Love in Vogue (2 page)

Miles lost his air of amused superiority during the second sentence. He even forgot how sexy Corinne’s voice sounded as coolly and swiftly she shredded all his preconceptions with her expert financial summary. He’d throttle James Chetwode when he got back to the office for giving him such inaccurate background information for this meeting. This was no brainless bimbo living at Papa’s expense in a job where she couldn’t do any damage, but a highly competent, intelligent professional who knew her company and her audience inside out and was about to subject him to ritual humiliation. He could see it as she turned those megawatt eyes on him with a charming but deadly smile and flipped over another page.

‘Monsieur Corsley, I’d like to draw your attention to page six, where you will see that although Marchand’s gearing is still substantial, we made two additional debt repayments during the last quarter and are well on target to meet our obligations for the rest of the year. I have outlined plans for further cost reductions across the group, which when combined with our increasing turnover and profits, should comfort the bank that despite a change at the top, Marchand will remain a well-managed and profitable business for decades to come.’ He felt the chill sweep across him as she switched back to ice queen mode. ‘If you have any questions, I’m sure Georges will be happy to discuss them with you offline. I’ll get this report emailed to you this afternoon.’

And that was it. The regal dismissal. She didn’t give him a second glance as he gathered up his papers. He strode out of the room, fuming.

‘Well, that busted his ego,’ said Yolande, earning a reproving glance from her sister. She was quite unused to meeting protocol.

‘Was it altogether wise?’ Yves wondered aloud.

‘He had no right to be here,’ Corinne shot back. ‘Who invited him?’

Georges cleared his throat. ‘Your father, my dear.’

She paled and felt a little sick.

‘He’s new to Corsley’s Paris office and is taking over the Marchand account, and Jean-Claude thought it would help him to get his bearings if he sat in on one of our board meetings.’

‘Oh joy.’

‘Your father was also going to invite him to tour some of our operations, but I’m not sure how far he got with that.’

‘All set up,
monsieur
,’ said Sylvie. Then she looked at Corinne. ‘I’ve already put them in your diary.’

By the time Corinne was ensconced in an armchair opposite her sister in their late father’s office she was the new head of a global luxury goods company with, as Georges kindly informed her, a great deal to do to persuade the markets that Marchand’s board had made the right choice. The first thing she did was to take the clips out of her hair and let it fall free, then slip off her detested high heels with a sigh of relief and curl her legs up beneath her.

 ‘I told you they’d vote for you,’ said Yolande.

‘Considering that in the end I was the only candidate, it was hardly a triumph. But thanks for your support, darling. I really appreciate it.’

‘You’ll be brilliant.’

Yolande wasn’t gushing. She was absolutely convinced her clever older sister could handle anything. Corinne had waltzed through her degree at Oxford with a First, and had improved results at every department of Marchand she had ever worked in, from the shop floor up. Yolande herself had undertaken a few fairly calamitous placements with the firm in her summer vacations during a protracted spell of higher education on both sides of the Atlantic, before kicking off her modelling career at Hervy at the grand old age of twenty. She’d had countless agents trying to sign her for years, but hadn’t taken the idea seriously until it became clear she would never graduate. Her father had indulged her, always hoped that one day she would wake up and become more like Corinne. And when that failed to happen, he had pinned all his hopes on her engagement to Yves – one of those on-off affairs that kept the paparazzi happy, if no one else.

It would be the wedding of the season if it ever took place. The Rochemorts had a large Burgundy estate neighbouring the Marchands’ vineyards, and the two combined could dominate the market for
grand cru
red burgundies. Other business alliances could also be strengthened. Yves was both a major shareholder and director of Marchand Enterprises, and his father and Jean-Claude had been close friends and business partners. He was the perfect choice. Too perfect. Perhaps that was why Yolande seemed to be doing her best to scupper the match. Rows and reconciliations had followed a predictable pattern over the past few months. Corinne looked at her and let out a deep sigh. How was she supposed to cope with her adorable, irrepressible little sister now their father was gone? She needed someone she could rely on, and all she had was a headstrong girl she’d fished out of trouble more times than she could remember. Without his encouragement and support, a Rochemort-Marchand marriage now appeared to be doomed. It shouldn’t have been Yves and Yolande, anyway. It should have been her and Philippe. She forced her mind back into focus. It was never a good idea to start thinking about Philippe.

