“It’s actually an excellent bistro. Only place with a Michelin star for a hundred miles, in any direction. Paul Begala is the chef, he’s a great cook. All local produce, everything seasonal, very traditional dishes. His mutton stew has to be tasted to be believed. And he does a lobster thermidor that just melts against the tongue. All his fish is fantastic, in fact.”
Sophie was hungry. “That sounds delicious. I must say, I’ve eaten more with you than I ever did in my entire life.”
That came out sounding rather personal; she blushed and wished she hadn’t mentioned it.
“Ah, well. That’s the exercise. You’re walking, riding all the time here. Frankly, I think you could do with fattening up a little.”
He glanced ahead. “Here we are.”
“Did you make reservations? I suppose if it’s got a Michelin star, it must be very crowded.”
“Usually is,” Hugh agreed mildly. He parked, and went round to help her out of the car. A quick glance inside confirmed that Paul hadn’t let him down.
“Thank you.” Sophie closed the door. “What beautiful music.”
“That’s his daughter, Brona. She plays with the London Symphony. She’s back here on holiday.” Now that the moment had arrived, Hugh’s nerves had returned. “Come on in.”
The door swung open, and Begala, a thin man with sparkling eyes and a broad smile, was standing there.
“Ah, Hugh, it’s yourself. And Mrs. Massot. Nice to see you here, ma’am. If you’ll follow me, your table’s ready.”
Sophie smiled and walked in through the oak porch. And gasped.
The floor of the small restaurant was completely empty, apart from a single table for two set in the center of the room. An antique silver candlestick was placed on a white cloth of delicate Irish linen; it was mirrored by hundreds of small candles placed all over the room. The walls had been hung with green silk, and there were huge vases of flowers everywhere, along with arrangements of berries and twigs—the scent of roses, all colours, rioting against the dark green backdrop, was pervasive. Wearing a dress of red velvet, Brona, sitting unobtrusively in a corner, was plucking a lilting melody from her fine golden harp; a silver ice bucket filled with crushed ice held a magnum of Krug.
“Hugh.” Her heart jumped into her mouth. “What’s going on?”
Begala smiled, and melted discreetly away.
“Supper,” Hugh said, grinning. “Why don’t you sit down. You’re shivering . . . are you cold?”
Sophie shook her head. “Nervous,” she whispered.
“Strangely enough, me too. Let’s have some champagne.”
He pulled back her chair, poured her a glass; then, changing his mind, took her trembling hand in his and sank to one knee.
“Sophie, the more I know you, the more I love you,” Hugh said, simply. “I admired you before I ever met you; I was struck the first time I saw you; and now I miss you if you even leave the room.”
A tear rolled down Sophie’s cheek. But she smiled.
“My darling.” Hugh kissed her hand. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes—oh, thank God! I love you, Hugh. I love you so much.” And he got up and gathered her in his arms and kissed the life out of her.
“Thank goodness for that,” Hugh said when he finally let her go. “I was going to wait—have an excellent meal, you know, lull you into a false sense of security with tons of champagne—but then I realized I’d be far too jumpy to eat more than two mouthfuls unless I found out right away.”
Sophie laughed; for the first time in ages, she felt utterly light and free. “I agree. I couldn’t have managed a mouthful. And I’m starving.”
“Ah.” Hugh slapped his forehead. “The ring—the bloody ring! I drove like the devil to Cork to get it, and I was so overwhelmed I forgot to even get it out.” He fished the small leather box from his pocket and opened it. “I hope you like it.”
Sophie looked down. The ring took her breath away. It was a beautiful emerald-cut canary diamond, a rich buttery yellow, flanked by two icy-clear white trillions, set in twenty-four-karat gold.
“Yellow diamonds suit you, I think,” Hugh said. “Because wherever you go, you bring sunlight.”
She was dumbstruck.
“If you don’t like it . . .”
