Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  Pete liked giving her jewels. A man’s wife was a reliable indicator of his worth, as much as his house or the car he drove. In a town like L.A., where everybody went by limo, a wife was actually more convenient as a status symbol. He didn’t know much about jewels, but even Pete could see that House Massot was altogether classier than Mayberry. He dined out on the success of his firm, but owning House Massot—that would be another step up.

  Stockton thought about Hugh Montfort. He couldn’t stand the prick. Yeah, sure, it had been a smart hire. Montfort had made them all a hell of a lot of money. But at what price? His holier-than-thou attitude had bugged Pete from the start. And people gave him the credit, all the credit, even though Pete was the chairman of the board. Hadn’t Pete been the one to hire the guy? As far as he was concerned, Montfort could take that snooty British attitude of his and stuff it. He was just the help. No fancy suit and soldier-boy body would ever be able to hide that.

  Not for the first time, he wished he could lose Montfort. The limey got in the way of Stockton’s reputation. Once the Massot deal was done, he’d like to look for another CEO. Hugh Montfort wasn’t the only guy in the world who knew how to run a jewellery chain. He could poach from Tiffany or Louis Vuitton. Even Gucci.

  It would have to wait, though, until Massot was in the bag. Things were looking good; Sophie Massot had fallen flat, like you’d expect from a broad, and they only had three months to go. . . .

  “Honey . . .”

  “What the fuck. Can’t you see I’m watching the game?”

  Claudia smiled serenely and extended the phone. “Call from Europe. It’s that nice Hugh Montfort. You should have him over for dinner. He’s quite the gentleman.”

  Pete wanted to respond, “Fuck Hugh Montfort,” but it might be audible down the line. He hated it when Claudia got all moony over that pasty-faced Brit.

  He snatched the receiver. “Yeah?”

  “Afternoon, Pete. Sorry to trouble you at home.”

  “It’s the weekend, Montfort. This better be important.”

  “I can certainly call back tomorrow, if you’d rather.”

  Rather. Of course he wouldn’t rather. The Englishman had called his bluff. He wanted to know every detail.

  “That’s okay,” he was forced to grunt.

  “There might be a problem.”

  Stockton flicked off the television and sat bolt upright.

  “What the fuck does that mean? A problem?”

  “Pete!”

  He covered the receiver. “Cut it out, honey. I’m busy.”

  “I don’t believe it will be serious, but Mrs. Massot threw her party, and it was a success; she sold vast amounts of jewels, and I have reason to believe there will be good press coverage.”

  Stockton saw the difficulty at once. “How good?” he barked.

  “I anticipate very good.”

  “Good enough to change the stockholders’ minds?”

  “Well, that’s the question.”

  “And what’s the fucking answer, Montfort?” Pete barked. His heart was thumping; his fat palms were sweaty, thinking of all the money he might lose. And yet there was a distinct pleasure in being able to yell at his CEO.

  “Don’t talk to me like that, Pete,” said Montfort in a bored tone.

  Pete swallowed his rage and dislike. “You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.” The limey would not be bullied; he’d have no hesitation in hanging up on his boss; they both knew it. “We Yanks haven’t learned to be as suave and cool as you Brits.”

  “On the contrary, I believe most Americans are extremely courteous,” said Montfort, coldly. I hate the son of a bitch, Pete thought. “At any rate, the answer is, I believe, no.There isn’t much time to go before the stockholders’ meeting, and the stories will run for about a week; I expect the Massot stock price to rise, perhaps up to three points, on anticipation of other possible bids; we will organize a counteroffensive, and perhaps we might, at the last minute, raise our bid by about four percent.”

  “Four percent. That means that fucking—I mean that blasted party will cost us millions.”

  “We were buying Massot at a spectacular discount, anyway. It’s better to be secure of our bid.”

  Pete made a great effort and heaved his bulky body from the leather couch. The body was slow, but his mind was fast.

  “There aren’t that many shareholders around,” he grunted. “Thirty percent voted by the wife. Another fifteen is in the family. . . .”

