Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Yes, Celine?”

  “Madame.” The girl’s voice was nervous. “Madame. There is a person to see you. But I don’t know if you will wish to see him.”

  “An appointment?” Had she forgotten a meeting with Herr Brandt? Or one of their gemologists?

  “No, Madame. It is—it is M. Hugh Montfort.”

  Sophie jumped in her chair. “Hold on a second, Celine.”

  Montfort? What should she do? It was arrogance, incredible arrogance, for him to turn up at her office and assume she would see him. Maybe she ought to tell Celine to get security and have him thrown out.

  No, that wouldn’t do. She would have to see him. He might use it in the press, otherwise. More of those vicious stories that Judy couldn’t seem to stop.

  There was a tray on her desk. Responses to the party invitations. So far they had had only one refusal, from the Duchesse de Nevers, and she had asked if her daughter might go instead. Sophie considered stacking them away somewhere. The party was, after all, her secret weapon.

  But again, no. That did not fit the style of Massot she was working on.

  “Show him up,” Sophie said.

  While she waited she stood and went to the mirror, antique and full-length, a fine nineteenth-century piece Sophie had brought in from the château. Making a good impression had always been a priority, because Pierre wanted it. But it was now the heart of her business, too.

  She still looked well, she thought. Today’s suit was classic and strong.

  For the first time, she wore her hair loose. It looked sexy, and she rather liked it. Sophie felt a little more daring; she’d dropped the court shoes and was experimenting with heels; they changed her walk, and she was feeling younger, more confident. She was going to have to handle this by herself.

  There was no Gregoire Lazard to look to for help.

  “Come in,” she said when he knocked.

  Montfort entered and bowed slightly.

  “I ought to have called first,” he said. “You are good to see me on short notice.”

  “Have a seat.” Sophie took hers, determined not to lose time on pleasantries.

  She took him in. Hugh Montfort was just as she remembered him: confident, good-looking, insanely good-looking, in fact. But not in a smooth, conventional way. His face was weather-beaten and looked tired; he was too muscular, and he moved in a precisely controlled way that many people would find unsettling. Including herself.

  Hugh Montfort registered as dangerous. Sophie felt the tug of attraction in her body, but tried to ignore it.

  She had gotten involved with only one other man after Pierre, and it had been nothing but disaster. Saving Massot was a duty. More than that, it had become her life.

  An attraction—even a strong attraction—to the man who wanted to destroy it. No. She thought again, that won’t do.

  “Mrs. Massot—”

  “Madame. My husband was French, and I honour his memory,” Sophie said firmly. She tried to make sure this was true.

  “Mme Massot.” He inclined his head. “I visited your showrooms in rue Faubourg today.”

  Sophie said nothing. Let him make the running.

  “May I say that your refurbishment is outstanding. The design is excellent, the lighting, the display—all superb.”

  “I am glad you were pleased,” she responded coolly.

  “I became a customer of House Massot.”

  Sophie’s eyes sparked a little interest at that. “And what did you buy?”

  “A peacock feather aigrette, after the first piece Tiffany designed.”

  She nodded. “I know that brooch. It is a very beautiful piece; you have good taste. But then again, all our pieces are beautiful,” she added, with some firmness.

  “So they are. But, Mme Massot. They are bespoke. And the prices are outrageous. You cannot make money in the haute couture market. May I give you my opinion?”

  “You never seem to hesitate on that point.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps not. Then let me say, fashion houses—jewellery houses too—make most of their money, almost all of it, in selling lesser-priced pieces to the masses. The individual stuff is just a loss leader. Chanel makes its money in scent. . . .”

  “House Massot does not sell to the masses, Mr. Montfort. And nor do I intend to. Our jewellery will remain bespoke. And we will be profitable. There is nothing to limit us as to perfumes, however, in the future. For now, I intend to restructure the company and focus on our core market. This will mean more value to the shareholders than your lowball offer.”

  Hugh sat back, surprised. She wasn’t right—of course not—but the short speech displayed at least a basic understanding of business.

