tells the press nothing. House Massot is plunged into rumour and speculation. It is the talk of Paris.”

  Tom felt nausea rise in his throat. It was even worse, then, than he had suspected. He was glad he had moved so swiftly, perhaps not swiftly enough.

  “Grandmother, I have to ask you a favour,” he said, gravely.

  “There is something else, my darling.”

  He stared. There could not be more?

  “I fear that this . . . precipitate action by Maman may have stemmed from something . . . well . . . unfortunate.”

  Tom knew the old lady well enough to understand that the matter must be truly awful; for Katherine, these were strong terms indeed.

  “Go on,” he said with a calmness he did not feel.

  “There were rumours . . . more than rumours, I’m afraid . . . of a, how shall I put it, a liaison.”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “A liaison between your mother and the chief executive of the company. A man your father chose and employed himself.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Tom knew he was spluttering, but he could not help it. “That’s disgusting. It cannot be true. She would never ...”

  “Your mother is convinced your father is dead,” Katherine said mildly. “You must remember that. I am sure she convinced the executive of it also. After all, she had that piece of paper.”

  Tom had gone cold with shock. He made a feeble effort to collect himself.

  “I am afraid it is quite true,” said Katherine, relentlessly. “The servants gossip, you know . . . she had him as a guest to the château . . . many times . . . went to his house . . . was quite devoted, from what I understand.”