  “My information is that they will not vote with her. They plan an independent pitch to the shareholders.”

  “Any danger there?”

  “None. The son is nineteen, the grandmother’s age uncertain, but shareholders won’t like either of them as a candidate to replace Mrs. Massot.”

  “And so we basically will need the support of almost all the other shareholders. All the fifty-five percent that’s floating.”

  Montfort didn’t say anything; they both knew this. Pete was thinking aloud.

  “What can we count on?” he asked.

  “At least thirty-five percent, in the hands of trust funds, pensions, other institutional investors. They won’t be swayed by press; I’ve had their commitments for some months.”

  “Good. Good.” Fucking Montfort, Pete could not deny he was competent. More than competent. “But we still need the rest. There’s a full twenty percent in petty shareholders, private hands?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Forget Lily, or any of the other girls. Forget his plump son coming home from camp. Pete wanted nothing more than to get out of this sweatsuit and get into his office. It was a dangerous situation. He needed to think.

  His only consolation was that the Englishman had, for once, fucked up.

  “This is a freaking disaster,” he yelled. “Two weeks from deal time and you let that French bitch throw some freaking party and—”

  He was listening to a dial tone. Montfort had, indeed, hung up on him. Fuck! He threw the phone across the room.

  “Is everything okay, honey?”

  His wife was hovering. Like him, Claudia had a finely tuned antenna for money. She had been spending their future Massot cash in her head for the better part of a year.

  “I gotta go to work,” he grunted.

  “But you’ll miss Paulie.”

  “Give him a kiss from me. It’s an emergency, okay?”

  “Sure thing, honey.” His wife knew when not to press it. She had no intention of rocking the boat.

  Stockton considered things for a moment. This was kinda shocking. Everybody knew Hugh Montfort was the hardest-assed businessman in jewellery. He was freakin’ famous. How could he have screwed up like this? How could he let some playboy’s trophy wife—well, widow—put one over on him? Was he banging her, or something?

  It wasn’t possible the girl was good at the job. She hadn’t even gone to college. Child bride and kept woman. What would she know about it?

  What the fuck. He, Pete, had to sort out the mess.

  His first call would be to the Crillon, to leave a grovelling message of apology for Hugh Montfort. Otherwise, he knew he’d have a resignation letter on his desk first thing in the morning. Montfort was not the type to threaten; he’d just walk. No, Pete would have to eat humble pie. Again.

  The thought made him furious, and he struggled with himself. It wasn’t good for his blood pressure. He kept a flask of twenty-year-old malt whisky locked in his desk drawer; time for a medicinal glassful, Pete thought.

  Fucking Hugh Montfort. Fucking Sophie Massot.

  “Claudia, call my driver,” he barked.

  Chapter 31

  She woke at dawn; it was not quite six. Sophie lay against her soft, down-feather pillows and watched the dawn through her lead-paned windows; pale peach light streaking against the blue; the promise of more fair weather.

  She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the flagstone floor, and padded across the room to look out over her ground
s. The château’s manicured park stretched out below her; the lake was a dark circle, its waters not yet sparkling in the sun. Behind it, beneath the slope of the lower lawn, was her mother-in-law’s residence, the elegant Georgian lines of the dower house.

  Sophie wondered how Katherine had slept. Not well, she thought, not well.

  It would be hard to forgive the old woman. She had never thought her antipathy to her son’s bride, her rejection of his choice as unworthy, would go so far as to try and drive a wedge between Sophie and her baby.

  Nevertheless, they were family, and neighbours. There would have to be a reconciliation, whether Sophie wanted one or not.

  She watched the sun rise over her grounds. When would she get a chance to enjoy them again? Sophie wanted Tom to be here, wanted to picnic with him by the lake, discuss new planting schemes in the pear orchard with him. He would have to meet M. Lindeur, the estate manager. In three years it would all be his: their vast estate, and the duties that went with its upkeep.

  Perhaps very soon. In three weeks it would all be over.

  She turned from the window and went to take her bath. Her thoughts ran over the party last night; Sophie felt an extremely pleasant calmness. She had done all she could. Either the press coverage would persuade the shareholders to give her vision a chance, or it would not. Either way, it was now out of her hands.

