Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  Judy smiled, but her heart ached. Sophie—how, how did she do it—the black had gone, and that gown, that perfectly soft and feminine gown. If Sophie could have seen Judy’s choice in advance and deliberately picked the one outfit to overshadow it . . .

  She couldn’t help herself. She glanced at Montfort, and saw her own judgement echoed in his eyes. He was gazing at Sophie with an admiration even Judy could not ignore.

  She felt faint with envy. And hurt. Why did she always, always come second?

  “The party’s going very well, don’t you think?”

  Sophie was looking at Judy, but talking to them both. Hugh Montfort looked dazzled, and Judy felt it happening, all over again. The man who had refused her advances drooling over Sophie—older, soft-bodied Sophie, with the tiny wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.

  It was Pierre again. Sophie was preferred. Sophie was the choice.

  “Very well,” Judy said, softly. “I must circulate. Promotion. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Montfort. Buy some Massot jewels.”

  She raised her champagne flute and pivoted on her heel, walking away from the two of them as fast as she could manage on three-and-a-half-inch heels.

  Sophie looked after Judy, approvingly.

  “She’s a hard worker,” she said. “You should see the files she showed me. Ten years of press clippings, and she didn’t have much to work with. Our fashion line was a disaster.”

  “Unlike your jewellery?”

  “The jewellery was fine,” Sophie said. She couldn’t quite look Montfort in the eye. The look he was giving her disturbed her. She felt that treacherous attraction in the pit of her stomach; she tried to ignore it. “It was the presentation that was the problem.”

  “This presentation is perfect,” Montfort said.

  “Why, thank you.” Sophie tried for humour, but the look on his face stopped her cold. She took refuge in a sip of champagne.

  “But as I said, it is too expensive. And too late.”

  “I think not,” Sophie said. “Have you listened to the guests?”

  “I have just arrived.”

  “Then you haven’t heard them talking. House Massot, from tomorrow morning, will be a going concern again.”

  “You’re drinking white champagne,” Montfort said. He wanted desperately to shift the conversation from business. “Rosé would have matched your dress.”

  Sophie laughed. “But I prefer demi-sec,” she said, lifting her glass. “Sweet champagne—I suppose you think that’s frightfully bourgeois.”

  “I think a person should drink what the hell they like.” Montfort smiled, and she smiled back, an artless grin, the first moment of real fellow feeling they had had; it thrilled him.

  “It’s only bourgeois to care about what other people think?” Sophie asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh, hell,” she said, suddenly, and Montfort turned to see three guests bearing down upon them. He recognized one of them, Bernard Frimes, from Le Figaro; he had given him an interview last week.

  So this was the press, then. Montfort watched as Sophie stepped back, and the wall came down between them again.

  He watched carefully.

  “How cozy,” one of the women said. “A little tête-à-tête?”

  Sophie smiled briskly. “I’m just showing Mr. Montfort how House Massot’s new collection is thriving.”

  “It’s a fabulous party. How much is it costing your shareholders?” said the other woman, tartly.

  “Judy Dean is our public relations officer.”

  “Judy only gives us the party line,” Bernard Frimes said. “And we want the truth.”

  “The truth is that our relaunch is incredibly successful,” Sophie said. “Look around you.”

  “My dear.” The thin, older woman in black placed a spindly claw on Sophie’s delicate cap sleeve. Montfort stiffened; he wanted to brush it off. “It’s true that it’s a wonderful party, and if it were your own money, nobody would quibble.”

  “All we see,” Frimes said with a saccharine smirk, “is your guests playing around with millions of euros worth of valuables.”

  “Very risky.”

  “Highly imprudent.”

  Hugh bristled with frustration. He wanted to jump in and defend Sophie. In fact, he wanted to put one arm round her waist and shepherd her away from this pack of mongrels. Take her somewhere else. Such as his hotel room.

  But Hugh had shareholders too. He was supposed to be fighting her. Hugh ought to be enjoying this savaging; instead, he regarded the journalists with barely concealed contempt.

