The Paris Secret (34 page)

It had fallen to her to tell the rest of the family. Freddie couldn’t meet their eyes, he could barely stand up. It had taken almost all his reserves to gather them there without provoking
suspicion – not entirely successful – to pretend that life was normal, to hold on, even if only for a few hours, to the illusion that their perfect family and the idyllic life they
shared was still intact, pristine, untouched.

But the story was already half-told, anyway. They had all instinctively known that there was something devastating behind the dramatic weight loss, something that even Freddie’s louche
poses, lazy wit and easy smiles couldn’t mask. Who was it who’d told her that animals could sense fear? Smell it, even? They’d all done the same, tapping into something feral and
broken in him. But even so, when her words had clapped like thunderclouds over the room, her father had dropped his drink (Austrian ice wine, the lemon mascarpone cheesecake called for it) and her
mother, who for so long had worried about such small things, had buckled at the knees as she stood nervously by the fireplace.

Flora quickly fired off a text before she could stop herself. There was no longer any reason not to. Her family had spent the past few weeks fearing this day was coming and now, finally, it was.
Soon everyone would know their dark secret – not just Freddie’s employers and friends and friends of friends, their collective acquaintances and old family friends, godparents and
former colleagues; but complete strangers, people reading the newspapers on their way to work, office workers scanning the Sidebar of Shame for something scandalous to gossip over at the water
cooler.

They were all going to read about Freddie Sykes.

Her brother, the rapist.

‘Ball’ was a loose term for the event, Flora decided unkindly as she and Bruno and Ines walked towards the heaving crowds. A stage and dance floor had been set up
at the foot of the outer town walls, the countryside falling away beyond them towards the distant sea.

The outdoor space looked beautiful, the huge plane and eucalyptus trees so densely threaded with lights it was as though their canopies had been bleached white, and miniature French flags
– threaded as bunting – looped between the trees that encircled and defined the space. Long tables flanked the dance floor on three sides and a small guitar trio was providing the
background music to the surging chatter.

The crowd was a riotous mix of ages and backgrounds. Many of the local elders were in attendance, already occupying the tables nearest the stage, but there were young children too – some
only toddlers – playing on the currently empty dance floor as their parents chatted and drank wine from the carafes dotted along the tables. Clearly, some of the teenagers from the ritzy
villas in the high valleys had come along, the girls showing off their tans in second-skin bandage dresses and wedge heels, the boys looking moody in jeans and Lacoste shirts. And she thought she
could tell the Antibes crowd by their low-key, stealth-wealth style: the watches gave them away and the Dinh Van jewellery, their coconut-oil glossed hair and skinny Paris-by-winter limbs. They
were well heeled and well connected, their links with the town stretching back generations, no doubt.

Certainly, Ines moved through the crowd with the ease of someone who felt at home. She knew the mayor and his wife – apparently their daughter had once babysat her as a child – and
fell into immediate conversation with a woman with candyfloss hair set so hard, it would have cracked teeth. Flora wanted to smile at the odd couple they made – the older woman in Escada,
Ines in her Grecian maxi dress and flip-flops. Flora hoped her own dress wasn’t
de trop:
a Missoni special, it was lilac gazar and embroidered with tiny flowers. The skirt fell to the
floor and was swoopingly full, counterbalanced by a simple bodice with a high T-shirt neck and long sleeves that puffed slightly at the wrists. Apart from a nude slip underneath, it was entirely
sheer, with daisies embroidered in a tumbling fashion. It had been the dress Ines had winkled out for her and there was no doubt it had the ‘wow’ factor, but was it too much for
tonight? There didn’t seem to be a cohesive dress code. Some people were in glitter and sequins, others in white jeans and heels. At least she’d brought the dress ‘down’ by
teaming it with nude scalloped Chloé flats and pulling her hair into a simple ponytail, barely any make-up.

Not that she cared about how she looked. She was here to drink. She wanted to get so drunk tonight she couldn’t stand, much less dance.

‘Come on,’ Bruno said, used to his girlfriend’s social-butterfly status and taking Flora by the arm, steering her towards a gap in the crowd, near one of the tables. He poured
them each a hearty glass of local red wine, chinking the glasses together. ‘
Santé
.’