“No—no, I think it’s the most stunning ring I’ve ever seen.” Sophie held out her left hand and he slipped it onto her finger, feeling as though he was claiming, for himself, the only prize that would ever matter. “It’s beautiful. It’s unusual. It will always remind me of you.” She kissed him on the lips. “And it sparkles.”
Hugh had an arm around her; they were lying comfortably together on a red-damask Queen Anne chaise longue, one of his favourites, in his bedroom, watching the glowing embers of the fire. “I can’t believe I’m engaged.”
“Regretting it already?” Sophie smiled up at him. God, she was beautiful, he thought, so full of life, and warmth. And still stylish, even after a long walk, and a bath, and dinner.
“Never.” He paused. “I surprised myself, and yet—it doesn’t seem shocking. It seems like a perfect fit. We’ve only known each other a short while . . .”
“On paper.” Sophie shrugged. “But I feel so used to you.”
“Used to me?”
“You know what I mean,” she insisted.
“So what happens, now?”
“First, we have to tell Tom.” A shadow passed across her beautiful face, but Hugh could see that she was still determined; he had no doubts about that now. She was solidly his. “And then we’ll go to my priest, Fr. Sabin. He’ll instruct you, and do the wedding. They usually make you wait six months.” She glanced at him. “Maybe I can speed things up. . . .”
Hugh kissed her gently on the lips, forcing himself to keep it light, although every muscle in his body wanted to reach out and take her to himself.
“I think I can wait six months,” he said, but he shifted his body slightly, so it wasn’t pressing against her, all the same. The curve of her back was intriguing to him; better to avoid temptation. “It seems like I’ve been waiting many years. Since the day Georgie died.”
“You’ll have to tell her family.”
“I’m sure they’ll be delighted.” Indeed, it was ironic that Hugh had drifted out of touch with them because of their tiresome good wishes and urgings that he find somebody else. There could never have been anybody else.
Except there was. Thank God.
“What are you laughing at?” Sophie asked him. “You’re always grinning.”
“I’m not; I’m just happy,” he said simply.
It was true. If he paused to consider how he was feeling, the joy was always there. It wasn’t big and splashy, not the sort of thing to make him want to jump up and down. But it was still omnipresent—quiet but deep, a lake, not a waterfall.
“So then we get married. And maybe have some children?”
“It’s a little late for that. Unfortunately.”
“You think so? Anything can happen. You’re not too old to have children.”
“It’s very unlikely,” Sophie said, and this time the cloud hovered a little longer. Hugh was perturbed.
“Good God, you can’t think I’d blame you if it didn’t happen, darling. It would just be a lovely extra bonus. A lifetime with you would be more than enough for me. Frankly,” and he heard his own voice roughen a little, despite himself, “I thought I should never be happy again.”
Sophie turned round to stare at him.
“You were depressed?”
“Nothing like that. Not depressed—and not happy, either. I had moments of excitement, of professional triumph; the best you could call it was a certain satisfaction.” He thought that put it very well, and, indeed, he had worked plenty of eighteen-hour days at Mayberry just to get that satisfaction.
Hugh reached out and took her hand. “And that’s changed, now.”
Sophie hesitated, as if she weren’t quite sure if she should say
something.
“Go on.” Hugh read her mind. “Look, darling, now is the time to thrash things out. Once we’re married you can’t run away. That’s what Catholics believe, right?”
“No divorce.” She smiled broadly. “Which is fine by me. You’re the one who should worry.”
They kissed again, gently.
“It wasn’t that,” Sophie said, after a long moment. “It was the business. You know . . . what we might do after the wedding. Don’t you ever get angry—thinking of Peter Stockton? Because when I think of Judy Dean, and him . . .” And Katherine, she stopped short of saying, “I find myself getting furious. They tricked my son. And I know that Stockton will ruin the company.”
“Yes, there’s no doubt about that, unfortunately.” Hugh decided not to sugarcoat it. “There were multiple times, even within Mayberry, which makes mass-market jewels, that I had to stop him from trashing the quality of the product. I wanted Mayberry to be another Tiffany. Lines of avant-garde jewels. Stockton would always argue for the cheaper stones with poorer quality, or that we should downgrade the gold—ten karat, for example, instead of fourteen . . .”
