Beauty (26 page)

‘Of course, I will take no offence.’ He smiled silkily. ‘Your mother is of an age where she is not twenty-one anymore. After divorce, many women know what they want. I love her, and she needs a companion; it is not healthy for a young man such as you to remain in the house.’

‘And a prenuptial agreement?’

His eyes widened innocently. ‘Ah, we do not accept those. If one is not committed to marriage, why marry? Penelope seems very firm. She tells me, when she married your father she was a girl; now she is a woman. We will share what we have.’

‘And you have . . . ?’

‘My talent; my creativity. A lifetime of devotion. I can give Penelope guidance. Also, she wants to have a little fun, and this is my gift . . . The gift of laughter.’

Laughter, all the way to the bank
.

He smiled warmly. ‘She certainly deserves some laughter. Very good, you have my blessing, Philippe. Bring a smile back to my mother’s face.’

Edward reached across and offered a handshake. The Frenchman’s sweaty palm slipped into his, and he refrained from crushing it between his fingers.

The dinner was almost unendurable, but he endured it. It was good to see that Philippe liked to drink. Edward matched him, keeping his glass full, but taking only small sips, then calling for a different wine. But Philippe stopped at three glasses, looking sideways at his new fiancée, who stuck to water, gazing adoringly at him all the while.

‘But it’s so tremendous you get on so well,’ Penelope exclaimed when they got to dessert. ‘I couldn’t be happier.’ She pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘I may skip the coffee and petits fours, though; I have a headache.’

‘Come on, Mother, you should go upstairs to rest. I’ll send Philippe up soon, I promise.’ Edward winked jovially at his stepfather-to-be. ‘We’ll just head to the drawing room for some conversation, a small brandy . . .’

Philippe perked up immediately. ‘Well . . . if my
chérie
does not mind?’

‘Oh, no! That sounds lovely. I will . . . I will be upstairs.’ She pushed back her chair. Edward suspected a migraine, from the stress, which was fine by him. When those things came on, his mother could concentrate on nothing else.

‘Philippe, come on through.’ Edward nodded to the butler. ‘Bring me some brandy – a special bottle from the cellar. Try the Hine & Co. champagne cognac – the 1934.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘You know your wine,’ Philippe said, admiringly. ‘The 1934 is a masterpiece.’

Penelope walked slowly and painfully up the stairs, and Edward noted that Philippe did not so much as look back at her.

The drawing room was warm, the thick velvet drapes drawn against the cold. Edward poured himself a little brandy and swallowed and spluttered, pretending to have downed a great gulp. There was a fireplace here, too, and he passed Philippe a glass full of the amber liquid, enough of it to swim in. The warmth and the comfort was too much to resist.

‘I must go to your mother,’ the older man said, greedily eyeing the brandy. ‘She will expect me.’

‘No; I recognise the signs. She has a bad headache. She won’t expect more than a kiss on the cheek. It’s a special occasion; drink up.’

He took a deep sip. ‘Fantastic. What a cognac.
Mon Dieu.
’

‘We will have a better one served at the wedding. What do you think? A small affair, hosted here? Or something larger?’

‘We want it done as soon as possible; we will head down to City Hall. Just on our own. Your mother doesn’t want any fuss.’

And you don’t want any delay
, Edward thought.

‘Oh, I agree, soon – but you must enjoy the moment. A few select friends. A society columnist, perhaps. Your entrée, Philippe, into major society. Come, you don’t want to stand there in a dingy room with a strip light.’ He packed scorn into his voice. ‘We can have a judge marry you, here, in a couple of weeks. First, you can fly Mother to Paris, see the apartment you’re buying together . . .’

‘There would be press coverage?’

‘Lots of it,’ Edward promised.

‘I
would
like to see the apartment.’

‘Make sure you’re choosing the right one. You and Mother need to spend your money wisely when you invest together. And she would like a break. Paris has some marvellous couturiers for a second marriage; an elegant brocade coat, perhaps. I can organise the wedding here. The Johnsons do things the right way; I’m sure the Leclercs do, as well.’

‘Absolutely. Yes.’ He took another deep drink of the brandy. ‘This stuff is
merveilleux
. I must stop, though, Edouard, or I will have a terrible hangover tomorrow.’

