by Nell Harding
When she picked up the black dress that she’d worn to the opera, she paused. It really couldn’t be brought back to the store any more, and it was of no use to Terèse or any of their associates. For her, it was the reminder of a perfect evening, her very short foray into the glittering world of Sebastien Pichard. Into his heart and into his bed. And out again in disgrace.
Still, she bundled the dress and shoes together and added them to her bag for Verbier. She could leave them there if she decided against keeping them. Then she looked down at the dressing table.
The exquisitely wrought silver watch lay where she had placed it before her shower. She picked it up delicately, turning it over in her hands to see the fine workmanship one more time. As she looked at the smooth curve of the silver, a bit of engraving caught her eye. Bringing it up to her eye, she read the inscription on the inside arc of the wristband. For Michelle, from Sebastien.
Her insides felt like lead as she placed the watch back on the dressing table, making sure that it would be easy to spot. She contemplated writing a note to go with it, but couldn’t even begin to think what to write at this point. He wouldn’t want to read anything from her anyway.
Taking a last look around the room to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, she shouldered her bag and walked quickly to the bedroom door. She opened it silently, peering carefully toward the living area to make sure that the others had gone. Then she hurried down the hall and left the flat, taking the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. She would prefer not to meet any of the Geneva crowd again, she realised as she headed for the train station. This whole chapter in her life was one that she would rather forget.
Chapter Nineteen
The loud, discordant and persistent sound of a bus horn blasting just behind his taxi made Sebastien abandon his phone call and snap his mobile closed with resignation. The heat, the noise, the smells and the swelling mass of humanity all made India impossible to ignore.
Not that Sebastien wished to ignore the country he had fled to, but his rash and sudden departure left him with a lot of long-distance business to conduct by telephone. His cab was barely moving in the chaotic congestion heading from of one of Bombay’s poorest districts toward the city centre and he had hoped to use the time to make a few calls back to Europe.
Instead he turned his gaze to the window, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the poverty and impossible-to-ignore reality of the world outside. Beggars and street vendors wove their way undaunted through the maze of cars, busses and bicycles that jostled each other for space around a massive grid-locked traffic circle. Elaborately painted trucks added their diesel fumes to the already gritty air while the occasional barefoot sadhu wandered through it all, unfazed. Compared to Switzerland, it was madness.
“Are you here on tourism?” the taxi driver asked conversationally now that Sebastien had hung up. Apparently he had been waiting impatiently for his client to finish his calls so that he could play tour guide to one of the less scenic parts of India.
“Ah, no, business matters,” Sebastien replied, wondering if any tourists ever ventured out to these slums.
He had just visited the orphanage that Pichard watches had co-founded with Rashmi Tewari, the disgraced Bollywood screen star. It had been part of a plan to help win back favour for the company and for the actress in the outraged country. When the arrangement had been made, Pichard had chosen to provide most of the funding if Rashmi took charge of setting up the management and the publicity. Stefan had been present at the opening and there really was no need for Sebastien’s impromptu visit now.
No business need, that was. The need to flee had been genuine enough, to put as much distance as possible between himself and Michelle. Not Michelle, Kate, he had to correct himself constantly. The Michelle he thought he knew didn’t exist. The expressive emotions, the awkward directness, the natural and easy manner were all just an act. An act used by a journalist to gain access to the inside scoop, to lure him into trusting her. And he had fallen for it.
Sitting in the taxi now he tried to listen politely to the driver as he pointed out the tall buildings on the horizon and to explain a current political intrigue in the local government. The driver wanted to get involved in local politics and seemed glad of a captive audience to practise his speech.
“But these government officials, they are all so corrupt,” he said, wagging his head to add emphasis to the rolling cadence of his voice. “You must always do the needful and necessary just to have somebody consider your case.”
Sebastien smiled in spite of himself. “The needful and necessary” bribes had already been explained to him by Rashmi, who had dealt with building permits and all other authorisation necessary. Actually, it had been a manager that she had hired, but she had done a remarkable job of keeping on top of progress and budgets, not letting any of the many hands involved let their fingers start to stray.
In fact, she had done an excellent job, Sebastien had already reported back to his family. None of them had doubted her integrity when they had discussed the orphanage, but her business competence came as a surprise in a woman used to the heady lifestyle of Bombay’s rich socialites.
The orphanage was running smoothly and the little rascals were a charming bunch of ragamuffins. They had greeted him with a song, which had immediately made him think of Michelle, how she would probably have taught the children an entire song and dance routine. She had mentioned growing up surrounded by younger siblings and he could easily imagine her with these children.
He frowned to himself, trying to focus on what the driver was saying and to forget about Michelle. Kate. Maybe the whole story about her family had been made up as well. Maybe everything had been a big lie.
“There is corruption in Europe too, you know,” he replied to be polite, thinking of the series of scandals that were rocking the big Swiss banks. “It’s universal in the end. People get greedy and ambitious and will do anything to get what they want.”
