Authors: Eve Bourton
‘Corinne, don’t go for a minute.’
‘What is it now?’ She returned to her chair in the dainty, very feminine salon, which had a fine painted ceiling framed by beautifully wrought cornices. The walls were host to eighteenth-century family portraits and Italian landscapes.
‘It’s Yolande. I know she’s behaved very badly, and caused you a great deal of trouble.’
‘If that were all.’
‘Please, don’t let it become a vendetta. You’ve every right to be angry – but do try to make it up with her soon. After all, she’s your only sister.’
‘Don’t you mean she’s already convinced you that she’s acted perfectly within her rights and I’m the one being difficult?’
‘No, I don’t. She’s been very stupid. But I don’t think she
meant
to hurt you. It wasn’t deliberate.’
‘That’s beside the point. She’s damaged the company, not just me personally, and I’m still not certain I can put it right. How can I ever trust her again?’
Corinne stood up, not enjoying this discussion either.
‘So you won’t speak to Yolande again?’
‘No.’
‘What about all the property? Please, be reasonable.’
‘That can all be arranged. I’ll make sure I have a binding legal contract this time.’
‘Suppose she won’t agree to sell you her share? And it’s rather a lot of money …’
‘What’s a few million between sisters? I’ve got a plan. Crédit St Honoré will probably give me a loan to settle the real estate. We’ll just have to divide up the furniture and fittings.’
Grace was horrified. ‘You wouldn’t! But you’d ruin the whole character of the place! I never thought I’d hear you sound so hard, so bitter.’
Corinne turned on her heel, her eyes filling with tears. Grace watched her helplessly. ‘Darling, what
is
wrong?’
‘Papa’s dead,’ she said in a choked voice, then fled up to her room, almost colliding with Tex who was ambling downstairs. When he entered the salon he found his wife staring grim-faced out at the garden, so cold and bare in the pale winter sunlight. She ran across the room and flung her arms around his neck, then burst into tears.
‘Oh, Tex. Everything’s falling apart.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’ll blow over. Calm down.’
He was so understanding, so kind. But Tex hardly ever quarrelled with anyone. He didn’t realise that Grace had just relived years of her life she had thought entirely dead. Jean-Claude was everywhere. In his daughters, who resembled him far too much. In this house, which he had made so beautiful. In that small plot of earth in St Xavier churchyard, which seemed hardly big enough to contain his exuberant, vital personality. Grace could almost feel his presence in the room, a charming salon he had created specially for her on their marriage. Nothing had changed. But he was dead, their love had ended in bitterness, and their daughters were now enemies.
‘Let’s get out of here, Tex. Shall we go for a walk?’
‘Anything you say.’
He put an arm around her waist and they wandered outside. She had forgotten to put on her coat, and soon began shivering.
‘Do you know what, Grace? Next Christmas we’re staying at home.’
Claire Garnier-Dumont zipped up her waterproof jacket and tied a silk scarf around her neck before climbing up on deck. Hervy, naturally. One could hardly go sailing off Monaco wearing a lesser label, and her husband, for all his fine rhetoric about social exclusion, was a terrible snob. The trouble was that Henri’s short, ungainly figure didn’t lend itself at all to the role to which he aspired. He was one of the least charismatic government ministers imaginable, but he displayed great political flair and had a certain crumpled charm – at least that’s what people told Claire. She wondered which of these attributes had secured an invitation to spend this first weekend of January aboard the magnificent yacht of leading French industrialist Didier Lamarche.
‘I’d much rather see my parents,’ she had said when Didier rang unexpectedly just before Christmas. ‘And what about Isabelle? She might not be up to it.’
Henri had been cross, as always when Isabelle’s needs had to be considered. ‘You can go to Le Mans afterwards. And Isabelle will be perfectly all right.’
End of conversation. The invitation was accepted, and the few days’ rest Claire had promised herself after a claustrophobic Christmas with her in-laws in Picardy were devoted to grooming herself for Monaco. Not that she wasn’t usually chic, but Henri had given her a large cheque for new clothes, so it was clear she was expected to impress.