Sylvie provided a welcome interruption when she tripped in with a tray and cups. ‘I thought you might like some coffee,
madame la
présidente.
’

Corinne almost choked. ‘I hope you’re not going to make a habit of calling me that.’

A discreet and very polished senior PA, Sylvie had worked for Jean-Claude for over two decades and had known Corinne as a girl, but she was a stickler for etiquette. She looked a little pained. ‘But …’

‘Corinne is fine.’

‘But …’

‘Please.’ The tone was final. ‘And you shouldn’t be bringing us coffee – I usually get my own. But thanks very much. It’s been a long day.’

‘It’s so kind of you, Sylvie,’ added Yolande, gratefully taking a cup and dropping in more sugar lumps than any girl her size had a right to eat.

Sylvie melted as two smiles exactly like the late Jean-Claude’s beamed up at her. ‘It’s no trouble. Can I do anything else for you?’

‘You could tell me why Papa arranged all these visits for Monsieur Corsley,’ said Corinne. ‘I don’t remember him ever paying such attention to our bankers before.’

‘He genuinely liked him, I think. You know how he used to take a fancy to certain people. But he always had his reasons for a charm offensive.’

‘Exactly. If we were in a tight spot with them I could understand, but actually we’re not. Did he mention anything else to you?’

‘Not really. But he seemed to want you to handle most of the visits.’

Sylvie left the room and Corinne frowned. Now she would have to be nice to the sexist pig. What on earth her father had seen in him she couldn’t fathom. She looked up and caught a glint of amusement in Yolande’s eyes.

‘What?’ she demanded in English, just in case they could be overheard.

‘Maybe Papa was trying his hand at matchmaking.’

Corinne spluttered on her coffee.

‘Think about it.’

She did. And was horrified to conclude that Yolande was probably right. Miles Corsley was exactly the kind of man her father would have considered an appropriate suitor; a dead boring banker with a superiority complex. Despite his own tangled private life, Jean-Claude had always held peculiarly antiquated views on relationships when it came to his daughters.

‘What a bloody cheek! He should never have accepted the meeting.’

‘I don’t suppose he has any more idea that was what Papa had in mind than you did.’

‘I’ll make damn sure he never does.’

‘But he’s seriously cute, even if he is a bit stuffy. And he’s definitely got the hots for you.’

‘Oh really?’ Corinne wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated or amused. Yolande’s requirements of men were seldom the same as hers, but her radar for the basics was usually infallible. ‘Wouldn’t he be more up your street?’

‘Absolutely not. He’s far too old.’

Corinne decided to be amused. Anyone over thirty was ancient as far as her sister was concerned, and she doubted that Miles Corsley was more than thirty-five. She chuckled.

‘Anyway, he doesn’t want me,’ continued Yolande. ‘But he certainly noticed you, although that put down you gave him probably pissed him off a bit. He was simply drooling over you when you walked in.’

‘Look who’s matchmaking now.’

‘Oh I’m not suggesting you go that far! Just have a bit of fun. I bet he’s good in bed.’

‘Yolande!’

‘Oh, like you didn’t notice.’

‘You really are insufferable.’

‘That means I’m right.’

Fortunately for Corinne, who found annoyance getting the better of her humour, Yolande’s mobile rang. ‘Patrick? Yes, the meeting’s over. I’m with my sister. Of course, darling, I’d love to. The Bar des Théâtres? I’ll be about an hour. See you.’

It wasn’t the ‘darling’ that alerted Corinne. Yolande was always lavish with endearments – on a good day even their dour old concierge Monsieur Boniface could be ‘darling’
.
But the gleam in her eyes boded only one thing if she knew her sister – she was planning to have sex, and it clearly wasn’t going to be with Yves.

Yolande just looked at her, all innocence.

‘You can’t fool me. Is this Patrick someone I need to worry about?’

‘No. He works for you, actually – modelling at Hervy. He’s great fun. But he’s an actor. He only models when he’s resting.’

‘You know that isn’t what I meant, Yolande. I thought there was something up with you and Yves.’