Although part of him still couldn’t believe it. He had been blinded by Genevieve, presenting himself as easy prey to a calculating woman. With Michelle – Kate – it had felt different, a mutual connection that was so much deeper than anything he had felt with Genevieve. With Michelle he had fallen in love, he realised with a start, and he thought it had been a shared feeling.
Well, welcome back to reality, he told himself bitterly, watching the gritty world of modern India remind him of the harshness of it all. Behind the glamour of Bollywood lurked these slums. And behind Kate’s winsome ways lurked another calculating woman, using his naïveté to her advantage again.
He hadn’t even confronted her before he left. He didn’t want to see her cynical response if he presented her with proof of her treachery, didn’t want her to see how utterly and willingly he had fallen for her ruse. He hadn’t fired her either, and now it would mean telling his family what an idiot he had been. No smarter than Stefan when it came to women. Worse, maybe, because at least Stefan’s affair with Rashmi had been based on a mutual attraction and respect.
Of course his family might have figured it out already, might have seen the article and put the pieces together. Or perhaps one of them had taken advantage of the free chalet for a weekend and spoken with Kate or else noticed her absence.
In any case, she would have to act fast or her big charade would be for nothing. She hadn’t yet published anything scandalous or he would have heard about it. Maybe she had been waiting for something big and now would settle for a story about Axelle. Or maybe she would use her own experience to write a piece about how easy it was to seduce your way into the old money of Geneva. A piece about going under cover, literally under the covers, to get a piece. How incredibly manipulative.
He made a grimace, thinking of the unpleasant phone call he would soon have to make to his family. The driver mistook his expression for discomfort and turned a tiny dashboard fan in his direction from its position between a postcard of Ganesh and a plastic Krishna playing
a flute.
“I am sorry not to be having air conditioning,” he apologised with his lovely accent. “But soon we will be through this traffic and fairly flying along.”
Sebastien found himself chuckling. He doubted that anybody flew along on this stretch of road during working hours any more, or that the dilapidated taxi was even capable of flying along anything without losing wheels and doors. “I am fine,” he assured him, wiping at his sticky brow. “Just thinking of work I need to do.”
“That is the curse of being poor,” the driver agreed. “You must pray to Lakshmi, goddess of wealth. Then one day you will not need to work so hard. Or else have many children and let them be supporting you. Do you have any issue?”
Again Sebastien made a face, although of the various Indian idioms he enjoyed, the use of “issue” for offspring was one of his favourites. “No issue. No wife.”
“That is bad,” the driver said, shaking his head with a frown. “I will take you to my temple to make an offering if you like. Or I can find you pretty Indian girl and you can make many fair babies.”
“No, thank you,” Sebastien said quickly. “I have bad luck with women. I prefer my work.”
The driver looked sorrowfully at him in the rear view mirror and nearly ran into the bumper of a diesel-belching Peugot that looked like it had been new in the fifties. “You Europeans make the mistake of believing in marriage for love. You cannot trust such an important matter to your heart. You must trust your family to choose wisely for you and you can learn to love your wife over time. It is much better to see marriage as a sort of business arrangement, but you in the west do not like this.”
“Oh, some do,” Sebastien said darkly. “Some do.”
A strong evening wind rattled one of the shutters of Chalet Gentiane. Kate wandered listlessly toward the window in question and opened it, leaning out into the cold night to reach for the wooden shutter. She took a moment to gaze up at the stars, clear in the freezing Verbier night, and let the bitter wind wake her. Then she pulled both shutters closed, fastening them snugly with a hook, and shut the window.
The effect on the room was to make it more sombre, which matched her mood. It had been over a week since her ill-fated trip to Geneva and she had heard nothing from Sebastien, nothing from anybody in the Pichard family. This left her trapped in an uncertain limbo, assuming that she was fired but not daring to leave until it was official, just in case he hadn’t told his family and they were expecting the chalet to be tended.
Kate was completely miserable. She had reached a low point after her London life had fallen apart but this was worse. After Mickey she had felt lost and betrayed but also aware that she hadn’t loved the real man, only the character he played. The realisation that Sebastien now probably was feeling exactly the same thing was no comfort. This time she had lost somebody that she truly loved and respected, and it was through her own cowardice.
The music of South Pacific was playing on repeat. “This Nearly Was Mine” came on yet again and she stomped over to the stereo and yanked away her mp3 player with unnecessary violence. Enough of this childish and silly belief that musicals could heal all. Real life stories didn’t end with heroes and heroines singing harmonious duets while the whole cast joined in. It was time to grow up and face reality. It was time to start from zero again.
Chapter Twenty
A blast of cold air greeted Sebastien as a red-uniformed doorman opened the door of the chic Mumbai Moghul restaurant. The large, nearly-empty room with its white table cloths and the discrete murmur of voices was a welcome relief after the sticky heat of pre-monsoon Bombay and the chaos and noise of the street outside.
At a table in the corner, wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her face, he found the woman he was looking for. Rashmi Tewari lifted her head warily at his approach and then her face broke into a smile before she quickly lowered her gaze again.
“Just until those two gentlemen near the door leave,” she murmured, pretending to study her menu. “One of them works for the Star Gazer and pays the doorman to slip in and look for celebrities. You can imagine the fun they would have if they found me lunching with the other Pichard son.”
