Love in Vogue (21 page)

‘What do you think?’ he asked, when Philippe slipped off to fetch her present.

‘He’s hiding something. I’m sure he’s afraid to break it to me. Did he mention anything to you?’

‘Not a word.’

They weren’t enlightened during lunch, either. Philippe chattered gaily about New York, gave his mother a, beautiful diamond brooch from Tiffany’s in the shape of the Statue of Liberty as a homecoming present, and caught up with news of all their neighbours and friends; but the confession he had so long prepared refused to be delivered. By the time dessert was served, he was yawning, and his mother packed him off to bed to recover from jet lag before he fell asleep at the table.

She remained with Yves in the dining room, gazing out thoughtfully at the cold grey sky. They made small talk for a while, then Yves went off to his office, and Marie-Christine back to her armchair in the drawing room. Everything seemed suddenly flat and cheerless, yet at lunch they had laughed. They both wondered how they had been getting by for the past few years.

Morning again, and this time it was sunny. Philippe glanced round his room twice to make sure he really was home – a well-proportioned wood-panelled room, both elegant and comfortable. His possessions were still in packing-cases in the adjoining sitting-room. He leapt out of bed, determined to get it all off his chest before he completely lost his nerve, and arrived at the breakfast-table armed with some emails from Claire, a recent photograph of Isabelle, and an apprehensive smile. It was so hard to explain. So painful to watch his mother’s expression of disappointment after her joy the day before. But she had forgiven him, hadn’t she? Yves just sat motionless in his chair, hardly able to believe his ears.

‘This is Isabelle,’ said Philippe, handing his mother the photograph. ‘It was taken last month.’

She took it reluctantly and stared at it for several minutes, her mouth becoming a little less severe. ‘She looks just like you. Doesn’t she, Yves?’

He gazed at the photograph and smiled encouragingly at his brother. ‘She’s lovely, Philippe. I’m happy to be her uncle any time you like.’

That helped somewhat, but there was a great deal more explaining to be done. Philippe tried to skirt round the issues of abortion and divorce, but Marie-Christine was not to be sidetracked.

‘So you had an affair with a married woman at the same time you were allowing Corinne to believe you would propose to her, you tried to persuade your mistress to abort your child, and when her husband took what I can only call a just revenge, you fled like a coward. Philippe,
mon fils
!’ She gave him a look that made him wish he could disappear. ‘Where was your heart? Your principles? And most of all, your religion? I tried to bring you up as a good Catholic. Apparently I failed.’

‘But Maman, I couldn’t marry Claire. Garnier-Dumont wouldn’t agree to a divorce. I …’ His voice trailed off. Now he realised what he should have done. He should have made a clean breast of it to his mother at the time. She would have been extremely angry, but she would have known what to do, and she wouldn’t now be staring at him so reproachfully. He couldn’t bear it from her.

‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have stayed in America.’ He stood up and turned towards the door.

‘Darling, don’t go. Please.’ She stretched out her hand. ‘We must try to put things right – if we can. Do you want your daughter?’

‘Yes. Very much.’

‘Have you seen her yet?’

‘No. I shall soon. Claire wants me to.’

Marie-Christine smiled faintly, trying to encourage him. ‘Tell us more about Claire.’

Philippe returned to his seat. Yves was looking at him expectantly, his mother was clearly doing her best to conceal her pain at the story she had just heard. How could he show Claire in a favourable light?

‘Well, you must know what she looks like,’ he began at last. ‘We met at a dinner party. She was alone. I found her very attractive. She was desperately bored with her husband and she soon showed that she liked me. I didn’t do much about it for a while, but our paths seemed to cross quite frequently. Then we became lovers. We kept seeing each other even after Corinne and I got together.’ He caught the look on his mother’s face. ‘Yes, I know it was wrong. I tried to break it off, but by then Claire was pregnant.’

‘Why didn’t you use protection?’

His jaw dropped. His mother never discussed sex. But she seemed to want an answer. ‘We did, but … um … well, occasionally we didn’t.’

‘Reckless passion.’ She nodded. ‘I suppose we’ve all been there. Where does she come from?’

