Christmas at Tiffany's (32 page)

‘Shall we eat in tonight? It is the fish market today. I thought I would get some halibut?’

‘Great,’ Cassie smiled, sitting herself on the saddle and leaning forwards on the handlebars. ‘I’ll go to Poilâne and get us some nice sourdough and black olives to go with it.’ She resisted the urge to punch the air in glee now that carbs were back on the menu, albeit in morsel quantities. ‘See you later.’

She pedalled off, the tips of her bob fanning out like ruffles from underneath her helmet. She swept over the Pont Saint-Louis and towards the Quai de la Corse, where she joined the main body of rush-hour traffic towards the huitième district.

It was the end of January and Paris was still in hibernation. The lime-tree buds were still tightly wrapped, and the Seine was a belligerent beige that refused to glitter or gleam except in the most dazzling of mid-winter sunbursts. But here and there Cassie could see the city was beginning to flirt with the idea of spring: occasional snowdrops clustered around the roots of silver birches, the fountain was free-flowing most mornings, and there was usually dew, not frost, on the windows when she opened the curtains in the morning.

She parked her bike in the usual spot, and with her helmet under one arm and the post curled into her bag – she had recognized the handwriting on the top envelope immediately – she walked quickly to the office.

‘Bonjour, Martine,’ she said to the receptionist as she strode through and pressed the button for the lift. It occurred to her – as it did every morning – to climb the stairs to her office, but the thought was gone as quickly as it came. Kelly might not approve, but then what Kelly didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. She was in Paris mode now.

She was the first in. She had to be. They were busy-busy-busy at the moment, though without the stress and expletives that had accompanied the busy period at Bebe Washington’s. The couture show had happened the week before to rapturous acclaim, and now the atelier was in back-to-back meetings with stellar clients going through their diaries and choosing suits for the carousel of charity lunches, dresses for Club 55, ballgowns . . . Katrina Holland hadn’t shown, but Anouk had told her she’d made a splashy entry to the Valentino show, arriving with no less than three walkers, each holding one of her shih-tzus.

On her desk was a file. Kane Westley, the designer, had been
in situ
and spearheading the label’s renaissance for fifteen years now, and to celebrate they were producing an enormous limited-edition coffee-table book charting the company’s new legacy. The book would only be sent to the top tier of customers, and there was to be a lavish party to celebrate its closed-doors publication in April.

Cassie was charged with doing the picture research from the archives for the book, researching locations for the party, and pulling together the goody bags. For someone who’d been in the city less than a month, it seemed somewhat perverse to be expected to know about party venues for an international crowd that habitually frequented the most exclusive clubs, hotels and penthouses across the globe. On the other hand, given that Florence had been put on the spot to conjure up a job out of thin air, location-hunting meant she was basically being paid to explore the city.

Of course, Suzy had waded straight in when she’d heard the brief.

‘Sweetie, I’ve done more Paris weddings than I can shake a stick at,’ she’d cried down the line. ‘Everyone wants to get married in the Capital of Love. Look, I’ll email you a list of locations, but it’s for your eyes only, okay? You go check them out and see whether they work for you. A lot of them are private, uninhabited premises I’ve got on an exclusive arrangement only thanks to shameless stalking and creeping flattery. Don’t let me down!’

‘This is it,’ Cassie thought, as she grabbed her post from the bag and opened the topmost envelope. The chaotic handwriting gave Suzy away as much as her signature taupe stationery embossed with a pale blue cake. She scanned the contents quickly. There were glossy brochures for two lateral apartments – one of which had roof gardens overlooking the Palais Royal – three townhouses, a château on the southern outskirts on the road to Fontainebleau, and a 220-foot yacht with an exclusive mooring near the foot of the Eiffel Tower. There was bound to be something in that lot that would make even the Dior elite feel excited.

She sent an email to Florence, saying she was scouting locations and would be back before lunch. Folding the list, she put it in her bag, then reached for the other letter – a large brown A4 envelope bound twice over with brown packing tape. As she began to open it, the contents rattled.

Déjà vu? She opened it, and an earthy, musty smell wafted out. Yes, seeds.

The card was written with the same brown ink as before, except that there was no motivational motto this time, just care instructions. ‘Well, what the heck are they, Henry?’ she wondered to herself, pulling out a handful and staring at them. They could be sesame seeds sent over on the Eurostar for a mid-morning snack, for all she knew.

She was baffled. Why did he keep sending her plants to grow in foreign cities? The message behind the grass she kind of got – green grass of home, a patch of countryside in the urban jungle and so on – but what were these? And if he wanted her to have flowers, why didn’t he just call Interflora?

There was a postcard inside. It was divided into quarters and had pictures of a punk, a red double-decker, Nelson’s Column and the King’s Road sign on it. ‘Wish you were here,’ was written in huge red print across the middle.

Smiling, she turned it over. It was a list. Another one.

Some of it made sense on first reading. She’d already been to Point Zero. In fact, she passed it several times a day. It wasn’t an historical landmark, as it was in New York, but a geographical one: a bronze plaque on the ground in front of Notre Dame Cathedral and the point from which all distances from Paris were measured. Strike one, then.

And sure, The Kiss – even she knew she had to see that. But ringing some random stranger and not even knowing
why
? Don’t say Henry was trying to set her up too. If Anouk mentioned drinks with Pierre and Guillaume one more time, she thought she might scream. And what was the Dîner en Blanc? Where were the catacombs – was he expecting her to go potholing in Paris? And as for acquiring a Ladurée habit? What did that mean – take orders and live a life of celibacy? Could she buy one on eBay?

