Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Are they plotting a coup?” Tom was intrigued.

  “If so, this is a good place for it.” Hugh shrugged. “It’s one of the most discreet hotels in the country.”

  Nevertheless, Sophie noticed, the diners were carefully glancing their way, trying to be unobtrusive, but mostly failing. Hugh would nod and smile at them, and raise his champagne flute; some looked sharply in the other direction, others waved back.

  “This isn’t the sort of place that tolerates the press,” he said, “but I’ll warrant this story will hit the wires in less than twenty minutes. Shall we order? I’m famished.”

  They were served by unobtrusive waiters who didn’t bat an eye at the wedding gown or morning dress. It was a merry meal, and Sophie’s happiness swelled; she felt the weight lift off her, as though she had been walking through life with a ball and chain strapped to her ankles, and it had now been removed.

  She signalled the waiter.

  “May we have the bill, please?”

  “There is no bill, Mrs. Montfort,” he said. “The chef offers his congratulations, sir, madam.”

  Hugh smiled. “Very kind. Thank you.”

  Sophie thrilled. She’d just been called Montfort, and she loved it. Getting Pierre’s name off her was like bathing away a layer of dirt; she revelled in it. But her eyes went to Tom, to see his reaction. Would he wince? Would it hurt?

  He was frowning and staring off into the distance; she observed that he hadn’t noticed or cared. He was anxious, and it didn’t seem to be about the wedding.

  Sophie turned to Père Sabin.

  “Dear Father,” she said. “Would you like to come home with us? Stay for lunch, or overnight?”

  “Good Lord, no,” he said. “I have Benediction at four. I shall get on the undersea train. It’s a marvel, you know.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, as it’s nearly nine thirty, I should be going.”

  “We’ll drop you,” Sophie said. She felt guilty for being relieved, but she wanted a few moments alone with her son.

  Sophie poked her head into Hugh’s kitchen, where Tom was fiddling around with the coffeemaker.

  “Darling. Are you busy?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then go for a walk with me.”

  Tom looked doubtful. “What about Hugh?”

  “He can fend by himself for a bit.”

  “It’s his wedding day,” he protested, but unconvincingly. He wanted to speak to Maman, and there hadn’t been an appropriate moment yet.

  “We aren’t taking time off; we have our entire lives for that.” Sophie walked inside the room; she had changed into an elegant, but everyday, Catherine Walker suit in dark green wool, and a soft cream blouse. No jewels but her engagement ring, and, Tom admitted, she didn’t need them. He was proud of his mother’s élan. “Hugh!” she shouted. “Tom and I are going out.”

  “All right, darling, see you later.” His voice floated down from the study. “I’ll go to the office.”

  Sophie ushered Tom out of the front door; it was mild and sunny now, and they strolled towards Hyde Park, in silence at first.

  “I suppose I must call your grandmother.” Sophie glanced at her son. “I’ll do it when we get back. Has that been upsetting you, darling?”

  “No.” He was surprised he was so transparent, but also relieved; now he would not have to fence around the subject with her.

  “Then what is it?”

  “My girlfriend—my ex-girlfriend. Judy Dean.”

  “Your ex-girlfriend.” Sophie heaved a sigh of relief. “So you’ve broken up?” she asked, trying to keep her tone flat.

  “Yes.” Tom chewed his lip. “Maman, when we talked before, you told me that Judy had done something wrong.... And is that why you so objected to her?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “What were those things?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not important, Tom.”

  “It is. It’s very important. You must tell me.”

  “I can’t say. I have my reasons.”

  “And I have mine,” he said, with a touch of anger. “It matters—for our family, it matters.”

  Sophie stopped and leaned against a white-painted railing. “What’s happened, Tom? Tell me.”

  He groaned, and passed a hand through his mop of dark hair. “I’ve been very foolish—very stupid,” he said. “Mother—she’s pregnant.”

