Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Your store is doing very well,” he made himself say. “I came here hoping to see a trail off of your sales.

  “And I wanted to cheer myself up. It didn’t work.”

  “I hope to see you again,” Hugh said. “After the stockholders’ meeting, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.” She smiled again, looking right into his eyes, and he felt a rush of adrenaline. He was forced to say goodbye. And walk out the door.

  Hugh felt the sun hot again on his back. He had no thought of Massot, or their sales. He couldn’t think of anything but Sophie. And right now he just wanted to find a restaurant, so he could sit down in air-conditioned cool and think of her some more.

  The feeling had lasted all morning.

  It was there when Tom woke up, alone in the comfortable sterility of his rented bed; it was there as he processed the humiliations of the night before, as he dressed, and made coffee, and called the limo service.

  The behaviour of his mother—bizarre and humbling as it was—seemed to fade, a little, seemed less fresh, when he thought about the American girl.

  Beautiful, and spirited. She fascinated him, sexually; he wanted to prove himself with her, as more than his age, more than just some boy.

  And apparently she had a plan, as well. Something better than just voting 15 percent against Maman and hoping for the best.

  He would go to see his grandmother; it was a duty visit, it had to be paid; Tom did not forget that Katherine controlled two-thirds of their stake. She had been right about Maman’s attitude, but he regretted that. Tom was not looking forward to sitting there as the old lady gloated.

  But it was his mother’s fault. She had given Katherine that right.

  When he thought of that pink, low-cut gown—

  The telephone rang. Tom walked over to the stand, in front of his windows, overlooking the Seine; he watched the sun glitter over the water, the boats laden with tourists ploughing through it, as he picked up the receiver.

  “Ici Thomas,” he said.

  “Tom, it’s Judy.”

  He grinned, stupidly. “Oh. Good morning.”

  “Can I come round?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I really want to see you, but I have to take a ride out to St.-Aude. I must visit my grandmother at the château. After that, if we could do lunch? I’ll pick the place this time.”

  “If you could just defer that for an hour. Is that possible?”

  “It’s something important?” he asked, catching the urgency in her tone.

  “Yes. You know the idea we were discussing last night? I’d like to explain it to you. It will concern your grandmother too, after all. When you go visit her, you can tell her all about it.”

  He didn’t need much persuading. “That’s fine,” he said, trying not to sound too excited. “Come round.”

  He gave her the address, cancelled his car, and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

  Judy looked beautiful.

  That was the first thing that registered.Tom noticed it with relief; ungallant of him, perhaps, but still. It would have been a blow for her beauty to evaporate with the harsh light of day.

  He needn’t have worried. She was, on close inspection, still as firm and lithe as she had been under the moon, clad in a scarlet sheath. Today Judy wore another bold dress.

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  “You like them?” she touched one long fingernail to her ears. “They’re Mayberry.”

  “Come in.” He showed her inside, proudly; he took pleasure as her eyes rounded at the luxury, the space, the high ceilings. “Of course, this is a rental,” he said. “Nothing to the château.”

  “But that’s your mother’s.”

  “Only for another couple of years. After that the whole estate will be mine. The stock, too.” He felt proud as he said it. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  “I don’t know if you should be wearing Mayberry earrings. They’re the enemy.” Tom thought of his mother. “The enemy without, at least.”

  “Ah,” Judy said. “Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  He served her coffee at the little table for two set under the window, plenty of cream and sugar. There was nothing to eat, but that didn’t matter. She was talking, in that fast, confident way the Americans have, sketching a plan that was immediately obvious, brilliant in its simplicity.

  “And Mayberry would go for this?” Tom asked. He didn’t trouble to play it cool, not now. Not with what she was saying.

  “Of course. You’ll never be in such a good position to dictate terms.” Judy leaned forward, her enthusiasm showing in her posture, in the gleam in her eyes, the tense set of her shoulders. “They’ve spent money on this deal. And their reputation. If they lose, Mayberry’s own stock will fall.”

