Authors: Eve Bourton
Philippe de Rochemort leaned indolently against a pillar, thoroughly bored. He had seen the same mix of socialites, celebrities, and wannabes too many times before in Paris, and a fashion gala ranked lower with him than most. It attracted a clientele of surgically-enhanced middle-aged women accompanied by their trendier daughters, dutifully squeezed into formal party dresses for the evening and trying desperately hard to fly the flag for Manhattan in the face of a Gallic invasion. The French Ambassador and a bevy of attachés were present, together with prominent French businessmen and a host of assorted Europeans who constituted Hervy’s fashion team.
Of course the House of Hervy was very proud to be associated with New York City in a new venture to support the homeless. It was also delighted by this opportunity to launch its first
prêt-à-porter
collection in such a distinguished setting. When Paul Dupuy had mentioned his goal of bringing classic fashion to the people, Philippe had almost choked on a canapé. Haute couture for the masses? At over three hundred dollars for each separate, it was hardly the bargain basement.
Philippe wondered why Hervy had bothered to ship itself across the Atlantic to display a collection of street wear. But then Paul Dupuy was given to the occasional fit of lunacy. There was even a rumour that Franco Rivera’s contract wouldn’t be renewed at the end of the year. Still, the fashion editors and buyers seemed to like what they had seen, and Hervy’s understated foray into ready-to-wear would probably be hailed as an important supernova in the fashion galaxy.
Philippe felt that his boredom and his contribution to the homeless of New York might well be rewarded now the catwalk was empty and drinks were being dispensed by the high-speed waiters. Though he looked insolently handsome and lazy, very little escaped his deep-blue eyes – least of all a tall, graceful brunette who was drifting in his direction looking slightly lost.
He straightened himself up, parked his wine glass on a plant stand, and headed purposefully towards her. The reward had come.
‘Yolande!’
She stopped short, stared at him, and just managed not to scream.
‘Well, don’t I get a smile?’ he asked, moving close to her side and slipping an arm around her waist. ‘How about a kiss?’
‘Philippe! What
on earth
are you doing here?’
He kissed her quickly on the lips and propelled her to a quiet corner. When they were seated, he clasped both her hands tightly in his and just drank her in.
‘God, it’s so good to see you again! You look wonderful, my darling. How’s my mother? And Yves?’
Yolande’s green eyes were fixed on him in silent incredulity. The same charming, brazen Philippe, who had walked out of the Château de Rochemort three years ago and broken his mother’s heart, calmly asking for news as though nothing had happened. She could hardly believe he was actually holding her hands, smiling in that affectionate way that brought back memories of the long hot summer days of her Burgundian childhood.
‘Yolande?’
‘I’m all right. It’s just the shock. You haven’t changed at all.’
‘So you thought I’d be a decrepit old man after three years in the wicked wide world?’
Laughing, he released her and casually swiped two glasses of Champagne from a passing tray. She took one and leaned back in her seat, gazing at him thoughtfully. She could have killed for a cigarette. He made her feel strangely nervous, gazing at her with those keen blue eyes which reminded her too much of Yves and her own unkindness.
‘So how’s my mother?’ he asked again.
‘She really misses you. Why don’t you call her?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not that easy. We parted on rather bad terms.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, the way you disappeared with half the family fortune.’
‘It was my money! Anyway, Yves has surely paid off that loan by now. I’ve seen what he’s charging for the wine. He must be clearing a handsome profit.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘I thought you’d be the first to know.’
‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ said Yolande.
‘Oh? What happened?’
‘We got engaged. I broke it off. I haven’t seen him recently. But your mother’s ill. She can hardly walk.’
‘What!’
‘Arthritis in her hips. She won’t have an operation.’
‘I see.’ He looked gloomy. ‘I ought to go home and talk some sense into her.’
‘Why don’t you?’
He laughed a shade too loudly, then leaned forward and hugged her close. ‘Oh, Yolande, I’ve missed you. You’re so funny, do you know that? You have such a wonderful, simple view of life. And you’re utterly ravishing.’ He rested his head against her shoulder and kissed her neck. ‘You don’t know how good it is to hold a Frenchwoman again.’
