Christmas at Tiffany's (48 page)

Anouk patted her hand. ‘You can’t think like that. Claude made his decision for his own reasons. I don’t think there’s anything you could have done, even if you’d known. I honestly believe this would always have happened, regardless of whether you were in Venice with Henry or standing with Claude in the kitchen . . .’

‘Well, I’ve still had enough. Henry can take his bloody list and take a running jump as far as I’m concerned. I’m not having anything more to do with any of it.’

Anouk paused for a moment. ‘Well, that’s a shame.’

Cassie looked at her. Her voice was odd. ‘What do you mean?’

Anouk stood up and walked over to the table in the hall. A small pile of unopened cards – from Bas, Kelly, Suzy and others – was stacked up on it. Cassie was resolutely refusing to accept any sympathy or kind words from friends. She was determined to punish herself.

Anouk picked up a thick white envelope.

‘This arrived for you the other day.’

Cassie took it. It had been opened.

‘I accidentally opened it without looking. I’m sorry.’

Cassie pulled out the stiffy inside. It was a startling white, with a smart cream script across it. In the top left corner, someone had written her name.

She looked up at Anouk in amazement. ‘When did this come?’

Anouk shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Yesterday? The day before? Why?’

‘Because that’s Claude’s writing,’ she said, pointing to her name. ‘But he died last week. Are you sure it didn’t arrive sooner?’

‘No. Definitely not.’

‘So then
who
sent this to me? And why?’

Cassie got to the bus stop ten minutes early. She’d had to factor in extra time getting there as the list of extras she was required to bring – tablecloth, tealights, glasses, a bottle or two of wine and a small hamper – made it difficult to walk.

She put her bags down with a clatter, feeling both conspicuous and ridiculous amongst the home-bound commuters in her all-white outfit – after all, it was only the end of April and still far too early to be wandering around the city in summer clothes. She had settled upon a white trouser-suit in the end, worn with a pale pink silk shirt of Anouk’s and a wide-brimmed floppy white hat, and now she leant against a wall, keeping her head down as bus after bus arrived, disgorged and swallowed up passengers, and drove off again.

After ten minutes exactly, a string of buses pulled up in front of her and, as she looked up, gathering her bags protectively as passengers got off, she noticed that everyone on board looked just like her. In fact, the bus almost seemed to shimmer from the inside out, like a glow-worm in the dusk.

‘Come in, come in,’ they cried, recognizing her as one of their own. She had her invitation in her bag, but clearly no invitations were necessary. The distinctive dress code and being in the right place at the right time were all that was needed to show that you were on the guest list.

Cassie climbed on, stepping cautiously around hampers and crates and cardboard boxes, instantly enveloped by the party atmosphere on the bus. The doors closed behind her and they pulled off along the rue de Rivoli. There were no seats left, but Cassie preferred to stand anyway, looking at the different interpretations of the dress code. Some people had come as pierrots with whited-out faces, others in their wedding dresses, a few had copied the trouser-suit Bianca Jagger had worn to marry Mick; someone had even come swaddled in bandages as a mummy. Her chic suit felt dull and uninspired by comparison.

The buses swayed around corners and ornate landmarks picking up more and more guests – Cassie glimpsed at least five other buses in their convoy – eventually coming to a stop outside the Opéra. The doors folded back on themselves and everyone rushed out like spilled buttons, seemingly with their own sets of orders about what to do next, be it carrying and opening picnic tables, shaking open tablecloths and napkins, setting up candelabras and tealights or opening bottles of Sancerre and unpacking smoked salmon parcels. Cassie watched in amazement as every single bus disgorged its all-white load all the way down the boulevard des Capucines, so that within minutes the length of the pavement on one side of the road was cloaked in white, like a freak snowstorm.

She stood motionless, her bags hanging limply from her hands, not quite sure where to go. Everybody seemed to know somebody else, and although they were a friendly crowd, she felt distinctly alone. She asked herself for the hundredth time why she’d agreed to go. It was madness. Inappropriate.

