Love in Vogue (26 page)

There was a pause, then Corinne said, ‘I’ve seen Philippe.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, although he nearly blew it for me with Miles. I resisted the urge to slice him into small pieces, because I don’t think Marie-Christine would have forgiven me.’

Yolande chuckled. That was her sister talking, not some frigid stranger called Corinne Marchand.

‘Philippe’s seeing his daughter tomorrow,’ continued Corinne, ‘and Yves has just broken up with Gabrielle.’

‘Oh. How is he?’

‘Not good. He misses you.’

And I miss you too
, Corinne nearly added. She hadn’t realised quite how much until she’d heard that wicked chuckle again.

Yolande had a twinge of conscience. Poor Yves. Perhaps he was fated not to find happiness with any woman. He asked for far too much, and gave so little. She knew she could never have lived up to his ideal.

‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose I’ll see you when I come over? Probably in August. Is that all right? I’m going to Dorset as well.’

‘You know where you can reach me. How’s the film going?’

‘OK. Everybody tells me it’s wonderful, anyway. I find it all rather tedious. They shoot some scenes so many times, I could repeat the entire script in my sleep. I’m trying to get to grips with the business side of Belco, but it’s tough.’

‘Christ, you
must
be bored.’ And very lonely, Corinne thought. The idea of Yolande willingly trawling through company statistics was simply mind-boggling.

‘I miss you,’ said Yolande. ‘Very much. Take care of yourself, darling.’

‘You too. Goodbye,
petite fleur
.’

Yolande put the receiver down, relieved they could now talk again, delighted and touched that her sister had called her
petite fleur.
She saw hope for the future, but felt marooned. Stuck in the desert with Patrick, while everything she loved was happening in Europe. No modelling now, either. Perhaps she should get herself another assignment when she went home. She had started looking into Belco’s operations in desperation for something to do on the days when she couldn’t face the shoot, and had surprised herself by developing an interest in the company. After all, she owned it, and she wasn’t persuaded that delegating all the management to Vic Bernitz, as he had repeatedly suggested, would be in her best interests.

The Belco office was a small low-rise affair on a distinctly unglamorous business park forty-five minutes’ drive west of Hollywood, just south of Santa Monica Boulevard. It was kept afloat by an efficient production executive called Shelby Owens, accountant Troy Salzmann, a couple of assistants, and an intern from UCLA film school. Both Troy and Shelby had blinked behind their spectacles when Yolande had breezed in one day, asking sweetly if they would show her the ropes.

Troy had hardly been able to utter a coherent sentence for an hour, he was so dazzled by her smile, while Shelby had shown her to her desk with the air of a long-suffering teacher humouring a particularly capricious pupil. She’d doubtless reckoned it would take only thirty minutes for the impossibly beautiful Yolande Marchand to stroll out again and waste her time more appropriately shopping on Rodeo Drive. But Yolande had stayed, ploughed through accounts and company reports, asked intelligent questions, and took work home. She soon decided that profits on the back catalogue were too small and set Shelby and the intern to work on costings for a re-release of Belco’s major hits on DVD and internet download. And, thank the Lord, ordered in real coffee and a daily delivery of doughnuts for the whole team. They all looked forward to Yolande’s visits to the office now. She always had a smile and time for a gossip, even though she was the boss. She took the piss out of Vic Bernitz and Ethan Casavecchia. She continually surprised everyone by her instinctive grasp of business realities and her shrewd marketing ideas. It looked as though Belco might well have a future after all. They had decided that she was OK.

Patrick arrived back from Malibu to find Yolande busy emailing the office from her laptop. He was unsure of his welcome, but she logged out with a smile when she saw him and opened her arms. He complained bitterly of the miserable time he had had without her, and after he had atoned for his earlier sins by giving her two orgasms, amused her with a well-mimicked performance of Ethan daring to contradict Jayne Herford. Yolande noticed a mark on his neck, and he said he had been bitten by an insect in the Pedersens’ garden. She believed him.