‘I hate this bit. All the talking – y’know? Who do you know? Where are you from . . . ?’ he said, leaning in slightly to her, his eyes on the crowd as though he was
standing outside of it. It struck her how much more natural and relaxed he looked twisting on a board three metres in the air, than here, in a pressed shirt and trousers. It wasn’t lost on
either of them that Ines was smack bang in the centre of everyone, her head thrown back in laughter and her white, perfect teeth an indicator of her pedigree and belonging. She could literally fit
in anywhere, any crowd.

Flora drank the wine down in big gulps. Bruno laughed in surprise but refilled her glass without comment.

‘You mustn’t worry. She really loves you, you know,’ Flora said, jogging him gently with her elbow as she began on the second glassful. ‘You’re all she
wants.’

Bruno glanced at her before looking back at his girlfriend. ‘Yeah.’ But his tone was sceptical.

‘What, you don’t believe me?’

‘No, I do. I do, but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Will I always be what she wants, I guess? I dunno . . .’ He narrowed his eyes, watching with concentration as another woman joined Ines’s conversation – huge aquamarines
sparkling at her ears, a Chanel Timeless bag dangling from her wrist. ‘I guess I feel like I’m on borrowed time with her. I mean, four years on and I still can’t believe she fell
for me.
Me!
I’m no one.’ He looked at Flora and shrugged apologetically. ‘You know?’

‘No, I don’t know. You’re a total catch. Talented and funny and gorgeous. Why wouldn’t she have fallen for you?’ she asked, slapping his arm playfully and taking
another glug of wine. ‘Enough of this nonsense.’

‘You know what I’m saying, though. I’m never going to be part of that world. I can’t give her that life – and I don’t want to. It’s alien to
me.’

‘Listen, Ines knows that world, she grew up in it. It holds no mystique or glamour for her. If she wanted it to still define her everyday existence, she’d be with someone else, you
can be sure of that. She chose you. She’s with you because she wants to be.’

He looked hesitant. ‘Yeah? You think?’

‘I know! Honestly, she drives me bonkers banging on all the time about true love and following your destiny, like I’m just being difficult not doing it too. She has no idea that what
you and she have got is exceptionally rare. Contrary to popular opinion, it’s actually not that easy to fall in love.’

Bruno turned to face her, his interest seemingly piqued. ‘No?’

She shook her head, taking another swig of the wine. ‘Nope.’

‘Who were you last in love with, then? You’ve not been serious with anyone in all the time I’ve known you.’

‘Actually, I’ve never been in love.’

Bruno almost dropped his glass. ‘What, never? Oh, come on! You’re kidding, right?’

‘Nope. God’s truth. I am twenty-seven years old and I have
never
been in love.’ She gave a sudden nervous laugh.

‘But Ines says you’ve gone out with lots of guys.’

She shrugged. ‘I have. But I just haven’t fallen for them. Not really hard, anyway. I mean, I’ve had my obsessions but . . .’ She sighed. ‘It’s just never
more than that. I don’t miss them if they go away, I don’t fret if they don’t call . . .’ Her voice faded and she pressed the glass to her lips.

Bruno shook his head, watching her. ‘Poor Stefan. He never stood a chance with you, did he?’

Flora held up a warning finger. ‘Don’t even mention his name to me. He is not poor Stefan. He is a ruthless bastard who screwed me over to advance his career and score a point
against a bloke who probably doesn’t even remember he exists.’

Bruno held his hands up as though she was pointing a gun at him. ‘Hey, look – I’m not defending the guy. What he did was shitty. I’ve ignored
all
his calls for the
past week. I’m too scared of you and Ines not to!’ He hugged her by the shoulders, grinning wildly. ‘But don’t think I feel any sympathy for that Vermeil scum either. What
they did?’ He tutted loudly.

Flora stared into the distance. ‘Yeah,’ she murmured. She wouldn’t defend them tonight, none of them. She didn’t care if Jacques was opening a foundation for refugees,
she didn’t care if Lilian had lost her friendship with the President’s wife, she didn’t care if Natascha was gossiped about in the tabloids, Xavier heckled in public. They
weren’t her problem. Her problems were bigger than anything even they were dealing with right now.

