Authors: Eve Bourton
‘I promised to do Franco’s Milan show in October. I’d better tell him to find someone else.’
‘But you ought to be fine by then. I shouldn’t rule it out yet.’
‘Oh, do talk about something interesting. Who’s been invited to Philippe’s wedding – or more importantly, who hasn’t?’
‘The usual suspects,’ said Grace, not liking the way Yolande had switched subjects. They could never seem to talk about things that really mattered these days. ‘Tex and I hope to make it. And Philippe’s counting on you being there.’
‘What do you think of Claire?’
‘She’s very sweet. Far too nice for Philippe, but she adores him. And he’s really happy. Who would have thought it?’
‘I don’t think I’ve known him happier. Isn’t she bringing Isabelle in to see me again today?’ Yolande’s expression brightened. ‘They’re all besotted with her, but I can see why. Even Marie-Christine seems to prefer her to Geraldine.’
Grace laughed. Then she thought of Yves – another taboo. Yolande hadn’t been told of his frantic desire to see her on the night of the accident, and though he now visited her regularly, he always made sure he was accompanied by someone else. That way there was no embarrassment, nothing beyond general conversation. It was clear to everybody that Yves was deeply in love – clear to everybody except Yolande, of course. She seemed to rank him somewhere outside her intimate circle of family and friends, and it pained Grace to see it. If she could have got hold of Patrick Dubuisson, she would have cheerfully wrung his neck.
When Grace got up to leave, Yolande suggested they had a more serious chat the following day about her future plans. She needed to talk, but it was so hard. And she hated being alone. Though she had books, radio, and television, nothing took her mind off the humiliation of California if there was no one there to deflect her thoughts. At first she thought she had a broken heart, then she realised she felt too angry – furious because she hadn’t got even with Patrick. Never would now. He had cast her aside like a piece of rubbish. The lies and deceit still took her breath away. How had she been fool enough to believe him? To love him for so long? To sink nearly all her money in his film? She couldn’t come up with an answer she cared to acknowledge.
Claire was adamant: Yves had to go. Yolande would be so disappointed not to see Isabelle once more before she went to stay with her grandmother at St Xavier.
‘But I can’t …’
‘Please, Yves. I really must stay. We think we’ve got a buyer this time, and you know how important it is.’ She bent down to Isabelle. ‘You’ll go with Uncle Yves to see Yolande, won’t you, darling?’
‘Yes!’ Isabelle nodded energetically. Since seeing Yolande’s picture on the front cover of
Paris Match
, she had decided this was an acquaintance definitely worth cultivating.
Yves gave in. He left Claire’s Versailles home ten minutes later with Isabelle, her teddy bear, some flowers, and a great deal of apprehension. Life had settled back into a familiar pattern, with him being the one everybody relied on again. And he liked to be useful. But he needed to be wanted, and wanted by Yolande. He and Anne-Louise Chevagnac had called time on their fling when she left for the States. She’d phoned him a couple of times from New York after Yolande’s accident, worried about him. It seemed as though she was working things out with her husband and Yves was glad for her. She deserved it. There hadn’t been anyone since. Yolande was as firmly locked in his heart as always, and now he saw her regularly it was killing him.
It was when he reached the Péripherique that inspiration came. Of course, he could take Grace or Toinette as armour. He drove straight to the Avenue Foch. Grace was out, but Toinette was delighted to see both him and Isabelle.
‘Well, I was going to the hospital this afternoon, but now you’re here you could take this book for me. Tell Yolande I’ll definitely be in tomorrow morning. Actually, Yves, there’s something I want to show you.’
She beckoned him into the salon and picked up the latest issue of the
Sunday Times
magazine. Miles had bought it on his last journey back from London, his attention caught by Patrick Dubuisson, leather jacketed and smiling, on the front cover.
Toinette settled in an armchair with Isabelle on her lap. Yves took the magazine, staring at the picture. Then he sat down and read the interview, frowning over one or two unfamiliar words.
‘So he’s Marc Quiberon’s son!’
‘You can see the resemblance now, can’t you?’ Toinette said, trying to rescue an earring from Isabelle’s grasp. ‘I always wondered where I’d seen that expression before. He’s very like him.’
‘I must have seen all Quiberon’s films, and I would never have guessed – but of course, I haven’t met Dubuisson.’