Chapter Fourteen

11 a.m. Only an hour before Philippe would arrive. Claire left Isabelle to play in the salon with her toys and went upstairs to change. The house seemed more bleak and empty than usual now there were no bodyguards about. A Versailles mansion with a large garden, it had once been the home of a Court official under Louis XIV. Henri had inherited it from his first wife, and relics belonging to her family still cluttered some of the rooms. They weren’t Claire’s style at all, but she hadn’t had the heart to throw them out. She kept forgetting that the house was now hers and she could do what she liked. But nothing seemed as though it really belonged to her and she felt hemmed in by second-hand wealth. Henri had been a collector too; a bad one. She was haunted by the fruits of his ill-advised forays into auction houses and antiques shops – a disparate hoard of art and furniture united only in gloom. One or two pieces were attractive individually, but choked by the mediocrity of the rest. The whole house cried out for more space and light. Claire would have to see to it later, when she knew if she would be staying.

The problem now was how to dress for Philippe. She wanted to avoid looking intent on reviving their affair, so it would have to be something understated. Eventually she picked black Hervy jeans and a striped cotton sweater. Keep it simple. No make-up, only the faintest hint of perfume. She hoped he would get the message.

Philippe thought she looked absolutely gorgeous when he arrived promptly at noon. Claire ushered him quickly into the hall, then they stopped and just looked at each other. She could scarcely believe he was really there, handsome and smiling rather shyly, totally unchanged. It was as though they had parted only the day before. He dropped the large carrier bag he had brought and opened his arms.

‘Hello, my darling.’

Claire found herself in his embrace, his fingers messing up her hair as he planted light kisses all over her face, then pressed his lips to hers for much longer than she had meant to allow. She had the sensation that the past was simply slipping away.

‘Philippe, we mustn’t.’

‘Why mustn’t we? You’re more beautiful than ever, Claire.’ He held her close, and she relaxed a little, her head against his shoulder. ‘That’s better,’ he said, brushing his lips against her hair, liking the silkiness he had forgotten. ‘How was Le Mans?’

‘Fine.’

‘Have you told them about me yet?’

‘No.’

How could she tell her parents that Isabelle was his child, when he might walk out and never be seen again? It was a confession that would really hurt them. That she had had an affair would be hard enough to explain. That she had betrayed her background by loving a son of the noble house of Rochemort and bearing his child would be even more difficult for her Socialist family to swallow. They had been horrified enough when she had married Henri, though she had never been sure if it was because of his politics, the age gap, or his personality. Looking up, she noticed a couple of grey hairs on Philippe’s temple and weariness about his eyes. Isabelle’s eyes exactly.

‘How long can you stay?’ she asked. ‘I’ve given Isabelle’s nanny the day off so you won’t be seen.’

He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I don’t give a damn who sees me now. I can stay as long as you’ll have me. Now, where’s my daughter?’

She led him into the salon, where Isabelle, tired of her games, was sprawled on the sofa with her teddy bear.

‘Isabelle, come and meet Phil …’

‘No, Claire. I want her to know who I am.’

Philippe let go of her hand and went over to Isabelle, his heart thumping. He fell completely in love on the spot. He sat beside her on the sofa, longing to pick her up, but she was staring at him with a puzzled expression. They looked so much alike, and she seemed to know it. Philippe smiled nervously and picked up the bear instead.

‘Hello, Isabelle. Is this your bear?’

‘Yes. He’s old.’

‘How old?’

‘Very, very old,’ she said emphatically.

‘Christmas present,’ said Claire, sitting down in an armchair opposite them.

‘Poor teddy, he’s only got one eye.’ Philippe examined him carefully. ‘And you’ve been chewing his ears, haven’t you?’

Isabelle giggled. ‘Give him to me!’

Philippe handed over the bear, which she promptly dropped onto the floor.

‘That’s not very nice. You ought to kiss him better.’

‘Don’t want to.’

‘Well, if you did that to me I’d really cry.’

Isabelle looked at him saucily for a few moments, then clambered up to him and put her hands up to his face. She smacked his cheeks, then tweaked his ears, and finally sat on his lap, laughing. Philippe caught her up in his arms and hugged her, then turned up her face and looked into her eyes. His daughter; his beautiful little daughter. He felt like crying for the years they had lost. Isabelle was surprised for a moment or two, then fastened her arms around his neck and planted a smacker on his cheek.

‘Now you’re better!’

Philippe smiled at Claire over the top of her head as he picked up the teddy bear.

‘He’s called James,’ said Isabelle, grabbing it. ‘What’s
your
name?’

