Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “It’s all right, darling. I understand you thought you were protecting Daddy.”

  He didn’t want to talk about that.

  “Hugh never felt any personal animosity towards your father. I promise. Will you give him a chance?”

  “I’m going to break up with Judy,” Tom said. He wanted to change the subject.

  “Oh, thank God.” Sophie heaved an audible sigh of relief. “She wasn’t right for you.”

  “I agree. You see, I can see reason.” Already he felt a lot happier. “It’s always been you and me, Mum. I shouldn’t have lost sight of that.”

  “I can understand why you did.” His mother started to cry. “Darling—I just want to see you. Shall I come back to Paris?”

  “That’d be great,” Tom said, cheered. He didn’t want to see Montfort, especially not in his own house. Plus, he didn’t think he could spare any time away from House Massot and its sales meltdown.

  “Then I’ll be there tomorrow.” There was a hesitation. “Tom—I’ve got some news. Do you think you can take it calmly?”

  He laughed, despite himself. “Oh, Mum—this is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think so at first. But promise me not to fly off the handle.”

  Tom could hardly refuse. “Okay.”

  “I’ve spent over a month here with Hugh. We—we’re in love, darling. Last night he proposed to me.”

  “And you accepted.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were going to tell me—when?”

  “I wanted you to call me. If you hadn’t—in a day or so.”

  The happiness of a few moments earlier seeped away from him. Tom thought of his father, and felt a black pit of despair come up from nowhere and engulf him. A chill wind blew through the plum orchard, and he shivered.

  “I can’t accept him, Mum.”

  “I understand that. But you will.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t come—right now.”

  “Oh, Tom!”

  There was the disappointment in her voice. He struggled with himself.

  “Look—I don’t want you to see this bloke, much less marry him. I still think Papa might be alive.”

  “Darling—”

  “We won’t get into that now. But I do know one thing. Even if you do marry him, I’ll still love you. You’ll always be my mum. And we’ll see each other some time soon. Just—just not now.” A tear rolled down Tom’s cheek, and he brushed it off, angrily, glad he was alone. “That good enough?” he asked, gruffly. No way did he want his mother to hear his voice crack.

  “Yes.” She was teary, too. “Yes, sweetheart—my darling. That’s fine, for now. I love you, Tom.”

  “Me too, Mum,” Tom said, hanging up. Then he put his head in his hands, and surrendered to his private grief.

  Judy sighed with relief. It had been a long and brutal day, and she was thankful to be turning into the long drive of the château. The last golden leaves of the oaks were tumbling to the ground; the real cold of winter was setting in, and she was looking forward to a hot bath and a blazing fire in the drawing room.

  Tom was being extra-polite lately. She was starting to feel hopeful on that front. All the humiliation would be worth it if she could come out of this Mrs. Tom Massot.

  Judy indulged in a pleasant little daydream as the tires of her BMW crunched on the gravel of the château’s drive.Yes.That was perfect. It was the way she’d finally be revenged on the lot of them. She’d marry the son, take over the business—Tom was supremely easy to manipulate. Once the honeymoon period was over, she could do it, no problem.

  Let that old bitch Katherine gnash her teeth; she’d be dead soon anyway.

  No more humiliation. No more being the loser in love.

  Judy was sick of second place.

  I’m going to do it, she told herself. I’m going to make him propose. It’s going to happen tonight.

  Judy walked up to the steps of the porch, and the large walnut door swung open; that butler, whose name she could not recall, bowed to her.

  “Good evening, madam,” he said in perfect English.

  She nodded back, coolly. Yes. This was the life.

  “Mr. Massot is waiting for you in the drawing room, madam. He asked if you would join him for a cocktail.”

  How charming. Judy deigned to turn and smile at the butler.

  “Why, thank you,” she said, sweetly.

  She normally didn’t speak to the staff. After all, she was hardly on their level. But Judy made an exception for the bearers of good news.