‘Your first time?’ a woman behind her asked.

Cassie turned. A thin, ultra-blonde woman was giving her a half-smile. Cassie recognized her immediately, although of all the people she would have thought
wouldn’t
be here, it was surely her.

‘Mrs Holland?’

‘Katrina, please.’ The woman narrowed her eyes in concentration. ‘Cassie, yes? From Dior?’

‘Yes.’ Cassie was amazed that Katrina should remember her name. Their meeting in Anouk’s studio – brief and uneventful – had been three months ago now. At least Cassie had the advantage of society pages and Bas’s outrageous gossip to prompt her memory.

‘You seem surprised.’

Cassie shook her head, trying to recover her manners. ‘Well, I’m surprised
I’m
here, to be honest. I have no idea how I came to be invited.’

‘No one ever does,’ she smiled. She was almost albino-pale, her hair Bas’s special camomile tint and not much darker than her ivory crêpe-de-chine jumpsuit, which did an impressive job of showing off her international-standard thinness. ‘Are you here with anyone?’

Cassie shook her head. ‘No, I uh . . . wasn’t sure of the form.’

‘Well, would you care to join me? I’m alone too.’ She indicated a small table next to her. There was no handsome walker or miniature dog in attendance, but an all-white butler had smoothed a fine linen tablecloth over the table, and was laying white-gold cutlery settings with a porcelain dinner service.

Cassie nodded, relieved. ‘I’d love to,’ she smiled. ‘If you’re sure I’m not imposing . . .’

‘Of course not. Come, let us have some Salon. It’s a blanc de blancs, the whitest champagne I could think of.’ She smiled, pouring them each a glass. ‘It’s rarer than hen’s teeth, with only two vintages since the Millennium.’

Cassie watched as the butler started unpacking an enormous Fortnum’s hamper that two men had carried over from a limo parked by the kerb. Queen scallops, moules marinières, oysters, foie gras and sole meunières were decanted on to warmed plates in front of them. Cassie discreetly kicked her hamper under the table, too embarrassed to hand it over to the butler. The cheese baguettes inside were wholly inadequate in the face of this blanched feast, and she didn’t want to get into a discussion about why she’d lost her enthusiasm for cooking recently or how her appetite had diminished to the point that she could barely finish a slice of toast.

But as they sat down and Katrina busied herself with eating only the oysters from a solid silver oyster-shaped holder, Cassie realized no such discussion would be necessary – a top-tier socialite was her ideal dining companion whilst she was deep in the depths of grief. She managed a few of the scallops and some salad, as Katrina shared her deep fondness for Bas and her belief in his absolute
genius
with a hairdryer.

Time passed and the noise levels ratcheted up quickly, not just because of the jubilation of the guests as they tucked into their picnics, or the passers-by stopping to cheer and take photos, or the waiters from the ‘hijacked’ cafés coming out to clap and smile, or the cars honking their horns at the spectacle, but also because a flat-bed truck was driving by very, very slowly with a live jazz band sitting on the back of it.

A few people got up to dance, igniting a round of applause and cheering that left Cassie feeling more and more uneasy. Since the funeral a fortnight earlier, she had closeted herself away, going out only to work or to take walks along the Seine so early in the morning that the only other people about were the tramps huddled beneath the bridges. And now here she was in the middle of music and feasting and champagne and laughter and dancing and the bright glare of an all-white guest list.

She closed her eyes for a moment. She shouldn’t be here. It was too much, too vibrant, too alive. It was wrong to be here, at a party, when her poor dear tortured friend was so recently dead.

She opened her mouth to make her apologies to Katrina – she’d been a consummate hostess and Cassie knew that what she was about to do – abandon her halfway through the dinner – was unforgivable – when there was a sudden noise further along the pavement, the distinct whine of a microphone surging up.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ a man said, speaking as loudly as he could, for there was a fair distance to cover. He was wearing a white suit and fedora, and sunglasses obscured his face so that he remained anonymous. ‘Thank you for coming to the Dîner en Blanc tonight. For those of you who have been before, you know that the Dîner is only made possible by your discretion,
joie de vivre
and great taste.’