“Ten-karat gold? Women’s fingers would stain. That’s not really gold at all.”
“Of course not. But his instinct is always to save money. He has no conception of quality or of branding.”
Sophie sighed. “I pity the shareholders, not just Tom.”
“They made their choice when they sold to him.”
“Well, mostly they sold to you.”
Hugh inclined his head. “True. But it’s no good to cry about it, Sophie. That’s business. And no matter how glorious the product—in Massot’s case, sheer beauty—it’s still, in the end, just business.”
“I don’t think so,” Sophie said. “Consider this. Massot was built up in one generation . . .”
“Two, if you count Pierre’s uncle. Wasn’t he a jeweller?”
“A jeweller and a watchmaker, but having one small atelier on the Right Bank in the sixties is hardly an empire. Nothing happened until Pierre built Massot up.”
“Yes. The man sounds like a first-class weasel, but he knew his jewels,” Hugh conceded. “And he had an impressively ruthless business style. I admit that.”
“And if he built up House Massot in one generation . . .” Sophie slipped off the chaise and started to walk around the room. She was magnificent to watch, and he enjoyed it: the silk pooling around her long, slender frame, her eyes alight with enthusiasm, her hands gesticulating. “Then why can’t somebody else do it? Why can’t somebody else do the same? Why not us?”
“Start a jewellery business?”
“House Montfort. Why not? The letter M seems to be in vogue in gems these days.” She was joking, but, he saw clearly, she was also quite serious. Sophie came back to him and grasped his hands. “Look, Hugh.” She spoke urgently. “You’re a wonderful businessman. With an incredible record. You could get a loan. I’m sure investors would fall over themselves to lend you money. And my party, my redecoration—it got some press; I could design the showrooms for you.”
Hugh chuckled.
“You think it’s a stupid idea?”
“Certainly not. I’m only laughing because I had planned on suggesting it to you.”
She beamed. “You mean you want to? Start a company with me?”
“I certainly do.” He pulled her close and kissed her. “A company. A marriage. A life. The works.”
Chapter 42
Judy had a plan. And it was a simple one.
Show Tom Massot a good time.
Show him such a good time that he’d forget his little student. Judy was inventive, in and out of bed: surprising him half-naked in his office, in the back of the stretch limo, skinny-dipping in the lake. And then cramming his nights with the finest Paris had to offer. The best new restaurants, the hottest exhibitions, the finest shows . . . She’d have dragged him to Disneyland Paris if she thought it’d do her any good. As it was, there had been that day trip shopping in Rome, and the private jet that took them to dinner in Gibraltar. . . .
And it was working. Judy gave him such a dizzying array of outings, sex, food, even her own clothes—every day she was a new woman. Like goddamn Madonna. Age should not wither her infinite variety, not if Judy could help it. She was rising at six, before him, each day, and exercising like a maniac.
If there had been a repeat of the disastrous Polly phone call, Judy hadn’t heard it. And even Katherine was less of a thorn in her side, because Tom and Judy were never at the château. Let her dine alone in the dower house, the old witch, and leave Judy be. She could have her ancient butler for company.
But . . . it sure was exhausting.
For a moment Judy felt an overpowering sense of weariness. Maybe if she took just one night off.
She dialled Tom’s mobile.
“Ici Thomas,” he said. It struck Judy, briefly, that she felt no thrill of happiness on hearing his voice. Not like Pierre.
“Honey, I’m so sorry. Got to cancel on our date tonight.”
“Why, what’s up?”
He didn’t sound too upset. Judy wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for her or a bad one.
“A combination of factors—work, and I think I’m just feeling a little burnt out. You know? I was thinking of going for a drink with some of the girls”—that was a joke, they all hated her—“maybe getting a massage. Do you mind terribly?”
“Not at all. You have fun. I’ll see you later.”
“What are you going to do tonight?”
There was that reedy note in her voice; damn it, she hated to sound whiny.