  He thought, as she sat there, bolt upright, in her black and pearl grey, with that stunning, just-right pendant—full of her own dignity, and bristling with hostility—that she might be the most attractive woman he had ever seen.

  A flush of anger and guilt ran through him at his own betrayal. Georgie—Georgie was the most attractive. He would love Georgie till he died. There was no space for anyone else.

  “You have no time for that. You only have a couple of months.” His tones were clipped. “Not enough time to convince your shareholders. After years of mismanagement.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, mysteriously.

  This annoyed Hugh. He ploughed on. “I understand you want to keep your husband’s empire alive. And I find the Massot re-branding quite convincing. So I am here to make you a new offer.”

  “I’m listening,” Sophie said.

  “If you will back Mayberry’s offer for the stock, we will now no longer dissolve Massot. Our plan was simply to occupy your stores and use your supply pipelines. However, after what I have seen, I am now prepared to guarantee Massot’s survival, for five years at least, as a division of Mayberry jewels—our high-end division. Massot will have a corner in every Mayberry store, selling a few select pieces. We would continue to employ your talented designers. And I can find a position for you, yourself, in terms of design and decor for our worldwide stores. Thus your family would still be involved with House Massot.”

  Montfort sat back.

  “Well,” Sophie said. “Let me make you a counteroffer, Mr. Montfort.”

  He spread his hands. “I don’t think I can do any better, Mme Massot. . . .”

  “I will buy Mayberry,” Sophie said. “I’m sure I can get financing for such a bid after our successful relaunch. I will turn Mayberry into our young adult brand, because I feel the company is greatly overvalued. It’s a fad, and fads change. Mayberry may, however, provide us with a good network for future lower-end jewellery, or any ready-to-wear mass lines we may produce under another name than Massot. Or our perfumes, perhaps.” She smiled briskly. “You should take me up on it now. After you fail at the stockholders’ meeting, your reputation, and your company’s share price, will suffer. Market psychology, you see.”

  Hugh laughed. “You are very bold, Madame. I admire your spirit.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stood. “Thank you for your time.”

  Sophie nodded; the exquisite pendant at her neck glinted against her warm skin. She was no green girl with no ideas of her own, no experience of life.To him she was the picture of elegance and bravery.

  He paused. “I would want you to believe that I came here today because I was impressed. Because I admire what you are trying to do. In fact, once we have taken over this company, I can do what I like with it, including keeping the Massot brand active, as I just described. But I wanted to offer you something, you personally.”

  “And I thank you for the kind thought.” Sophie, at last, gave him a very small smile. “But I think you will find we can take care of ourselves.”

  She opened her drawer and took out an envelope, an invitation to the party, with the name left blank. There were thirty of those, just in case, for extras, or employees who wanted to attend.

  Sophie removed the top from her Montblanc pe
n and carefully wrote in Montfort’s name. He saw she had it correct, The Hon. Hugh Montfort, and written in a delicate, cursive hand.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “If you are free, a little party we are having on Friday evening. In the rue Faubourg showroom.” Sophie smiled. “I think it may surprise you.”

  He took the envelope. “Of course I’ll come,” he said. “And thank you for seeing me.”

  Sophie offered her hand. “I’ll have Celine show you out.” Enough was enough, she thought. She could make magnanimous gestures, too, but Hugh Montfort was her enemy, her son’s enemy, her husband’s enemy. Sophie was not about to let a passing fancy blind her to that.

  Gregoire Lazard was the last time.

  Chapter 26

  Tom bowed halfheartedly.

  “And this is Celeste de Fortuny, and her sister Margot.”

  Two more moonfaced girls with weak chins. He sighed inwardly.

  “They are the daughters of the Marquis de Fortuny, you know, darling,” his grandmother persisted.

  “I know the marquis,” Tom acknowledged. They had met several times at Maman’s interminable dinner parties at the château. De Fortuny was a dullard with a face flushed from too much testing of the product of his own vineyeards, and his daughters looked scarcely more interesting.

