An overwhelming sadness swept over Cat. Her mother had known all along where to find her. ‘You never even once wanted to see me? How do you even know my name?’
Without glancing at Cat, Josephine rearranged her cosmetics on the dressing table. ‘I paid for an unemployed actress to gate-crash your christening. A bitter English tart, can’t remember her name. And I’ve managed to keep an eye on what happens at the Hotel du Barry. So many scandals, I must say it’s quite exhausting keeping up.’
Cat didn’t move from the doorway. ‘So you knew who adopted me and how I was growing up but you never wanted to meet me?’
Josephine exhaled smoke as she carefully examined herself in the mirror. ‘Non. Why should I? I was pregnant at sixteen. I knew I had to get on with my life, make something of myself. And I’ve succeeded. Telle est la vie.’
‘But what about me?’
Her mother pinned up a loose curl. ‘What about you? You can cherry-pick what you want from life. I never had the fabulous opportunities you’ve got. You know, I’ve seen photographs of your work. Your sculptures are marvellous and I’m sure you’ll be a raging success. Anyway, time’s up and I’ve got to finish my fitting.’
A tear rolled down Cat’s cheek. ‘So that’s it! You just want me to go away?’
Josephine carefully powdered her nose. ‘Oui. Unless you have an ulterior motive in being here? I hear the widow du Barry keeps you on a short leash. Do you need money?’
Cat glared at her. ‘No. I’m staying at the Hôtel de Crillon and we already have great seats for tonight’s opera. I don’t need your fucking money.’
Cat turned and walked out.
Josephine dropped the powder puff and turned on Victor. She addressed him in French. ‘That girl looks like she’s recently been plucked. No doubt she came to Paris with a lover. I want more information on the situation. Tell that Cockney criminal to come see me.’
Victor frowned. ‘Jeremy Paxton? No, don’t do it. Caterina’s young man is waiting downstairs for her. I spoke to him and he’s got impeccable manners and speaks excellent French. I think they’re in love. Why the hell would you want to hurt her?’
Josephine turned her attention back to the mirror. ‘I don’t. I want to find out who he is. There’s no way I’m going to let her make the same mistakes I did. A beautiful, talented, wealthy girl like that will inevitably attract a score of conmen, gigolos and opportunists.’
‘For fuck’s sake, why not ask her about herself instead of having her stalked by that creep? What’s the matter with you! How come you don’t want to spend time with your own child?’
‘I’ve worked hard to get where I am.’ Josephine plunged her fingers in a pot of hand cream and vigorously rubbed it all over both hands. ‘Nobody knows I’m nearly thirty-five. They all think I’m at least a decade younger. I can’t afford to be known as the mother of an eighteen-year-old daughter!’
Victor reached for his cigarettes. ‘You’re just vain. During your entire career, age has never once been an issue.’
‘No, but it soon will be.’ She seized his cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘Victor, we both know that American directors are brutal about aging actresses. It’s different, of course, if one is a male actor. Men can get as wrinkled as prunes, as bald as eggs and alcoholism is considered almost mandatory. And when they are old they will still be making films – namely because their love interests will be starlets half their age or younger. Anyway, I’m tired and I want to get out of here. Send Georges back in to finish the fitting.’
That night at the opera Josephine Marais shimmered and shone from her private box. Women in the audience cast envious glances at her, hoping to find a flaw but they were to be disappointed. Josephine’s Chanel gown was to die for, its velvety blackness the perfect foil for her latest diamond acquisition. As usual her box was besieged by gentlemen desperate for a crumb or two of the diva’s attention. Her wicked wit and original repartee would be repeated ad infinitum all over Paris the next day. Nobody knew that Mademoiselle despised opera. All the screeching and bellowing set her teeth on edge but as many courtesans before her had discovered, an opera box was a marvellous way of showcasing one’s charms and attracting new patrons.
She knew intuitively that her billionaire was watching her every move. Josephine could feel his cold eyes caressing her. No doubt he’s sulking in his private box with his ghastly wife. Josephine had never met his wife but she’d observed her through opera glasses on numerous occasions, and the wife’s dark moustache had been visible even at that distance.
