Authors: Karen Swan
There was a long pause this time. ‘No.’
She gave a contemptuous snort.
‘Flora, I’m sorry. Tell me how I can make it up to you.’
‘Fuck you, Stefan!’
She hung up and leaned against the wall, her limbs tremulous from the adrenalin. She was screwed and the family was damned. The secret was out now in the most terrible of ways, printed and
distributed around the world and they wouldn’t be able to take out an injunction against it or sue, because it was all true – every single word. Lilian had been right about everything
but one – the sins of the father
will
be visited on the children.
Noah was standing at the top of the steps, a champagne bucket under one arm, two flutes in the opposite hand, scouring the crowds for her when she walked back over.
‘There you are, I was—’ He stopped, taking in her pallor. ‘Hey, are you feeling all right?’
‘Uh, I’m not . . . No, I don’t think I am, to be honest.’ She wanted to get out of here. She couldn’t stand to be here any more.
‘Perhaps you’ve had too much sun?’ he asked, taking her gently by the elbow and leading her towards the nearest table. Without hesitation, he approached the couple sitting
there. ‘I’m sorry, my friend’s feeling unwell. Would you mind if we—’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence; they were up and offering their seats in a flash.
‘Thank you,’ Flora smiled wanly, not sure if she might throw up.
A shrill laugh made her look up. A group of twenty-somethings were racing across the lawns, bare legs flashing as the girls tucked their skirts in their knickers and ran barefoot, the
guys’ shirt tails untucked as they chased after them. Flora looked away, feeling too miserable to cope with them right n—
Oh God, no!
She looked up again as she realized who she’d seen, her stomach lurching so violently at the sight of Xavier and Natascha Vermeil that she actually heaved forwards, slapping a hand over
her mouth.
‘Jesus, Flora, I think we should get you lying down somewhere. You really don’t look well.’
But she barely heard him. She couldn’t take her eyes off the rowdy group now, watching as a couple of wardens held their arms out to stop their stampede towards the lakes and herded them
towards the steps instead, away from the cars. The
concours
was about to begin.
They dropped out of her sight below the steps for a moment but Flora could still hear them – the dominating laughter, bitchy comments – and then they were back in view, a muster of
brightly coloured peacocks on the top steps. They spotted an older couple sitting at one of the larger tables, ‘saving places’ most likely, and plonked themselves down without asking,
so that the older couple were effectively hustled off. The guys sat slouched in the chairs, legs spread, as the girls got out their phones and started taking selfies. Natascha Vermeil had her back
to Flora’s table but Xavier was sitting in profile to her, one arm outstretched on the table as he silently surveyed the cars being reversed off the lawns.
The whine of a tannoy whistled around the park, making everyone stop in their tracks – although seemingly, most of them had been stopped by the clique of socialites anyway – as Max
St John took to a small podium on the lawn, opposite the steps.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began in flawless French, in his element as he addressed the crowd . . .
‘Could I wear your hat? I’m . . . I think I have caught too much sun,’ she said quickly, knowing she needed to remain out of sight.
‘Of course,’ Noah said, rushing to help, eager to be of assistance in any way he could. (God, her mother would just love him.)
Flora put on the hat and kept the brim dipped low. She couldn’t cope with the thought of the Vermeils seeing her here. Did they know? They must know! Surely people in their circle must
know by now . . . phones would be ringing . . .
But then again, if they
did
know, surely they wouldn’t come somewhere like this? They wouldn’t be laughing and braying and bringing attention to themselves, hijacking the sale
as though it was their own private party, even if it was patently clear they could afford every lot here.
No, they didn’t know. Not yet.
Flora closed her eyes, wondering how the hell she could get past without them noticing. The only way back to the car park was via the steps and she couldn’t bear to think of how Natascha,
in particular, would react, here in public with her friends, her clique – although she could well imagine.
The guttural thunder of a V8 rolling up the gravel drive drew shouts of admiration as the
Concours d’Élégance
began, each of the cars up for grabs doing the automotive
equivalent of a beauty parade, showing off its curves and moves for the cheering crowd.
