He spun on the chair his mother had occupied and examined the office. It had been redecorated according to Tom’s wishes; that much, at least, they had done, he thought . . . the feminine flowers and soft throws had gone, and he had selected dark woods and scarlet leather, the preferred choice, as he remembered, of his father in the billiard room back home. It was something he had held on to as the memories of Papa faded. He was fiercely proud to have the office as he imagined Pierre would have wished it. And like his father, Tom cared about image; it mattered very much to him to put his stamp on the place. He had had certain magazine articles spread out in front of him. MASSOT IN CHARGE, said one. THE SON RISING, said another. Of course, those were not the only articles that had appeared. The PR people—Judy—tried to keep some of the others from him. He’d angrily told her that he wanted to see everything. And she’d argued with him!
“Judy, in the office I am your superior,” Tom had shouted. He was tempted to add, “and out of the office, too,” but held back. Surely she would already feel the social gulf between them, and he didn’t want to rub it in.
“But honey.” Judy had lowered her voice, but she was looking at him sharply with those bold eyes. They stirred him, and he felt a touch less angry. Tom preferred challenging women—such as Judy, or . . . Polly . . .
Whatever. Polly was the past. Judy was far more stylish, anyway.
“But honey—it’s only going to upset you.”
“I’m not a racehorse, Judy. I don’t need soothing, and I don’t need managing.” Tom’s dark eyes swept over her. “Sometimes, I think you imagine I’m stupid. I’m not; I’m young. Don’t make the mistake of confusing the two.”
Judy swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Of course we will send you all the press.”
And she had.
Tom could see her reservations had good cause. He wanted to think the carping was envy, bitterness from petty little journalists who hated wealth and power, who would drag him back to the Bastille if they ever had the chance. After all, there was certainly a carping note to these stories; HEIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW? That was the Financial Times. He supposed it was mildly amusing, if you were a sour British prig angry that Hugh Montfort had failed to capture a glory of France.
But other stories had the same message. He was a figurehead only; the important decisions would be taken in L.A., by Pete Stockton. House Massot would crumble. And the one he most shuddered at ... that the brand would be diluted, the jewels mass-produced. His family name would be prostituted, and he would sit in a nice office with a pretty secretary and be powerless.
Tom noted that the phone had been pretty silent. Despite his assurances, Stockton had not been in touch. His dissatisfaction increased, and he rose from his desk and walked to the window.
Very well, Tom thought; I will do something about it. I must prove to Mayberry the value of House Massot, exactly as it is, as Father wanted it. If the fat slug Stockton will not come to me, I will go to him. The thought made him feel a little better. A plan gave him a sense of control, and he comforted himself against the notion that was starting to take a hold of him; that, despite what he’d said to Judy, if he wasn’t stupid, he had at least been stupid....
Hey, Tom thought. Chief executives all over the world report to boards. I’m no different from Howard Stringer at Sony or Meg Whitman at eBay....
The phone rang; he jumped a little, then felt foolish. Howard Stringer probably did not jump when the phone rang. He pressed the red light.
“Yes?” Tom said, snappishly. He wanted to sound as though he’d been in the middle of reading a report on the latest De Beers site allocations. “What is it, Margot?”
“Excuse me, Monsieur.” His personal assistant was a blonde twenty-two-year-old with a nice firm rack; Stockton had said, with a leer, that he’d picked her out personally. And Tom did enjoy the breathy, French Marilyn thing she had going on. “But I have a woman on the line for you. . . .”
“From where?”
A beat. “Monsieur, she says she’s your mother.”
Tom flushed. A nasty mixture of guilt and loneliness.
“Put her through,” he said. There was a click. “Hello?”
“Tom.” It was her. And she sounded odd. He’d expected a lot of emotion, but his mother sounded calm.
“Darling, we need to talk.”
“Not about House Massot, Mother—what’s done is done.”
“No, nothing to do with business, darling. It’s about Judy Dean.”
