Love in Vogue (12 page)

Yolande was very worried. ‘So Patrick would lose the role?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Ethan.

‘What’s the film called?’ asked Franco, to break an uncomfortable pause.

‘
Fast and Loose
– a thriller set in the Balkans. It’s a brilliant script. Really intelligent. Great locations too.’

‘Any women?’ said Franco, unimpressed.

‘We’re in talks with Jayne Herford’s agent.’

Jayne Herford was a Hollywood bombshell with a string of successes to her name, but Franco nodded unenthusiastically. Yolande sensed that he didn’t like Bernitz, the film, or the restaurant. He tore his bread in a determined fashion.

She picked at an olive, looking at Bernitz. ‘How much would it cost to buy Belco Pictures?’

‘Probably less than twenty million. But they have quite an impressive back catalogue, even though they are a small company.’

‘Couldn’t you just buy the rights to the script?’ she asked.

Not as dumb as she looked, thought Bernitz. But that would be far too easy, and it wouldn’t require her to liquidate all her assets in Marchand.

‘Not possible. I’ve tried already. They’re hanging on to it to try to make the whole company more saleable.’

‘What would you expect to make on the film?’

‘With worldwide theatre and cable release, DVD, and merchandising – and if we get Jayne Herford – a minimum three to four hundred per cent profit.’

‘And your projected budget?’

‘Thirty million dollars.’

‘What, with Jayne Herford? I would have thought she’d ask for that just for herself.’

Definitely not as dumb as he had been led to believe. ‘She’s very keen to do this script. There’s awards potential. Her last two movies haven’t really done much for her reputation.’

‘You must be a very persuasive man, Mr Bernitz.’

He grinned. ‘Oh, I am.’

 ‘It’s a winner,’ said Ethan. ‘Believe me. The script is superb. Ross Ballard is writing the score. It’s got everything.’

There was no mistaking the look in Bernitz’s eyes now. He was asking her for the money. He knew she was rich and Patrick was her lover – it was logical. Suddenly Yolande didn’t feel hungry. A horrible sense of foreboding overcame her, and she wished she were somewhere else.

‘How long have you got before Belco goes into liquidation?’

Bernitz rested his elbows on the table and slowly pressed the tips of his fingers together, smiling at her like a reassuring dentist. Franco shot him a venomous glance.

‘Pretty soon. The wolves are prowling already.’

‘I see,’ said Yolande, thinking of the dreadful effect on Patrick if the project fell through. ‘How soon is soon?’

‘Three weeks maximum.’

‘Three weeks!’

‘Without a rapid capital injection, it’s a no-win scenario for us.’ Ethan relished the phrase, his eyes fixed imploringly on Yolande’s face.

She was beginning to think he had scripted the whole scene. He and Bernitz seemed to be acting in tandem; slowly letting out the information, testing her reaction, pulling her their way. Millions of dollars? Yes, she had them. Not in hard cash, but she could raise it. Patrick would surely be grateful – very grateful. And she was assured of a handsome profit.

‘Yolande, don’t forget the Hervy cocktail party at three,’ said Franco. ‘You’ll have to change.’

She was jolted back down to earth. Bernitz treated her to another reassuring smile. ‘It’ll work out, I’m sure. Are you in New York long?’

‘We return to Paris this Saturday.’

Ethan looked crestfallen. Did he expect her to stand up there and then and announce how much she could give them?

‘Can I have your phone number, Mr Bernitz?’ she asked, as Franco grew ever more pressing to leave.

‘Patrick’s got it. I’ll be in L.A. And call me Vic.’

‘Can we give you a lift?’ asked Ethan.

Franco looked horrified.

‘I’ve got a car,’ said Yolande.

Bernitz shook her hand, Ethan kissed her cheeks, and the farewells were made.

‘What a convenient cocktail party,’ Yolande said to Franco as they drove off. ‘You have a very fertile imagination.’

‘I had to get out of there. They would have talked all afternoon.’ Franco was preoccupied, and stared ahead moodily. ‘These streets are too long.’

‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked.

‘Can we drive around? I want to talk.’

She headed up Sixth Avenue towards Central Park.

‘Don’t do it, Yolande,’ he said.

‘Do what?’

‘Put money into that film. I’ve never seen such a calculated act. They would have liked a blank cheque on the spot.’