Noah, looking anxiously between her and the catwalking cars, laid a hand over hers on the table. ‘Do you want to get out of here? We don’t need to stay.’
‘No, it’s fine. You said you liked the pale blue Bugatti.’ He’d already told her he’d been waiting nine years for one of this model to come to sale.
‘You’ve got to bid.’
He shrugged. ‘I still can. I can register my top bid and they can notify me later. I’m more concerned about getting you somewhere you can rest.’
The Vermeils’ group gave a roar of laughter at something one of them had said. Even Xavier, sitting in profile to her, was smiling. The sight of it was arresting. It changed his face
completely. She had almost begun to believe it wasn’t physically possible.
But he wouldn’t be smiling if he saw her . . . She looked back at Noah, feeling ever more desperate. ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind . . .’
Noah patted her hand. ‘I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.’
Flora sat back in the seat, her chin down, trying to hide even as she strained to hear what it was on that table that they were all finding so amusing.
The bidding had begun and Flora listened with interest as the numbers rose in steady increments. It wasn’t the same level as the art market – even the rarest car was never going to
break into that league, but there was parity with the wine market perhaps, another solid returns portfolio for the serious investor.
The Vermeils’ crowd were throwing their bids into the ring of course. Flora wouldn’t be surprised if they were just bidding to drive up the prices for a laugh.
Flora watched them – well, him – from under her brim. She couldn’t make him out. He seemed somehow on the outside of the circle, smiling at the jokes but not appearing to make
any, everyone directing the conversation to him even though he barely said anything, his concentration more on the actual sales action than the girl to his
right who kept looking over at him and rubbing his thigh. Flora watched, unable not to. She couldn’t remember – was that the girl who’d run into her on the steps? His girlfriend,
the passionate one he kept breaking up – and then making up – with?
An oxblood Aston Martin DB2/4 Mark 1 that Noah had admired earlier came to a stop at the podium and Max began to sell, using the same mix of humour and clubby, inclusive tone that had always
been her father’s trademark. She looked around for Noah, desperate to get away from here, but her arm caught her champagne glass as she twisted round and it shattered on the limestone
flags.
Flora froze as everyone turned to see what had happened. Mortified, she moved to try to pick up the larger shards but waiters were by her side with brushes and pans within moments, ushering her
back into her chair, worrying she might cut herself.
She apologized, glancing up in embarrassment – and found he had seen her. She sank back into her chair, unable to look away, feeling the blood draining from her as what she knew that he
did not ran through her mind again; she knew how much blacker that look was going to become.
‘Sorry about that. Tedious paperwork, took longer than I thought,’ Noah said, rejoining her, one hand on her shoulder, sweeping up to cup her neck. ‘Oh, what happened
here?’
The waiters finished sweeping up and said they would bring a replacement glass over.
Noah sat down, grasping her hand and holding it in his. ‘How are you feeling now?’
Flora, wrenching her gaze away from Xavier, looked back at him. ‘. . . Sorry?’
‘You’re still very pale.’
‘Yes, I . . . uh . . .’ She looked across to Xavier again. He was still staring and she felt her mouth dry up again, her stomach plunge, as though her world was made of paper and he
was punching a hole through it.
What?
She wanted to scream at him.
What do you want from me?
He looked away, raising his arm in the same moment, jaw thrust forward.
‘Thank you!’ Max cried delightedly from the podium. ‘A new bidder, ladies and gentlemen! Do I have two three thirty?’
Flora blinked at Xavier’s sudden action. What was he doing? Did he actually want that car? Did he even know which car he was bidding on?
She watched as he raised his hand again. And then again.
‘That price is getting toppy,’ Noah murmured, watching interestedly as the bids were batted back and forth like a tennis ball over a net.
Flora couldn’t speak. She just watched as Xavier raised his hand again and again. She recognized the body language – auctions were her lifeblood, she knew exactly how to read the
players in them and he wasn’t going to back down, she knew. This wasn’t about buying. It was about winning.
But winning what? She didn’t think it was that car.