  “Then my mother’s party helped us.”

  Judy nodded. “Her own success last night will strangle her.You see, it cannot be denied that from a purely commercial point of view, it was a masterstroke.”

  “I thought it was tacky.”

  “Yes,” Judy tried not to show her impatience. “But all those sales, the reporters present will run stories. So will others. I assure you, today there will be a run on Massot showrooms. Not just in Paris, but across France, in Rome, and London. By next week the buzz will be in New York and Tokyo. Fashion loves a story like this: the revival of haute couture, jewels considered as works of art. Sexier than a painting, and more portable.”

  “And Massot stock will rise.”

  “And shareholders may very well reject Mayberry’s offer. Even some of their insitutional investors may pull out. A deal like this can fall apart very quickly.”

  “I see.” Tom drained his coffee; he was starting to get jittery. The next one should be decaffeinated. Was it that, or was it the prospect of real power, at last?

  “Mayberry will not want to lose in the vote.”

  “And with the stock they already have plus yours and Katherine Massot’s . . .”

  “They could just take over.”

  “No need for a vote. Majority control transfers.”

  “And what would they do to obtain our votes?”

  Judy leaned back and spread her hands. “Almost anything, M. Massot.”

  He smiled at her. “You know it’s Tom. You don’t need to speak so respectfully to me.”

  “Well, as the future chief executive of House Massot, you deserve a little respect.” She winked at him, and Tom was enchanted.

  “Then we ask that Hugh Montfort be dismissed?”

  “Indeed.” Judy looked solemn. “That will satisfy your father’s honour. He always hated Montfort.”

  “And require that I be named chief executive—now, not merely in three years?”

  Judy said “Of course they will want to name a few of their own people to management spots.”

  “But as long as I am head of the company.”

  “You would be.” Only nominally, but she didn’t say that. “And of course you don’t actually sell them your stock. You will keep the forty-five percent in the family. It will always give you protection; in three years you will control it all.”

  “And my mother?”

  Judy sighed delicately. “She loves you, I’m sure she’ll come around. You can announce the deal carefully. Go to see her—after it’s done, of course. I would advise distance from her until it’s finalized.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have something else I must tell you, too. I resigned from House Massot today.”

  “You did?”

  “I took the view that I could no longer go on working for Sophie. Not after meeting you. What she is doing is against the wishes of your father, and my first loyalty must be to his heir.” She gazed at him soulfully. “I hope that doesn’t offend you, Tom.”

  “Offend me?” He caught her hands in his; for all her years, her slim, feminine hands were dwarfed inside his; he liked the look of them in there. “Nothing you could ever do could offend me. I t
hink you’re marvellous.”

  Judy blushed. “You’re just being kind.”

  “I’m not,” Tom said urgently. “I assure you.”

  “Well?” She looked at him expectantly. “Do you approve?”

  “Very much, and not just of the plan.”

  Judy touched her finger to his lips. “You mustn’t tease me, Monsieur.”

  “I think you know that I’m quite serious. I want to take you out to lunch. And then to dinner.” And then to bed, he didn’t say.

  She stood up, in a single, powerful movement, pushing the Sèvres porcelain cup away from her.

  “First let us go and see Mme Katherine,” she said. “It all depends on her.”

  Tom called ahead, from the limo, to alert the servants; one didn’t turn up at the dower house with an unannounced guest. His grandmother was a stickler for form, and he feared Judy might be kept waiting in the hallway, or worse, refused entrance altogether.

  He waited on the phone until Faubert, Katherine’s ancient butler, announced that Madame had said any guest of Monsieur’s would be most welcome. Tom breathed out in relief. There would be no scenes.

  At least, he hoped not.

  Everything Tom relished about Judy—her ferocity, her spirit, her independence, even her fitness—his grandmother would disapprove of. He had no doubt about that. He hoped she would have the sense to be self-deprecating, modest, and admiring; to pay Katherine her due, and after giving homage, say very little.