‘Tell me about your new sponsorship deal,’ she said, eager to change the subject. How had they ended up talking about Xavier Vermeil, anyway? Couldn’t she have even a
moment’s peace from the guy? She took another slug of wine. Why wasn’t she drunk yet? ‘You must be so stoked.’

‘I am. It’s my dream, you know, being able to make a living off the board? I’ve just got to try and win as many trophies as possible and appear at any exhibitions or events
they sponsor.’ He shrugged. ‘Happy days . . . Flora? You OK?’

‘Sorry, what did you say?’ she asked, tuning back in.

He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Absolutely. Tickety-boo. Just peachy.’

Ines sauntered over. ‘They want us to sit, food’s ready,’ she smiled, sweetly taking Bruno’s glass from his hand and emptying it. ‘Thanks, baby.’

They found three free places at a table mainly occupied, it seemed, by a group of merry widows. Bruno, sitting opposite Flora, looked terrified and more in need of his skateboard than ever.
Ines, of course, immediately launched into conversation as though she’d known them her whole life. Flora was seated next to Sylvie, a seventy-six-year-old woman with the skin of a baby who
proceeded to regale Flora with merry tales of her widowhood and, in particular, her current torrid affair with the butcher.

The food was delicious but rustic, bowls of ratatouille passed down the benches from the waitress who stood at the far end, dishing them out from a giant tray. Flora took a look down at her
dress and hoped for the best. One spot of tomato sauce and it would be ruined.

More wine was served and as the women around him talked, Bruno occupied himself intently with either eating or drinking; it meant he didn’t have to make small talk. He took it upon
himself, as the only man on the table, to keep everyone’s glass full at all times – so that soon Flora had lost count of how many she’d had, which was rather the point for her
tonight. She wanted to let loose. She wanted oblivion; she wanted to give up the pretence of being in control of her own life when in fact she was anything but; it had run away without her. What
was the point in even trying? One lie and an entire life could fall. Why did anyone even try to keep it together? Chaos had its own gravitational pull; sooner or later, they all had to succumb.

The mayor got up to make a speech, everyone clapping and calling as he took to the stage. Flora shifted slightly in her seat to get a better look. A band behind him was already warming up, the
guitarist strumming quietly by the speakers.

Beyond the stage, Provence twinkled below them, the vividity of the azure-blue sea dimmed for the night. Sylvie had told her there was a fireworks display due to go off at 10.30 p.m. – it
would still be too light before then – and she could only imagine how much more spectacular the setting would become as colours were scribbled in the night sky, gathering the entire region
under the umbrella of their celebrations.

She looked around at the crowd as the mayor spoke, intrigued by this madly diverse, eclectic group of people gathered together to eat, drink and dance by the foot of the town walls: rich and
poor, young and old, local and foreign, families and dignitaries, lovers and enem—

And then she heard her. She heard Natascha before she saw her – that sharp laugh that always made Flora catch her breath, breaking through the respectful silence accorded to the mayor
during his speech. Several heads turned, frowns settled on foreheads as the culprit was identified. Bruno caught her eye but he didn’t need to say a word. She knew as well as he did that
where Natascha led, Xavier was usually sure to follow.

She dropped her head suddenly, knowing that he was here and he had seen her; now that she had broken off from her polite conversation, she felt the weight of his stare as surely as if he’d
been kneeling on her chest.

Natascha laughed again, like a hyena in the savannah, the sound warning others of her presence. In spite of herself, Flora looked up. Natascha was sitting three tables along; Xavier five people
down from her. He was pouring some wine, a blonde – different from the one who’d knocked her flying in Paris – talking intently on his left. But as he put the carafe back down,
his eyes rose to hers again with a certainty that he’d find her, as though he’d only left off from looking at her for a moment.

She looked away before he could lock her in a gaze. She remembered his snub this morning; and the one yesterday afternoon; and the way he’d called her nothing in front of his family; and .
. . no. She was
done
with him, his games. She only had energy for Freddie now. She was on emotional lockdown.

And yet she didn’t hear a word of what the mayor said. She didn’t notice that everyone was clapping. She could only think of him, a man she didn’t want to want.