When the gavel finally did come down, the Vermeils’ party were on their feet, cheering, Xavier himself completely still as they all smacked him on the back, tousled his hair, the girl on
his right leaning in to nuzzle his cheek.
‘A new world record, ladies and gentlemen!’ Max cried, more excited than anyone.
‘Well, he’d better hold on to it for a while,’ Noah said, unimpressed. ‘I don’t see it appreciating beyond that price for quite some time. He must have really
wanted it to pay that.’ He looked at Flora. ‘Your colour’s a bit better.’
‘Is it?’ She realized she’d been holding her breath.
‘Still want to go?’
She glanced at Xavier’s table again. A man was walking towards them, something in his hand. She felt her jaw drop open as he approached.
No, wait . . .
‘Congratulations!’ the man said loudly. ‘That’s quite a bidding arm you’ve got there.’
Xavier, still seated, nodded back at him. He looked wary.
The man gave a laugh, thrust one hand into his trouser pocket. ‘Yes. We were all just saying you had your hand up so many times, it was practically a Nazi salute.’ He paused.
‘But then again, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’
A hush descended as the man’s unfriendly tone broke through his passive demeanour.
‘Sorry, what?’ Xavier asked, his back straightening as he woke up to what was happening here.
‘After all, I guess you’ve got to spend that stolen fortune somehow.’
Xavier was on his feet in a flash. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me,’ the man said, chest puffed as though squaring up to get physical.
‘You’d better watch your mouth! You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t I?’ the man asked, throwing a battered hospitality copy of
Vanity Fair
onto the table. ‘Well, they certainly seem to.’ He turned to go.
‘Hey! What the hell is this?’ Xavier demanded, angry now, grabbing the man by his arm; but the stranger jerked it away, shrugging his jacket back on neatly.
‘Why don’t you read it and find out?’ the man sneered. He jerked his chin towards their table. ‘You think you’re something special? You’re not. You should be
ashamed of yourselves. You disgust me. You disgust us all. Why don’t you just do us all a favour and get out of here. Your sort isn’t welcome here.’
Xavier’s fight dissipated as he glanced down and saw the title on the magazine’s open page. He looked back up again, saw that everyone was staring now, even Max, several feet below
on his podium on the grass. There was a buzz of conversation as people broke into titillated groups, all discussing the contretemps, heads shaking in disapproval
as they looked back and forth between Xavier and his sister. Word was getting round.
‘Awkward,’ Noah murmured with a wry smile, clearly bemused by the fracas.
Flora felt a sudden urge to slap him. She reached for her bag on the table. ‘We should go before they start on the next lot,’ she said stiffly. She needed to get down those steps and
out of here before he read that article.
‘Sure,’ Noah said, quickly downing his drink. ‘Stay there just a minute. I’ll run ahead and bring the car round.’
Flora bit her lip as he sauntered past the Vermeils’ table and ran down the steps, his linen jacket flying open behind him.
She looked back at Xavier. He was reading the article now, sinking in slow motion into the chair as he began to take in the detail, both hands pulled into fists on the table.
She could scarcely bear to watch, to see the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed down the ugly truths, the slight parting of his lips as dismay spread through him
like a poison, the growing hunch of his shoulders as his head began to droop, shame and humiliation diminishing him before her very eyes; all the hard, angry swagger and flash braggadocio of only a
few moments before had gone and he suddenly seemed very young.
She couldn’t look any more. Snatching her purse and tipping the hat low, she skirted the tables, taking the long way round to the steps in an effort to avoid having to walk right past
him.
She half-walked, half-ran over the grass towards the yew hedge, which had an opening onto the beech-lined avenue and led to where the visitors’ cars were parked. Noah would surely be
coming up any moment.
But she wasn’t through the hedge when she felt a hand close around her wrist, swinging her back round so that she was face to face with those fierce black eyes again.
‘You did this,’ he hissed, his touch scorching her.
She shook her head, felt her arm shake. ‘No.’
‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘How else could they know?
We
did not even know till yesterday. You were the only one!’