Authors: Eve Bourton
Georges shook his head. ‘I don’t like it, Corinne. You two shouldn’t be speaking to each other through lawyers.’
‘That’s how she wants it,’ she said coldly.
‘Don’t you mean that’s how Patrick Dubuisson wants it? You’re just playing into his hands. He’s cut Yolande off from her family. Now he’s got her completely under his spell. Quite frankly, I’m deeply concerned about her. Can’t you stop this feud before it really damages you both? I hate to see it continuing.’
Corinne had a momentary twinge of conscience. Georges had watched them grow up, when they had been their father’s joy and devoted to each other. Yolande had been very much everyone’s baby, and easy to get along with until she met Patrick, even though she had always been volatile. But what she had done was unforgivable.
‘Please don’t tell me how to conduct my personal affairs,’ she snapped.
‘All right, all right.’ He waved his hands despairingly. ‘Have it your own way. But I’m quite sure if your father were alive it would break his heart.’
Corinne left the office. He would have to mention Papa and make her feel bad about it all. When Miles met her for lunch she looked as though she’d been crying, and it took her several minutes to persuade him that he was not the cause.
An agreement was struck between Corinne and Toinette on a cold mid-January evening at the Avenue Foch. Toinette sold her holdings in Marchand and UVS to Corinne at a discount, in return for a generously salaried directorship at Marchand and a free lifetime tenancy of the splendid apartment. Georges was baffled when he heard the details, but both women got what they wanted. Corinne made a leap forward in regaining control of her company and Toinette was fully reinstated into the life and perks that Jean-Claude’s death had abruptly terminated. All in all, Corinne thought it a very satisfactory deal.
Toinette smiled rather sadly as they toasted their new
glasnost
over a glass of champagne. ‘You remind me so much of your father.’
‘Papa usually got what he wanted. I’m only just beginning to learn how he managed it.’
‘I’m sorry for the way things have been between us. We should have talked more.’
‘I didn’t understand. You see, I never realised …’ Corinne broke off, embarrassed.
‘You never thought I really loved him, did you?’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologise. I must take some of the blame. I never felt obliged to convince you or Yolande, only your father. You were away so much, and when you were home I sensed the hostility. I never tried to overcome it, so we never got to know each other properly. That was my big mistake.’
‘Why didn’t you take more time to sort things out after Papa died?’
‘Have you forgotten the packing cases you sent me so soon afterwards?’
Corinne lowered her eyes, ashamed. But Toinette was determined to let bygones be bygones, and was anxious to catch up with all the family news.
‘So Yolande’s actually living with Patrick now?’
‘As far as I know they’re both in California prepping for this film,’ said Corinne.
‘I’m afraid she’s going to get badly hurt. I thought it was a harmless infatuation and she’d still marry Yves. How is he, by the way?
‘He’s trying to fall in love with Gabrielle d’Emville.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Quite. But you know Marie-Christine is desperate to see him settled. He’ll probably marry Gabrielle just to please her.’
Toinette raised her eyebrows expressively. ‘And what about you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine. Well, I will be once I’ve got the company straightened out.’
‘No boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘You really will have to put that affair with Philippe behind you one day.’
Corinne looked surprised.
‘So you think I didn’t know how serious it was?’ continued Toinette. ‘You kept everything to yourself, but I saw the pain. I don’t know if your father realised quite how badly it hit you – he was too busy trying to deal with the business fallout.’
‘But I’m over it!’ said Corinne defiantly. ‘Philippe means nothing to me now.’
‘There you are, on the defensive at once! You see, he’s still there – like a ghost. Exorcise him, Corinne. Why let him ruin the rest of your life? I was besieged by men at parties here asking to be introduced to you. And you didn’t even know they were alive.’
Corinne was silent, thinking of Miles. Strange that Toinette had put it like that. She was absolutely right. Philippe’s shadow hung over her all the time. He’d satisfied desires and needs she’d only tentatively explored before they got together, then made her hate herself for letting him use her, afraid of intimacy in case it wounded her again. But Miles had somehow wormed his way through her layers of armour, gained her trust. Perhaps he could help her with an exorcism.