Josephine had the entire evening in which she could slowly torture Charles. His recent behaviour justified it. The sight of his mistress being feted by Paris society never failed to make him jealous. Sometimes he feigned illness just to get away from the sight of her having a splendid time without him. Josephine eagerly anticipated seeing his newest rival, a powerful banker who could buy and sell most of the people she knew. Where the hell is he? Maybe he’s out and about buying me something sensational.
She trained her opera glasses on the audience below. It piqued her to note that her daughter was attracting more than her fair share of attention. The young beauty was resplendent in a stunning low-cut, scarlet satin gown and dangling emerald earrings. Caterina had an inner glow that gave her the illusion of being caressed by spotlights. Josephine felt a pang of nostalgia; it was like looking at herself seventeen years ago. A dark-haired young man was busily devoting himself to her daughter’s happiness, whispering in her ear and rearranging her velvet wrap. How had they acquired such premium seats? Perhaps Caterina’s lover was well connected? He was a beautiful male animal and looked distinguished in his tailored black tuxedo. No doubt he broke hearts without even trying. It surprised her that Caterina was blissfully unaware of the stares and whispers she was attracting. Clearly she doesn’t have an ounce of artifice in her.
Josephine felt a pang of regret. It wouldn’t have killed her to spend an afternoon with her daughter. No matter, such things can’t be helped. I need a drink, I’m getting maudlin.
A short, swarthy man entered Josephine’s box and she gave him her entire attention. He whispered in her ear for quite some time and she replied, ‘Ah, so he’s not just in Paris to seduce Caterina.’
‘No, Mademoiselle. He’s using a false passport under the name of Julian Bartholomew. And I saw him slip out of the Hôtel de Crillon for about thirty minutes, probably while your daughter was getting ready to go out.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘He met up with three local thugs. He speaks rapid-fire French so I couldn’t keep up with them.’
‘He’s probably a budding criminal. Jeremy, I want you to handle this personally. Follow him back to London. I’ll reimburse your costs at your usual rates. Then I want you to get rid of him. Make Mr Bartholomew disappear.’
Jeremy’s lips drew back in a cruel smile. ‘You want him dead?’
Josephine seriously considered the possibility before answering. ‘No. Not this one. We’ll catch him and release him.’
He looked disappointed.
Josephine’s eyes were dreamy. ‘He reminds me of a young man I once knew.’ Her face suddenly hardened. ‘Just get him out of Caterina’s life. She shouldn’t be mixing with boys from the wrong side of the tracks. I want more for my daughter. I want her to have all the emotional and financial security I missed out on.’
Jeremy yawned. ‘She seems to be doing all right so far. Don’t forget she’s the sole heir. Danny Boy certainly knew his onions, those luxury hotels are a nice little earner. And he’s made some choice investments.’
‘Money isn’t everything, Jeremy. Caterina is in danger, a young woman’s reputation can be soiled in the blink of an eye. I can’t afford to have her in my life but I fully intend to do everything I can to protect her. And I don’t give a damn what it costs.’
Jeremy’s eyes glittered. ‘I’m guessing you want him blackmailed, eh?’
‘Of course. Get enough on Bartholomew
to have him crucified. Make him think he’s about to die. Beat him up, break a few fingers, but whatever you do – don’t scar his face. Handsome, enterprising young men are an endangered species these days.’
‘Will do. How about we terrorise him first? We could cram him into an automobile boot and drive him around the outskirts of London – at top speed for an hour or so – before taking him to the warehouse for interrogation. That usually sorts out the cocky lads.’
‘Good idea, Jeremy, but don’t get too carried away. We can’t afford to lose another like Daniel du Barry. I was distraught when I heard the news.’
He snorted derisively and left the box as silently as he’d come.
Josephine turned her attention back to the stage and resumed the part of avid opera lover. Her face registered pleasure as her mind processed the new information. It was hard to concentrate with the image of Danny du Barry lingering in the back of her mind; it was the closest she’d ever come to falling in love. Josephine recalled his animal grace, intelligence and generosity. Gone. A genuine tear trickled down her cheek.