Claire was utterly weary of playing his beautiful wife. Who was he trying to fool, anyway? Surely it was obvious that the heart had been ripped out of their marriage long ago. Now she had Isabelle she was even less interested in his career, his ambitions, and his friends. But Isabelle was the bond – or rather the weapon – which kept them together as a vote-winning double-act; adorable little Isabelle, who looked so much like her father Philippe de Rochemort. Although Claire had been very reluctant to go through with the pregnancy, given the circumstances, she now wondered how she had ever managed to live without her daughter.
Henri had hounded Philippe out of France, made divorce impossible, threatened to create a horrible scandal, so Claire had submitted to the marital charade and presented him with her lover’s daughter. To give her husband his due, he didn’t remind her of his magnanimity more than once a week; sometimes he even played with Isabelle, especially if there were photographers about. She would be another valuable asset in time, just like her mother.
‘So you don’t want to come sailing today, Claire?’
She was jolted out of her reverie. It didn’t do to think too much about Philippe. Didier Lamarche sat beside her in the cockpit, dressed in well-worn yellow oilskins that contrasted embarrassingly with her pristine outfit. She felt like the
arriviste
she was, and wished herself back in her twenties, a pretty, unknown provincial research assistant, unencumbered by a husband with a position to maintain. Didier smiled reassuringly. He was a friendly man, and had the gift of making people feel at ease.
‘I thought – if you really didn’t mind – that Isabelle would enjoy a day ashore. She isn’t a very good sailor, I’m afraid.’
‘Nor are you,’ he said.
Claire looked at him questioningly. With her small, delicate features and slender frame, she seemed lost, and entirely unconscious that her vulnerable beauty could fell a man in seconds. He admired her blue-green eyes – changeable, like the sea.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll arrange everything with Henri. We’ll be back about three this afternoon. If you like I’ll book you a table for lunch at the Hôtel de Paris.’
‘That’s extremely kind of you.’
‘Not at all.’ He moved closer. ‘Claire, I can’t help noticing how unhappy you seem. I hope I haven’t offended you?’
‘Oh no, really. You’ve been so hospitable. So good with Isabelle.’ She smiled. ‘She likes being spoilt.’
‘Well, I must say her father doesn’t pay her nearly enough attention. Such a beautiful child, too. I wish I had a daughter even half as lovely.’
Claire felt uncomfortable. It was a perfectly innocent remark, he was just flattering her, appealing to her maternal pride. But he was too near the truth. She caught a rakish glow in his warm brown eyes, and moved away.
‘I always wondered how Henri managed to marry someone like you,’ said Didier.
‘It was easy. He only required a mayor and a ring.’
‘That sounds rather bitter.’
Claire shrugged her shoulders. ‘I presume you married your wife the same way?’
He laughed. ‘
Touché
. All right, I give up. Shall I fetch Isabelle?’
There was no need. She had somehow scrambled up a companionway, and was treading purposefully towards them clutching her teddy bear.
‘Darling, how did you get up here?’ Claire scooped her up in her arms and kissed her.
‘Sarah brought me.
And
James.’
Sarah was Isabelle’s English nanny, and James, her equally English teddy, was a Christmas present from Sarah. He was already in danger of losing one eye. Isabelle showed him to Didier, giggling as he asked her questions about his age, and whether he spoke French yet, and if he liked sailing? Claire held her daughter close, laughing at her answers. She was so like Philippe, it hurt; his black hair, those deep-blue eyes, his smile, his charm. Philippe had adored the photograph of Isabelle that Claire had emailed to him in New York. Did he really love a child he hadn’t even wanted, or was it just extended narcissism? She would never know. Henri made it impossible for Philippe to have any contact with his child.
Sarah appeared on deck, and ran forward to rescue James, who was now being dangled perilously over the back of the boat. Leaving Isabelle in her capable hands, Claire went below to change. Sarah beamed at Didier when she learnt they were to be spared another day’s buffeting at sea. They started to chat about the yacht’s name –
Vol-au-Vent
(Didier liked puns), but it began to rain, and, she scurried for shelter with Isabelle. Didier sighed. Not his lucky day. He too went below to talk to his skipper, who had planned a leisurely cruise along the coast. Now all the ladies were abandoning ship, the trip could be replaced with some speed trials.
Vol-au-Vent
had done extremely well in competition the previous year, and he was keen to race her at Cowes in the summer.