‘No, no.’ Edward suppressed his excitement. It was all going so well; it was easy. ‘Take five or six of these.’ He pulled out of his pocket a bottle of baby aspirin. ‘Drink some water, and you will be absolutely fine.’

‘
Merci
.’ Philippe chucked them down like candy, and Edward poured him a large glass of water from the jug on the table, ice cubes clinking delicately. Then he took the brandy away.

‘It’s settled then. I will tell Mother and make the arrangements: a society wedding in two weeks. Oh, and I will have moved out of the house by the time you return – I’m buying a place of my own.’

‘Fantastic!’ Philippe said. ‘You will be very happy in your own place.’

‘I’m sure I will. Goodnight, Philippe.’

Edward worked steadily, and it was a thrill. He contacted gossip writers; he booked a judge, set a date. Invitations went out in the post, just a few trusted friends, enough to make a wedding. His mother was ecstatic; he went to the house for dinner every other night.

Enough to get Philippe a little drunk, to pass him the aspirins, to settle into a pattern.

‘Darling, this is so kind of you,’ Penelope said. ‘I don’t feel up to organising a wedding, but you’re taking care of us so well.’

‘Momma, you and Philippe need a proper sendoff.’

She would sit with them nights when Edward organised the digestifs, watch him hand over the headache pills, make small talk about the apartment search. He called the family travel agent, booked first-class tickets for them to Charles de Gaulle, praised the nineteenth-century penthouse Philippe was buying on the Rive Gauche. He even invited some reliable friends of his mother’s around, so they could gossip over his wedding plans together.

‘What do you think of these?’

Philippe sat in his father’s armchair, lording it over proceedings, nursing his vintage brandy. Matthew and Jane Elliott, and Lourdes and Spencer McCain, two of their old crowd of couples, had been dragooned in, reluctantly, but Edward had persuaded them.

‘Edward – I did a lot of business with your father,’ Matthew said. ‘And this French guy . . . I gotta be honest with you . . . not our kind of thing.’

‘Matt, Dad’s gone. He’s finding himself. Mom needs to see Jane. You know she’s gotten over substance abuse. The wedding means a lot to her. Just show up once, please.’

Sigh
. ‘OK, son, since you insist.’

‘I don’t think your mother should marry this man,’ Lourdes McCain told him. ‘Please don’t be angry at me, Edward.’

‘It’s not our decision, though – and she’s dead set. Look, I just want her to be happy. You can help. One dinner.’

And they showed.

Edward took no chances. He booked the airline tickets and paid for them in full. He found a small apartment, right on Central Park West, a block from his mother’s. It was overpriced and tiny, but that location always sold. To the world, he was totally involved with the wedding, backing it to the hilt.

There were no whores, no girls to hit, no S&M clubs. Edward had grown up. He was focused now. There would be time for all that later. The thought of Philippe, taking his mother’s hand, changing her name, stealing his money, peacocking in his father’s place . . . It was enough; it was everything.

As the time for the trip approached, he went over there more frequently, biding his time. Waiting for the opportunity.

And it came.

‘I think it’s another migraine,’ Penelope said.

Edward exhaled, softly. He’d been getting worried. If she hadn’t felt sick soon, he would have had to make her sick, which was a second layer to his plan. But the gods were smiling, not that there were any gods.

‘You head upstairs. Philippe and I will put the world to rights,’ Edward said. ‘There’s an excellent Calvados we want to work on.’

He enjoyed the evening, enjoyed it hugely. The excitement was almost unbearable. He filled Philippe’s glass again and again. No water this time. Every trick he had, he employed to keep him drinking.

The guy was sloppy, revolting. He forgot who he was talking to. He laughed about the apartment, the joys of real money. He didn’t want to work, and Penelope would help him concentrate on his art. Although, of course, he would be managing the family money now, since half of it would be his.

‘Don’t worry, Edouard –
ne t’inquiètes pas
; we won’t forget you; there will be an allowance, or something . . .’

‘Whatever. I’m not concerned about money. Your job is to make Mother happy. Here – one more shot; one for luck?’

‘I shouldn’t . . . I’m a little drunk.’

‘A nightcap, then,’ Edward said. ‘You can sleep it off tomorrow. No need to get up early; you aren’t some worker drone.’