“Mother . . . ,” Tom was firm. “I know you disapprove, and I know she’s a little older, but I must make my own decisions in love.”
She was dating his father’s hated rival. How did she have the balls to nag him about Judy?
“Then make it an informed decision. She’s a wicked person, Tom . . .” Sophie hesitated. “I can’t tell you why. I suppose it would be useless to ask you to trust me.”
“You clearly don’t trust me, if you won’t tell me your mystical reason,” Tom said sarcastically.
“Okay. While I was at House Massot, she befriended me—but lied to me. Judy promoted the cause of Gregoire Lazard, and she told me she was loyal to me. While all the time she was running to you and Katherine to broker a takeover. Just be aware of that, Tom, Judy told me lies—and supported the romance with Gregoire—while it lasted.”
“I doubt you needed much encouragement there, Maman.” Tom’s tone turned sharp.
“She’s a snake, Tom. Sucked up to me and lied to me. Think about it. Would Papa approve of her?”
Ouch. That arrow found its mark, and he was silent.
“I tell you what,” he said eventually. “I’ll give up Judy Dean if you promise never to see Hugh Montfort again.”
As soon as the words came out of Tom’s mouth, he held his breath. He’d surprised himself. But of course it was true. He would pay any price to rescue his father’s name from this dishonour, and his mother from this predatory vulture. Compared to that, Judy was meaningless to him.
On the end of the phone, a little sigh; and with it, all his hope evaporated.
“I can’t make bargains like that, Tom.”
“Then don’t lecture me,” he said bitterly. “And Maman—don’t think to call me again until you sever your relationship with that man.”
There was a long pause.
“Do . . . do you still love me, Tom?”
His mother’s voice was painful, wavering. Tom couldn’t help it, the sound of her unhappiness immediately brought tears to his eyes. But all the pain was her fault. Why couldn’t things have stayed as they were!
She’d ruined their lives.
“I’ll always love you,” he said thickly. “But I’m ashamed of you.”
He hung up, and walked quickly to the window, so that if his secretary came in she wouldn’t see him crying.
Chapter 39
Judy personally supervised the firing of Françoise Delmain. Françoise had gloated when Judy was sacked; it was good to return the favour.
“You can’t fire me,” Françoise had insisted, colour high in her cheeks. “For what? It’s unfair dismissal. I’ll sue.”
“For the inappropriate comments you made to another employee upon their termination. Me,” Judy said. She smiled thinly. “By all means bring a suit, Françoise. We will defend it vigorously. And as you know, House Massot has deep pockets.” She extended her hand, to let the new cocktail ring Tom had given her glitter in the sunlight streaming in from her window. It was a fine, translucent oval ruby, surrounded with pear-shaped emeralds; the reds and greens glinted beautifully together like a scarlet rose in its petals. “Besides,” she added with a sweet smile, “don’t you think you’ve made quite enough enemies?”
Françoise looked at her nervously, then dropped her head, admitting defeat.
“I’ll collect my severance on the way out,” she said.
“There is no severance. You’re being fired for cause. There’s no reference, either.” Judy smirked. “I hope you aren’t be
hind on your mortgage, Françoise.”
“You bitch!” Françoise exploded. She wrenched the door open, banging it on its hinges. “I’d quit anyway,” she yelled.
“Oh, yes. Sure you would!” Judy laughed.
Françoise’s eyes, which had sneered at her the day Sophie called Judy to her office, blazed with loathing. She raised her voice. “Maybe I would. Nobody wants to work for a woman who first sleeps with the father, then the son!”
Judy gasped; her entire neck and head flushed with blood.
“Ha! You’re as red as a Breton lobster!” Françoise cried. “You thought people didn’t know!”
“You’re insane,” Judy said. “Delusional.” She depressed a button. “Security? Get up here immediately—and throw Françoise Delmain into the street. Right now!”