Yves scanned the article again, tight-lipped. So the ‘unknown’ Patrick Dubuisson was the son of one of France’s film legends; a star who would undoubtedly be proud of Patrick’s imminent success had he not died twenty years previously from a drug overdose. Already separated from Geneviève Dubuisson before Patrick’s birth, he had apparently never even seen his son.
Dubuisson explains with a charming shrug that he has only chosen to reveal his father’s identity now because he didn’t want to trade on the Quiberon image to get a role.
Yves gave a derisive snort.
One thing is certain – he’s got them all talking in Hollywood and he’s sure of a warm welcome in Britain when his first major film is released in October.
‘Was Quiberon married to his mother?’ he asked.
‘No. She was an actress too. I’ve been looking up a few things since I read the article. It all checks out.’
Yves placed the magazine face down on a table. He longed to grind Patrick’s smug face into it. ‘So why did he need Yolande’s backing for this film? He must be worth a fortune.’
‘Wrong. Marc Quiberon had three legitimate children and he was virtually penniless when he died. Drugs, fast cars – you know.’
Yves stood up. ‘Do you mind if I borrow this?’
‘You’re not going to show Yolande? I don’t know if she’s able to take it.’
‘Toinette, I’ve had enough. I don’t expect her to say she loves me. But I must know if I have a chance – if she’ll ever get over it.’
‘Well be careful, please. I’m pretty sure it all ended very badly.’
‘Isabelle! Hello,
ma petite
…’ Yolande stretched out her right hand, smiling as Isabelle entered her room. ‘Where’s your maman?’
Yves followed his niece, carrying a bouquet of flowers. ‘Hi, Yolande. I’m afraid Claire couldn’t come. And Toinette says she’ll be in tomorrow morning. Damn! I forgot that book she asked me to bring. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘That’s OK. I’ve got enough literature here to keep me going a lifetime.’ She tried to sound poised, but she felt acutely embarrassed, lying prone and bandaged without a hint of make-up, totally unprepared for his visit. ‘Thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful.’
‘Like you.’
She flushed, then turned to Isabelle, who was doing her utmost to climb up onto the bed. ‘Sweetheart, you won’t be able to get up here.’
‘I will!’ shouted Isabelle.
Yves picked her up and held her out to be kissed, sitting on the bed to prevent her becoming too boisterous. Yolande covered her nervousness by asking Isabelle about James, one-eyed and nearly one-eared now, but still her favourite bear. Yves watched, too conscious of Yolande’s body next to his own, the contours of her breasts beneath her silk pyjamas, her glorious hair spread over the pillow. He wanted to touch her. This was the first time they had been so close since their break-up the previous July.
‘Isabelle, don’t be rough.’ He clasped his niece firmly round her middle as she attempted to get closer to Yolande.
‘Oh leave her, Yves.’ She stroked the girl’s cheek. ‘You’re going to see your grandmother at Rochemort, aren’t you? How do you like Papa’s new château?’
‘I’m going to have a dog,’ announced Isabelle. ‘A big yellow dog! And a suit of armour!’
Yolande laughed, and chatted to her until she got bored. Yves then lifted her down onto the floor and let her play, but he remained sitting on the bed, gazing at Yolande. So lovely, so perfect. He could hardly believe she’d had a scorching affair with Patrick Dubuisson.
‘Why do you keep staring at me?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t had a chance for a long time.’
‘Well I’m glad you waited. I was like a bomb site when I came round from surgery.’
‘I know. I was there.’
‘You were there!’
‘I only caught a glimpse of you. Everybody seemed to think it best that I kept out of the way. I drove straight up from Rochemort when I heard about your accident on the news.’ He took in the warm response in her eyes, a little glimmer the old Yolande who had loved him, and his spirits lifted.
‘Thank you, Yves. And while I’m at it, I’d better thank you for punching André Hamel. It looked like a marvellous right hook.’
He smiled. ‘I remember all the boxing lessons you used to give me when you were little. But you’ve got such delicate hands …’
Gently he took her hand, then pressed it to his lips. She felt two burning kisses on her palm, and automatically moved her fingers to caress his cheek. They were both surprised by the contact. She dropped her hand back onto the bed, and Yves covered it with his own.
‘How much longer will you be here?’ he asked.
‘A couple of weeks. Then I’ll rest at home for a fortnight before I go to England.’
‘England!’ he echoed, dismayed.
‘Only to convalesce. I’ll be back in time for Philippe’s wedding.’
