Authors: Lulu Taylor
‘Do you know why this restaurant is called
L’Espadon?
’ asked Ferrera as they were led to a table in the dining room. The room was heavy with luxury, decorated in a classic French style in hues of gold, peach and dusky pink. Vast crystal sconces lit the room between huge arched mirrors swathed with yards of velvet so that they looked like windows. A wisteria tree, drooping beautiful purple blossoms, appeared to be growing in the middle of the room.
‘
L’Espadon?
It means swordfish, doesn’t it?’ A waiter
pulled
a chair out, and Jemima sat down elegantly at their table. Ferrera took his place opposite.
‘Yes. Charles Ritz loved to go deep-sea fishing for swordfish with friends like Ernest Hemingway. When he wasn’t out at sea with the real things, he liked to practise his fishing by casting a line down the grand staircase here. So they renamed the restaurant in honour of his favourite catch. Do you speak French?’
‘It’s almost all I’ve got to show for two years at finishing school. That and the fact I’m rather good at skiing. And skiing instructors, come to that.’
Ferrera laughed. ‘You are disarmingly frank.’
‘About some things. It’s an English habit, I think, to enjoy shocking people just a little.’
‘I can’t pretend to understand the English, or your country. It’s a very confusing place. America, however, is much more straightforward. Your background, be it Italian, Irish, Jewish, African American or, like me, Mexican, whatever, pretty much dictates the kind of home cooking you like. But it’s what you achieve in life, what you choose to do with your talents and abilities, that defines you. That’s what gets you respect, not your heritage. It doesn’t seem that way in your country.’
‘You mean we’re obsessed with class?’ Jemima shrugged. ‘Maybe. But show me the society that isn’t. Don’t forget our society is a few centuries older than yours, so we’ve got a lot more subtleties and nuances – plus titles, of course – to contend with.’
‘Maybe. It just seems that are more chances to make something of yourself in the States.’
‘That, if you don’t mind me saying, is crap. It’s the same everywhere. Money will buy you advantages in life. It isn’t fair, and we all have a duty to try and sort out the inequalities in our societies so that every child has an equal chance, no matter what background they come from. But the truth is, a child born into the underclass in America has as big a mountain to climb as one born poor in Britain.’
Ferrera smiled at her. ‘Maybe you’re right. I can see we both have our corners to fight. But it’s too early in the evening and the night is too beautiful for such a serious debate. Tell me what you are doing in Paris.’
‘I will, right after I look at this divine menu. I’m starving.’
They ordered their food, the sommelier brought the wine Ferrera had selected, and then they were free to chat.
‘I’m here on business too,’ Jemima said.
Ferrera raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? What business is that?’
She played for time, taking a sip from her wine glass.
How much shall I tell him?
she wondered. ‘We’re looking at our distribution here in France. I’m meeting with some of the major stores tomorrow.’
‘Oh? Are you planning new moves?’
‘Just building on our success, of course,’ Jemima said in a careless tone. ‘It doesn’t do to become complacent.’ Ferrera nodded in agreement.
Their starters arrived – foie gras with a rhubarb chutney for Ferrera, asparagus in a froth of hollandaise with tiny poached quail’s eggs for Jemima.
Ferrera cut a small sliver of foie gras. ‘I have heard that dramatic changes are happening at Trevellyan. Many of your directors have left and some are making a big noise about how unhappy they are. They say that you and your sisters know nothing about the perfume business and are bound to fail.’
‘They would say that, wouldn’t they? They’re the failures. They just don’t want anybody to think that. Much more convenient if they make out that we are the useless ones. But everyone will see the truth in due course.’ Jemima picked up an asparagus spear and dunked the top of it into the soft yolk of an egg.
‘Fighting talk.’ Ferrera smiled. ‘Erin de Cristo tells me that she has lost a valued member of staff to you.’
‘Yes, we’re thrilled that Donna Asuquo has come to us. She’s top notch.’
Ferrera waited for her to say more but she simply smiled and said, ‘It’s charming here, isn’t it? I can’t help loving the dear old Paris Ritz almost as much as our London one.’
‘So,’ he prompted, ‘are you launching something new?’