Everyone laughed except Cassie. She stared instead at the tablecloth, dismay and guilt written all over her.

‘Tonight, of course, is about celebrating the very essence of Paris – good food, good wine and good company – and we hope that by the time you leave here, you will have eaten well, drunk well and made new friends.’

A cheer rose up from the crowd – and not just from the ones seated in white. The spectators watching from the pavements were several deep now.

‘But just before we go any further, I would like to take a minute of your time. As you know, we prefer to keep our identities secret, but a recent sudden event means that we have decided to break with that tradition, to honour the memory of one of our founding members – Claude Bouchard . . .’

Cassie’s head snapped up. What?

She looked at Katrina, almost as though she expected this to be less of a surprise to her, but Katrina looked as distracted as Cassie felt. She had pushed her chair back slightly and was dabbing her neck with a moistened napkin. Cassie noticed her hands were shaking.

‘Although you may never have heard it linked with this organization, many of you will already know his name. Claude was a pioneering spirit in the restaurant world, one of the greatest chefs in all Paris. He made food that could bring tears to your eyes and heaven to your mouth. He believed that beautiful cuisine was an assault on the senses that no other art form could match. Some of you may have heard that—’

A sudden wail charged up the street, accompanied by whirling blue lights. The man shrugged nonchalantly and patted the air calmly to keep everyone in their seats.

‘Just the annual police drive-by letting us know that they know we’re here,’ he said, toasting them with his glass. A wave of laughter swept down the crowd as the police cars rolled slowly past and everyone raised their glasses in a toast.

‘Uh, where was I? Oh yes . . . Well, some of you may have heard that shortly before his death, Claude was developing a new business venture. Indeed, his business partner is present here today . . .’ A murmur went through the crowd at the suggestion, everyone searching vainly for the anonymous businessman ‘. . . and I have their assurance that C.A.C., the new restaurant, is still going to open as planned next month in the cinquième. Claude had drawn up the menus, hired all the staff and developed every minute aesthetic detail with the architects, so that C.A.C. – even though it will open posthumously – is truly his flagship, the standard bearer of his vision, and it will be his lasting legacy. He will never be forgotten.’

A cheer went up through the crowd, and the speaker took a sip of his drink, but Cassie sat as still as a stone. Was this why she was here?

‘I have no doubt C.A.C. will open to accolades and acclaim, and will win the coveted honours that always graced Claude’s enterprises, but you know that Claude himself did not care for the glory of a Michelin star. He simply wanted great cooking and exciting new flavours to be available to everyone. In recent years he had stepped back from the professional kitchens to teach a few willing students his trade secrets. It is why he set up this underground picnicking society years ago, so that people from every walk of life would be brought together by food and its close companions, wine and conversation!’

Another cheer rippled through the diners.

‘To those who knew him in recent years, he was a soul in anguish, but let us remember him for the zest and passion with which he pursued his art – for he always believed, even in the darkest days, that a love for food is a love for life. And so, before we continue our celebrations tonight, I would ask you all to take a minute’s silence as tribute to our dear and great friend, Claude Bouchard.’

The man bowed his head and an extraordinary hush fell upon the crowd. Even the cars stopped hooting their horns as the drivers realized that the guests were all sitting as still and as silent as statues. Cassie looked round in awe. She had thought she’d been alone here tonight, the only person present mourning a dear friend, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. In amongst the strangers everywhere were people who had known him longer, better, loved him harder; people who hadn’t let him down the way she had.

This wasn’t a party; it was a memorial. She looked up gratefully at the silent crowd, wondering who around her had known him. She looked at Katrina, alarm gripping her as she saw the beads of sweat rolling down her brow.