  Frimes turned to Montfort. “You’re bidding for this company, Monsieur. Have you a comment on this reckless spending?”

  Hugh stared him down. “My bid has been announced. I was invited to this party, and I came.”

  “This supports your pitch to your shareholders . . . this . . . fiasco ?”

  Montfort looked at Sophie.

  “My admiration for the jewels of House Massot is a matter of public record. Our bid is on the table. And other than that, as a guest, it would be highly inappropriate for me to make any comment tonight.”

  “A very English attitude,” Frimes sneered. “But what would your own stockholders say to that, Mr. Montfort?”

  Hugh, the business automaton, looked at Sophie and decided he really didn’t give a damn. For the first time in years, he was starting to feel there was more to life than money. Sophie in that dress was utterly distracting.

  “Ladies, monsieur.” Sophie smiled at the vultures with an effortless grace that renewed his admiration of her. “I’m about to give a speech, and after that, you may ask all the questions you want. Excuse me, please.”

  She nodded gracefully to them and stepped aside, through the crowd, towards a dais where a microphone, wreathed in flowers, had been set up.

  The reporters looked at Hugh, but his face was granite. They knew they would get nothing there, so they melted away, looking for Judy Dean.

  Sophie stepped up, lifting her skirts with her hands; they were delicate but a little weatherbeaten; Montfort thought of her spending time in a garden, bent over and covered in dirt; it was an appealing picture.

  She moved towards the microphone, and he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the reporters swarm around the American girl. Her face was alight. She was, he knew, briefing them against Sophie. Subtly, but that’s what she was doing.

  He made a decision. Whatever else happened, he would disabuse Mme Massot about her protégée. Sophie played a straight bat; she deserved at least that much from him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Sophie’s soft tones, her flawless French, rang out over the room, and there was instant silence.

  Hugh watched the crowd. Tom Massot and the mother-in-law in the corner, staring up coldly. There was trouble there. The reporters, eyes gleaming; Judy Dean, with a rigid air of triumph; the guests, appreciative and warm, many of them with priceless pieces dangling from their hands.

  “Thank you all very much indeed for giving us the pleasure of your company this evening. Tonight marks the relaunch of House Massot, which my late husband founded.”

  Montfort watched the younger Massot struggle with himself.

  “Pierre made this one of the great houses of France, one that would export the classic French tradition of excellence in bespoke jewellery all over the world. Tonight I honour him, and his vision. I hope that some of you may choose to purchase some of the pieces laid out for your perusal, and whether you do or not, may I wish you all a very pleasant evening.”

  There was an immediate, warm, round of applause. Sophie lifted her head; the diamonds in her ears, pink as the first blush of dawn, glittered beautifully in the spotlight.

  “Do any of you have any questions?” she asked. She looked directly at the three reporters, standing next to Judy Dean.

  She’s fearless, Montfort thought, absolutely fearless.

  “Yes.” The black-clad old witch was not impressed by Sophie’s c
ourage or her poise. “Can you explain to my readers why your guests are being allowed to handle all these incredibly expensive jewels, without any security inside the party?”

  “Certainly.” Sophie smiled back softly. “You see,” she said, “we are all ladies and gentlemen here.”

  There was a gasp, and then a murmur, and another, spontaneous and prolonged, round of applause. The crowlike woman glanced around her, taken aback, then pulled out a notepad and began to scribble.

  “Anything else?” Sophie asked.

  There was silence from the press, and she said “Please enjoy yourselves,” and stepped delicately down into the crowd. They swallowed her up, and Montfort could not see her anymore.

  As he watched, the first grand lady, in a ball gown of yellow satin, made her way to the counter. She was holding a large necklace of pink stones. Hugh thought he recognized it; it was a magnificent piece, tourmaline set with alexandrite, that rare stone that changes colour in the light and costs more than a fine diamond.