‘Le Mans. Her father’s a doctor. Claire worked as Garnier-Dumont’s research assistant when he was just a deputy in the Assemblée. His first wife had died a few years before – cancer, I think. He wasn’t very good at social events, and he wanted someone to boost his image. Claire was the ideal choice – intelligent, good-looking, and great with people. Why on earth she married him, I haven’t a clue. They were certainly an odd couple. But it worked – on the surface, anyway.’

Marie-Christine nodded, and Philippe relaxed a little. She seemed sympathetic to Claire. ‘Of course, when Garnier-Dumont became a minister, Claire was an extremely valuable asset to him. But she needed love, not political philosophy.’

‘Do you love her?’

It was a question Philippe couldn’t answer, even to himself. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about Claire. She was sweet, wonderful, and very giving, and he had been extremely fond of her – but love? What did he really know about love?

Yves shifted in his seat, rather embarrassed. ‘How did she keep in touch with you after all that trouble?’

‘Email. But we had to be careful. Her messages were monitored. Letters sometimes too. We used a friend of hers in Le Mans as a go-between.’

‘So you preferred to write to your mistress rather than your family?’ asked his mother angrily.

‘But I had to protect you! I was afraid Garnier-Dumont might try to ruin you. And we’d quarrelled so fiercely. I thought it best to keep right out of the way. But believe me, I missed you both so much. Every single day.’

Yves smiled, slapped Philippe on the back, and poured out more coffee while their mother sat silent and pensive, caressing Geraldine who was sitting by her feet.

‘So what do you intend to do now, Philippe?’ she asked at last. ‘I don’t mean about your private life. I leave that to your conscience.’

He winced and lit a cigarette, knowing perfectly well what she expected of him. ‘Well, I want to remain in France. I have one or two business projects in mind. When I’ve chased up some old contacts in Paris I’ll have a clearer idea of the future.’

‘How much money do you have left?’

‘Enough to start up a new company. But nowhere near the amount I had four years ago.’

Marie-Christine sighed, then rose slowly from the table. Yves helped her to the door. She turned to face Philippe before leaving the room. ‘You can stay here for as long as you like, but I’d rather you didn’t become involved in the business again. Yves is doing very well on his own. I’m sure you’ll fall on your feet, darling. You know you always have my prayers.’

‘Maman!’ He started up and ran across to her. ‘But won’t you – don’t you want to see your granddaughter?’

‘Perhaps, Philippe, perhaps. When I’ve recovered from the shock. When
you’ve
decided if you want to be her father.’ She kissed his cheek and left with Yves, who darted him a look of sympathy.

Philippe paced up and down the room, his tension increasing. It was over. He had confessed. But he had only opened up old wounds and unsolved problems. Snapping his fingers, he brought Geraldine to heel and went out to inspect the gardens.

Later that day he called Claire and told her he was in Burgundy. She asked him to visit her at Versailles the following Monday, when she and Isabelle would have returned from a weekend in Le Mans. Philippe accepted the invitation and went straight up to his rooms to unpack some toys he had bought for his daughter at FAO Schwarz in New York. Yves helped him to wrap them, but when he told his mother who they were for she was cool and uninterested.

‘Bloody rain. Bloody office.’ James Chetwode looked balefully at the dozens of unread emails in his inbox and the water dripping down the window pane, and coughed horribly. It was four o’clock on Friday and he had a feeling he would be trapped behind a desk until Monday morning.

‘You can borrow my umbrella to get home,’ said Miles sweetly.

‘Home! I won’t get through this lot for days. Could you lend me a hand?’

‘No. I’ve already done half your work since I got back from London. You ought to be more careful where you take your girlfriends. It was hardly the weather for an outdoor shag, was it?’ Miles stood up and put on his jacket.

James blew his nose. ‘OK, OK. But she’s that type of girl. Where the hell are you going?’

‘I’m leaving. Corinne’s invited me to spend the weekend at her country house.’

‘I thought she dumped you. She must be desperate.’

‘Keep up, James. I have business to discuss with her. We should make a good profit on this deal. I’ve finally got a meeting with Stessenberg, and I’m sure he’ll play ball now.’

‘So that’s why you keep smirking. I was beginning to think you’d had Botox and it had gone wrong. You said Marchand was a hopeless case.’

‘Rupert took it on board. The meeting’s in London next week, so you’ll have to hold the fort for a couple of days. You can take some leave when I get back.’