  She crossed the marble floor of the hallway, pausing to fluff out her new hairdo—fifty euros for a wash and blow-dry at Jean-Philippe’s, Paris’s latest hot hair salon, and worth every cent. After her horrid day at the office, Judy always stopped by. She wanted to look absolutely fresh for Tom, at her best, every night. No exceptions.

  The rearview mirror had offered reassurance on the way home; her lips in that sexy fire-engine red, matching nails, a bold scarlet dress, and black Manolos, with a chunky gold bracelet from one of the Mayberry collections. Her dark hair flowed sexily around her shoulders. Judy gave herself a little shake and pushed down on the brass handle.

  Ah . . . perfect.

  It was the scene of her dreams. There was indeed a blazing fire crackling and hissing in the eighteenth-century hearth; the curtains, antique orange silk fringed with gold thread, were drawn against the cold; and the shadows of the furniture danced around the walls lined with books.

  Tom was standing by the polished mahogany table. It was set with cut-glass decanters and tumblers, a silver bucket of ice with tongs, and slices of lemon and lime.

  He looked frighteningly like Pierre. And yet, not. Too young, too green. Judy was never satisfied with Tom; he couldn’t rouse her like Pierre had done. Oh, he looked the same, but the fire wasn’t there: the dominance, the total control. As the young girl, the hero-worshipping mistress, Judy had looked up to Pierre Massot, and he’d been able to bend her whichever way he wanted. Now, with Tom, she was the one doing the manipulating. She was in charge. . . .

  It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t love. It was like sickly sweet methadone instead of heroin. And Tom could never get her high.

  But he was still Tom Massot. The riches were his. The castle was his. The jewels. The name. . . .

  The last vestiges of tension drained from her body. She flashed him a come-on smile.

  “Hey Tom,” she drawled. “A drink would be perfect. It’s like you read my mind, baby.” Judy strutted across the room towards him. “It’s been a rough day. I can’t stand those bastards.” She shook her head to display her fluffy hair to best advantage; the salon made it look like a Timotei commercial.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He sounded a little nervous, and a jolt of electricity shot through her. Was he about to pop the question? “What will you have?”

  “No alcohol; I’ll just take some juice.” She stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked her lips.

  He silently poured out a tumblerful of the fresh orange juice; it came from the château’s own orangerie and it was utterly perfect. Judy took the tumbler gratefully, and chinked it against his glass of whisky.

  “A toast,” she announced, “to—”

  “Judy. Wait.” Tom glanced at the door. “Is that closed?”

  “Absolutely.” She winked. “We’re private here. Why, did you want to christen the room? I think we’ve had sex most everywhere else . . .”

  Tom swallowed. “Yes—and it was wonderful. I—I’ve got something to say to you, though.”

  Oh shit. It’s going to happen.

  Judy couldn’t stop the smile, although she tried to.

  “Go on, Tom,” she said. “Go on, honey.”

  “Judy—you’re a wonderful person,” Tom said. “And we’ve had a lot of fun together. And—I’m fond of you.” The last wasn’t strictly true anymore, but it was a white lie. “But this relationship isn’t going anywhere. I think for b
oth our sakes that we should break up. You’ll need to move out, so if you want, I can have the staff pack your cases.” He ploughed on. “It just wouldn’t be fair to waste your time.”

  Judy was staring at him with a rage he had not thought possible.

  “I’m sorry,” he finished lamely.

  She threw the juice in his face. It splashed all over Tom’s suit, ruining it; his eyes stung.

  “You fucking bastard,” Judy said. “Just like your father.”

  “Leave my father out of this,” he said coldly.

  Judy laughed, high-pitched and manic.

  “So that’s it?” she demanded. “That’s what I get? Six months of being screwed by an inferior little prick, then thank you and goodbye? Packed out of the house, with nothing to show for it. . . .”

  “Not all love affairs end in marriage. You knew that.”

  At least he hadn’t assumed she meant a payoff. But fuck him, Judy thought, infuriated.

  “I knew I trusted you. I knew you asked me to move here. I thought that meant something.”

  “It meant I wanted your company.”