A tall, finely boned man entered her box and leant over the back of Josephine’s chair. He tenderly wiped away her tear and kissed her. ‘It’s quite a moving spectacle, isn’t it, darling?’
She tilted her head back and squeezed out a few fake tears. Tears on demand were part of her repertoire and she wanted to draw his attention to her swan neck and flawless décolletage. Francois Richelieu lifted her hand and slowly kissed the soft part of her wrist. She knew he was inhaling the costly perfume she’d just dabbed on her pulse points. It was her signature scent, specially made to her requirements. The perfumer had sworn that no other woman in Paris had the same formula. And if she found out he was lying, she’d have him disembowelled.
Josephine flexed her wrist slightly, forcing Richelieu to relinquish her hand. He took his seat next to her and pretended to be taking an interest in the opera. She interpreted the look on his face and knew her stocks had risen exponentially. If she let him seduce her tonight, he’d settle her latest gambling debts and whisk her away to the French Riviera for the summer. She was fed up with her billionaire. All Charles did was whine about her unfaithfulness and how reckless she’d been with his hard-earned loot. The previous evening she’d informed him, ‘I loathe mean men. Spending money on me is a privilege, not an imposition. You’re damned lucky I allowed you back into my bed tonight, given the way you’ve been carrying on about my gambling debts.’
After he’d made passionate love to her, she’d found his presence tiresome. So much so that she’d wished out loud that he’d spend the rest of the night in the dog basket at the foot of her bed. Charles had assumed she was just being witty, and brayed like a donkey. Idiot.
Josephine gave a soft sigh, indicating she was struggling to keep a grip on her sanity in the divine presence of Francois Richelieu the Third. She placed her hand on his muscular thigh. Excellent. His penchant for polo was keeping him in great shape. Just as well. She expected her gentlemen to be physically fit and had been known to banish those who failed to measure up. Josephine Marais was not in the habit of concealing her contempt for the male species. Any woman who doesn’t recognise impotence as a character flaw is a fool.
Richelieu was tense with desire. It was all too easy. Josephine laughed inwardly while keeping her lovely profile turned towards the stage. She knew he wasn’t paying attention to the opera because she was furtively observing him. Mademoiselle Marais had excellent peripheral vision. She might look like a lady but she possessed the hunting instincts of a hungry tigress. And once she’d focused on her prey, their fate was sealed. Before Francois realised it, there’d be nothing left of him but a costly pair of solid-gold cufflinks sitting on her bedside table.
There was at least another dreary hour of operatic hysteria to endure. The heroine had to be used, abused and manipulated by two more men before she came to her senses. Then, after a tedious aria, she’d stab her rapist with a rusty blade and sing another torturous lament over his body. It wouldn’t stop there, though. The hawk-nosed soprano was internationally acclaimed and she’d get endless curtain calls and standing ovations. Opera was a game of endurance played by screeching Sumo wrestlers. Good God, just look at the size of the woman. Her manager should instruct her to put down her fork and take up tennis instead.
Josephine’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten a morsel of food since breakfast. The evening stretched to infinity, so she gave Richelieu’s ear a little nibble and casually touched his thigh. He moaned and she felt him stiffen. Clearly he’d come to the realisation that resistance was useless. Richelieu’s eyes were pleading.
To help him on his way, she lightly caressed the growing bulge in his tailored evening trousers. Richelieu responded. It was a clear signal to Josephine that he’d succumbed to fear of unrequited lust. Excellent, because he’d now be utterly determined to win her over utilising his formidable resources. Clearly she’d made the right decision in ignoring his phone calls and bouquets of roses. Richelieu’s lust had already transformed into love. Josephine smiled. No doubt having realised his mistake, his next round of presents would be diamonds and pearls instead of blooms that faded to nothing. That’s all men need, a firm hand on their leashes.
To hell with the Paris Opera. All she had to do was stroke Richelieu like a lapdog and he’d abandon his usual self-control and rush her off to a private supper. He’d probably already booked a dining room at one of Paris’s better restaurants. Ah yes, soft music in the background, oysters, caviar, premium champagne and the splendid surety of another man giving himself over to her every whim. She bared her sharp white teeth in anticipation, and Francois Richelieu the Third smiled back warily.