‘What’s this?’ asked Toinette, picking up a folder from the coffee-table. ‘Corsley European? They’re British, aren’t they?’ She flicked over a few pages of Miles’ report. ‘Hmmm … a takeover defence. My God, you couldn’t possibly afford this!’ She put the folder down, feeling guilty. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ve put you in a terrible position.’
‘It won’t be now we’ve reached an agreement. But I’d like to know something – did Yolande tell you
why
she was selling her stake in Marchand?’
‘Of course not. Otherwise I would have done everything to stop her. I was simply instructed to buy her shares for UVS. Yolande only wanted to know how quickly she could have the money.’
‘Who instructed you?’
‘Count Ulrich von Stessenberg. He’s based in New York.’
‘UVS,’ said Corinne, as it dawned on her. ‘That simple and we didn’t pick it up. Christ.’
‘I should have told you before Christmas.’
‘But you wanted this deal?’
‘Yes,’ replied Toinette, ‘very much. I wonder if you can ever really forgive me, but we must try to make things work.’
Corinne inwardly cursed her own blindness. A little more subtlety, a little more of her father’s intuition, and she could now be the outright owner of Marchand Enterprises instead of having to defend it from takeover.
‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ continued Toinette. ‘Count Ulrich von Stessenberg – I’d take the title with a pinch of salt, because it’s not in the
Almanach de Gotha
– is either German or Austrian, though he’s got American citizenship and he claims to have been brought up in Switzerland. But his accent isn’t quite right. Anyway, he’s got money. Lots of it. I was introduced to him by Laurent Dobry about six years ago. Stessenberg was in Paris looking for a base for a new holding company.’
‘UVS.’
‘Exactly. I helped him find some offices off the Champs Elysées, then out of the blue a couple of years later he offered me a thirty per cent stake in the company. I had the money and the shares were discounted. It was a very good investment. All I had to do was provide a presence for the firm in Paris.’
‘What about the other seventy per cent?’
‘It’s held by two other companies – one Swiss, one British.’
‘But he actually owns both, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now I get the picture. We tracked down the British firm, then came up against a brick wall. And you received orders directly from Stessenberg?’
‘He would telephone when something important was moving on the Bourse and he wanted a slice of the action, but day to day business he left to his office in New York. It’s not a hectic operation. He goes in for a few big deals – perhaps only five or six a year. He waits until he owns, say twenty to thirty per cent of a company, then he sells to the highest bidder.’
Corinne frowned. ‘I see. He doesn’t sound like he would be interested in taking over Marchand, so why won’t he sell Yolande’s stake back to me?’
Toinette shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve contacted the New York office, but he’s abroad and they have no authority to sell. Apparently he takes a keen personal interest in this particular deal. Now you’ve become his partner in UVS, put an offer to him directly. You can actually veto the sale of the Marchand shares, but then Stessenberg would probably force you out of UVS. The partnership is weighted very much in his favour. He can buy you out with three months’ notice.’
Corinne sipped her drink thoughtfully. She had a feeling that Ulrich von Stessenberg’s chain of companies led somewhere unknown to her, Toinette, or anyone else in Paris.
‘I’ve got a question, Corinne.’
‘Hmm?’
‘About this salary – it’s rather a lot of money just for attending a few board meetings.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘I thought perhaps I could do a little to earn it. You really ought to adopt your father’s views on corporate hospitality.’
Corinne had to concede that she was right. Jean-Claude Marchand had made many useful contacts through Toinette’s skills as a hostess. If she wanted to start her famous corporate receptions and events up again, why not? It would keep her occupied and allow Corinne to get on with the nuts and bolts of business.
When Toinette had gone, Corinne cast an eye over Miles’ report. None of the companies he suggested as possible predators now seemed to fit. There had to be someone else; someone who had engineered everything with Stessenberg’s co-operation, possibly someone even involved in persuading Yolande to back Patrick’s film. It was clear that UVS wouldn’t sell the Marchand shares back to her because they were already earmarked for another buyer.
She called Miles and arranged lunch the following day to discuss the affair. He sounded delighted by her initiative, and that set off ideas and emotions that troubled her. She stretched out on the sofa with a copy of
Paris Match
to divert her thoughts, but there wasn’t much in it; opinion polls, interviews with celebrities who didn’t interest her, and a long illustrated report on the funeral of Henri Garnier-Dumont, a government minister her father had detested. She tossed the magazine aside, yawning. It had been another exhausting day, and she had been sleeping badly of late.