  Sophie gasped and swayed on her feet. The busy London street wavered before her eyes; her son’s strong arms came up under her elbows.

  “Maman! Maman! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine—fine,” she whispered. She clutched at him until the world stopped spinning. Oh, my God, Sophie thought—oh, dear God. . . .

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” Tom said, gloomily. “On your wedding day.”

  “No.” Sophie controlled herself. “I had to know.”

  “I broke up with her and she told me.” Tom sounded so miserable. “I didn’t know what to do, so I put her in the east wing of the château. And I came here—to see Hugh. I couldn’t handle this by myself.”

  “Well, if it brought you to speak to him, the cloud has a silver lining.” Sophie tried to process every thought that was running, racing through her head. “I won’t deny that she’s not the first daughter-in-law I would have chosen—”

  “Daughter-in-law!”

  “You will reconcile. And marry, of course,” Sophie said. “You liked her well enough to go out with her . . .”

  Go out. Such an effective euphemism.

  “So I’m sure you can recapture whatever ... the two of you ... once had.You have a baby now. And the baby will need its father.”

  “I can be its father if we’re not married.”

  “Of course you can,” Sophie agreed. “But it won’t be as good—not as good, not as perfect, for the child. It depends on the kind of sacrifices you are prepared to make for your flesh and blood, Tom.”

  “The child,” he muttered.

  “Your child. Your baby,” his mother said gently. “And my grandchild.” There were tears in her eyes, but she smiled. “It’s part of you, and I love it already, Tom. Babies are the best thing in the world. Judy being pregnant is wonderful news.”

  “You’re mad,” he said. He glanced at her eyes, bright with tears; she was smiling and crying at the same time. “Too much emotion in one day, it’s turned your head, Maman.”

  “No,” Sophie said, intently. “It really is wonderful, angel. Whatever’s in the past can stay in the past. I can make peace with Judy. Let her know she’s accepted into the family. . . .”

  “I haven’t agreed to marry her yet.”

  “And nobody can force you.” Sophie started walking again. “If you truly think life with her would be intolerable, then don’t do it. But if you think you could learn to love her, you ought to. Yes, you could be a visiting father. But children do better in a home with two parents who love them, and children need their dad.” She paused. “You, of all people, know that.”

  Tom nodded. That hit him, hard.

  Maman was right . . . she was more than affectionate, she was wise. He suddenly cared; Judy’s pregnancy was more than an unpleasant fact—it was his baby, his little baby.

  He could sacrifice for that. He had admired Judy . . . and he could get that back.

  There was pain, though. He didn’t love her. And at once, as he contemplated marrying her, he stopped dancing around the thought of Polly.

  I love Polly. I always have, he thought, and I pushed her away. I fucked that up, like I fucked up House Massot, like I fucked up with Maman . . .

  Tom felt very young. And not in a particularly good way.

  “And now I’m to be a father,” he said. “I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”

  “Nobody ever is,” Sophie said. “Trust me on that one.”

  “So, what was the quarrel you had with Judy?” he repeated. “You can understand that I need to know.”

  Sophie hesitated. “Well—that
she felt I was usurping your place in the office,” she lied. “She didn’t think it was right that I took over, being just a wife. She was jealous because she was a professional woman, and I’d just inherited the corner office.” Like all the best lies, that one had an element of the truth to it.

  “I can get over it. And I’m sure she will too.” She allowed herself to feel one moment more of anger—how Judy would triumph ... grabbing the son where she’d failed with the father, and Sophie would be forced to help her.

  But I won’t let Judy dictate my actions, she decided; I don’t want to give her that power. The child was Tom’s baby. She would love it as she would love any child he might have.

  In the end, Judy would learn—a baby changes everything. And if she loved it, she would stop mentioning its grandfather. It’d be weird; Sophie almost laughed—when had her family not been weird?

  “That’s everything?” He looked skeptical.

