Christmas in the Snow (39 page)

Isobel just shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. I want details.
Now
.’

‘There is nothing to tell. You already know it’s because of him that my entire life has fallen apart. He was the one who cornered Pierre into forcing me to quit my job.’

‘Pierre got cornered?’ Isobel laughed. ‘Since when has Pierre Lafauvre ever been cornered, except by a posse of supermodels in a hot tub?’

‘Not funny,’ Allegra replied tetchily.

They were quiet for a moment, Isobel scrutinizing her sister through the steam. ‘Oh no,’ she murmured. ‘Oh no, no, no, no, no.’

‘What?’

‘You’re in love with Pierre.’

‘
What?
’ Allegra screeched. ‘Don’t be so idiotic! Really, Iz, even for you that is—’

‘You are. I can totally see it all over your face.’

‘You can’t see my face in here.’

‘You think he’s going to see sense and divorce his teenage wife and start a life with you, conquering the financial markets
on
your iPads,
in
his bed,
on
his yacht,
in
the middle of the Indian fucking Ocean.’

Allegra swallowed. ‘I do not think that. I do not want that.’

Isobel’s face fell and sympathy bled like a stain across her soft features. ‘Oh, Legs. It makes perfect sense. Why did you never say anything?’

Allegra’s only reply was to swivel on the bench, resting her back against the wet wall and hugging her knees in to her chest. Her voice had gone on walkabout, and the steam suddenly seemed
too thin. She picked up the remote and increased the temperature by another degree.

‘Can’t you see it’s never going to happen? You worked with the guy for six years. You were his star – it’s not like he didn’t notice you. If it was going to
happen, it would have happened by now.’

Allegra stared harder at her knees. She remembered Bob’s phone call earlier and what that meant: Pierre knew she was here. This was his chance to get her back. On side.

A sudden thought occurred to her and her head snapped up. What if that was
why
Bob had rung! Pierre had wanted to know for certain and he probably didn’t think she’d return
his calls right now, not after text-gate; but he’d have known she would pick up a call from her old deputy. What if . . . ? Oh God, what if he’d wanted to double-check she was here
before coming to the party himself? It would be the perfect opportunity for them to talk face to face, in a neutral environment . . .

She rallied, looking back at Isobel with bright eyes. ‘You’re wrong, Iz. I’ve never had any romantic thoughts about Pierre.’

‘Am I? So then tell me why you’re the only one who can’t see what
everyone else
can see every time Old Blue Eyes out there looks at you?’

Allegra looked at her sister incredulously. ‘Honestly, there are times I think you’re on drugs! I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Legs, the poor guy looks like he doesn’t know whether to throw you over his knee and spank you or throw you over the back of the sofa and—’

‘Iz! Enough! You don’t know the whole story, OK? Really you don’t. There is nothing between me and Kemp besides utter antipathy. I hate him. More than I’ve ever hated
anyone in my life.’

‘Really?
Anyone?
’

Allegra looked away. They both knew to whom she was referring.

Isobel blinked. ‘So then what are you doing staying under the same roof as him?’

‘Well, what do you think, dummy?’ Allegra motioned to Isobel’s strapped leg.

‘Oh no.’ Isobel shook her head, rebutting the point. ‘You know you could have got us back to the apartment if you’d really wanted to. No one stands in
your
way.’

Allegra inhaled. ‘Fine. It also turned out things aren’t quite as finalized on the business side of things as I’d thought.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I’m still in the running for the deal.’

‘
Against
Sam?’

Allegra nodded.

‘Does he know?’

Allegra shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’

Isobel let out a low whistle, watching her sister for a long moment. ‘Yeah, well . . . you’re probably right anyway,’ she said finally. ‘I mean, regardless of the vibes,
the two of you together had disaster written all over it.’

There was a short silence. ‘Disaster how?’

‘Well, as much as he’s really good-looking . . .’

‘Yes,’ Allegra prompted after a moment.

‘I mean really,
really
good-looking . . .’

‘Yes!’ Allegra huffed impatiently. ‘Got that.’

‘He’s not right for you. He’s too easy-going.’