  Bernarde had chosen a good outfit; now that Sophie was out of mourning, she was experimenting. Her outfit was playful but had a business edge; she couldn’t help wonder how Hugh Montfort might rate it.

  Her flirtatious clothes reflected her growing confidence.

  Sophie added a peridot and citrine necklace to lighten it up a touch, applied a spritz of rose water, and called for her driver.

  Something was niggling in the back of her mind. Despite her satisfaction and the warm promise of the day, a reconciliation with Tom, there was still something amiss.

  Hugh Montfort. No—she wouldn’t think about him now. Not yet. Maybe once the bid was played out.

  But it had to do with Hugh, all the same . . .

  Her telephone rang.

  “Richard vous attends, Madame.”

  “Merci. Je viens.”

  Sophie shut her bedroom door and walked down the sweeping marble stairs; Junot was already at the door, holding it open for her; the Rolls-Royce was purring on the gravel drive in front.

  She wished her butler a good morning and slid gracefully into the back of the car. It would come back to her, Sophie thought.

  And as Richard pulled noisily out of the drive, stones crunching beneath the tires, it did.

  Judy Dean. Montfort had warned her about Judy Dean.

  Celine Bousset was prepared for anything.

  She was having a wonderful morning. First, Rene, her boyfriend of three years, had dropped a hint that he might finally be ready to marry her. She’d been ecstatic, of course, and then when he’d left for work, suddenly started to wonder if, in fact, she wanted to marry him.

  The thought had lasted all through her careful breakfast of black coffee and a very small croissant; Celine was watching her figure. She wasn’t far off thirty, and she’d heard too many horror stories about one’s metabolism screeching to a halt and suddenly landing you with thirty pounds before you knew where you were. Beauty and slimness were almost synonymous, as far as Celine was concerned; she wanted to keep herself attractive for as long as possible, in that effortless way Sophie Massot managed it.

  It was also sunny. And the party had been a success.There were still four invitations left over, kept as last-minute spares, but nobody had needed them; that meant four beautiful brooches. There were a tulip, a comet, a hare, and an ox; Celine was hoping to drop a hint, maybe Sophie would give her the hare.

  She’d set the stage. Her boss, whom she adored, was endlessly generous and kind, if a little naive, but it didn’t hurt to be ready. Celine had tidied Sophie’s office with extra care, chosen especially gorgeous flowers—creamy, scented orange blossoms and pale green roses—picked a very smart outfit of her own, a crisp navy skirt suit with a white cotton shirt, and finally, as a crowning touch, had picked up some of that flavoured American coffee Mme Massot was fond of, cinnamon, and decanted it from its white paper holder into a bone china cup. It was still piping hot when Sophie had gone into her office; Celine had timed it perfectly.

  The little buzzer on her phone went off.

  “Yes, Madame?”

  “Could you come in here a moment, Celine? Ask the switchboard to take all my calls for a few minutes.”

  “Certainly, Madame,” Celine said brightly. She thought she would ask for the hare, although the comet was very pretty too, with pavé diamonds along its tail to make it sparkle. The hare was simply gold, but she preferred its design; there was a fluidity to the running animal that Celine thought the picture of grace. Even with her raise, she could never afford a brooch like that. The most she could hope for in the way of jewellery would be the no-doubt tiny ring Rene would present her with. If she let him, that is.

  She knocked on the door. Sophie was sitting in her chair, looking thoughtful. She was wearing shades of olive and forest green that set off her colouring wonderfully. So elegant, Celine thought. Her husband really must have been some kind of fool. . . .

  “Close the door behind you; sit down, please.”

  Celine winced. Sophie did not sound as if she were in the ideal mood Celine had been hoping for. The delicious cinnamon coffee was cooling rapidly, untouched, before her.

  “I want you to discuss something with me, something confidential.”

  “Very well, Madame,” said Celine, warily. “And what is that?”

  “You hear company gossip, don’t you?”