  “That’s enough, don’t you think?” Sophie deflected the question. “Tom, you should go home tonight. Talk to Judy. Decide what the two of you are going to do. Even if you don’t get married, you’ll want joint custody, and you should offer her complete financial support, her own apartments in the château . . .”

  Tom thought of Polly—and his baby.

  “I’ll propose,” he said, heavily. “I want my baby to know his father.”

  “Talk it through with her first.” Sophie kissed him on the cheek. “And I will go home and tell your grandmother my good news.”

  “Good luck with that.” Tom grinned.

  “It has to be done. And we must remember her attitude is only from loyalty to her son. You’ll understand that love—soon.”

  “I’ll get a taxi. I’ll go straight back home.”

  “I think that’s best; call me when you two have discussed things.”

  Tom hugged his mother. “I love you, Maman.”

  “I love you too,” Sophie said, and her heart soared with happiness. Never mind Katherine, never mind Judy Dean. She had her child back—with Tom and Hugh, Sophie felt she could take on anything.

  Chapter 48

  Judy savoured the moment. It was finally happening. A Massot was offering her the world. His hand—his name. Her gaze on Tom was feverish, bitter, and triumphant.

  “Judy, please.” He was pleading with her, the little bastard—begging. I despise him, she thought; he’s not Pierre, he’s nothing. “We’re going to have a child . . .”

  “I’m going to have a child.” She shrugged. “Or maybe an abortion. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “My God, you can’t,” he said.

  “I can do whatever I like.” She withdrew a packet of Gauloises from her Donna Karan jacket, enjoying his consternation, and lit up, daring Tom to say a word. It was a new habit, forced on her from stress at work. Now, Judy watched with relish as he shrank back, dismayed.

  “That’s not good for the baby,” he muttered.

  “That’s none of your concern.” She turned away. “You weren’t so bloody solicitous last time I saw you. Before you ran off to your maman.”

  Tom struggled with his anger and fear. Now that he was here, he absolutely loathed her. She was threatening to kill their child. And this was the woman he was meant to marry?

  “I just needed a little time to think. Judy—be reasonable.” He couldn’t stand to beg her, yet he must. “Isn’t this what you wanted—didn’t you tell me, I’d led you on?” Each word ripped at him. “So—I can offer you everything. Marriage, the name, the house.” He weakly attempted levity. “All the jewels you can wear.”

  “And what does your precious mother think of that?”

  Tom gritted his teeth and ignored the insult. “She spoke warmly of her grandchild. She tells me there is nothing that cannot be patched up—you and I, you and her—she wanted me to propose. For the child’s sake, we can make a family.” He paused. “Judy, she said the past was in the past.”

  Judy laughed, wildly. Tom wondered if she were a little drunk.

  “If you don’t want to marry me, I can still look after you. You can move into the château permanently; I will assign you an entire wing and set up a trust fund. You could live off that income. We will share custody of our baby and at least we could live in the same house. . . .”

  “And parties?” Judy flashed him a lazy, contemptuous smile. “Would I be the hostess? What’s the precedence at Château des Étoiles? You’re the young king ... and if I don’t want to wed you? I won’t stand behind that old bitch Katherine. Or Sophie Massot.”

  “Don’t speak of my grandmother in that way, Judy, and it’s Sophie Montfort now.”

  “So it is.” She tossed her head. “And I could be the new Mme Massot.”

  “If you want to,” Tom said, clearly hoping the answer was no.

  “You know, Tom, your grandmother has been a bitch to me. She’s certainly been a bitch to Sophie. Something you don’t choose to notice, I suppose.”

  He recoiled.

  “So I’ll call her whatever the hell I please. And if you want to stop me from aborting your brat, you’re not exactly in any position to lay down the law. Are you?” Judy was laughing. “It seems that for once, in this fucked-up family, I hold all the cards.”

  Tom walked to the window and stared out of the lead-paned glass, looking down on the kitchen garden; two of the cooks were out there gathering herbs for dinner. He did not want Judy to see the hatred that was brightly written on his face.