‘Ha! You haven’t seen him in meetings. He’s as cold-blooded as a shark then.’ Allegra remembered his chilly demeanour that morning in Pierre’s office when
they’d both faced the sack, his stony expression opposite at the dinner table as Zhou began to talk to her. ‘What else?’

‘Well, he’s really funny. Have you seen his Ed Milliband impression?’

Allegra shook her head irritably. When had Isobel seen his Ed Milliband impression?

‘And you hate laughing. You don’t even like smiling.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Plus he’s clearly ambitious and successful.’

‘Why’s that a disaster?’

‘Because you are too! You’d constantly be butting heads. You do not need another winner in your life, Legs. Trust me, you’d be miserable, constantly trying to come out on top.
No, what you need is a dismal failure. A loser.’

Allegra groaned, dropping her head back against the wall. She had walked right into that one. ‘You are a nightmare!’

Isobel laughed out loud. ‘I’m right. You’ll see.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Nice. Classy. Hey – where are you going?’

‘To get away from you and your ridiculous conspiracy theories. I need to do a bit of work before the party.’ Mr and Mrs Yong would be arriving imminently. Zhou had said yesterday
they’d be at the party and she knew she had to give him her new proposal tonight, before he made his announcement tomorrow.

‘I can’t believe I’m going to miss the swankiest party of my life by six sodding feet,’ Isobel moaned.

Allegra frowned. ‘Why are you going to miss it?’

‘Well, I can hardly go to a party with this thing on, can I?’ Isobel pointed to the black knee brace.

‘Of course you can! Just make like Cleopatra and lounge on the sofa. You know everyone will end up coming to you.’

‘No they won’t. What would I have to say that’s interesting to a load of billionaires?’

‘Just stop that.’

‘Besides, I’ve not got anything to wear and—’

‘Check out your wardrobe, Iz. You may find there’s a surprise in there for you.’

Isobel’s eyes widened as she propped herself up on her elbows. ‘Is there? What is it? Tell me!’

‘No. Go and see for yourself,’ Allegra said with a wink, much preferring to play the role of Fairy Godmother to that of Cinderella.

She sat alone in her room, Bob’s report spread around her on the bed as she stared, unseeing, at the wall, Isobel’s words spinning like a top in her mind. It
wasn’t true what she’d said about Pierre, or about Sam. All they shared, the three of them, were ambition and a knack for making money.

She looked down at the papers again, determined not to be swayed from her planned course. What the hell did Isobel know anyway? Allegra operated in an entirely different universe, one her sister
had only gleaned in films. How could Isobel possibly understand that a bumper year-end reporting was the nearest thing to a happy ending in her world?

With renewed focus, she read the charts one more time. Kemp had headed the New York office’s commodities desk, and from going over, one by one, the trades that he had made on the
Besakovitch fund for the past two years, she had found a clear bias to trading in stocks with an ethical manifesto, like fair-trade coffee producers in Nicaragua and organic green bean growers in
Kenya. None of the traditional ‘sin’ stocks – cigarettes, alcohol, betting or casino companies – which usually offered higher returns, had featured in the portfolio, and yet
Kemp had still managed to yield a 13 per cent profit for Besakovitch.

In addition, he had set up a secondary pot from which anonymous donations were made to a host of eminent charities: $500,000 here, $750,000 there to Médecins Sans Frontières, Kids
Fighting Cancer, PeaceSyria, Water for Children Africa . . . But it wasn’t an entirely selfless initiative; rather, it was a complicated tax-relief scheme that meant Leo got to make yet more
money by giving some away.

She ran her eye over the main investments again. Everything seemed . . . normal. Besakovitch got the philanthropic feel-good factor of both an ethical trading policy and charitable giving,
topped off with better-than-average returns. So
why
was he leaving? There had to be a reason he was sundering a ten-year partnership that had delivered on every count. And that reason had
to be somewhere in this report.

Upstairs, she could hear the music start pumping as the DJ ran through his final checks on the PA system and she knew she had to start getting dressed. She didn’t put it past Massi to come
down here and carry her through in a fireman’s lift in her underwear if she was late.