‘Philippe!’
Embarrassed, Yolande pushed him away. No, he hadn’t changed at all. He was drop-dead gorgeous, flirtatious, and definitely explosive. ‘People are watching us.’
He sat up and stared round the gallery. ‘They’re really people? I was confusing them with the statues – not that there’s much comparison from an aesthetic point of view.’
Then he took her hand once more, his expression suddenly sombre. ‘So Maman is very ill? Why won’t she have surgery?’
‘She’s frightened of having the anaesthetic, because her sister died during that heart operation. We’ve tried to persuade her things have moved on since then, but she won’t budge.’
‘I see. By the way, I was sorry to hear about your father. Extremely sorry. It must be tough. Are you OK?’
‘When I don’t think about it.’
There was a silence while he swung her hand to and fro mechanically, deep in thought.
‘What are you doing in New York, Philippe?’
‘Management consultancy. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? A general dogsbody for Americans who think it gives them class to have a baron on the payroll. I do a lot of work with European clients, smoothing over the language barrier. It’s not exactly challenging, but they pay well. I lost rather a lot of money in Australia, you know – hoping to break into the wine trade. But I just couldn’t stand it out there. Then I went to California. Hated it there too. So I came to New York, flaunted my title and my pretty face,
et voilà
! Instant success. Listen and learn, my darling – don’t ever try to be anything but shallow. You and I are both doomed to triumph through our overpowering beauty and sexual magnetism.’
Yolande couldn’t help giggling, but there was something she simply had to find out. ‘But why did you leave France in the first place? All those terrible rows when you left … My father had a hell of a time trying to get back your shares, and I know Yves still owes a lot of money on Rochemort.’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘That answers your question about why I won’t go home. I’d hardly be welcome.’
Yolande squeezed his hand, looking at him seriously. ‘Please get in touch with your mother. She’d be thrilled to see you.’
‘If she knew everything, it would only confirm my role as the family’s black sheep.’
‘Don’t be idiotic.’
It was a quiet, firm remark, and Philippe seemed to draw some comfort from it. His face brightened, and he restrained her when she tried to get up to join Patrick, who was visible in a distant part of the gallery earnestly engaged in conversation with Althea Pedersen and Vic Bernitz.
‘Stay here and talk to me. I want to know what’s been going on. What really happened between you and Yves?’
She decided it was worth holding on for a while, if only to persuade him that he ought to attempt a reconciliation with his family, though admittedly she was equally keen to discover the unexplained reason for his abrupt departure from France. He also seemed anxious to ask her something, and eventually the words came out, too careless to be as casual as intended.
‘You haven’t told me about Corinne. How is she?’
Yolande looked at him sharply. ‘Fine. She’s become head of Marchand.’
‘I know. Do you think she’s forgiven me?’
‘Corinne doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve.’
‘No, she never did,’ said Philippe after a pause. ‘She’s so controlled. So lovely, too. And I treated her appallingly. I’ll always regret it, Yolande. Always. Tell her I’m sorry.’
‘But why did you leave her?’
‘Because I was unfaithful and I lied to her. She was far too good for me.’
Yolande was mystified. A minor fling hardly seemed sufficient cause for the family crisis precipitated by his departure, nor grave enough to warrant a self-imposed exile from France. He caught her expression and his eyes twinkled.
‘So you want to know what was really at the bottom of it all, my inquisitive little cat? Well, I’ll tell you. It involved a certain government minister – or more precisely, his wife.’
Yolande leaned forward expectantly.
‘Not to mention official skulduggery,’ continued Philippe. ‘By the way, this is strictly
entre nous
– and Corinne, if you want to tell her.’
‘Well? Who was the minister?’
He shook his finger reprovingly. ‘You know I can’t tell you that. He was a very busy man. His wife was much younger and bored to tears, so I helped her while away the time. Unfortunately she became pregnant – just before Corinne and I were going to move in together. So you see I was in a bit of a fix. The minister’s wife felt obliged to tell him everything, and he not only refused her a divorce, but made it impossible for her to terminate the pregnancy. Religious grounds or something.’