“I don’t know.” Tom spoke carelessly. “Maybe read a book. Call some mates from college. I’ve been losing touch with my old friends, it’ll be good to catch up.”
Judy’s stomach churned. She wished she hadn’t asked.
“I think that’s a great idea!” she said merrily. “Just make sure you get enough rest. You’re gonna need all your energy later.”
He chuckled. “You’re insatiable.”
“Always,” she said.
He hung up. Judy listened to the click and the dial tone, then slowly replaced the receiver. She looked around her office. There was work to be done, but she had no appetite for any of it. Judy felt sick. She closed the blinds on her door and curled up miserably on her couch.
Tom put the phone down and was surprised at the extent of the relief he felt.
Judy!
She was sexy, no doubt about that. And he’d been enjoying himself. But he was totally exhausted, and besides, he felt a bit guilty.
There was no future with Judy. He knew that now. All his energies had to be focussed on House Massot.
That wasn’t going so well right now, either.
Judy, well, he ought to break up with her. But she had given him the perfect excuse not to. It was never the right time, and the way things were going, the right time wouldn’t arrive for months: every day, some new pleasure; every night, that smooth, firm body slipping in between his sheets. . . .
Tom felt guilty even thinking about it.
Well, he wasn’t technically cheating. It wasn’t like he was back together with Polly. Not yet.
He just wanted to be, more than anything.
This is another opportunity, Tom thought. I must stop being a coward.
Ugly word, but accurate. Yes, he had been a coward. It was always so easy to say “tomorrow.”
Well, no putting it off anymore. He would wait for Judy to come home tonight and break the news, as gently as he knew how. There was somebody else . . . or should he just say things weren’t working out?
I’m growing up, Tom thought, as he walked out of the front door, past his scowling butler. When Grandmother wasn’t around, all the staff made faces at him. And who could blame them? He had not treated Maman well. Maybe she had made a mistake, maybe she had lowered herself in dating that pig, Lazard, but . . .
It was strange. Tom had imagined
that all his problems would cease the day he ran his father’s company. And yet, now that he had everything he had wanted, even coveted—the company, the château, the girl—it seemed very empty. He’d rather be in a punt, on the Cherwell, or rolling around laughing at Polly in her scruffy jeans and unfeminine sweatshirt. With Judy, he never laughed.
Or playing cards with Maman, who always lost.
She’d lost in the big game of cards, too.
Tom walked over to his eighteenth-century desk and retrieved his mother’s letter from the secret drawer where he kept it stashed.
He missed her so much. It hurt so horribly. If he were honest, he was starting not to care that she was staying with Montfort. Tom still wanted to see her, to wrap her up in a bear hug.
Those words—about always loving him.
For weeks now, they had kept him strong. Massot was a bloody disaster, let’s face it, and Tom had no idea how to fix things. Judy was exhausting. Katherine was back to her usual cold self. . . .
Tom scanned the letter for the millionth time. He reread the line about Judy. Maybe Maman did know something about her.
Well—that was one barrier between them that he could dismantle.
And Tom was going to do it. Tonight.
He would walk out to the orchard and see if any of the plums were ripe. When he was younger, Tom had loved going out there with Maman, hunting through the trees for those telltale signs of purple, pulling down the branches and trying to bat off the ones that were out of reach, stuffing the sun-drenched sweetness into his mouth, laughing while Maman tickled him. . . .
No menopausal romances were going to change any of that.
The trees calmed him. The plums were still streaked with green, but he admired their beauty; it was late afternoon and a gloriously sunny day. Tom made a decision. He sat on a mossy stump, fished out his mobile, and called his mother.
“Hello?”
“Mum, it’s me.” Tom realized he was using the anglicism she preferred.
“Oh darling—darling Tom. It’s so wonderful to hear from you. I love you, angel.”
“And I love you.” Tom was embarrassed to find he had a lump in his throat. “We mustn’t let this come between us, Mum. I—I’m sorry I threw you out of the house.”
Sparkles Page 41