‘You know I can’t possibly tell you anything about that,’ purred Jemima. ‘All very highly confidential. But everything will be revealed in due course.’
‘I’m sure it will.’ Ferrera pushed away his plate. He had eaten fast but with impeccable manners. ‘You know, I’ll come straight to the point. I know your company is in trouble. I know you need funds, badly, especially if you’ve got plans for a new perfume. What would you say if I was to make you an offer to buy Trevellyan?’
‘You mean, become a partner?’
‘No, I mean, own the company outright. I could keep you and your sisters on to run it – if your performance were satisfactory, of course. You would still be at the helm, but it would belong to me. Just think’, he said quickly, ‘of what you’d be able to do with the kind of money I’d be willing to pay for Trevellyan. With that sort of cash injection, you’d be able to realise all your dreams for the company, and retain a financial interest in it.’
Jemima frowned. ‘It’s an interesting proposition,’ she said slowly. ‘But of course I’m in no position to tell you if we’d be open to that or not. I’d have to speak to my sisters and we’d have to consider it very carefully.’
‘Of course. This is not a business discussion. This is simply idle chat that might plant a seed – a seed that could grow into something very exciting and profitable for us all.’
Their main courses came: stuffed veal sweetbreads for Ferrera, and medallions of lamb for Jemima.
‘Oh, yum,’ breathed Jemima, gazing at her delicious-looking dinner. ‘Let’s tuck in.’
Ferrera laughed loudly. ‘I can’t imagine an American girl saying such a thing!’ he said. ‘It’s very refreshing.’ He eyed her plate. ‘Are you going to eat that potato?’
‘Why? Do you want it? Hands off, buster, it’s mine.’
‘It’s carbohydrate, though.’
‘Excellent major food group.’
‘No American girl I know would touch it, particularly not in the evening.’
‘Bugger that. We were brought up to eat what’s on our plate.’ Jemima shrugged. ‘There’s no point in fetishising food – it just makes you obsess about it. Banning something is a sure fire way to make you crave it. I just try to be moderate in all things.’
‘Sensibly said.’
‘Besides, as long as you work off the calories with some intense physical activity, the kind that raises the heart rate and leaves you gasping … well, everything’s fine.’ She looked at him flirtatiously under her lashes.
He leaned in towards her and said softly, ‘I know a wonderful place not too far from here. It has fantastic music, old-time swing. We could go there later, have a drink, dance a little. What do you think?’
‘It sounds great. I’d love to.’
After dinner, they walked through the atmospheric Paris streets to the nightclub. It was in a basement and inside it was all faded glamour: rubbed red velvet, a battered wooden dance floor, waiters with long white aprons round their middles carrying small trays of drinks: Pernod, Scotch, Ricard. This was a club for serious, late-night drinkers. On the raised stage, a small band of elderly men in drooping bow ties played beautiful songs from the thirties and forties.
They sat at a table in the near-darkness, a small tealight providing their only illumination, and Ferrera ordered drinks: a fine cognac for each of them. The band played ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’.
Jemima sang along and then said, ‘Only it doesn’t
any
more, does it? The smoke. Once this place would have been filled with a fug of Gitanes. It doesn’t feel quite French without it.’
‘I know what you mean. But I prefer the fresher air. Would you like to dance?’
He led her on to the dance floor where they joined a few other couples. He held her close and they swayed to the soft sound of the music.
Jemima felt the thrill of the physical contact.
How long was it
, she thought back,
since that man at mother’s funeral?
She felt a sudden yearning for comfort, for a man’s arms around her, to be caressed, touched, made love to.
Could I?
she wondered.
This man isn’t like the others
. She sensed vaguely that she could be out of her depth with Ferrera, that he might not be as fleeting as the men she casually picked up, enjoyed and then never saw again. But lust was creeping inside her. It was the feel of his powerful muscles beneath his perfectly cut Armani suit, his rock-hard thighs moving against her as they danced. He was the exact height for her – Harry had always been too tall – and his smooth hands held hers justly firmly enough. She could smell his fresh, citrus scent and see the softness of the brown skin of his neck just below his ear. Sensing the strength and power in him was an aphrodisiac. As the brandy soaked into her bloodstream, she felt her resolution not to get too close to Richard Ferrera waver.