  “Yes,” he said heavily. “It does seem that way.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” Judy said, twisting the knife. “I’m not sure I want to have your child. At any price. I can’t stand you, and I can’t stand your family. If I do go through with it, I’m going to want independence. You’ll be buying me an estate—in my own name, and you’ll pay all the taxes. I’m going to need staff....” she dragged one manicured finger across the back of a Louis XVI chair, rustling its velvet cushion. “You can keep me in the manner to which I’m going to be accustomed, if you want me to keep your baby.”

  “Blackmail,” Tom responded flatly.

  She smiled condescendingly. “Tom, darling, that’s such an ugly word—after all we’ve meant to each other.”

  “I’ll pay your price,” he said. He didn’t turn around to look at her.

  “Oh, I know you will,” Judy said coolly. “But I haven’t decided if that’s what I want to do. I’m not that maternal a person.”

  There was a rustle, the sound of her crocodile-skin bag slithering off the chaise longue.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going to my flat; I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  There was the sound of the door closing. Tom stayed motionless, listening to the clack-clack of her Manolo spikes on the sweeping marble staircase.

  He thought of how the day had started—watching his mother marry Hugh Montfort, watching the mutual love in their eyes, the profound happiness that had radiated from his mother, visible in every gesture, every glance.

  And here he was, begging to be allowed to spend the rest of his days subsidizing some nasty American bitch.

  He felt sick. And tired. He wanted to just lie down on the bed, go to sleep, and wake up back in his old life. Back at Oxford, back dating Polly, back before any of this had ever started.

  But his life was going to go on. And he was all out of options.

  Judy drove. It was fortunate that the journey back to the city was second nature to her now, because her mind was churning, like her belly; she was sick with excitement, and malice; she hardly saw the road.

  Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  There was no way she could ever marry the Massot boy. None. He was too like Pierre, and too different—a cheap mock-up, a cardboard cutout. He revolted her. The thought of him inside her sickened her. There was no dominance, no magic—just a cocky boy, easy to manipulate.

  Easy to defraud.

  She ignored the repellent memories that crowded her and m
ade her skin crawl: sucking up to him, seducing him, just to keep his interest—that of a man she couldn’t stand. In the beginning, Tom simply looked like Pierre. Later on, she could not forget that he was Sophie’s son—the child of the woman she hated—the evidence, walking and talking, that Pierre had never chosen her. . . .

  It had been a mania—a sickness—not to lose twice, not to let Katherine join Sophie in triumphing over her.

  And this was the perfect answer. A pregnancy, one he’d do anything to have her keep. She pressed her foot on the gas. She finally saw her way clear.

  No more Massots. If she could not have Pierre, the love of her life—Pierre, her god, her king—she would have no other.

  But for fifteen years of longing, fifteen years of pain . . .

  For her lost career, and her broken heart . . .

  They would pay. They would pay, and go on paying. She would bleed them dry. Screw Montfort, screw all of them. It would be House Dean, why not? Great dynasties started somewhere.

  She slowed as she hit traffic. Coming into Paris, where drivers regard red lights as merely polite suggestions, you have to be careful. Judy’s breathing steadied. Her mind, however, was clear, perfectly focussed, sharp with hate.

  She would take the Massots, mother and son, for whatever she could. And then wash her hands of the lot of them.

  Judy reached rue des Cloches; the towering, elegant eighteenth-century facades that loomed over her, so familiar, seemed small, claustrophobic. She longed to get out of Paris, maybe France. But having been so long in the country, it was a part of her. She also desired to destroy the Massots, to supercede them, on their own territory. . . .

  She parked on the street and fished her key from her Versace handbag; it had been a while since she’d been here. The plants would be dead. She tried to remember if she’d cleaned out the fridge, if there would be any foul-smelling foodstuffs rotting there. . . .