‘I didn’t give them one.’

‘No. But you will.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

He turned towards her, his expression concerned. ‘
Carissima
, listen to me. Don’t think you’ll hold Patrick through underwriting this film. If he wants to go, he’ll go. Spend all your millions, but it won’t make the slightest difference.’

‘So you think he doesn’t love me?’ she asked sharply.

‘He’s just a sex machine. That’s how he caught you in the first place. But has he got a heart?’

She was cross. How dared he analyse her relationship with Patrick? Tell her what to do? Just because he was a good friend it didn’t give him the right to lecture her.

‘Yolande, don’t sulk. It spoils your expression. Can’t you accept friendly advice? I’m only trying to warn you. Go ahead and buy Belco Pictures – but
only
if you’re going to make a good profit. Not for Patrick. He really isn’t worth it.’

‘Thank you, Franco,’ she said icily. ‘I’ll remember that.’

They turned eastwards and drove on in silence. Franco sighed. She was such a baby – a charming, beautiful, spoilt baby. And she was going to let Vic Bernitz pull the silver spoon from her mouth.

‘By the way,
carissima
, I’ve got some news too. I’m leaving Hervy next year. Paul Dupuy has signed Guy Monthély.’

‘Monthély! He’s a total nightmare to work for.’ She grimaced. ‘What will you do?’

‘Do you care?’

Yolande said nothing until they were back in the Upper East Side, then she turned off down a quiet tree-lined side street and parked the car. She faced him, her expression conciliatory.

‘Of course I care. You’ve done so much for Hervy – such a lot for me, too. I’m sorry if I was sharp with you.’

‘I’m launching my own label.’

‘So that’s why that count turned up at the homeless gala. I wondered. What’s his name again?’

‘Stessenberg. It’s not absolutely settled yet, but we have an agreement in principle. He puts up most of the money and finds me a financial director, and I devote my energies to the clients and the designs.’

Yolande suddenly realised it was very bad news. Franco had boosted Hervy’s sales and image enormously – now he would take his expertise elsewhere. Possibly Hervy’s clients too.

‘Does my sister know of Monthély’s appointment?’

‘I suppose so – but she’s never taken much interest in couture. Paul seems to have
carte blanche
.’ Franco pressed her arm. ‘It’s not the end of the world. I ought to branch out now before I get typecast.’

‘Will you stay in Paris?’

‘I might move to Milan, but I’m not sure yet. I’ll really miss you, Yolande.’

He was very close, his huge brown eyes soft and warm under thick black eyebrows. Without another word he leaned over, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her lips. Yolande was too surprised to resist. She stared at him, perplexed.

‘Why?’

‘Because I want you.’ He pulled her into his arms.

‘But aren’t you gay?’

‘Not all the time. I'm bi. How could any man be gay when you’re around?’

He nibbled her earlobe. She was at a complete loss. She had assumed that because he designed clothes he had to be gay – but now she thought about it, she’d never seen anything to indicate that he particularly fancied men. She suddenly felt acutely embarrassed, remembering all the times she had stood semi-naked while his hands roamed over her body with a tape measure.

‘Does
this
feel as though I’m gay?’ He kissed her again, more urgently, and placed her hand over his crotch.

Yolande tried to push him off, but he was pressing her into her seat. ‘Franco … no. I like you … as a friend … but Patrick …’

‘Fuck Patrick!’ He drew back angrily. ‘He’s using you, and you’re too blind to see it!’

‘And what do you think you’re doing now?’

‘Saying goodbye.’

‘You’re not leaving Hervy until next year, and it’s hardly the usual way of saying goodbye.’

‘I might not get another chance,’ he murmured, kissing her again, while he slid his hand beneath her top. ‘Don’t be cruel.’

‘Franco, for God’s sake stop it.’

She wasn’t angry, didn’t try to fight him off. How could she when his lips were making love to hers and he was whispering soft Italian words in her ear? Then came the thumping on the windscreen. He swore, hastily getting back into his seat and tucking in his shirt. Yolande straightened her clothes before winding down the window. A traffic cop peered in with a knowing leer.

‘Move it, miss. You can’t wait here. And make it snappy.’

She smiled disarmingly and turned the key in the ignition. When they had moved off down the street, she burst out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Your face, darling!’

