Authors: Eve Bourton
‘I suppose Marchand fragrances are special. They don’t grab you head-on, but creep up on you. Seductive – slow and seductive.’
‘You’ve been seduced by their publicity, Althea.’
‘I take a professional interest in it. After all, we’re in the same market.’
Bernitz gave a short laugh. ‘No disrespect, but the stuff Hank sells just isn’t in the same league. It’s got no cachet – and that you
can
smell.’
Althea wasn’t pleased. The subject was dropped, and Bernitz soon took his leave. She wandered outside onto the terrace, letting her hair flow in the warm Pacific breeze. A balmy night, the sound of the sea and swaying palm trees, even stars to complete the backdrop. But she was alone. It was just another pretty tableau in the monotony of her success. On nights like these she wanted to be young again, running barefoot along the shore at La Jolla with suntanned Californian kids who never went home, always laughing, having fun, making love, dreaming of impossibly gilded futures and never thinking the life they already had outdid all their dreams.
Althea had realised her dream. It enclosed her, locking her tight in its opulent embrace. If she felt like it she could go anywhere she wanted – right then. The limousine was waiting, a private jet was always at her command. She could exchange her Malibu cage for one in London or New York. Or she could roam around, staying with friends whose activities fuelled the gossip columns. Her husband indulged her every whim, but he wasn’t there to share this beautiful night. He was almost never there. Big blond Hank, with his unromantic corporate mind; he would call soon and say how sorry he was to have missed the party, and she’d answer, ‘Oh, that’s OK’. Then they would talk awhile before she went to bed. Alone.
Juanita appeared at the French windows. ‘Mr Pedersen’s on the line, ma’am.’
Althea sauntered back into the house, by-passing the Art Deco telephone in the lounge for the more functional white extension in her bedroom. She lay back on the bed.
‘Hey, Althea, what kept you?’
‘The sea and the stars, darling.’
‘Had a good time?’
‘Divine.’
‘Sorry I missed the party, but you know how these guys tie me up here. If I didn’t keep an eye on them – you know how it is. …’
‘It’s OK, Hank. So how rotten is the Big Apple today – tonight, rather? And what are you doing up so late?’
‘I got caught up with paperwork.’
‘Bad boy. Did you take your ginseng and that new vitamin supplement?’
‘Sure. Who came, then? Did Brett Gallway show?’
‘Yes – and with Mrs Gallway too. She’s a real cutie. He’s not so bad either, considering he earned ten million bucks for his last picture. By the way, I think I’ve found Vic Bernitz the lead for his next movie. There’s a business tie-in which might interest you.’
‘Really?’
‘It might just add Paris as a province to your perfumery empire.’
Hank whistled.
‘I told you, I’m keeping it on ice for now.’
‘You’re so mean.’
She laughed. ‘I knew that would wake you up.’ Then a pause. ‘I went to the clinic this morning.’
‘Yes?’ he said eagerly. ‘You got the results? What did they say?’
‘There is positively no reason why I shouldn’t be able to conceive a child.’
He didn’t answer for some moments, but a sigh indicated how deeply the news had affected him. ‘So it’s me, then?’
‘Looks like it, Hank. They’ll have your results through next week.’ Suddenly she longed to hold him, to comfort him, to tell him it didn’t make any difference to the way they felt for each other. ‘Don’t beat yourself up over it. You can’t help it.’
‘Surely we could do something?’
‘If you were home more often, didn't work so hard. We’re never together at the right time.’
‘It must be more than that, Althea. Damn it, we’ve been married six years. I thought it would work out. I’m sorry. I always wanted kids.’
‘Me too.’ She tried to rally, sound optimistic. ‘There’s treatment available. You could …’
‘Let’s talk about it some other time, hey, honey? I don’t feel like it right now.’
‘Tired?’
‘Very.’
‘Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you. I love you very much.’
‘I love you too.’ He was about to ring off, then thought better of it. ‘Althea?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Will you fly over here tomorrow? I really miss you, and it doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to get away.’