  He didn’t think that necklace would go for much shy of three quarters of a million euros.

  A Chanel-clad assistant, without any fanfare, spoke quietly to the lady and began wrapping it up; tissue paper and pink satin, tying up the ribbons, as a gentleman followed, carrying a bracelet, a cuff of hammered gold, set with cabochon rubies, a baroque piece; and then another lady, holding something too small for Montfort to make out. And as Hugh watched, he gained a perverse satisfaction from seeing the rush to the counters; these people, members of the most exclusive set in Paris, actually queuing up—they were too well-bred to jostle—to purchase gems, pieces that started at around fifteen thousand euros.

  Every assistant in the place was occupied; it was a storm, a very monied, very polite, but insistent, storm. Montfort recognized it from its less-exalted parallels with his own collections. The dowagers did not shove each other out of the way, but the choice of pieces was shrinking, and with polite insistence they were manoeuvring to get to the open cases, to select a Massot piece from this evening—not to be left out.

  Hugh did not think there would be any buyer’s remorse in the morning, either. He had fetched his own aigrette from the safe several times, just to look at it; the intricate workmanship and sheer beauty of it had never failed to please him; the expense, in retrospect, seemed quite immaterial.

  He glanced out over the crowd. Sophie Massot was out of sight. She was at the centre of a knot of guests; all of them, he felt sure, must be congratulating her.

  Montfort handed his empty champagne glass to a waiter and threaded his way towards her. Sophie saw him arriving; she murmured polite excuses to her admirers, and came over to him, smiling proudly, her pink diamonds sparkling.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Impressive. I don’t think it will change the result of the vote, but I concede you may have made it interesting.”

  “From you, high praise indeed,” she said.

  Montfort wanted to kiss her, quite badly. He contented himself with a slight bow.

  “I must be going.”

  “To adjust your bid, perhaps?” she said, boldly.

  He smiled. “Certainly not. I have a piece of advice for you, however.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Don’t trust Judy Dean.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened; the slight flirtation, which she could hardly help, vanished.

  “But what do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I say.”

  “If you have something to accuse her of, you had best tell me now, don’t you think?”

  Sophie’s eyes flickered uneasily towards Judy, deep in conversation with the reporters.

  Montfort shook his head. He had warned Sophie; he could not be so ungentlemanly as to lay out the particulars for her.

  “Judy is my friend,” Sophie said, firmly.

  Montfort nodded impassively. “Thank you again for the invitation, Mme Massot,” he said politely.

  He made his way quietly to the cloakroom and left. Sophie’s grey eyes followed him all the way out.

  “Amazing.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Indeed, it is remarkable.” Pauline Vente smiled thinly at her colleagues. Each was now wishing the others away; as it was, they would have to share the scoop. “What a turnaround,” Pauline said. “Look—they are going to buy up every piece in the room.”

  “It is the new Parisian success story,” Jeanne pronounced. “The dernier cri in couture gems.”

  “Judy,” Bernard asked excitedly. “Tell me. Are all the pieces individual? All of them?”

  Judy was forced to nod yes.

  “Then once they are gone, they are gone? Just think—it is like buying an artwork.”

  “An excellent comparison,” Pauline agreed.

  “There will be a storm for Massot pieces. Not just in Paris, I think.”

  “With this workmanship they are bound to rise in value.”

  “Look, there is the Principessa di Savoia. She’s buying . . . what is that?”

  “Earrings. Sapphire droplets, I think.”

  “Where she leads all Milan follows.”

  “I have to get out of here,” Pauline said, with triumph. “My deadline is tonight.” She would scoop the other two, and they glared at her.

  “So . . . you really think this will make a difference?” Judy asked desperately. “I mean, it’s just one party.You think other people will react like this?”

  “With this heat? It’s certain.” Jeanne’s eyes narrowed. “You do want Mme Sophie to succeed?”

  “Of course. You don’t know how relieved I am. With all the expense . . .” Judy let her voice trail away, but nobody was taking the bait.