  “Perhaps, once we get there, I should do the talking,” he said, eventually. “Grandmother is very traditional.”

  “Oh, I understand completely.” Judy turned her head away from the sun-dappled woods leading up to the estate; they would soon be pulling into the driveway of the château itself. She smiled reassuringly at Tom. “You must tell her everything; it’s a family decision. I have nothing to do with it.”

  “It’s your plan.”

  “An idea, the merest suggestion. Just something I think Pierre would have wanted.”

  He nodded. “I know my father would agree. But since he isn’t here, you’ll have to let me be the one to thank you.”

  “I’d like that,” Judy said, softly.

  “M. Thomas Massot et Mlle Judy Dean,” Faubert pronounced solemnly.

  Judy smiled politely; she squared her shoulders. Now was a moment to stand strong, she reminded herself. She would not be overawed by the sumptuousness of the dower house; in many ways, it was superior to Sophie’s château. The Chinese silk wallpaper and Sun King furniture simply illuminated the Georgian grandeur of the house, the dignity of its grey stone lines, the perfect beauty of its lawns and carved yew hedges.

  And the house was nothing if not a reflection of its owner. Judy had been ushered into the presence of the magnificent Katherine Massot. The boy, Tom, was nervous; she too, but she would have died before showing it.

  Katherine had looked oddly attractive yesterday night, as though, by careful artifice, she had peeled off twenty years; she had crafted something out of the ruins of her beauty. Today, that spell had been broken; Mme Massot was once again an old woman, and instead of beauty, her weapon was elegance, and steely, unassailable dignity.

  She was sitting in her parlour, and did not rise to receive them. She wore a dress, peach silk with a lace trim, and a sedate string of lustrous pearls; her white hair was pinned up in a chignon with an old-fashioned lace cap atop it; her face was carefully powdered and made up.

  Tom led the way. He brought Judy over to his grandmother, and switching back to French, said, “It is wonderful to see you again. You look beautiful.” Then he kissed her on both cheeks, and turned to Judy. “Grandmother, may I present my friend, Miss Dean.”

  Katherine extended a bony claw; Judy fought the urge to curtsey.

  “It’s a great honour to meet you, Madame,” she said, reverently.

  “I take it this is more than a social call, Thomas? Since you are doing me the honour of introducing me to Miss Dean?”

  “It is,” Tom said.

  The old lady waved them both to sit down; Judy perched on the edge of the couch. It was, she thought, authentic Louis Qua torze, and might be worth more than her entire apartment.

  “I will call for coffee,” Katherine said.

  “Thank you, but I dare not. I’ve already had too much today.”

  “Miss Dean?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Madame.”

  “Then we will move on to sherry. It’s gone eleven.” The old lady nodded to her butler, who disappeared. “And so, Tom, you have something to say to me?”

  “It was Judy’s idea, Grandmother,” Tom said, warmly, “and I think it will solve our present dilemma . . .”

  Judy sat, her eyes downcast, as the boy explained the plan; she had to admit, he was quick; there was no fumbling, no unnecessary language. He laid it out in simple strokes, faster than she had, and then waited.

  She dared to raise her eyes. The old woman was lost in thought. The butler reappeared, offering them all small crystal glasses of sherry; Judy accepted; it seemed the thing to do, and she could always count on a little alcohol to mask her nerves.

  She usually despised sherry, but this was, in fact, delicious. It did not surprise Judy that Pierre’s mother would have the best.

  “I think it is an excellent idea,” Katherine said at last.

  Both her guests felt their heart rate reduce; Judy congratulated herself with another sip of the clear golden nectar.

  “You know how to contact the correct person at Mayberry, Madame?”

  “I do, Madame. His name is Pete Stockton, and he is the chairman of their board.”