Miles strode out of the office. James swore. 

Chapter Twelve

When Miles arrived at St Xavier just after eight on Friday evening, it was raining heavily, and the glow of lights from the ground-floor windows was decidedly welcome.

‘I hope you’ve brought your wellies,’ said Corinne, greeting him with a kiss at the door. ‘The forecast isn’t at all good.’

She led him straight upstairs to a large bedroom at the end of a corridor, comfortably furnished and well-heated. From its windows Miles caught a glimpse of the vineyards, at that hour just a black, damp blur in the distance.

‘You’ve got your own bathroom. If there’s anything you need, I’m just across the hall. When you’ve unpacked, come down to the salon. I thought we’d eat in about an hour, so you should have time to fill me in on the latest about UVS.’

A padding sound was heard, and Marius entered the room wagging his tail. Miles stroked him, too conscious of Corinne’s beauty and their proximity to the huge bed.

‘There’s nothing new on UVS, I’m afraid,’ he said, lying through his teeth. ‘But Stessenberg’s agreed to meet me in London next Tuesday. I’m hoping he’ll be more amenable to negotiations face to face.’

‘I really ought to come.’

‘At this stage I think it’s better if we don’t let it get too personal.’ He didn’t want her anywhere near Stessenberg after what he had learnt from Grant Macdonald. ‘Shall I dress for dinner?’

‘Heavens, no. This is a break. The Rochemorts are coming for lunch tomorrow, and I have to go through some papers with my manager in the morning, but apart from that it’s just you and me.’

When she had gone, Miles sat down on the bed, wanting her too much. Had she asked him here for business or pleasure? Just the two of them in this large, beautiful house; but she was so aloof, so reserved. He changed into jeans, then wandered along the corridor, admiring the pictures. The Avenue Foch apartment boasted a superb art collection, but he preferred the paintings here.

As well as landscapes, there were intriguing family portraits. Fabrice Marchand, who had bought the vineyard when the old monastery of St Xavier was sold during the Revolution, looked a canny old gentleman, dressed in period red velvet coat and high muslin cravat. His wife Yolande, on the opposite wall, was a sad, beautiful green-eyed aristocrat – the daughter of a marquis guillotined in 1793, as Miles learnt from an inscription underneath the portrait. Evidently not very enamoured of her bourgeois husband, notwithstanding their brood of children, who occupied a large canvas a little further on. Bearded Second Empire Marchands and their wives followed, then a quartet of scenes of workers in the vineyards at the turn of the century, and last of all, tucked away in an alcove, a modern portrait that kept his attention for some time.

‘Miles?’ Corinne sauntered along to him from the stairway.

‘I was just admiring the paintings. This one of your sister is a very good likeness.’

‘It was commissioned for her eighteenth birthday.’

‘She’s named after that rather sad lady back there, I see. They look alike too, don’t they?’

‘I’m afraid my sister inherited the temperament as well as the beauty.’

‘Oh?’

They turned to go downstairs.

‘Yes, it’s quite a story. Fabrice Marchand would be called an entrepreneur nowadays, but they had less polite names for him then. He acquired Yolande de Charbuy for his wife in much the same way as he snapped up the vineyard of St Xavier. Her father had been a high-ranking courtier, and lost everything during the Revolution – including his life. I suppose his family were lucky to have survived, but they were reduced to poverty. Fabrice literally paid the Marquise de Charbuy for her daughter. We have a contract stating the exact sum. It was an elaborate deal – annuities, reversions, that sort of thing. He fathered six children on Yolande before she bolted with an Italian count while taking the waters at Vichy.’

‘She left the children?’ Miles enquired, following her through the hall to the salon.

‘Yes. She disappeared completely. But in 1847 her eldest son received a letter from a gentleman in Italy claiming to be his half-brother. Apparently Yolande soon progressed from the count to a duke, by whom she had three more children. She died giving birth to the last.’

‘And your sister? Do you intend to let her go the same way?’

They sat down together on a sofa. Corinne faced him, frowning. ‘What she does is her own business. I don’t suppose your sister cares too much for your advice.’

She was curious as to why he hardly ever talked about his family. His sister Caroline had been mentioned at the New Year, but in an aside, like a remote stranger.