She stood in front of her wardrobe and sighed at the scant selection. With the gold dress already approved by Isobel – she had heard the scream of delight across the hallway – pretty
much all she had to choose from was her skinny black ski pants, skinny black jeans and a pair of skinny black trousers. Tops-wise, she had some thermal underwear, a Napapijri Nordic jumper, a red
six-ply cashmere polo neck and a black T-shirt. ‘Oh, Cinzia,’ she murmured, pulling out the skinny jeans and T-shirt. ‘It’s as well you can’t see this.’

She quickly did her make-up – applying a smokier eye than usual to compensate for her minimal outfit – and changed into the all-black ensemble that had no decoration other than the
tight, lean lines of her figure. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she felt it was too plain. She tousled her hair with her fingers and applied a quick dab of berry stain to her lips, but it
still wasn’t quite enough and she wished she’d brought some jewellery out with her. Usually she travelled with a selection of pieces for different moods, but she’d deliberately
left everything at home this time. There was something very ageing, she thought, about skiing in diamonds.

What she needed was something . . . funky, something to get a rock-chick vibe going. She wondered whether Isobel had brought any of those woven leather bracelets with her.

Leather . . . The red leather strap of the cowbell.

No, she dismissed the idea as instantly as it came. It was too unusual, it would attract too much attention, and it didn’t feel appropriate to wear something so significant to a party as a
mere fashion piece.

Then she remembered the rings.

She found the small cardboard box and pulled them out. The engagement ring, with its three diamonds, was too sentimental to wear to a party. It, too, carried a story that deserved more respect
than to be reduced to a mere fashion accessory.

The other one, though . . . The metal was so dull and blackened it was somehow cool, and it had no intrinsic value or symbolism attached to it that she could see.

She gave a shrug and slipped it on her finger. It was better than nothing.

Of course, she saw him first, the last one she wanted to see. Even in a crowded room, he stood apart. On a plane, in a boardroom, in a club, at a party, her eyes found him every time. He was
talking to a woman who had her back turned to the rest of the room, her brown hair swinging as she talked, one manicured hand gesticulating elegantly. She was wearing a teal dress that had a
daringly low scooped back and Allegra wondered whether Sam had been treated to a tantalizing glimpse of it yet.

He was wearing a black velvet jacket, white shirt and narrow black trousers, but he hadn’t shaved, the stubble glinting like metal filings under the lights and lending a rougher element to
his look.

She looked in vain, instead, for Pierre’s distinctive salt-and-pepper hair, barely noticing how enchanting the room looked. Heady sprays of white dendrobium orchids almost as tall as the
men were grouped in huge crystal vases, and the lights had been dimmed to their lowest setting, candles a flickering accent on every surface, so that the opulent Christmas tree and Zermatt itself
took centre stage in the snowy room.

The guests themselves were no less showy, in sequins and feathers, velvets and silks, the women’s skin tanned and gleaming, their hair as shiny as jewels, high heels tip-tapping daintily
across the wooden floors as they began to drift into the panoramic glassy corner of the room that had been set up as a dance area. Anyone in the town who happened to look up would be treated to a
display of how the super-rich played: flowers, lights and ultra-short dresses.

Allegra felt a stab of doubt as she looked down at her own outfit. Should she have worn the dress herself, after all?

A crescendo of laughter rang out, a top note to the vodka-based buzz of conversation, and she saw Massi and Isobel already in full flow, entertaining a group by the vast window. Isobel really
did look like a goddess in the dress, propped as she was on a tall bar stool, with her leg outstretched on the other, Massi standing by her protectively and looking like one of the town’s
giant St Bernards. He was wearing a black suit and pale pink shirt, no socks, his hair as wild and unruly as his clothes were tailored, perfect teeth flashing with every smile, every joke. Women
couldn’t take their eyes off him, she noticed, and they kept touching him like he was some sort of interactive art exhibit. She thought of cupcakes again and smiled. He was such a delicious
juxtaposition: lover looks, adrenalin junkie, heart of a poet.

Allegra wanted to go over to them both; they were already fast becoming the heart of the party. For all her self-doubt, Isobel was regaling people easily – no doubt with horror stories
about weaning Ferds – and the two of them made such easy company, such a good-looking couple. Were they aware of the attraction between them? They looked right together too: Isobel’s
bright hair and lightly freckled slender limbs against Massi’s swarthy Mediterranean bulk. If only Iz hadn’t settled for the first guy who’d asked for her hand.