Love in Vogue (37 page)

‘Well I’m not surprised,’ said Corinne, putting the magazine down. ‘I never cared for Marc Quiberon anyway. ‘

‘Better keep that quiet,’ laughed Toinette. ‘There used to be queues round the block in Strasbourg when one of his films came out.’

‘It just amazes me that I didn’t spot the resemblance when Patrick was staying with us in New York,’ said Grace. ‘Now I think of it, even his voice is the same.’

Corinne sighed and picked up her coffee. She heartily wished that Patrick Dubuisson would disappear off the face of the earth. ‘I suppose I’m the one who’s got to tell Yolande?’

‘I think she’d take it better from you,’ Grace answered. ‘I’m afraid to mention his name to her, and she never brings it up herself. ‘

‘Looks like you’re lumbered,’ said Miles to Corinne. ‘While you’re about it, why not find out if we can put the brakes on the release of his film? We ought to get back at him somehow.’

Corinne shook her head. ‘We’d be shooting her in the foot. They’ve already got Yolande’s cash. And it looks like a financial winner. I’ve had a few conversations with the manager at Belco’s office, and they’ve got a distribution deal with a major studio. I think her best revenge would be to make as much money as possible out of the bastard after what he’s put her through.’

As it happened, Yolande reacted very calmly to the article, only looking slightly pained by the photographs. That hateful apartment in Beverley Hills – she suddenly remembered she had left Franco’s trouser suit there. She wasn’t surprised by the revelations. Patrick had always been extremely mysterious about his father. It was clear now that he had simply been waiting for the right moment to trade on his name. Keeping it secret for so long was just another of his deep, selfish strategies.

She handed the magazine back to her sister. ‘Bin it.’

‘What really happened?’

Yolande took a deep breath. She thought of the way Yves had held her hand and kissed her, then of Patrick – that vicious, angry face, his insults, his fists beating against her head. A sob caught in her throat.

‘Darling, was it that bad?’ Corinne stroked her arm. ‘Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to. I just thought it might help.’

‘But you’ll hate me for being so stupid, Corinne. I nearly destroyed the company.’

‘I don’t want to hear any more about that. When I saw you there, lying in all that blood,’ she shuddered. ‘Now that nearly destroyed me. I only wish you could put it behind you so we can get back to how things used to be.’

Yolande tugged her down and hugged her. Thank God she still had Corinne. Despite everything, she had never once said
I told you
so
, or reproached Yolande, or said it was all her own fault for being such a selfish bitch. Instead she was there to offer love and comfort and help pick up the pieces – as she always had been. Yolande realised now how little she had truly valued her sister. Perhaps it was time to come clean and give her the whole story – and hope that she would still be able to forgive her.

The facts came out haltingly, and covered more than just recent events in America; everything from the day Yolande had first met Patrick at Hervy. Corinne listened, prompted occasionally, tried to work out what it now meant for Yves, and began making comparisons with her own dealings with Stessenberg and UVS. One name stood out – Althea Pedersen. It hit them both at the same time. She was the only link between the film and Pedersen Corporation’s attempt to take over Marchand. Yolande felt terribly guilty. Althea Pedersen had almost wrecked Marchand, she’d stolen Patrick, she was virtually responsible for her lying in this hospital bed – and she still couldn’t work out how closely Patrick had been involved in it all.

‘I found them in bed together the second time I returned from New York,’ she concluded, her voice strained. ‘Patrick and I had an awful fight.’

Corinne was outraged. ‘He
beat
you?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid I started it. But I hardly knew what I was doing. Vic and Ethan rescued me and got me on a flight home. I just wanted to see you.’

‘Please don’t cry.’

‘I’m sorry, Corinne. I’m really sorry.’ Yolande fought back the tears. ‘It’s all so
sordid
. Yves was wonderful to me this afternoon, and I just can’t bear it. I’ve treated him appallingly. And you. And everybody else who’s been good to me.’

‘But we love you.’ Corinne, though still trying to absorb the tale, smiled reassuringly. ‘Once you’re out of here you’ll feel so much better. The main thing is to get you back on your feet. Don’t worry about anything else. And this university idea – I’m not too sure you’d enjoy that, would you?’