The telephone rang. Groaning, Corinne got up to answer it. Yves was on the line, sounding livelier than usual.
‘How did it go with Toinette?’ he asked.
‘Really well. I’ve bought her out.’
‘Fantastic!’
They discussed the pros and cons, then he casually mentioned that his mother had had another call from Philippe.
‘What is it this time?’ Corinne asked laconically. Philippe’s long-distance eruptions into her life were becoming tedious.
‘He’s coming home. For good.’
‘For good?’
‘Yes. In a few weeks’ time.’
‘I see.’
‘Apparently something has changed, some unforeseen circumstance,’ continued Yves. ‘It sounds mysterious, but he’s promised to tell us everything when he gets here. I’ll give you due warning if you want to avoid him.’
‘OK.’
She finished the conversation hurriedly, her mind racing ahead. Yves didn’t know about Philippe’s daughter, he hadn’t heard that rigmarole from Yolande at Christmas. But what was it she had said? An affair with the wife of a senior government minister, threatened arrest for tax fraud – and now, three and a half years later, it had all suddenly changed. Corinne rushed back to the sofa and seized the copy of
Paris Match
, tearing through the pages for the article on the Garnier-Dumont funeral. A picture of the president and cabinet ministers; Garnier-Dumont’s brothers, sombre bourgeois in sombre suits; then the one she was looking for – the widow, Claire Garnier-Dumont, with the minister’s young daughter, Isabelle. Corinne almost dropped the magazine. It was unmistakably Philippe’s child. The resemblance was so strong; black hair, those vivid blue eyes, an alert, intelligent face. She even detected a turn of the head very similar to Marie-Christine’s. A beautiful little girl. His daughter.
His
daughter.
She read the article quickly, skipping the paragraphs on Garnier-Dumont’s political career for details of his death and his family. Philippe’s decision to return to France must have been taken as soon as he heard of that fatal accident on
Vol-au-Vent
– from Garnier-Dumont’s wife? Or the press? Corinne learned that Claire was thirty-three, had married Henri Garnier-Dumont when she was twenty-four, and gave birth to Isabelle three years ago. The probable date of conception only confirmed her worst fears. Philippe had been sleeping with them both at the same time. So that was all it was for him, all it had ever been. She knew that now. And yet she was still alive, still breathing. She wasn’t going to throw herself off a balcony or go into a decline. In fact she was itching to punch his duplicitous jaw. Kick him where it would hurt, too. The bastard. He’d said he loved her, wanted to live with her, but it was just sex after all. How the hell had she let him mess her mind up for so long with plain old-fashioned sex?
Then the tears came. Long overdue tears, which she had never allowed herself to shed before. All illusions, all hope gone. The love she thought she could never recover from turned out not to have been love at all. She wasn’t crying for the man she had adored, because in reality he had never existed; but for the woman she had once been, with a whole and loving heart and faith in happy-ever-after. Corinne sobbed until she was spent. And then, to her great surprise, came relief. Thank God she hadn’t married him. Thank God. She had escaped. With a battered heart, true, but one that was free at last. He could never hurt her again.
‘What are you up to, Miles?’ Rupert Corsley stared uncompromisingly at his nephew, sitting on the other side of his desk in a plush penthouse office in Corsley European’s headquarters on London Wall. ‘I suppose it’s something to do with that damned Frenchwoman you were sniffing about last year?’
‘It is, actually. And don’t insult her. Apart from being my friend and your client, she’s John Albury’s grand-daughter.’
‘Well why didn’t you tell me before? I’d have been a bit more polite when you rang with all that nonsense about pseudo Counts and the
Almanach de Gotha
. Albury’s grand-daughter? Hmm, now I remember. His eldest daughter married a Frog. Ghastly chap. Ended in divorce.’ He noticed Miles’ chilly expression. ‘Now what’s wrong? You’re not in love with her, are you? I thought she couldn’t stand the sight of you – that’s why Chetwode’s handling the Marchand account.’