Mademoiselle Marais rarely had any trouble getting what she wanted.
25
Nine Floors of Wickedness
Bertha Brown was an artiste in her own right, being London’s sought-after creator of flamboyant knitted teapot cosies. British Bulldogs with diamanté collars were her premier line. They’d become insanely popular after the cosies had been spotted in the foreground of a Tatler photograph of Cat working in her studio.
Bertha usually found that when she was knitting, she felt very calm and centred. But on the afternoon that Cat asked her, ‘How well do you know Josephine Marais?’ Bertha instantly became agitated and dropped several stitches.
At the time Bertha and Cat were taking tea on the terrace of the Hotel du Barry’s Rooftop Pleasure Garden. The garden had been established by Maurie du Barry in homage to the Italian piazzas of his travels. He’d imported terracotta tiles from Florence along with marble sculptures, Roman shade cloths and hand-painted village pottery. Hardy vines and rugged perennials were planted on the protected side of the hotel roof and somehow survived London’s winters to flourish in the summer. In the warmer months the garden café opened for business and did a roaring trade with cashed-up patrons who enjoyed the illusion of life going on elsewhere.
Cat waited for an answer. Bertha studied the view from behind her dark sunglasses and realised there was no right answer. ‘We didn’t tell you about Josephine because we didn’t want you to get hurt.’
‘How long have you known she is my mother?’
‘Several years. It took Jim a long time to track Josephine down. It was his mission in life. When we went away on holidays he’d take your baby bracelet along and we’d stop by every jeweller’s shop we passed. The bracelet was the only clue he had to go on. Henri was in on it, too. The two of them spent hours getting inebriated late at night and mulling over the hotel registry.’
‘Why?’
‘Jim was working his way through the guests’ register and noting down those who were in residence on the morning we found you on the clothesline. Believe me, we all wanted you to know who your mother was. We hoped she’d turn out to be someone you could be proud of.’
Cat touched Bertha’s hand gently. ‘Go on.’
Bertha picked up her needles and resumed k
nitting. ‘One Christmas Eve Jim and I were in Paris. It was our anniversary, even though we’ve never married. Marriage doesn’t agree with me, Cat. My husband was a real swine. Jim wanted to buy me an engraved gold locket because I’d refused to wear his ring. You know what he’s like, he’s romantic but plays the cynic. We were looking around a little jewellery shop down Montparnasse way, near the Rue d’Odessa. Jim put your baby bracelet down on the counter and the jeweller immediately recognised it as his handiwork.’
‘How?’
‘By the distinctive way the gold chain links had been worked and there’s also a very tiny maker’s mark on the clasp. The jeweller told us he had made it a few years previously for an artist’s model. She hadn’t started calling herself Josephine Marais at that stage; he knew her simply as Zoe of Montparnasse. He told us she could be found most evenings at Le Jockey Bar with a bunch of bohemian artists and writers.’
Cat looked Bertha right in the eye. ‘People go to Montparnasse for pleasure. Was she a prostitute?’
‘Not quite. Josephine was always a cut above your average working girl. She hadn’t yet made it as an actress and was life modelling for artists while living with a well-known painter. She wasn’t impoverished because she was part of the demi-monde and busily tunnelling her way into the beau monde.’
‘Explain.’
‘The demi-monde were only half acknowledged by society. Often they were women who were kept by wealthy protectors. The beau monde were those who belonged to the world of fashionable society.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘When Jim tracked Josephine down she denied all knowledge of you. But you know our Jim. He played her like a fiddle and she ended up crying and wanted us to tell her all about you.’
Cat fidgeted with a skein of wool. ‘She didn’t strike me as the type to cry real tears. She’s hard and embittered.’
‘Life made her that way. Josephine had been abandoned by her own mother and then dragged up by a brothel madam who sold her to paedophiles at the age of ten. I’m not making excuses for her, I just want you to understand. She’d never been mothered herself and she had to harden up just to survive.’
Hotel du Barry Page 27