‘No – that’s right.’

Edward lifted his own glass. ‘To the good life.’

Philippe tittered. ‘Why not? The good life. And I always make the ladies happy. They are so kind to me . . .’

Edward digested that . . . 
the ladies
. Of course, this was how the fool had lived before: other, desperate women; gifts of money; a place to stay. He was a charmer, a sponger – essentially a hooker. And his mother had offered that ticket to the big time.

‘Drink up, Philippe.’ He gave him a shove on the back and Philippe stumbled and blinked. ‘Best to take it all down. Your bride is waiting.’

He took the stem of the glass, laughed, and upended it. ‘
Sacré bleu
! It burns the throat. You will get your new papa in trouble . . .’

Edward swallowed, hard.
His new papa
. ‘Here, take the aspirin. You want to take a few extra tonight, don’t you think?’

‘God, yes.’

He passed him eight little round pills, curled into the palm of his hand, and Philippe tossed them back, swallowing them.

‘Great. Thank God for that.’

‘Here, let me help you upstairs,’ Edward said. He took Philippe’s arm, draped it around his shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should sleep in my old room tonight, so as not to disturb Mother.’

‘Yesss . . .’ Philippe was already slurring. ‘Sure . . . No problem . . .’

Edward dragged him up, step by step. He figured he had at least five minutes. He waved cheerfully to the servants as they passed, and hoisted Philippe through the door of his own suite, placing him face down on the bed and slipping his shoes off.

Then took the small bottle of Klonopin pills from his jacket. He took off the lid and carefully formed Philippe’s hand into a fist around the bottle, pressing his thumb and forefingers over the label, and twisting his other hand around the lid. Philippe was already drooling; Edward paid him no attention.

He put the open bottle of aspirins down on the bathroom sink. Then he turned off the light and closed the door, and, humming to himself, he left the house.

Chapter Twelve

Dina was in heaven.

Torch was humming. Every day the beauty department got a little bigger, expanded its floor space. Workmen mixed with the shoppers; there was yellow tape around the construction as she moved her territory forwards, and nobody seemed to mind.

New brands. Bigger stands. New products. More lights, mirrors and more blond wood.

She planned her days carefully: product selection, stock review, staff observations, new hirings, press releases – and at least three hours on the phone and email, working every girl in town.

The beauty bloggers were just the start.

Dina hit the editors, the beauty writers on magazines and the segment producers on local TV shows. She sent samples to personal shoppers for some of the biggest players in town. And she wrote all the press releases herself.

The result was a steady stream of good news. Once the blogs had moved on, Dina sent thank-you gifts. Torch’s name was posted on internet forums. There was a snippet in the
Daily News
, two minutes on ‘colours of spring’ for NY1 at breakfast and then small items appeared in the magazines. Suddenly Torch was a hot ticket.

Ludo was thrilled, and Dina finally had a boss who was backing her all the way.

‘These results are terrific,’ he said, after the first month. ‘I think you should take over the handbag space.’

‘Move into sunglasses. They can go upstairs.’

‘We don’t need jewellery on the ground floor.’

With every expansion, her stock rose. And Dina loved it. Ludo treated her with respect, paid her compliments, came and talked to her team. He gave her carte blanche on hirings and backed her to the hilt. As the cash registers rang and the shoppers poured in, he asked her to come up to his office, every morning.

‘You’re doing wonders.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, confidently.

‘I want to leverage the success for Torch. You’re right. I’m going to make a series of announcements in the business press. My name should be on the end of all press releases – let them come from the MD.’

Dina’s smile widened. ‘That’s great! Thank you, Ludo.’

‘You can draft them, just send them up to me and my office will sign them off and put them out. Emails to bloggers you can do yourself. I’m thinking about a social-media campaign, too.’

‘That would be incredible. We need to be all over Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr . . .’

‘It’s Torch, though – so your photo will be in there, along with the other department heads.’

Dina rolled her eyes a little; the other department heads seemed as wooden as planks to her. Whatever. The beauty department was making all the strides. Her team was hot, and the other store sectors wanted some of the magic they were creating. Dina understood reflected glory. Plus, at the moment they were jealous that the spotlight was on one person. Maybe she should share it around, soothe some wounded egos.