She shook her head and folded the list back into the bag of seeds, rolling the package down so that it lay flat at the bottom of her bag. There was no time to decipher Henry’s codes now. She needed to hit the streets. That party wasn’t going to throw itself.

‘I can’t believe you’ve done that to her!’ Kelly shouted crossly.

‘I had to. The condition was terrible,’ Anouk shot back. ‘It would have all broken off anyway in another few months. You cannot keep bleaching hair like that and expect—’

‘I expected a little support. I was the one to put her back together again, you know. Do you think it was easy? I was the one who sat with her while she cried and got drunk every night for two months . . .’

Cassie looked up. That wasn’t how she remembered it. Hadn’t Kelly dragged
her
out – kicking and screaming most nights – and made her drink sugary cocktails till her head spun?

‘Well, she’s not that together. She’s still hung up on Luke and she looks completely miserable when she thinks I’m not looking.’ She looked at Cassie. ‘You do.’

‘At least I made her look like a better version of
her
. You’ve just made her look like you!’

‘And what’s so wrong with that?’

‘Stop it! Both of you,’ Cassie said, exasperated. She got up and started to pace about, a large glass of burgundy in her hand.

‘I can’t see you when you go over there,’ Kelly said.

‘Well, that’s probably a good thing,’ Cassie replied. ‘It’ll stop you both shouting for a minute.’

Kelly and Anouk stared at her. She sighed wearily – and not just because she must have walked over ten miles location-hunting today. She was amazed at how little had changed since school. Those two could be separated by an ocean and still manage to have a shouting match. They were too similar, that was the problem.

‘Look, Kell. Anouk wasn’t trying to undo everything you’ve done for me,’ she said quietly, trying to referee.

‘No? She’s started from scratch. Made you into a completely different person.’

‘I was giving her options,’ Anouk interjected. ‘Things are different here.’

‘Different how?’

There was a pause. ‘Gentler.’

‘Gentler! What does that mean?’ Kelly gasped dramatically. ‘Are you saying I made her look
brassy
? You think New York girls are
brassy
?’

‘Enough!’ Cassie cried again, this time coming to stand between them so that she was the only one they could see. ‘Look, Kell – what Anouk has done is
not
a rebuttal of everything you did. I like my hair like this, but who’s to say I’ll keep it like this? It’s just an experiment, that’s the point of this year, isn’t it? And I still wear my favourite black Bebe trousers and absolutely nothing will stop me carrying my Maddy bag, even though they wanted to give me a Dior one. And – dare I say it – I’m even beginning to miss my runs in the park,
a bit
.’

She crouched nearer to the screen. ‘I miss you. And I loved being in New York, I really did. It brought me back to life with its energy and ambition and . . . and can-do attitude. I mean, look at me – I’m working at Dior, the centre of the fashion universe! I couldn’t have done that fresh from the grouse moors, now, could I?’

Kelly gave a small, appeased laugh. ‘You have come a long way, baby,’ she drawled.

‘Thanks to you,’ she said. She turned and grabbed Anouk off the arm of the chair and gathered her into her side. ‘Thanks to
all
of you. You’re all keeping me going and showing me new directions, and, yes, showing me different versions of me. I don’t know which one’s right yet, but we’re ticking off the options, right? And you know what, Nooks? You’re absolutely right about Luke. I am being a misery. He’s behaving like a child, and frankly I could do without it right now. If it’s got to be all or nothing, then . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘I guess it’s nothing.’

She took a big glug of burgundy and smacked her lips together. She looked at the glass lovingly. ‘Besides, I’ve decided I’m going to embark on a deep love affair with French cuisine and wine instead. It’s much safer.’

‘Not for your thighs!’ Kelly shrieked. ‘Nooks, tell her!’

Anouk chuckled before looking slyly at Kelly, allies again. ‘What did I tell you? Poor Guillaume isn’t getting a look-in.’

‘Oh, I hardly think Guillaume is crying himself to sleep each night,’ Cassie quipped.

‘He’s asked after you every time I’ve seen him.’

‘I’m sure he has,’ Cassie said, winking at Kelly. ‘I have a pulse.’

‘Tch, you may know about French beauty and style,
chérie
, but you still know
nothing
about French men,’ said Anouk.

‘Well, you can take it off the syllabus,’ Cassie said, patting her arm. ‘The only man I want to know about is Brett and how he’s gonna survive the wedding preparations.’ She looked back at the screen. ‘Has the haunted look come into his eyes yet?’

‘Cunning diversion!’ Kelly said, flicking her Vuitton leopard-print scarf at the screen. ‘And no, not even close. He’s loving it.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I think he made the wrong decision going into banking, you know.’

‘Wow, he’s a keeper, Kell! Gil had to read the date on our invitations just to know what day to turn up on.’

‘Yeah, well, it might have been better if he hadn’t bothered,’ Kelly said grimly.

‘So it’s all nearly sorted then?’ Anouk asked quickly, bringing the subject back round again.

‘Well, it
was
. But then Suzy’s news has thrown a spanner in the works. She’s not going to be able to fly after May, so we looked at bringing the date forward from June to end of May, but then we couldn’t get the venue we wanted . . . Then when I mentioned pushing the date
back
to sometime in July, after the baby’s born, she threw a total wobbler about wearing a bridesmaid’s dress so soon after the birth. She said she’d look like she’d eaten the vicar if she stood at the altar next to you two.’

Anouk giggled.

‘So what’s the answer?’

Kelly shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve decided that if Muhammad won’t come to the mountain . . .’

A moment passed.

‘No!’ Cassie gasped. ‘You’re not having it in London?’