  “Oh, sure.” She laughed bitterly. “You wanted a convenience. A girl at hand. And now that you think you don’t need me, I’m out. On the trash heap.”

  “Let’s be adult about this, Judy.”

  “Adult? You’re a whiny little brat. You sold Massot for nothing. You’re not your father, Tom. You’re a pale fucking imitation. No fire in the belly. No guts.”

  That stung.

  “Again, I will ask you not to mention my father,” Tom said flatly. “You hardly knew him. You are not qualified to comment, Judy. You’re not a member of this family.”

  That last one had her screaming. Judy heard her own voice, wild and high. But she didn’t care. All she saw was Tom—looking like Pierre—casting her out, dumping her, demeaning her.

  You’re not a member of this family.

  “I am,” she screeched. “I am a member of your precious little family! And I always will be! There’s nothing you can do about it—nothing at all!”

  She saw the look of horror and disgust on his face as the implication sank in. And she loathed him for it.

  “That’s right, you piece of shit,” Judy said. “I’m pregnant. I’m carrying your goddamn baby.”

  Chapter 43

  I have to shake this off!

  Tom told himself that a thousand times an hour, it felt like, but it did no good. He’d got up in the morning and the nightmare was still there.

  His baby. Judy’s baby.

  Tethered for life to an older woman who his mother hated and he couldn’t stand.

  He had no idea what to do.

  Or what the hell he’d tell Sophie.

  So, he’d try to put it off. Taking over Massot had been an utter disaster.Tom’s ideas for reviving sales had been disastrous. Nobody liked his cost-cutting in the sales room; there were mass resignations of key staff; he had no idea how to recruit; negative press was flooding in and the Brandts, the design leaders, had quit. His testing of replacements wasn’t going too well. And the accountants wanted a lot of answers. . . .

  He knew he was in over his head. The shiny corner office was one thing. Knowing how to use it was another.

  “Celine!” he shouted. “Could you bring me another cup of coffee?”

  His secretary popped her head round the door and raised her eyebrows.

  “Another, Monsieur?”

  “Believe me, the jitters can’t get any worse.”

  “I’ll make a decaf,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Mayberry stock was sinking. And the meltdown at Massot was a huge part of it. Tom pushed a hand through his hair, sweating. The stress was unbelievable. It was only nine thirty and already he wanted a drink.

  His door opened.

  “That was quick,” Tom said.

  But it wasn’t Celine. And he knew instantly that this shitty day was about to get much, much worse.

  “Hi, kid,” said Pete Stockton.

  Stockton was as blunt as he was unpleasant. He stank of sweat, a stench that was only partially disguised by the sickly sweet smoke from his Cuban cigar.

  “You don’t look so pleased to see me.”

  “Hi, Pete.” Tom sounded calmer than he felt. “Don’t call me kid.”

  “Oooh.” The pudgy slob rolled his eyes. “Big talk from a guy that’s about to get canned.”

  “What?”

  “Canned. Fired. Sacked. Au revoir,” Stockton gloated. “Ain’t that how they say it in Frog?”

  “You can’t fire me, Pete. We have an agreement—”

  “Had—an agreement. Now that I’ve got your shares I really don’t need you. And to be frank, nor does anyone else. Specially my shareholders. I’m taking this job away from you and giving it to a real expert. Continuity, that’s what they want.”

  “Giving it to who, exactly?”

  Pete Stockton grinned. “Your mom’s old pal. Gregoire Lazard. I’m reinstating him and giving him your office. Poetic justice, since it was a Massot who canned him. Don’t you think so?”

  Tom flushed with anger. “You can’t. I have it in writing. I become chairman and chief. . . .”

  “Yada yada yada.” Stockton described a circle in the air with his Monte Cristo. “Need to read your contracts a little better, kid. Said I’d make you chairman. Didn’t say for how long. Got to fire you; stock’s down almost seven percent. To be honest, though, would have done it even if the stock went up.”

  “Why?” spluttered Tom.