He scowled. ‘Let’s go to my hotel. Please, Yolande. You’ll enjoy it. Satisfaction guaranteed.’

‘No. It would be very wrong.’

‘Good sex is never wrong,
carissima
.’

She laughed. ‘That rather depends on who it’s with. I’m going home.’ She was firm now. ‘Do you want me to drop you off at the Pierre?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Oh do cheer up, Franco. I give you full marks for effort and ingenuity, and credit for all the rest. Still friends?’

He smiled ruefully, and they parted on the best of terms. Not until she was back in her mother’s apartment, relaxing with a remarkably un-neuralgic Patrick, did Yolande begin seriously to think about her conversation with Vic Bernitz. It was worrying. She was a multi-millionaire, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea of how she was going to get hold of her own money.

Chapter Seven

Grace Beidecker emerged from the walk-in closet with an armful of hangers and clothes. ‘Are you leaving these here?’

‘Might as well,’ said Yolande, looking up from her suitcase. ‘I want to ask you something.’

‘Shoot.’ Grace disappeared again.

‘Do you like Patrick?’

There was an ominous silence. At length Grace faced her daughter. ‘Not much.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, you did ask. Is it that important, darling?’ She moved some clothes waiting to be packed and perched on the edge of the bed.

Yolande leaned against the lid of the suitcase, her fingers hitched into the pockets of her jeans. ‘I want you to like him. Because I love him – very much.’

Grace looked sceptical. ‘I seem to have heard all this before.’

‘I know how you feel about Yves, but it was a mistake for us ever to have got engaged. I only thought I was in love, because he’s so nice and I’d known him so long, and everybody thinks he’s charming.’

‘He is. I couldn’t have hoped for a better son-in-law,’ said her mother firmly. ‘Tex thinks so too.’

Yolande sighed. ‘Well I know it was a mistake.’

‘Let’s hope Yves feels the same way. You’ve treated him atrociously. And though it may hurt, Yolande, Patrick just isn’t in the same league.’

‘But he’s such fun, and he’s amazingly talented.’

‘In bed? I’m sure he is. But I don’t trust him.’

Yolande looked sulky, and began to fold a dress.

‘I may be your mother, but I’m not completely over the hill. You’ve just let sex get the better of you.’

‘I haven’t! I do love him!’

‘Look at it sensibly, darling. Does he love you? What exactly has he offered you? A home? Children? A future?’

‘We’ve got ages to think about all that. There’s his career to consider first.’

It was all coming out too pat, and Yolande knew it. Patrick had never offered her anything but half his bed – wherever it happened to be – and she was too proud to admit that her mother was right. She did want commitment, she would love to have children. Instead she was being asked to part with nearly all her fortune to promote his career. But that was something best kept strictly to herself.

‘And another thing,’ said Grace, who was now on a roll. She’d been aching to talk to Yolande about Patrick, but had been afraid to bring the subject up first. ‘Where does he come from? Have you met
his
family?’

Yolande unfolded the dress and carefully laid it out again, her face concealed by her hair. ‘God, you’re such a snob.’

‘You don’t seem to realise that you’re extremely rich and as far as I can see he’s broke.’

‘Well, he’s never asked me for anything, if that’s what you think. Honestly, you make it sound as though I have to pay him to go out with me!’ Yolande was starting to get cross. ‘And Patrick
does
have a family. I met his mother once when she came to visit him. She lives in Provence.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Like most people’s mothers, I suppose. She was an actress years ago.’

‘Like most people’s mothers!’ exclaimed Grace, her dark eyes flashing. ‘How elegantly you put it. Perhaps I should phrase the question differently. Is she like Marie-Christine?’

‘Oh no.’

‘Or me?’

‘No.’

‘Or anyone else’s mother you know?’

Yolande shrugged her shoulders. ‘Mummy, don’t quibble. She was nice. About fifty. Quite chic.’

‘So you don’t care about Patrick’s background, then. You haven’t a clue about his real feelings for you, and I suppose you’ll cling to him until he dumps you. He’s that type.’

‘He isn’t! You haven’t even tried to get to know him!’

She looked as though she was about to cry. Grace stood up and put an arm around her. ‘I’m sorry, darling. Can’t you see it’s because I can’t bear you to get hurt? You’re too trusting. Yves would have taken care of you. He really loves you.’

‘No he doesn’t.’