  “And here is Louise Tatin.”

  “Enchanted,” Tom said, kissing her hand. Louise was a slight improvement. She had red hair and reminded him of Flora.

  “And her young man, Georges, the younger son of M. Grec ques, the minister of finance.”

  “How d’you do,” Tom managed. So the slightly pretty one was taken, no surprise there. God. How much more of this? Grandmother’s parties, and salons, and introductions, were wearing him out. Tonight was the worst; fifty of her closest friends and their children for dinner in the rented apartment, Paris’s most costly caterers, no expense spared. The adults had mostly left after the sumptuous dinner; even Tom had enjoyed the dinner; it was a rush to finally sit at the head of his own, long table, Grandmother presiding at the second one. The caterers had brought it in, laid it with the finest linens, crystal glasses, and silverware, punctuated it with vases crammed with lilies and orchids, and beeswax candles, and then served a meal of utter magnificence. If he were to be honest, he had enjoyed all those dukes and barons as his guests; he had revelled in the free flow of vintage champagne from the great marques, the caviar and other amuse-gueules, the nettle sorbets, the Normandy cheeses, the truffled butter, the succulent roast geese. It was all extremely French, extremely haut, a mark of respect to his father. Grandmother wore an impeccable Givenchy gown of moss green satin and dripped with Massot emeralds and diamonds. The one concession to England had been at his own request: Charbonnel & Walker chocolates. One simply could not get better, neither in Paris nor from any Brussels confectioner, and Tom would rather have the best than be a purist.

  French was, of course, usually best. But sometimes the British did a thing or two well. Such as chocolates. And women.

  The adults had left, and now Grandmother was pressing the acquaintance of a string of bland society girls on him. Even imagining them without their clothes did not help much.

  “It’s a wonderful party,” Louise Tatin said.

  Tom bowed again. “I hope you enjoy yourself. Delighted to meet you, Georges. Would you excuse me a moment?”

  He evaded Katherine’s waspish stare and fled to another corner of the room. What was the point? The names went in one ear and out of the other. He had been seen in society, made the point: a Massot was back, a true Massot, to take control. Grandmother had invited select gossip columnists; come tomorrow this would be all over the papers. Then he had to find some executives, charm some bankers; it would be a two-way vote between himself and Mayberry, and Tom wanted to get to work.

  Right now he would settle for a drink.

  A plump waitress was hovering near the trust fund brat of some property developer. Tom nodded sharply at her, and she plodded over to him, bearing a merciful flute of ice-cold vintage Pol Roger. He picked it up, resisting the temptation to slug it back in one go and get another. That was impossible here. Too many moonfaced witnesses.

  “So, M. Massot.” A girl sidled up to him. She was a modelly type, the kind Vogue hires because they have an “interesting” face: small featured and far too thin, with a cultivated air of ennui. Tom thought with longing of Polly, her laughter, her ample breasts. But that made him miserable, so he took a fortifying sip of champagne and tried to remember the girl’s name.

  “Call me Tom, please”—what was it?—“Henriette.”

  “Minette,” she said, face clouding.

  “That’s what I said. Minette.” He smiled at her.

  “So . . . I am looking forward to your mother’s party,” Minette said. “Will you be there?”

  Tom desperately tried to pull her details from the files of recent introductions stored in his memory. Minette . . . yes, there it was—Minette Roux, daughter of a banker and his Italian principessa of a wife.

  “What party is that?”

  “Oh, you know. On Friday. The one at House Massot, at the showroom. To celebrate the reopening.” The girl smiled; she had bad teeth, probably owing to acid from self-induced vomiting to keep her weight down. Polly always relished her food.

  “I have not seen my mother since I returned to Paris last week. But I intend to. I doubt I shall come to that party.”

  Tom thought that was as diplomatic as he could manage. He would have to remove Maman, but he was a good son, he thought self-righteously. He would not allow le tout Paris to make them into mortal enemies. Once Maman had been restored to her proper place, they would be back to normal. Or almost; he could never forget that his mother had declared Papa dead.

