Love in Vogue (13 page)

‘Because he didn’t ask you to sleep with him?’ Grace gave her a serious, searching look. Yolande lowered her eyes. ‘You should never confuse sex and love. With Patrick, it’s only sex. It’s no good staring at the floor, don’t you think we know what’s going on? We’d have to be deaf not to. With Yves, it was love. But there would have been sex. He wanted you, but not just for an affair. For life. For a family. And you couldn’t see it.
^’

‘But he never even
talked
about it.’

‘Couldn’t you read his eyes? Perhaps he is a little old-fashioned, but believe me, he’s still a man, and from all I’ve heard, a pretty hot one.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Yolande didn’t believe her. She knew exactly what her mother was trying to do, but no one could be less passionate than Yves. Who would want to be with a man who was colder than a mid-winter day in Alaska?

Her mother shook her head. ‘You’re so much like your father – throwing away something wonderful for the first pretty face to pass by.’ She deftly folded the clothes to go in the suitcase. ‘We’d better get on with this. By the way, did your father meet Patrick?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he think of him?’

Yolande placed the now satisfactorily folded dress on top of the pile. ‘He still wanted me to marry Yves.’

‘Well I must give him credit for that. And Toinette?’

‘She had a strong impression she’d seen Patrick somewhere before.’

Grace straightened up, struck by the comment. ‘Now isn’t that odd? I feel the very same thing.’

‘She’s not the only one,’ added Yolande, ‘but I can’t see it. He doesn’t remind me of anyone.’

‘You’re not as ancient as we are. Perhaps he’s like his mother. Was she well-known?’

‘She did a season at the Comédie Française once.’

‘Really? And his father?’

‘He never mentions him.’

‘Hey, come on you two, aren’t you ever going to be through with that packing?’

It was Tex. He sauntered in and looked aghast when he saw how much remained to be done. ‘What have you been getting up to? Girl talk, eh? Let’s hear it.’

‘Mummy’s been giving me a lecture,’ said Yolande. ‘And you’re just about to sit on a couture gown from Hervy.’

Tex bounded up, holding a garment bag tenderly in his right hand. ‘Will it survive?’ he whispered falteringly.

They burst out laughing. Grace threw a scarf at him. ‘Get out, you pest. And if you must know, we were discussing men.’

‘Oh,’ he drawled. ‘Where do
I
fit in?’

‘At the top of course,
mon ange
,’ said Yolande, smiling. She adored Tex.

‘OK, baby, what’s the deal this time? I’m such a sucker for compliments.’

‘How about a limo to the airport tomorrow? And dinner tonight? And just one good word for my poor Patrick?’

‘You’ve got the car. You’ve got the meal. Patrick now – well, I guess my French isn’t so hot, but I’d say he was
pathétique
.’

He grinned, and was gone before they could correct him. Grace collapsed into laughter again, but Yolande pouted for a whole five minutes.

Yolande only remembered it was All Saints’ Day when she found Paris resolutely closed for the holiday weekend. It was extra bleak in that huge apartment on the Avenue Foch, with a cold late autumnal wind sweeping in from the Bois de Boulogne. Corinne was in London until mid-November on a trip to promote the new Hervy perfumes, and Yolande didn’t relish the prospect of a fortnight alone. She invited Patrick to stay as soon as they arrived by taxi from Charles de Gaulle airport.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Please, Patrick – otherwise I’d rather stay with you until Corinne gets back.’

Patrick decided to sample life on the Avenue Foch. It wasn’t difficult to adapt to the luxury; he had already clocked up some experience whilst in New York. There was a maid to do his laundry, no one to criticise him, and Yolande had an inviting four-poster bed. But he was disconcerted when the first thing she did was to pick up the telephone and announce that she was ringing the Château de Rochemort.

‘It’s private. I must speak to the baroness. Give me a few minutes.’

He went off into her bedroom and quietly closed the door, then kicked off his shoes and stretched himself out on the bed. He wondered why she didn’t have a photograph of him on her bedside table. There was a studio portrait of her father, whom she greatly resembled. And a telephone extension. He leaned over and prised the receiver carefully off the hook, eager to hear the conversation.

It was some while before anyone answered the telephone at Rochemort, but that was by no means unusual. The place was so rambling, with extensions rather arbitrarily scattered through the splendid, empty rooms.