‘OK. Send a car to the airport.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
She put down the receiver, then told Juanita to prepare for the journey. The house seemed horribly empty. Time for bed. Althea was tired, but she hated that bed. A big, plush, springy bed, just for her. No one to make love to her, no arms to hold her. Nothing to distract her from the thought that she was never going to have a child. She could leave him, find someone else. No, she couldn’t. Walk out and leave him with his failure? Poor Hank, who had everything but the power to get her pregnant. She loved him. They were often apart, but they always missed each other, kept saying it was bad and next year they would do something about it. But somehow they never did.
Althea quickly undressed and showered, then slipped between the sheets, flipped on the bedside lamp, and picked up a magazine from the pile. Couldn’t focus, couldn’t be bothered to read. She tossed the magazine onto the floor and buried her face in the pillows. When Juanita looked in half- an hour later to see if she wanted a nightcap, Althea was still sobbing.
A grey September morning was breaking over Central Park as Tex Beidecker sprinted across the gracious drawing-room of his Fifth Avenue apartment to answer the telephone.
‘It’s Yolande for you, Grace!’ he shouted.
There was a torrent of words from the other end of the line.
Tex smiled. ‘How are you, baby? I’m good. Of course it’s early here! You’re coming over? That’s great – yes, we’d love to. Patrick? Of course it’ll be fine. He’s the actor, right? He’s going to audition for Vic Bernitz? Wow, that’s impressive. Look, your mother’s here. Give my love to Corinne, won’t you?’
Grace Beidecker emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel and took the receiver. He kissed her cheek, then went off to finish sorting papers for his briefcase.
‘Hello, darling. No, it’s all right. Tex has a board meeting this morning. You’re coming to do the Hervy gala? That’s wonderful! Of course you must stay here. So you’re bringing him? Is it serious? Well, I’m still sorry for Yves. We’ll talk about it when you get here. How was Dorset? Granny wrote me a long letter about it all …’
‘I’m glad Yolande’s coming,’ remarked Tex when they sat down to breakfast. ‘I thought she’d forgotten us over here.’
‘Did she tell you she’s bringing her new boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’ He laughed, and his lined face looked boyishly attractive. ‘The one your mother doesn’t like.’
‘That’s the understatement of the year.’
‘A free language course with sex thrown in, didn’t she say? Sounds like a smart guy.’
‘It’s not funny, Tex.’ Grace’s dark eyes were reproachful.
‘I’m sorry, darling. Are you still feeling bad because you didn’t go to Jean-Claude’s funeral?’
‘I couldn’t have gone with Toinette Brozard there. But I do so wish Yolande hadn’t broken up with Yves. They’re made for each other. She was always absolutely crazy about him.’
Tex sipped his strong black coffee. ‘Puppy love. She’s just grown up, that’s all. Yves is a great guy, but if she doesn’t want him anymore, there’s nothing you can do.’
‘Marie-Christine is really upset.’
‘Ah yes, the baroness … Hell, I was terrified when we first met. And that château!’ He looked rather wistful. ‘That was a fantastic holiday, Grace. We ought to go again sometime. What about Christmas?’
‘Are you free?’
‘I ought to be when I’ve wound up all this Brenton business for Hank Pedersen. The guy’s a nut. Buys a company everyone thinks has sunk without trace and then goes for a rights issue straight away. Still, it’ll probably work. Stamp Pedersen Corp. on any piece of paper and it’s sure to sell. I’ve never known him back a loser yet.’
‘He just rips the heart out of someone else’s company and sacks people as far as I can see,’ she said seriously. ‘It’s not right.’
Tex laughed. ‘Grace, my sweet – all these years I’ve tried to corrupt you, and you will stick to your principles. Pedersen did his hard work years ago. He built up the myth. Now he’s trading on it. Besides, he usually comes up with the goods. The man’s a genius.’
She raised her eyebrows quizzically, and Tex smiled. Eighteen years of marriage, and he still thought he was the luckiest man in the world. She had wafted into his life one sunny afternoon in London, walking with her daughters in Kensington Gardens. Nice kids, lovely mother. He had released Corinne’s kite which was caught in a tree and they had started talking. Just his luck to fall for a married woman. He had tried to forget about it. Good-looking, fit and almost forty, a bruising divorce had made him swear never to risk another trip up the aisle. His ex-wife had walked with his son, a Manhattan penthouse, their summer place in Maine, and his self-respect. She’d remarried within six months. Then he met Grace again. A formal introduction this time, at an American Embassy reception. Grosvenor Square hospitality, more talk, smiling dark eyes that seemed to understand what his were saying. He found out she too was a divorcee, and proposed to her two weeks later. They had been inseparable ever since.