‘Have you anything planned after that?’
Yolande laughed wryly. ‘I’ve given up making plans since this accident. But I really ought to do something sensible. Finish a degree, perhaps.’
‘Are you sure that’s what you want now?’
‘No. But I don’t seem to have done anything with my life at all so far.’
‘You’ve made a lot of people happy, and there aren’t many of us who can say that.’
There was a silence. She sensed that he
wanted to
say something else, but he just sat there, his blue eyes fixed on her face, his hand pressing hers. The warmth was comforting. ‘What are you doing for the summer?’
‘Being a fool as usual.’ Yves laughed. ‘Philippe’s roped me in to help with the Château Briteuil restoration. He says he needs my advice, but it really means sorting out the gardens. They’re in an appalling state.’
‘Wasn’t it Victor de la Haye’s home? I remember staying there once when I was very young. Like something out of
Sleeping Beauty
– a fortress with a jungle around it.’
‘Exactly. But it has potential. Philippe’s found an old plan of how the gardens looked in the seventeenth century. They were designed by Le Nôtre.’
‘Le Nôtre! I suppose he’ll trade on the royal connection?’
‘Of course. It will be a palace in all but name. Actually, I think it will make a first-class hotel, and the wine’s not half bad, either.’
Yolande smiled. How pleasant to talk to Yves like this again. She couldn’t help remembering the good times they had had together. Her fingers curled around his firm, reassuring hand, like they used to when she was a child and he had been her hero. They must be friends. She was glad to see him now, pleased there was no one else today to inhibit him.
Somehow it wasn’t the moment to raise the spectre of Patrick. Yves knew he wouldn’t be able to take revelations about the affair, even if Yolande offered any. It was still too painful – for them both. They chatted instead about Miles and Corinne, of Marie-Christine, who was making astonishing progress, of the film business, books, wine, of everything but themselves. Isabelle interrupted from time to time, and noisily consumed a peach and some grapes from the fruit bowl on the bedside locker.
‘She’s got juice all over her clothes,’ said Yolande, when it was time to leave.
‘Damn. Claire will give me a telling off. She’s strict.’ Yves took a tissue Yolande proffered and mopped the juice from Isabelle’s cheeks and chin while she wriggled furiously. ‘You messy girl!’
‘James was hungry!’
‘Well he can’t have any more. Now, kiss Yolande goodbye.’
She obeyed with gusto. Yves set her down and stood by the bed, finding it difficult to believe that he’d been sitting with Yolande for an hour and a half.
‘When are you coming again?’
‘I’m going to Canada on business tomorrow. You’ll be out of here by the time I get back. Perhaps we can meet before you go to England?’
‘Yes, of course. So I shan’t see you for a while.’ She sounded a little regretful. ‘Take care of yourself, Yves.’
He leaned over to kiss her cheeks. Instinctively she slipped her hand around his neck and pressed her lips briefly to his right cheek and across to the left. But his mouth closed over hers, warm and possessive. His tongue parted her lips, teasing, probing. She felt a shock of pleasure through her body and responded, dragging his head down. Oh, it was good. But it bewildered her. He never used to kiss her like this. Why now? When she was a smashed-up wreck? As though she’d been scalded, she dropped her hand and pushed him away.
Yves drew back, smiling. ‘Get well, my darling.’
Then he caught hold of Isabelle’s hand and made for the door, just remembering to pick up the bag containing the
Sunday Times
magazine Toinette had given him. When they had gone Yolande burst into tears.
The smile on Corinne’s face faded abruptly when she sat beside Miles on the sofa in the salon at the Avenue Foch and caught Patrick’s face dominating the front cover of the magazine on the table.
‘I hope it’s strong,’ she said to Toinette, who was pouring coffee. ‘I’ll take it black.’
‘Yves told me he didn’t show it to Yolande.’
‘Probably wise,’ added Grace. ‘She’s not having a good day.’
Corinne scanned the article quickly, her expression grim. There wasn’t a single word about Yolande. She obviously didn’t exist at all for Patrick now, yet it was she who had launched his career. Callous pig. Her mother and Toinette both gazed at her anxiously. One of the weirdest things to come out of it all was their friendship. They had got to like each other after sharing the apartment for several weeks; both deeply concerned about Yolande, both eager to promote family harmony, bound in some inexplicable way by the shadow of the man they had loved.