‘Hello, is Marie-Christine there, please?’

‘Yolande!’

Yves. Damn. She ought to have remembered he would be there.

‘Hello, Yves. Is your mother at home?’

‘No. She’s dining out.’

‘How is she?’

‘Not too bad in spirits, but the arthritis isn’t improving.’ He sounded put out by her coldness. ‘How are you? Corinne told me you were in New York.’

‘We – I just got back today. I’m rather jet-lagged. Are you all right?’

‘Not really.’ There was a pause. ‘Darling, I miss you so much. Couldn’t we …’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Are you still with that actor?’

‘Yes.’

‘It won’t last,’ he said. ‘Yolande, listen to me, please. It’s been hell all summer without you. I still love you. Won’t you give it another chance? I’ll do anything you want.’

She was tempted to hang up, but perhaps it was better to clear the air now. They would have to meet some time, and she didn’t want to have any awkwardness between them. It was a bloody nuisance that he was so closely connected to the family.

‘Please, Yves, don’t ever mention it again. It’s embarrassing for both of us.’

‘
Embarrassing
? Is that all you think of me?’

‘Of course not. I’ll always care for you – as a friend. You know that. But I made the right decision when I broke off the engagement and I’m not going to change my mind now.’

Patrick was enjoying the dialogue. He settled back on the bed, waiting for further intimacies, but Yves decided he would grovel no longer.

‘So what made you call?’ he asked coldly.

‘I wanted to tell your mother that I’ve seen Philippe.’

‘What! Where? When?’

‘In New York, at the Hervy gala. We had a long talk.’

Patrick frowned, and hooking the receiver under his chin, lit a cigarette. He had taken a strong dislike to Philippe.

‘What did he say? How does he look? Is he coming home?’

‘I think he might eventually. I can’t tell you everything. There are a lot of complications. But he’s very well and as handsome as ever. I’m sure he misses you both.’

‘Have you got his address? His phone number? Hold on, Yolande, I’ll get some paper.’

‘It’s no good, Yves. He wouldn’t tell me. But I’m sure he’ll get in touch.’

‘I see.’ He was very disappointed. ‘Well, thanks for telling me, anyway. Will you ring Maman tomorrow? She’ll demand an eyewitness report.’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t worry, I shan’t bother you about my feelings again. Give my love to Grace and Tex.’

‘They’re coming to St Xavier for Christmas.’

‘That’ll be nice,’ said Yves. ‘Goodbye, Yolande.’

She was so taken aback by the abruptness of his farewell that she held onto the receiver for some moments – long enough to hear a tell-tale click on the line. Furious, she sprinted out of the salon and along to her room. Patrick, unconcerned, smiled at her from the bed.

‘You were listening!’

‘So?’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t I? You’re mine.’

‘That’s no excuse.’

Then her anger evaporated.
He says I’m his. He must love me. I’m his
. She joined him on the bed.

‘That’s better,’ said Patrick. ‘Didn’t you think I might be jealous? I knew you were going to speak to him.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Perhaps not, but he didn’t mind. But I’d prefer it if there were no encores.’

He kissed her and began to undress her, though she was very tired and too preoccupied for sex. But Patrick seemed happy, although she couldn’t orgasm. She snuggled against him afterwards, her arm across his midriff.

‘Don’t go to sleep, Yolande.’

‘Hmm? I’m exhausted.’

‘I want to talk to you, darling. And we haven’t had anything to eat.’

She patted his stomach. ‘You’re always hungry. Go and get something from the kitchen.’

Patrick moved her and got to his feet. ‘What do you want?’

‘Pâté, bread – anything.’ She propped herself up on her elbow. ‘For God’s sake put some clothes on! If Françoise sees you like that she’ll have a fit.’

‘She should be so lucky.’

‘Show-off. Here.’ She threw him his jeans. ‘Don’t get lost. It’s left at the far end of the passage.’

Yolande was now wide awake, too conscious of everything, her mind echoing with the conversation with her mother in New York and Yves’ voice at the end of the telephone.

I still love you. Won’t you give it another chance? I’ll do anything you want.

No! It had to be Patrick. She stumbled from the bed and pulled on a dressing-gown, trying to forget. Why should it affect her now? When she and Patrick were so happy together? If only he had let her go to sleep.