“I’m going, you little tramp!” Françoise tossed her head, delighted that she had managed, at least, to land one blow. “And maybe I’ll call Paris Match. I’m sure the gossip hounds will pay handsomely for this story!”
Red alert. Judy summoned all her powers. She forced herself to be calm and leaned forward, saying quietly, viciously, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“And why not?”
“Because I’d hope to live a long and happy life. Quietly.” Judy held her gaze, with a threatening look. “Put it this way: I’d hope that nobody spreads such a rumour to any paper or magazine. Because if it gets out, I will blame you. And so will Tom Massot. And that would be . . . ,” she whispered, “unhealthy.”
Françoise’s defiance crumpled like a popped balloon. “I understand,” she said. “I—I will go quietly.”
“Get out,” Judy said with contempt. The elevator opened, and two burly security guards appeared. Judy nodded at Françoise, and they flanked her.
“Take her out through the front,” Judy ordered. “So everyone can see she’s history.”
Françoise tried to look defiantly back at her, but it didn’t work. She was afraid, and her eyes filled with tears. Crocodile tears, Judy thought. She watched the delicious sight of her enemy being frog-marched away through the staring crowd of Massot employees, many of whom had worked with her for years and gossiped about Judy with that same bitch of a woman.
Judy saw the fear in their eyes, saw them turn away from the weeping Françoise. Excellent. That would show them who was boss.
She clenched her fists, her palms moist from the adrenaline. It was, just like the cliché had it, a fucking jungle out here. If you weren’t tough they’d eat you alive.
Judy wouldn’t listen to that father-and-son stuff. She’d stay strong.
Focus on the future.
“Get me some coffee!” she snapped at her new secretary.
“Certainly, Madame.”
“And get me Tom Massot on the phone. Now.”
That snarky comment about Pierre had upset her. Judy wanted to speak to Tom, right now. They did have a relationship. They were in love.
I’m not a goddamned trophy! she thought.
There was a click, and then Tom’s voice. She braced herself; he’d been a little distant lately.
“Chérie—” that was a good start—“it’s good to hear from you.”
Judy smiled.
“Are you free for lunch?”
“For you, always.”
“I’m glad. I’ve got something important to ask you.”
Judy’s head swam. She could hardly stop the grin from breaking out all over her face. Tom would ask her to marry him. It was like the years of heartbreak hadn’t happened. She would be Judy Massot! Well, Sophie, she thought, the queen is dead, long live the queen!
The grandeur of it all floored her. Judy was faint with triumph.
“That’s wonderful, darling,” she said lightly.
“Why don’t you come up here?” Tom asked.
“I’ll be right there. Love you.” Judy hung up, and walked out of her office. “Forget the coffee, Christine,” Judy sang as she stepped into the elevator. After all, she had more important things to think about!
Tom didn’t think it through. He didn’t want to.Thought was dangerous right now. Tom needed to act, to get back a sense of self-control. He felt like a man tossed at sea, clutching onto a rock while the waves crashed around him, groping blindly for anything he could do to help himself.
Judy walked through the door. Tom gave her a brisk smile. She was a fine-looking girl, and as sexy today as ever. His practiced eye flickered across her. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her thighs, no softness at all—until you reached the breasts.
Judy noticed his assessment and sat down, leisurely stretching her legs, angling her toe to give him a glimpse of her firm calves. Tom’s heartbeat slowed a touch. Judy was good, he’d have to give her that, quite the corporate executive, but feminine with it. Never once had she behaved or dressed in an unladylike manner.
Not like Polly.
But he wouldn’t dwell on Polly. Judy was the polished companion a man like him deserved. Stop, Tom told himself, before you think yourself into knots.
“You know I’ve moved into the château.”
“It is your house, sweetheart,” Judy said mildly. She strained to keep the excitement out of her voice.
“I want you to come with me.”
“Oh, Tom,” Judy sighed. It was a moment of sheer bliss. He was going to propose. It was all real!
“Yes . . . I want you to move in with me. We make a great team, Judy.”