  “But it is the great triumph of House Massot. At least, that’s what all the rumours say.”

  “They are just rumours. The House will triumph again, of course—after I have taken over.”

  The girl’s pinched face clouded in confusion. “You are not throwing this party, Monsieur?”

  “My mother and I have a minor disagreement,” Tom said with dignity. “And please call me Tom.” He wanted to change the subject. “I like that brooch,” he said.

  Her eyes bugged. “But it’s Massot,” she said. “Your mother sent it to me. Well, she sent one to everybody who was invited. Not a crab, like mine. But a brooch, anyway. A different one for everybody.”

  Tom paused. “Let me get this straight, Minette,” he said. “My mother sent an original Massot piece to everybody she invited to this party?”

  “That’s right.” The girl smiled her bad teeth at him. “And do you know, Tom, everybody’s just delighted. . . .”

  He felt sick. So—his dear maman was turning House Massot jewels into cheap promotional freebies? Tom was sure Papa would be turning over in his grave—no, not that; would be furious. When he came home.

  “I expect they are very pleased to receive a House Massot piece for nothing,” he answered coldly. “Whether the shareholders will enjoy this recklessness is another matter.”

  “So . . . you won’t be coming?”

  She really was as thick as pigswill. “Excuse me,” he said stiffly, and walked away.

  Katherine was holding court on a chaise longue at one end of the salon. A crowd of young people had gathered around her, and she was talking animatedly, waving her splendid filigree ivory fan. Her eyes lit up as Tom approached, clutching his champagne flute as though it were a lifesaver.

  “Ah, there you are, darling. I thought we had lost you forever.”

  “My apologies, Grandmother. I was talking with Minette Roux.”

  “A very charming young woman,” his grandmother pronounced.

  “Tom, Mme Katherine was just telling us stories of your father,” Margot de Fortuny said. “All about his first atelier on rue d’Agusseau. And his first piece, the eagle brooch. Holding the diamond.”

  Tom softened
. “That is magnificent. Still the greatest piece House Massot ever made.”

  That brooch was now the logo of the House; his father, Maman had told him, repurchased it at incredible cost from the private collection of an infanta of Spain, and it was now housed under a glass case in Papa’s old sitting room, in the château.

  “Oh, I love all House Massot’s jewellery,” said Louise Tatin, sycophantically.

  “And I.” Julie Heberge, a young baronne, smiled at him. “The brooch your mother sent me when she invited me to her party—quite charming, I assure you. A spider, made from solid gold, with the tiniest eyes of jet. . . .”

  Tom nodded. “Have you heard about this party, Grandmother?”

  Katherine looked at him calmly. “Of course I have, darling. All Paris has heard of it.”

  “I see.” She had not seen fit to inform him.

  “I was going to mention it to you tonight, to ask your advice on what I should wear.” Katherine smiled at the crowd of courtiers. “Tom advises an old lady on her toilette so I do not make a fool of myself.”

  There was a chorus of dissent.

  “What you will wear? But we are not going, surely?” Tom asked, shocked out of discretion.

  Katherine fixed him with a watery eye. “But of course we are going, my dear,” she said softly. “It is your party. For it is your company. That is what your father intended.”

  He was finally alone at one in the morning. Helene Duloc, a curvy brunette daughter of some publishing magnate, had practically offered herself as a bed partner, but for once Tom was not interested. His mind was too busy. He needed to be by himself, and besides, she was half-drunk, and he preferred them sober. Nice tits, though; maybe he would call her tomorrow.

  After his grandmother had been picked up by her chauffeur, and the last guests made their farewells, the catering company had most efficiently packed everything away; they had twenty people on the job, and within fifteen minutes his apartment was as pristine as when they arrived.

  It was a great relief. Of course, at the château he would not have had to worry. He could simply have removed to the kitchen, one of the drawing rooms, his father’s smoking room, or the kitchens—anywhere—really, and waited for the servants to clear the stuff away in the morning. In the apartment, however, Tom did not have the luxury of space.