  “I never pay any attention to it, Madame,” Celine lied earnestly.

  “It’s okay.” Sophie smiled, and held up one hand. “You’re not in any trouble—anything you say is going to be just between us. Well, at least,” she corrected herself, “I won’t say where I heard it.”

  “Bien.” Celine smiled, flattered. She liked Sophie; it would be wonderful if Mme Massot would take her into her confidence. Better Celine than—

  “Judy Dean. It’s about Judy Dean.”

  Désastre. Celine said a quick prayer that she wouldn’t have to discuss the scandal in public.

  “What’s the matter? I said you are in no trouble.”

  And what if Madame got angry?

  “But Judy Dean is your most particular friend, Madame. You told me—remember?”

  “I know I did. But you can forget that, now. I’ve heard something, from . . . ,” her boss hesitated, “from a person I trust. Is there something about Judy I ought to know, Celine?”

  Celine stared. “You are serious, Mme Massot?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You mean you did not know?”

  “About what?” Sophie asked impatiently. “Spit it out. If there’s something to tell, tell me now, please.”

  Celine hesitated. Really? She didn’t know? How could Celine break it to her? She was a good woman—a nice woman. Celine was overcome with pity. Whoever would have believed this savvy businesswoman could be that naive?

  “I thought you knew, and did not care, Madame. In France—some people don’t. Rich people.”

  Sophie stared at her, waiting.

  “It is M. Massot,” Celine muttered. “Everybody knows. I thought . . . you had to know. But some here say you did not.”

  “Pierre?” Sophie blinked. “What about him? He’s been dead for seven years.”

  “But Mlle Judy has been here longer than that, Madame.”

  Sophie gasped. She was amazed, and Celine stared back at her, equally amazed; how could Madame be surprised? With M. Massot such a whoremonger, legendary, really.

  But the Englishwoman was surprised. Celine watched the emotions running over her aristocratic features in quick succession. Understanding, shock, calculation, and lastly, humiliation. Her breathing had quickened,
like a struggling fish on dry land.

  Tiens! Poor Sophie.

  “Are you all right, Madame?” Celine asked, alarmed.

  Sophie took a deep breath. “I’m fine—fine. It’s just a shock.” Celine watched her struggle with the information. “Judy slept with my husband? How often? Was it after a Christmas party, or . . . ?”

  “Oh, Madame.”

  Celine was squirming.

  “Tell me the worst. Tell me everything.”

  “You must understand, I wasn’t here when this took place. I was only a teenager. But it’s what I heard.”

  “Very well.”

  “Mlle Judy was the lover of M. Massot for many years, almost as soon as she came here to Paris. He promoted her and he bought her her apartment. That was his gift to her. No mortgage or anything,” Celine said, with a note of envy. But she caught herself. “When he leaves, nobody dares do anything to her in case he returns.”

  “And was he going to . . . to divorce me and marry her?”

  “Oh! No, Madame,” said Celine, eyes wide. “No, indeed. Many people here laugh at her, Madame. Because she is only one of his girls, after all. She thinks she is special, but who knows how many there were. I don’t know if he bought flats for all of them, but there was jewellery, and you know a good necklace can cost more than an apartment . . .”

  “All of them?” Sophie said faintly. “You mean there were others?”

  Celine stared. Was it possible? “You truly did not know, Madame?”

  Sophie couldn’t respond.

  Celine bit the bullet; if the wife had really been that blind, it was better to get it over with. There was no reason Sophie Massot should be the only woman in France who didn’t know of Pierre’s habits.

  “Madame, I am sorry,” she said gently, and with a certain air of maturity. “You have always been kind to me. Everybody thinks, maybe you don’t know about Judy. But nobody imagined you did not know about the rest. M. Massot, while he was alive, he was one of the most notorious amants, I don’t know the word. A . . . libertine. He had many, many women. Girlfriends. Everybody knows it. Girls that last a month, two months. Girls in different places. Sometimes prostitutes, very expensive—” she cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Madame. But mostly just ordinary girls, I think. He picks them up, gives them gifts and money. It was happening before you even married him.”