There was a fractional pause.
“Move in with you!” Judy said, trying to infuse her tone with joy. “Sure I will.That is ... I wouldn’t do that for anyone else, you know.”
What the hell?
Move in with him? She was bitterly disappointed. But it was early on, she guessed.
I better take it, Judy thought. For now.
She stood up, the superheels throwing her body into all the right angles, and walked towards her boyfriend, giving him a little bit of a strut, a bit of sass. It was that calculated, confident sex iness she knew Tom loved.
“But you’re the boss,” she purred, drawing her nail tips lightly through his hair. “You make your own rules.”
Tom grinned. He pushed a button on his phone.
“Amelie, hold all my calls. And no admittance to anyone.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
He pulled Judy down into his lap; her eyes were gleaming, her lips parted.
“Nice outfit,” he said. “Let’s mess it up.”
“I hope the room is satisfactory, Madame,” said the porter.
“Perfectly. Thank you.” Sophie pressed a ten euro note into his hand, but the man still hovered.
“And how long will Madame be staying?”
She looked at him dully; his venal eyes were sparkling with curiosity. No doubt he’d be on the phone to the tabloids the second he got out of her room.
If this was being a celebrity, you could keep it.
“That will be everything,” she said coldly. “Thank you.”
He took the unsubtle hint and retired, shutting the door behind him.
Sophie exhaled and glanced around her suite. It was certainly luxurious. There was a vast bedroom, his and hers bathrooms decked out in ivory and brass, a balcony overlooking the Seine, three fax machines, Persian rugs, and an unhealthily large display of flowers.
She couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Tom hated her. Katherine’s malicious tongue infected all of Parisian society. And Judy was bringing her poison into the heart of Sophie’s family.
Right now, Sophie didn’t give a damn if she never saw Paris again.
She picked up the phone and dialled. Her heart in her mouth. Please, God, let him be there. . . .
He was.
“Montfort.”
“It’s me.”
She could hear his lazy smile through the phone line.
“So it is. And I was starting to feel forgotten.”
Sophie couldn’t flirt.
&
nbsp; “Where are you, Hugh?”
He caught her tone. “You’re upset.What is it? What’s happened?”
She swallowed, hard. “Tom found out about us.”
“I see.”
“It was stupid of me to bring you to the village.”
“It certainly was not,” Hugh said, firmly. “I only wish you had told him right away. What did he say?”
She gave a miserable laugh. “Well, let’s see. He evicted me from the château. He and Katherine sold their stock to Mayberry. They fired me that same day. And Tom personally came to chuck me out of the office.”
There was a long silence.
“Where are you staying?”
“In the Victrix.”
“A hotel?” Hugh was appalled. “Come to Ireland, darling. Come and stay with me.”
A fat tear rolled down her cheek.
“No pressure, I promise you. I have plenty of spare bedrooms.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Would you like me to come to you? I might be able to get a late flight from Shannon.”
“No, that’s okay.” Hearing Hugh’s voice had made her feel better. There was, after all, somebody out there who cared for her—other than the old priest. “I need to be by myself, at least tonight.”
“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “But call me first thing in the morning. Either way. Or I’m coming to get you.”
“I will.”
“Good night,” he said, and after a moment, “I miss you terribly.”
“Good night,” Sophie said, blushing.
She hung up and gazed out of the window at the sun sinking below the grey stone rooftops of the city of light. The conversation had calmed her. This was the end of something, yes, but not her life, not her story.
Sophie dialled room service and ordered an excellent meal: coq au vin, half a bottle of Burgundy, a tarte tatin, coffee, and a bowl of fresh fruit. When it arrived, she ate slowly, savouring every mouthful—and she thought things through.
It was her instinct to stay. To go and see Tom, demand a hearing. Demand he see sense. But she knew that was not the right thing to do.
Sophie loved her son. But it was time for him to grow up. He had chosen to do it the hard way.
Sparkles Page 37