  Judy was slightly annoyed that neither servant nor mistress called her “mademoiselle,” but she would overlook it. Katherine Massot’s 10 percent was key to her revenge, at least, to half of it. She looked slyly under her lashes at the boy, as beautiful as Pierre, but in the prime of his vigour.

  He was the key to everything.

  “Tom,” his grandmother said. “Why don’t you go for a walk in the rose garden? Miss Dean and I are going to get a little better acquainted.”

  Tom looked at Judy; she shrugged, minutely; Katherine Massot was not a woman to be gainsaid.

  “Certainly,” Tom said. “I’ll return in a few minutes.”

  He smiled encouragingly at Judy, and left the parlour by the side door. The old lady turned to Faubert.

  “You may go,” she said, “and see to it that we are not disturbed.”

  “Very good, Madame.” He bowed and withdrew, closing the doors behind him.

  Judy squared her shoulders; the old woman sat there, like a spider, controlling; she tried to meet that watery gaze.

  “Your plan is an ingenious one, my dear,” Katherine said. “It will provide my grandson with a great deal of money. And control.”

  “That is what his father would have wanted,” Judy replied.

  Katherine sighed delicately. “Ah yes, his father. You were his father’s mistress, of course.”

  Judy started. “What?”

  “You heard what I said, Madame.” Katherine’s eyes hardened. “Pray do not play games with me. I knew Pierre. I knew where he went, and with whom he spent his time. Sophie may have ignored his lovers; I, however, did not.”

  Judy hesitated, but there was too much certainty in the mother’s tone.

  “I loved Pierre,” she said, with a touch of defiance.

  “Many people loved Pierre. Many women. You were one of several, Miss Dean.”

  “Excuse me, Madame,” Judy said, gathering her strength. “But I am aware of that.”

  “Now,” Katherine replied. “You were not, at the time.”

  How does she know all this? Judy wondered.

  The old lady’s eyes were curious. “You must have hated Sophie very much?”

  Judy felt the old, stabbing pain in her heart echo. “She did not deserve him,” she said flatly.

  Katherine cackled. “Ah, there, we can agree. So
many women, some of them at least interesting . . . for him to choose that pudding of a girl . . .”

  “Why did he not divorce her?”

  Katherine moved her hand; her silk gown rustled. “No need. She never did anything wrong. And she provided him with an heir. And yet, I believe,” she added thoughtfully, “that if he should return, he might. He might divorce her. Now. For what she has done with his company, admitting the suits of other men.”

  Judy’s eyes widened. “You don’t think he’s still alive?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure he is.”

  “You have some proof? Some new fact?”

  Katherine sighed. “I have a connection with Pierre, a connection with him no other woman will ever have.” Her eyes flared. “None of you has known him as I have. If he were dead, I should know it.”

  The old woman is delusional, Judy decided.

  “You have never taken another lover,” Katherine said. “But now you wish to commence some affair with Thomas. Yes?”

  Judy’s mouth opened.

  “You may as well tell the truth. I shall find out sooner, rather than later, I assure you.”

  “Tom looks a great deal like his father.”

  “But he has none of his spirit,” Katherine said. “His disposition he has inherited from his mother, almost entirely. Except perhaps for a little stubbornness, and even that may be hers, too, if recent events are anything to go by.”

  “I do like him,” Judy said.

  “You don’t love him. Yet you are prepared to annexe him. Is it not so?”

  “You don’t understand me, Madame.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” Katherine said. “I think I do. Tom will be very rich. And of course, he is Sophie’s boy, as well as Pierre’s.”

  Judy opened her mouth to respond, but couldn’t think of the right thing to say.

  “You realize that once you begin with Tom, it will be finally over between you and Pierre?”

  Judy stared. Over between her and Pierre? The man was dead. It had been over for almost a decade.

  “I understand that, Madame,” she said.

  “Then I will not stand in your way. But if you want some advice, move swiftly. Sophie will be trying to reconnect with Thomas, as soon as she can.”