‘It’s Philippe. But you must call me Papa, Isabelle.’

She frowned. ‘Papa Philippe?’

‘No, just Papa. I’m your papa.’

She looked across at Claire, who nodded, too overcome to speak. She would never have believed he could be so good with children – nonchalant, reckless Philippe, cuddling his daughter and taking every precaution to prevent James from suffering fresh indignity as he was dangled by his ear over the floor.

‘I’m your papa,’ repeated Philippe.

‘Hello, Papa,’ Isabelle said cheekily.

‘Don’t I get another kiss?’

‘Give me a kiss! Give James a kiss! Give Maman a kiss!’

Philippe swiftly obliged. Then he swung her up onto his shoulders, and she spurred him with her little feet as they all went out to the hall.

‘Claire, will you get the bag? I’ve brought a few things for mademoiselle.’

A riotous hour followed as the presents were ripped open and Isabelle tried to lay her hands on them all at once. A baseball cap, bat, and ball soon engrossed her attention. After a game of sorts in the garden, they sat down to a late lunch, and Philippe’s questions were endless. He wanted to know about Isabelle’s health, her nursery school, the names of her friends, what she liked to eat. Claire couldn’t hide her amazement. Henri had never troubled himself over such details, but then he had hardly ever acknowledged that Isabelle was human.

‘So you haven’t got a pet?’ Philippe asked his daughter when they were all back in the salon. ‘What would you like, a dog or a cat?’

‘A dog.’

‘There are lots of dogs where I live. It’s a big château in the country.’

‘How big’?’ she demanded.

‘This
big,’ he stretched his arms out as wide as possible. ‘And my dogs are
this
big.’

‘Ooh’ Isabelle opened her eyes wide. ‘Is it a
real
château?’

‘Oh yes. Do you want to see it? I’ll take you.’

She nodded enthusiastically, and Philippe amused her with some stories about suits of armour that stalked the corridors at night, and a ghost who wandered around drunk singing songs every third Sunday at midnight.

It was quite a problem persuading her to go to bed after the day’s excitement, and she had to be bribed with the promise of another story. But bath time came first, and that gave her another opportunity to play. She started splashing water energetically over her father, in spite of Claire’s protests.

‘She’s behaving terribly, Philippe. I’m so sorry. Isabelle, no, no, no!’

Isabelle giggled and Philippe laughed, though the water had seeped right through his shirt. He hardly noticed it. He felt strangely elated. Proud to have such a child, thrilled when she called him ‘Papa’ – quite naturally, which somewhat intrigued him – delighted that she returned his affection.

And Claire was an angel. He could imagine the hell she’d had to put up with from her husband, but there hadn’t been one word of reproach. She treated him as though it was only right he should behave as if he were at home. Seeing her in this domestic setting revealed facets of her personality he had never known when they were lovers, snatching an hour or two together as and when they could. He was struck by so much that had escaped him before; her patience, good humour, common sense, tenderness, and – now and then, when she thought he wasn’t looking at her – a certain melancholy which she quickly suppressed. Was he the cause? Or was she mourning Henri Garnier-Dumont?

‘You’d better go to my room and dry off,’ she told him, as Isabelle was being cajoled into her pyjamas.

Claire’s room adjoined Isabelle’s, at the end of a short passage. Fresh territory again for Philippe. They always used to meet in hotels or at his flat. He put his shirt to dry on a radiator, then wandered around, looking for clues about Claire.

It had been a splendid room once, with a fine moulded ceiling and panelled walls, but the original effect had been ruined by clumsy later alterations and layers of paint. The spirit had been lost, suffocated. The whole house was suffocating. There was a photograph of Isabelle with a smiling middle-aged couple on the table beside the double bed; obviously Claire’s parents. They looked nice, respectable people. He wondered what they would think when they found out who had fathered their granddaughter. Philippe was relieved there was no picture of Garnier-Dumont, even if his unpleasant personality manifested itself in the decor. Had he and Claire slept together in that bed, or did they have separate rooms? Suddenly he had to know. He had always thought it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care. He’d left her in the lurch, he’d slept with other women both during and after their affair, he’d never fully returned the love she had given him. But he longed for it now. And he couldn’t blame her if she refused to give him a second chance.