‘I was going to talk to him today, actually. But he’s gone straight back to St Xavier, and I can’t do it over the phone.’

‘Promise me you won’t keep stringing him along. It isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.’

‘I just don’t want to hurt him.’

‘You think screwing around behind his back isn’t going to hurt him?’

Yolande’s expression hardened, and she seemed about to lash out with a retort but thought better of it. ‘You’re right. I must talk to him. I will, promise. He’ll be fine. He’s not in love with me, you know.’

Corinne shook her head. ‘You silly girl.’

‘God, you sound just like Papa.’

‘And you’re acting just like him!’

Yolande looked a little shamefaced. She said nothing.

Corinne had adored their father, but his dizzying parade of female companions had been proud testimony to his inconstancy. Mystifying, really, when their mother was so beautiful and charming and had been very much in love with him when they had married. But the marriage hit the rocks soon after Yolande was born. Grace Albury had bitterly resented Jean-Claude’s philandering, and after one particularly blazing affair was talked about all over Paris, she walked out and went home to England. A protracted and acrimonious divorce followed. When Grace remarried five years later, she settled with her American banker husband in New York, but Jean-Claude retained custody of their daughters. Eventually they reached a messy compromise whereby the girls spent term time with their English grandparents in London and attended the French Lycée, with holidays divided between France and America. It had hurt so much. Corinne loved both her parents. She had hated taking sides, the rows, the court battles, the long tearful goodbyes every term. Now her father was gone, and she hadn’t had him to herself nearly enough. And Yolande seemed bent on continuing a most undesirable family tradition.

‘Be careful, Yolande. Please. I’m not going to say any more about it. You’re a big girl now. But I love both you and Yves, so it’s quite hard for me to sit on the sidelines while you two tear each other apart.’

Yolande went over to perch on the arm of Corinne’s chair and put an arm round her. ‘Don’t say anything to Mummy, will you? Not until I’ve spoken to him.’

Corinne tugged her down and gave her a fierce hug. ‘Monster! Of course not. Now let me up. I’m going back to the Avenue Foch to start clearing out Toinette’s stuff.’

Yolande got to her feet. ‘Damn, I’d forgotten. I’ll come with you. I’ll put off Patrick.’

‘It’s OK, she’s not there. She’s at her own apartment. But we’ll have to cope with her at the funeral.’

They both looked grim. Immaculate, elegant, steely Antoinette Brozard had been Jean-Claude Marchand’s mistress for over twelve years. Though she’d never been unkind, she’d been hell to get along with. Nothing could ever be out of place or less than perfect. It was like living in a TV commercial. The girls had tolerated her, but could never pretend they liked her – which was doubtless why they hadn’t thought of her before. They always tried to airbrush Toinette out of their lives as far as possible.

Corinne winced as she pushed her feet back into her high heels.

‘They look really fab on you.’

‘Pity they don’t come with an insurance policy to pay for the corrective foot surgery I’m going to need.’ Corinne started to pack up her laptop. ‘How
do
you wear them all the time?’

‘Years of practice. And …’ Yolande pulled out a pair of glittery flip-flops and some Hervy jeans from her bag and proceeded to throw off her suit, ‘… emergency relief supplies.’

Corinne laughed. ‘You are such a fraud.’

With her blouse hanging loosely over her skinny jeans and the flip-flops on, Yolande didn’t even look her twenty-three years, more like a fresher at an Ivy League campus. She shook out her hair and fastened a huge belt around her hips to complete the look.

‘That’s better. I’ll probably see you later tonight.’

Corinne raised an eyebrow.

‘Or maybe not. Bye, darling.’

Future of Marchand Enterprises in doubt as Madame Brozard threatens lawsuit.

Corinne threw the newspaper down in disgust. There was a pile of them, all with similar variations of the story. Only two days after his funeral. Poor Papa. How Toinette must have fooled him all those years! And the way she had wailed at his grave – just a disgusting sham.

Yves bent his long frame down to gather up the papers, then sat back at the large cluttered desk by the window of his office. Outside, the vineyards and gardens which made the Château de Rochemort one of the most celebrated estates on the Côte d’Or were bathed in hot summer sunshine.

‘Do you really think she’ll sue us?’ asked Corinne. ‘Can she?’