Claire wore a bright smile as she entered the cabin she shared with Henri and told him of the change of plan.
‘Are you sure Didier doesn’t mind?’ he asked.
She quickly threw off her waterproofs and slipped out of her jeans and sweater. ‘He’s quite happy. You go ahead and enjoy yourself.’
He watched her coldly as she rifled through her clothes for a skirt and blouse. Her beauty had long ceased to arouse him, and she was acutely conscious of his lack of interest. She felt as inanimate and unappreciated as the paintings he had acquired for their Versailles home. But what else could she expect? He’d been too old when she married him, and even before her affair with Philippe they had seldom made love.
‘Don’t you like sailing?’ he asked, as she buttoned up her blouse.
‘You know I don’t.’
‘You could at least pretend to enjoy it – for my sake. Why are you always so hostile towards my friends?’
‘Stop lecturing me, Henri. Didier has even booked us a table for lunch. And you’ll be better off without us if you want to discuss anything important.’
‘This was supposed to be a social occasion, Claire,’ he said in his most pompous ministerial manner. ‘You have no consideration for me whatsoever. It’s hardly polite to snub someone like Didier Lamarche.’
She zipped up her skirt and thrust her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, gazing at him pityingly. ‘Really, you’re pathetic.’
‘Claire!’ He stepped forward angrily, his eyes bulging. He always looked ugly when he was cross. She shrugged her shoulders and sat down to powder her face. ‘All you think of is yourself and that wretched child,’ said Henri, pacing up and down. ‘I’ve protected you, I prevented a scandal. You might at least have the decency to do as I ask now and then.’
‘You prevented a scandal! You bastard! All you’ve done is make me unhappy. And how
dare
you insult my daughter?’ Claire got to her feet, eyes blazing. ‘She’s already had a miserable time with your family at Christmas, and I suppose you’d like her to die of sickness on this stupid boat, wouldn’t you? Well, I’ve had enough. I’m going to have a gorgeous day with Isabelle. We’re going to lunch at the Hôtel de Paris and do a little shopping, and forget all about you for a few hours. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood by the time you get back.’
She snatched up her coat and handbag and walked out of the cabin, trying to calm herself down before she had to face Didier again. Why did Henri always make her want to cry? She’d been happy for a few moments with Isabelle in her arms and the prospect of a day’s freedom. Now he had spoilt it. He spoiled everything.
But he couldn’t change her daughter. Back on deck with Isabelle, Claire was soon smiling again. Didier complimented her on her appearance and handed her an umbrella, then pushed some money into Isabelle’s eager hand. ‘Get yourself something pretty,
ma petite
. How about a little kiss?’
She kissed his cheek enthusiastically, far more enthusiastically than she did Henri’s when he suddenly stumbled up towards them, anxious to convince Didier that he was on excellent terms with his wife and child. Claire was silent as Henri brushed his lips against hers and playfully patted Isabelle’s face. ‘Have a wonderful time, darling,’ he said.
‘You too, Henri. Isabelle, say bye-bye to Papa.’
‘Bye,’ was her only response. She turned her head as he kissed her, holding up the teddy bear. ‘Kiss James.’
Smiling, Henri obeyed, to Didier’s evident amusement. Claire felt that he guessed far too much of the real state of affairs, and was relieved to be going ashore. The charade complete, she and Isabelle were followed down the gangway by Sarah, and not long afterwards
Vol-au-Vent
cast off and was being steered out of the harbour. They waved from the quay until the figures on deck were mere blobs, then set off to enjoy themselves.
Sarah appreciated the free time, and Claire was happy just being away from Henri and at liberty to spoil her daughter, wandering in and out of the shops, acquiring ever more toys for a delighted Isabelle. She hadn’t felt so relaxed for months. Sarah joined them for lunch, a lingering affair which Isabelle enjoyed to the full. She seemed decidedly smitten with the young waiter, insisting that he have some of the sweets she had bought with Didier’s present. As there was an admiring audience, she redoubled her efforts to gain his undivided attention. Yes, she was certainly like Philippe.
They were eating dessert when Claire felt a sudden hush descend. The hotel manager had entered the restaurant, and was conferring in a low voice with the
maitre d’
. After a few moments he made his way swiftly to their table.