He moved around the table to her. ‘What are you doing for lunch?’
‘Is that an invitation?’
‘Yes. I should be through by one. Will you book somewhere?’
They kissed lingeringly. Grace smoothed his hair. ‘You’re such an old romantic, darling.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘No. In fact it’s a damn good thing for overpriced Manhattan restaurants.’
‘Well someone has to keep them going.’
He was leaving, but she pulled him back by the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Tex, did you really mean it about Christmas?’
‘Sure. I thought we could meet the whole family. Either in France or England – or both. You fix it. I’ll make the time.’
‘Promise?’
‘On the book.’
She kissed him again. When Tex Beidecker made a promise like that, it was rock solid. Christmas in Europe – the first for four years. She might be able to find out what those beautiful daughters of hers were really getting up to now they had no father – however indulgent – to keep an eye on them.
From the window of her office on the Avenue Montaigne, Corinne looked down wistfully at the street below; serried ranks of chestnut trees, just starting to turn an autumnal shade; purposeful taxis heading for the Hotel Plaza Athénée, ferrying serious shoppers with their seriously expensive designer bags, the sort she had spent her morning wooing with a new marketing campaign. Doubtless quite a few of them had visited the Hervy boutique below to snap up the latest must-have – the Hervy trenchcoat, based on the original wartime design by the great Hélène Hervy herself, but given a modern twist by that genius Franco Rivera, with daring colours and luxurious fabrics. Corinne had ordered a limited pre-release of stock ahead of the main
prêt-à-porter
launch, despite Paul Dupuy’s reservations. And as usual had been proved right – rave reviews in
Vogue
and
Harpers
, with a
Vanity Fair
spread to come. She sighed and returned to her desk.
It was a lovely September day, and Corinne longed to be outdoors in jeans and a sweater with the wind in her hair and nowhere in particular that she had to be. She dragged her attention back to the latest company figures Georges Maury had just sent through. All profits were up for the month, and the trend for the year was very positive. Not a cloud dimmed the business horizon – so why was she so depressed? She didn’t need a shrink to spell it out. Too much work, no chance to recharge her batteries over the summer, not enough fun. And no time to grieve. There was her father’s estate to settle and her presence as the new head of Marchand to establish with the employees and the markets. People seemed to welcome Corinne’s personal approach, though her managerial style was somewhat different from Jean-Claude’s. He had always been a strategic head in the Paris head office, whereas she made a point of visiting all her managers to explain her ideas personally. Had Georges nursed any ambition of becoming head of the company, he would have been sorely disappointed. But although her style differed from Jean-Claude’s, Corinne shared his tactical approach to the business. Ultimately she was in charge, and a Marchand continued to run Marchand with characteristic astuteness.
Corinne missed her father far more than she had ever thought possible. He had always been the fun parent, the one who made silly jokes, the extravagant Papa who had celebrated her every success with copious amounts of Champagne. Only now was she beginning to realise that he was also the one she had relied on, whose advice was always sound even though he appeared to be the last person to turn to for common sense, the one who could really comfort her when she was upset. She just longed for him to walk in with that glorious smile of his and tell her to snap out of it, because how could he take his daughter out to lunch with a frown ruining her beautiful face?
‘Corinne, darling, they’ll think I’m a slave driver.’
‘You are, Papa,’ and she would already be smiling. ‘An absolute tyrant.’
‘In that case I order you to eat, drink, and be merry with me, unless you’d prefer a week in Accounts.’
They used to lunch together once a week. It was sacrosanct – he never missed it. Neither did she, which was why she had tears in her eyes now as she saw the recurring appointment in her electronic calendar. It should have been today. Sylvie hadn’t taken it out, and Corinne didn’t have the heart to do it either. If only she could talk to him about her plans for Marchand, see if he approved. And ask him what to do about her sister, who seemed to have found a unique way to channel her grief by a gratuitously public and passionate affair with Patrick Dubuisson.