Sebastien nodded grimly and picked up a menu. The affair with Stefan had hurt the Pichard watch business in Asia and caused a bit of talk in Geneva but not more than that. The effect on Rajna’s career had been far more pronounced, with all of India’s entertainment media focusing on the scandal.
“It’s such hypocrisy, of course,” she mouthed softly behind the menu. “They know that the upper classes here have chosen a much more modern view on relationships and half of Bollywood is sleeping with the other half. But I am the media’s favourite fallen woman, a scapegoat for the others.”
“But managing to stay away from the magazines somehow,” Sebastien said with a sigh. The entire Pichard family felt guilty for the behaviour of last year’s chalet girl. “Normally that should have been easier to manage in Switzerland than here.”
“I suppose we’ve learned to be more careful here,” she replied with a small shrug. “We are such heroes to our fans, especially in the villages where things are a bit more conservative. Heroes have to live up to their fans’ ideals.”
“And is the orphanage project helping?” he asked hopefully. “Is it reassuring your public?”
Rashmi lifted her head carefully again to glance toward the door and then threw back her head in relief. “Now I can take off this awful hat,” she said happily, shaking out her long dark tresses. “Yes, the orphanage is good publicity for me and more than that, I’m getting quite involved. If I’m not careful, I’m going to end up adopting the lot. Isn’t that what your Western movie stars do, to keep their figures?”
“Some do,” Sebastien acknowledged. “Although I don’t know how much is for their physical figure and how much is for business figures. Ambition might get in the way of maternity.”
A waiter arrived to take their orders and Sebastien chose hastily, taking advantage of the interruption to examine his companion discretely. Rashmi looked as lovely as ever in her simple white blouse and a pair of jeans. Her almond-shaped eyes, set in smooth brown skin, stared back frankly with a hint of amusement and none of the rancour that he had been dreading to find.
“Stefan and I were adults,” she reminded him, seeming to read his mind. “We both knew what we were doing.”
“The consequences for you were longer-lived,” he insisted, thinking of her arranged marriage which had been called off after the story broke.
“Maybe for the best in the end,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “You know, Ashwan and I had already decided not to get married when he was off studying in England and I was passing my first screen test. We just kept postponing the date because neither of us wanted to tell our families.”
“So you got to meet him in person before your marriage.” Sebastien took a sip of the ice cold water that the waiter had just placed in front of him. “Isn’t that unusual?”
“Oh, we practically grew up next door to each other,” she said with a toss of her hair. “Our families are old friends. But he met somebody in the UK and I wanted a proper Bollywood romance, true love, a hero sweeping me off my feet. He took advantage of the scandal to tell his family about the girl in England so that neither family could blame the other and they could remain friends.”
“So it has all worked out?” Sebastien asked uncertainly.
Rashmi laughed, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. “Better than you can imagine. Ashwan changed his mind about Amanda and now, after all this mess, he and I are planning a very quiet secret wedding.”
Sebastien tugged at the hair behind his ear, considering. “So you’ve both decided that arranged marriages are the safer bet after all?”
Rashmi clapped her hands delightedly. “That’s where this becomes like a movie. No, we are marrying for love. It just took us years of long discussions to recognise what was under our noses from the start.”
She laughed at Sebastien’s astonished expression and leaned forward to clasp his hands. “And as every Bollywood fan knows, love must always triumph in the end, no matter what adversity and complications arise. So whoever you are fretting about now, go home and win her back, fighting gangs of bandits or whatever it takes.”
“How did you...” Sebastien faltered. Was he really wearing his heart so blatantly on his sleeve?
The actress shook her head with an exaggerated sigh. “Men. You all think you are so strong when you’re as soft-hearted as the rest of us. I know how busy you are with work. You would never decide to come out here to check out our orphanage project like that unless you were trying to run away from somebody you loved. Or did you come out to inspect my work, doubting my business management abilities?”
He looked taken aback. “Never,” he assured her hastily, before the twinkle in her eye showed him that she was teasing. “You’re a magician to manage juggling all the bureaucratic hoops and hassles.”
She fluttered her eyelids at him theatrically. “Or do you doubt my skills at managing people?” she went on.
Sebastien allowed himself to be charmed into playing along. “Never, Rashmi. You are far more adept at reading people and managing all their eccentricities than I will ever be,” he said expansively. “In the matter of that contractor and of the orphanage director, you made the right decisions and we Pichards are very happy to defer to your judgement in these matters.”
“Excellent,” she said triumphantly. “Then I ask you to defer to my judgement in this matter as well. Go back to the girl, whoever she is, and sort out your problems. Love doesn’t come around every day, and if it survives the messes we make of it, it is worth keeping. If you walk away from it without even trying, you will regret it forever.”
Sebastien sat transfixed. Coming from Rashmi, it sounded so simple and obvious. He hadn’t even given Kate a chance to explain herself, and although he couldn’t think of any reason for her to lie about her identity, it was also true that she didn’t seem to have published anything about the family.