  “Well-spent, every cent of it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Judy said. She was too angry to continue; she could not let them see her disappointment. “I must mingle—excuse me.”

  She slipped away from them, looking for the one person who still had the power to turn this evening around.

  Katherine Massot had left before Sophie gave her speech. She announced, with imperial disdain, that she had seen enough; she had delivered stern comments to several of her friends, and she had told Thomas that her driver would return her to the dower house.

  Tom had meant to go with her, but he had missed his chance. One of the dull girls that had been at his own party had buttonholed him, and Grandmother, never known for her patience, had swept from the room in a swish of silver satin, the doormen practically bowing as she left.

  Tom had cursed, but all was not lost. He still had his mobile; a limo service had been summoned. They were late; party traffic, maybe. He checked his Rolex. If they weren’t here in ten minutes, he would start walking.

  Guests were buying, masses of them. They were buying, and then they were leaving, clutching their purchases in his mother’s newly designed rose-satin bags. The party was thinning out, and he had no desire to be stuck here with Maman. The conversation that would ensue would not be pleasant. He’d had a couple of drinks, and he was angry; a sober corner of his brain warned against more public humiliation.

  Tom might do something dreadful. He might yell—in front of all the nobles and socialites. Worse, he might cry.

  Forget waiting, he would leave immediately. It was too risky to stay here, with his mother in that low-cut gown. . . .

  “Excuse me.”

  Tom looked up. A woman was standing in front of him. She was attractive and polished, in her mid-thirties—a real hardbody, wearing a slinky, shimmering sheath dress in crimson sequins. She had a slim figure, and she spoke English with an American accent.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “You must be Thomas Massot?” She extended one hand, and Tom shook it. “I’m Judy Dean. I had the honour of working for your father.”

  “How did you know it was me?” he asked, stupidly.

  The girl smiled; she had perfectly straight, white, American teeth. She looked healthy and vigorous, a million miles aw
ay from the dusty old ladies and broken-down men in their penguin suits.

  “Looked in the mirror lately?” she asked. “You’re a perfect likeness of him. What are you, twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

  Tom smiled stupidly; she was bold, she reminded him of Polly.

  “Nineteen,” he said, flattered by the question.

  Judy sighed. “Too young for me. Alas.” She winked at him.

  Tom was enchanted. And through his drunkenness, his masculine pride was piqued.

  “Certainly not,” he said, enunciating his words carefully, not wanting to slur them. “A man is a man. And anyway, you can’t be more than twenty-eight.”

  Such outrageous flattery; the American girl was thirty-five if she was a day, but Tom didn’t care; she was a good-looking thirty-five. He had a practiced eye for women and knew that Judy had the kind of body that would wear well. Her weight lifting would keep the years at bay; she was naturally lean, and she had high cheekbones—even at fifty, she would still be striking.

  This assessment flashed through his head as the compliment hit its mark; Judy, embarking on her deliberate seduction, was surprised and flattered.

  She blushed; the slight vulnerability that betrayed made her all the more appealing to Tom. He looked round once more at the thinning room.

  “Would you like to get out of here?” he asked. “My car’s late, but I’m sure we can find a taxi. Maybe there’s a decent café round here. . . .”

  He wanted to sober up; cool night air and a decent pot of coffee would be a start.

  Judy nodded. “If you hit the side streets there are some excellent places. I know one not far from here where they do wonderful espresso and patisserie.”

  Tom said carefully, “That sounds perfect,” and offered her his arm.

  Sophie stayed late. When the last guest had gone, and the cleanup crew had started their work, she went over the evening with her staff. There had been nothing but compliments, although Claudette remarked, with delicate tact, that Mme Katherine had not seemed wholly pleased. Sophie waited as they tallied up the night’s sales: two hundred and seventy-three pieces purchased—that was practically one per couple—gross receipts in euros, almost twenty-six million; several of the most important necklaces and bracelets had been among the purchases.