‘But I want to use my brain – even though most people don’t think I’ve got one.’ It was good to see her smile again. ‘I couldn’t stand going back to modelling now.’

‘You were enjoying getting to grips with Belco, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. I never thought I would. But it was
mine
. My responsibility. And I wanted to make it pay. Is everything ticking over? I haven’t checked my email for a week.’

‘Shelby Owens rings me if she’s got a problem. She emails every other day to see how you’re getting on, too. I don’t think you need worry. She’s got her head screwed on the right way.’

‘She’s pretty cool,’ Yolande said. ‘Do you know, the only thing I miss about LA is that poky little office on that ghastly business park? At least the people there were real. Even though the coffee wasn’t.’ She shuddered at the memory of her one and only dreadful cup from the vending machine.

Corinne laughed. ‘In that case, how about a business course and a job when you’re better?’

‘Sounds interesting. Where?’

‘In London. You could do a short marketing course, then you’d be working for me here, if you could bear it. We want someone to make Elegance Hotels live up to their name. The image needs a complete makeover. It’s just what Papa planned – luxury hotels, the finest wine, clothes, perfume, and cosmetics – all under his name. You’d be doing it for him, too.’

And when Corinne put it like that, Yolande felt a thrill. Time at last to see if she too had the Marchand touch.

Chapter Twenty

Franco Rivera walked through the doors at Harvey Nichols and out on to Knightsbridge feeling very pleased with himself. It was a wet, cold mid-November day, but there was sunshine in his heart. Everything was going extremely well. His October show had been hugely successful, his boutiques were all up and running, and his name was being mentioned in the reverential tones usually reserved for designer legends. Franco had only been to Harvey Nichols to inspect Hervy’s latest
prêt-à-porter
collection for men – his designs, their label. Corinne Marchand, delighted with the new lease of life Hervy had enjoyed since branching out into ready-to-wear, had offered him a lucrative five-year contract. He had accepted. He still had great affection for Hervy, and her generous support and hard work in launching the new Rivera label had earned her his lasting respect and loyalty.

The Rivera boutique on Beauchamp Place, brand-new and distinctly Italian, was a different proposition altogether. Corinne had been careful to ensure there was no conflict with the Hervy brand. Franco’s name was etched in lower case in gold paint on the window, which contained a single item from his winter collection. Oblivious of the rain and the crowds jostling along the narrow pavement, he stood back to admire his work – a funky crimson evening gown, shimmering in rich satin. He decided to go in and frighten the assistants a little before letting them know who he was, just to keep them on their toes. He’d rather enjoyed the chaos he’d caused by a similar ploy in New York.

Then he saw her, walking down the other side of the street wearing a black Hervy trenchcoat and a silk scarf, oblivious of the stares she was attracting from passers-by. She never seemed to realise how beautiful she was.

‘Yolande! Yolande!’

Franco dashed between cars and taxis, reaching the opposite pavement with only inches to spare. He caught up with her, smiling broadly.

‘That, darling, will certainly put up your life insurance. London drivers have no respect for genius.’

He laughed and pushed back her umbrella to kiss her. They were blocking the pavement, so Yolande slipped her arm through his and pulled him into a shop doorway. He kissed her again. She hugged him hard, laughing as the rain dripped from the shop awning and ran down their faces.

‘
Carissima,
how are you? What are you doing in London? Have lunch with me?’

‘Good idea. I’m starving. For goodness sake, Franco, stop kissing me.’

Within a remarkably short space of time they were divested of their wet coats and sitting opposite each other in a restaurant just a few doors down from his boutique.

‘I still haven’t forgiven you for pulling out of my show,’ said Franco. ‘You’ve broken my heart.’

He was smiling all the time, his expression far from melancholy. Yolande laughed. Franco always made her laugh. ‘I read all the rave reviews, so don’t pretend you didn’t manage very well without me.’

‘But Yolande, I had it all planned. The complete seduction. A little hideaway – de luxe, of course – a box at the opera, superb food, sublime music. And you in my arms in the moonlight.’ He waved his hand in a theatrical manner, as she did her best to keep a straight face. ‘The world’s greatest love story. Only it never happened. How can I possibly forgive you?’