He returned with a trolley laden with cold meats, bread and side salad, wine, glasses, plates, gleaming cutlery, and two artistically folded napkins.

‘Mademoiselle, room service! Perhaps you’d care for the chicken – the finest Bresse, mademoiselle. Or our pâté? The chef insists on the best ingredients. Or the
jambon persillé
? Wine? Red or white? Burgundy, naturally.’

A perfect waiter, straight out of a comedy. She laughed, and all her doubts vanished. Gorgeous, wonderful Patrick. How could she ever live without him?

When they had eaten, she asked him what he wanted to talk about.

‘The film,’ he said, pulling her into his arms. ‘What did Vic Bernitz tell you at Gianni’s on Wednesday?’

‘He more or less asked me to back the whole thing.’

Patrick whistled.

‘Don’t pretend to be surprised. You weren’t at all ill when I got back.’

‘Yolande, I’d never even dream of asking you for any money. But I had heard rumours about the backing being shaky. Someone went bankrupt or something.’

‘Convenient, wasn’t it?’

‘What’s the matter?’ he stroked her cheek. ‘Should I refuse the part? Whatever you want, darling. … Just say so, and I’ll ring Vic Bernitz this moment and tell him.’

She gazed at him thoughtfully. His hazel eyes were open, honest, loving. It was nothing to do with him. Bernitz had been trying his luck, that’s all. But if he couldn’t find another backer, Patrick would suffer. And it would be her fault. She had his future in her hands. Three weeks – no, less than two and a half now.

‘Is it really important for you to make this film?’ she asked. ‘I mean
really, really
important?’

‘It’s the only chance I’ll ever get to break into Hollywood.’

‘What would you say if I decided to back you?’

He seemed astonished. ‘You wouldn’t! Would you? But it’s impossible. They need millions.’

‘But what would you say? Patrick, I’m serious.’ She held his face in her hands. ‘Serious,
mon amour
.’

‘Yolande! You’d be an angel. Of course, you’d come on location with me, wouldn’t you? It would be fantastic being together. And it
will
be a success, I know it will. You can’t lose! You’ll make millions too. We’ll have such a marvellous time.’

He began to kiss her and her body throbbed under his slightest touch. She knew then she would back him. They could be together all the time. Forever. No drowsy fumbling this time. Raw desire and burning need, gasps, screams, moans.

‘I’m going to fuck your brains out,’ he said as he entered her.

And that’s exactly what he did.

‘There’s one big problem,’ said Yolande much later, the telephone call to Los Angeles made and everything fixed. ‘I’ll have to sell my Marchand shares.’

‘Oh, let’s think about it tomorrow. Everything’s so marvellous. Don’t spoil it by talking about money.’

She was drifting into the luxurious sleep of the sexually satiated and was soon breathing quietly in his arms. Patrick slipped from the bed and removed the trolley from the room. Françoise was rather surprised to find the glasses rinsed clean when she wheeled it back to the kitchen.

Patrick was delighted with his performance, though ashamed they had needed a little help. He carefully placed his small stash of pills back in an inside pocket of his bag. It wouldn’t do for Yolande to find it. She was firmly against drugs. But an actor had to know how to use props. And she’d certainly enjoyed the sex. It would all be for the best. She would make money from the film, and he would keep her happy for as long as necessary.

‘Better check your inbox, Miles. According to Jacques, Corinne Marchand’s in trouble.’

Miles looked across at James Chetwode, his colleague in Corsley European’s corporate finance department, then found the email from Jacques Daubigny, head of the research section, who was adept at sniffing out stories before they reached the press. A few lines suggested that it might be worthwhile to investigate Marchand Enterprises’ takeover potential now that half the family holding in the company had been diluted.

He put a call straight through to Jacques’ office, two floors below in the bank’s Paris headquarters near the Bourse.

‘I thought you’d be interested.’

‘Is it true?’

‘Absolutely. But it’s not widely known yet. I got onto it at lunch yesterday. Friend of a friend –  you know how it works. I followed it up with Georges Maury, the vice-president, this morning. He would neither confirm nor deny the rumours, but my information is that Yolande Marchand has sold her entire stake, resigned her directorship, and slipped out of the country while the storm gathers. Charming girl. Met her once at a party, but she didn’t fancy me.’