  “Don’t like you. Privileged little brat, never had to work for it. Snooty Eurotrash. You and Montfort and your hoity-toity mom. That uptight old maid nearly got me fired. Refusing to sell. I tell you,” Stockton chuckled, his chins wobbling, “she wouldn’t have made a rookie mistake like you. Guess that’s what you get for selling mommie dearest down the river!”

  Tom didn’t hesitate. His fist lashed out and caught Stockton in the temple.

  “Ahhhh ... FUCK YOU! I’ll fucking sue! I’ll—aaaaahhhhhh!”

  Tom’s left foot had swept up neatly and kicked him in the balls. Stockton squealed and toppled over, clutching at the table.

  Celine had been listening outside the door. She opened it, and stared at Tom, wide-eyed.

  “Call the police! Call the goddamned police!” Stockton shrieked.

  “Why, Monsieur,” said Celine quickly, “then they’ll arrest you, for I saw you assault M. Massot, completely unprovoked.”

  “Bless you, Celine.”

  “And I quit. I don’t want to work for a man like that,” she said, then held the door open for Tom as he followed her out.

  “You didn’t have to quit for me,” Tom said gratefully.

  She looked at him coolly.

  “I didn’t. I heard what he said about Mme Massot. She was an amazing woman to work for.” Celine looked at him with disapproval. “You were wrong to dismiss her, Monsieur. She was brilliant.”

  Tom sighed.

  “Mme Sophie inspired everybody here. If you want to understand why people quit, that is the reason. She was the difference. She understood jewels. She understood beauty.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “No. You don’t.” Celine was firm. “But you might have been able to learn.”

  Stockton’s moans rose up from behind the closed door.

  “He’s crying,” Tom observed.

  “Like all bullies, he is a coward.” Celine sniffed. “I’m going home.”

  “Can I drive you somewhere?”

  “I have a car. Tell me, M. Massot. Did Madame explain to you about Judy Dean?”

  Tom froze. “She told me she didn’t approve.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Is there something more?”

  Celine considered for a long moment.

  “Non,” she said finally. “It is not my place. But take my advice, Monsieur. Call your mother. There is much, I think, you have to learn from her. And not just about
diamonds.”

  Chapter 44

  “Nothing will change his mind, darling.” Hugh put an arm around her shoulders—there wasn’t much else he could do. “Nothing but time. I’ll speak to him, but I think he needs a little distance.”

  “Yes.” Sophie stared, dry-eyed, at the Alps, rising beautifully above them. She hadn’t actually cried since Monday. That was something.

  “And don’t forget that it wasn’t like last time. He said he loved you.”

  She nodded. “That is true. But it’s so frustrating—my own son thinks I’m betraying Pierre. Not the other way around.”

  “Then just tell him the truth.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  Hugh was silent. He agreed; Sophie could not expose the father’s mendacity and contempt for marriage to the son. The boy loved a dream, and the Sophie he knew would never take that away from him. It was that strength of character that proved to Hugh how right, how perfectly and utterly right he was to love her.

  “In which case, our plan is the right one. Your old priest, he’s fairly canny.”

  “You would say that.” He was gladdened to note a very small smile. “Because you just want to get me into bed. . . .”

  Hugh, never religious, thought some God talk had been called for. After all, as much as he loved her, Hugh was the obstacle between Sophie and her Tom. He couldn’t help that, and watching Sophie cry was impossible.

  So Hugh thought he would leave the comforting to a professional.

  And he’d been surprised, pleasantly so. The priest, wearing a splendidly ratty nightgown, had ushered them into his overcrowded, messy little cottage. He pumped Hugh’s hand, patted Sophie lightly on the back, and then forced a large brandy on her. He wasn’t maudlin, and didn’t offer platitudes. Instead, Sabin suggested applying to his bishop to waive the six months.

  “I have, after all, been your spiritual director for the last sixteen years,” he said, adding dryly, “and for the most part, you haven’t given me concern.”

  Père Sabin had then fixed Hugh with a warning eye. Hugh felt a bit guilty; it was as if the chap could see into his bedroom. He coughed.