‘But the baby? What happened?’
‘In a minute. I’m not finished with the minister yet. He wanted to bring me down. I think it was more to punish his wife than me, because she loved me. I had a visit from two tax inspectors with a warrant to search my apartment. The first time I thought it was a warped joke. The second time it wasn’t so funny. I went home one night to find the place ransacked. They really were trying to pin something on me – perhaps even plant evidence. You can imagine what it would have meant – the family name dragged through the mud, the image of Château de Rochemort ruined, everything we stood for discredited. So I decided to get out. Of course my mother wanted to know why, but I didn’t dare tell her the truth – she would have killed me. And as for Corinne …’ he waved his hands despairingly. ‘I couldn’t bear her to find out what I was really like. Now I live in Manhattan, my daughter doesn’t know I exist, and she’s being raised by a pious arsehole in France.’
He took his wallet from his breast pocket and extracted a snapshot which he handed to Yolande. ‘She’s called Isabelle.’
Yolande gazed at the picture of a chubby, smiling two-year old with the Rochemort blue eyes and black hair. ‘She’s absolutely adorable, Philippe!’
She was surprised by his proud paternal smile. ‘Isn’t she just? My pretty baby. And I don’t suppose I’ll ever know her. Her mother sends me news now and then. She was trying to find an excuse to bring Isabelle to New York, but with her husband, it’s extremely difficult.’
‘She must still love you.’
‘How can she? I’ve been a total shit.’
‘There’s no accounting for taste, darling.’ Yolande stared at the photograph a while longer. ‘So your mother has no idea she has a granddaughter?’
‘No. And don’t tell her – please. It would only make matters worse. You can tell Corinne if you think it will help her to understand. But no one else.’
‘OK.’ She handed back the photograph. ‘Please come home. Surely you could now?’
He stood up abruptly. ‘Perhaps.’
Then he helped her to her feet, put an arm around her waist, and steered her off towards the other guests, wearing one of his best party expressions. ‘Now come on and introduce me to everyone I don’t know. Is that your new boyfriend over there?’
‘Yes.’
Philippe gave Patrick a long appraising look. ‘Having trouble with your eyesight these days, my darling? How the hell could you have dumped my brother for him?’
It was only a few blocks from the Metropolitan Museum of Art to the Beideckers’ building, but too far for high heels. Patrick and Yolande emerged into the brisk evening air and got into a cab. They were dining later with her parents, and he wanted some questions answered while they were alone.
‘You weren’t engaged to
that
baron, were you?’
‘Of course not – to his younger brother.’
Yolande was gratified that he seemed jealous. So he did love her, after all. She had been tormented by doubts since their arrival in New York. The run-up to his audition for Vic Bernitz had almost driven her mad, and in the four days since he had been moody and offhand. The temperamental switch reminded her of that evening in Paris when they had first met Althea Pedersen – when she had realised that his career was by far the most important thing in his life.
‘Do they look alike?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes. But they’re totally different in character. Philippe’s a dreadful flirt.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘You weren’t at all interested in Yves when I was still engaged to him.’
‘I thought he was just a boring aristo. But if he looks as sexy as his brother …’ He paused. ‘I can’t understand why you jilted him for me.’
Yolande grimaced. ‘Looks aren’t everything, you know.’
‘You never slept with him?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you want to?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘So he didn’t want to sleep with you?’
‘Look, I don’t know, really. We just never did.’
It was too embarrassing to admit that Yves hadn’t found her attractive enough to want to make love to her and had never tried once to get her into bed, even after they got engaged. And she had wanted him to, desperately.
‘Must be gay,’ said Patrick. Or blind. Or both
.
He couldn’t understand it; he seemed to have a permanent erection whenever he was with Yolande.
She pondered for a second. ‘I don’t think so. It would be against his religion.’
‘What’s religion got to do with it?’
‘Yves is a committed Catholic. Just because he didn’t sleep with me, it doesn’t mean that he’s gay. He’s very – … very – …’ She struggled to find the right word. ‘Very
proper
.’