Could it hurt? One night? God, I need a damn good shag
.
She pushed gently against him, to let him know that she was responding physically to his nearness. He
looked
down at her, his dark brown eyes inscrutable, and they carried on dancing.
It was after one in the morning when they emerged from the club. Jemima knew she was drunk, but she was high on it and happy.
Here I am in Paris, with a gorgeous man. It’s perfect
.
They walked down to the river and looked at the lights of the city twinkling on the surface of the Seine.
‘You’re a very enigmatic man, Mr Ferrera,’ she said dreamily, resting her head on the soft wool of his jacket.
‘Please call me Richard,’ he murmured. ‘I’d hoped we’d got past the formalities by now.’
‘So had I. But even if I call you Richard, I won’t feel as though I know you any better.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’ve listened to me chatter on all night and hardly said a thing yourself. You’ve talked about business, of course, and what you think about the President’s foreign policy, and how you’re learning to understand London society … but there’s not much about the real you.’
‘What is it you want to know?’ Ferrera looked down at her and smiled.
‘Oh … where do I start?’ She sighed happily. What she really wanted to know was if he was thinking the way she was: that there was only one way for a romantic evening like this to end. For the whole evening, she’d been drawn to his quiet poise and the sense of great passions swirling just below the surface. Surely he
must
feel some attraction for her, or why were they here? ‘Are you married?’
‘No. I was married once. Let’s just say I’m very happily divorced.’
They drifted over to the edge of the water near a lamp-post. Ferrera stared out over the river and said nothing for a such a long time that Jemima began to worry she had offended him by asking him if he was married. Perhaps it was too personal – but they’d been flirting discreetly all night.
‘It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?’ she said at last. ‘Paris is so romantic.’
‘It certainly is. It’s a city for lovers, that’s for sure.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled to herself. So she had been right – this evening was a long flirtation. She felt a quivering anticipation.
Will he kiss me now?
she wondered, eager for him to turn and touch that handsome mouth to hers as they stood close together, watching the dark water ripple past. But he didn’t.
‘Shall we go back?’ he asked after a while, and they walked on, Jemima trying to hide her disappointment and still hoping that he might make his move when they were closer to the hotel.
At the place Vendôme, he walked her to the door of the hotel and dropped a kiss on her cheek but did not attempt anything more.
‘Good night,’ he said. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening. What a lucky chance it was to meet you.’
‘I think so too,’ she said softly, seductively. ‘Would you like to come upstairs for one last drink?’
He stared at her for a moment, then smiled and
shook
his head. ‘I must go back to the Ritz. It’s very late and I have a breakfast meeting. Listen, I’m throwing a big party in London in few weeks, to celebrate a business acquisition. I’d love you to come. And your sisters too, of course. You’re all welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with a small sigh of regret. She knew the chance had been and gone. ‘You know where to reach me. Good night.’
She turned on her heel and walked into the hotel.
Ferrera went upstairs to his suite. When he opened the door, he saw a beautiful woman in a yellow silk gown standing at the window, her back to him. Hearing him come into the room, she spun round, her eyes furious.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ she spat.
‘I told you. I took her to dinner.’
‘That was hours ago! Where have you been since then?’
We went dancing …’
‘Oh how very fucking romantic!’ She strode about the room, flinging her arms about dramatically. ‘While I wait here all alone! Dumped, for that bitch.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s business. It had to be done. You will see the results, I promise.’
‘Did you kiss her?’ she hissed, whirling about to stare at him, her dark eyes blazing.
‘Of course not,’ he said coldly.
‘Did you?’
‘Do you think I’m lying?’
‘I don’t know what to believe! She’s capable of anything …’
‘Jecca.’ He walked towards her and held out his arms. ‘You mustn’t let your personal feelings interfere like this. We want to achieve our goal, don’t we? I’m doing this for you, after all.’
She pouted sulkily and let him take her in his arms. ‘I know … I know. It just makes me sick, that’s all. Knowing that you were with her. You don’t know how she treated me in the past. She bullied me all through my childhood, because I wasn’t good enough to be in her precious family.’