‘Because you love me.’

They both burst out laughing. Franco caught hold of her hand and kissed it.

‘Yolande, you’re adorable. Seriously though, when are you getting back on the catwalk?’

‘Never. It was great while it lasted, but it’s time to move on.’

‘But it’s not as though your accident has made a difference. You’re as beautiful as ever. You could still make millions.’

‘It isn’t always about money,’ she said.

‘That’s easy for you to say – you’ve always had money.’

‘Well in that case we agree that the money can’t lure me back. You left yourself wide open to that,’ she added, as his face fell. ‘And if you could see my scars, you might reconsider as well. Not to mention the fact that I’d never fit into any of the clothes now.’

‘You look gorgeous.’ He surveyed her with hungry eyes. She had filled out a little, but it only made her look even more seductive. ‘Are you in much pain?’ he added, concerned.

‘I live with it. It’s not too bad. But leaving all that aside, the accident did make a huge difference. It gave me time to think. I’m starting a new career. When I finish this marketing course, Corinne’s got a job lined up for me in Paris.’

‘An
office job
!’ he almost exploded. ‘Help, I need a drink.’

Yolande obligingly poured him some wine, smiling. She could see the thoughts going through his head, as his face was an open book, and it was clear that he was trying to work out what he could do to entice her to Milan and into his bed. But she had really enjoyed the change of direction over the past two months, and her tutors were impressed by her commitment and professionalism. The course was thorough and demanding, and Yolande had risen to the challenge magnificently. She had no intention of throwing away all her hard work by an ill-considered liaison with Franco.

‘So when do you go back to Paris?’ he asked.

‘I’m popping home for occasional weekends at the moment, but I’ll back for good after Christmas. I’ve got exams to get through first.’

Franco drank deep and sighed. ‘I see the British premiere of
Fast and Loose
is next Tuesday. Are you going?’

‘Possibly.’

Yolande had in fact been on her way to buy something for the premiere in Franco’s boutique when he had appeared, though she was still doubtful about using the tickets Vic Bernitz had sent her. It would mean encountering Patrick both on screen and in the flesh. The media hype about him had been overwhelming since his disclosure about his father. Patrick Dubuisson was well on his way to becoming the eighth wonder of the world. And she despised him.

‘I didn’t think it would last with you two,’ said Franco, as though he could read her mind. ‘Still, you’re bound to profit from the film by the look of things. I was worried it would be a total disaster.’

His brown eyes gazed earnestly into hers for a few seconds, and they both remembered that meeting at Gianni’s with Vic Bernitz – and the car ride afterwards. Dangerous thoughts. Yolande began to pay serious attention to her lunch, and Franco fell silent. She couldn’t deny that she was very fond of him. He would always be a good friend. But there could never be anything more between them, least of all now she had decided to forsake the entire male sex.

Their visit to the Rivera boutique after the meal restored the gaiety. Franco had the assistants in a spin, demanding to see various items, then criticising them harshly and sending them back. Yolande finally gave the game away by collapsing with laughter. Then the battle began over payment for the evening dress and matching bolero jacket that she chose. The jacket was essential – the scars on her upper arm were still too fresh for her to feel comfortable uncovered. Franco wanted to give her the dress, but she refused.

‘No,’ she said firmly, placing her credit card on the counter. ‘You’re supposed to be running a business.’

He shrugged his shoulders, defeated. So she was still unattainable. He wondered who could really make her happy. She was smiling, she radiated irresistible charm and glamour, but he sensed an underlying unease that nothing could quite dispel.

The outfit was paid for and packed in a large carrier bag with ‘franco rivera’ in minuscule gold lettering printed down a single white vertical strip. On the other side the legend was ‘Milan – Paris – London – New York – Beverley Hills’. Not bad for a business start-up. Franco felt a proprietary thrill as he escorted Yolande outside.

‘I’m flying back to Milan tonight, so we’ll have to fix our next meeting for Paris. I’ll give you a call when I’m sure of a date.’ He put his arms around her.

‘I’ll look forward to it. Thanks for lunch, Franco. It was lovely to see you. I’m thrilled you’re doing so well. Take care of yourself.’