Love in Vogue (24 page)

‘Darling, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.’ She smiled impishly, as his words sank with delicious warmth into her heart. ‘I really am stuck with you, aren’t I?’

‘Yep. Hope you don’t mind.’

‘No. Actually it’s rather wonderful.

Je t’aime, mon amour

.’ She kissed him and sighed. ‘I love you, Miles. I do love you so much.’

Chapter Thirteen

Sunday morning. Yves scowled as he surveyed the black stubble on his face in the bathroom mirror. Time to make himself look debonair. Sunday was Gabrielle’s day. The last time he had collected her, her father had dropped very unsubtle hints about their protracted courtship. He groaned as he switched on his electric razor. His mother was in the conspiracy too. They were all pushing him to marry Gabrielle – and the very idea killed him. Why was he even bothering to keep up the charade? Just to keep the peace, maintain the illusion that he was OK when inside he was an emotional wreck. He wondered if it was worth it. Peace at any price. Appeasers usually ended up having to fight.

Then Philippe wandered in and sat on the hard wickerwork bathroom chair, eyeing him while he finished his shave; almost like a farmer sizing up an animal at auction.

Yves glanced at him sharply. ‘I’ll be out of here in a minute.’

‘No need,’ said Philippe. ‘I’m not in a rush. I want to talk to you, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ Yves faced him. Wearing only a towel he suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘You, of course. You’re a damn fine specimen. But I’m worried about you.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m wondering what you do when you need a woman.’

Yves just stared at the floor, wishing there was a trap door that would swallow him up.

‘If you were getting it on with Gabrielle you wouldn’t look as though you’re going to your execution,’ continued Philippe coolly, ‘and you broke up with Yolande ages ago. You don’t seem to get out much and there’s no talent here. So what do you do?’

‘I work.’

‘So that’s why you make such good profits. I see now where I went wrong. But really, doesn’t it get you down?’

Yves bit his lip. Trust Philippe to start a subject like this. He wasn’t even like an older brother now; more like a concerned father, his eyes questioning, understanding, encouraging.

‘Did you sleep with Yolande?’

‘No.’

‘Big mistake. She’s the sort of girl who has to know she’s wanted in bed. That’s probably why she left.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ said Yves tersely.

‘Well I think it is. You look so bloody miserable, it’s almost contagious. Now, why don’t you stop being shy and tell me how you endure life without sex?’

Yves stared at Philippe, amazed. In only a few days his ne’er-do-well brother had detected a problem their mother wouldn’t have guessed at in as many years. As long as he didn’t complain and kept working, she assumed he was all right, trusting that Gabrielle would console him for the loss of Yolande – Gabrielle, who left him stone cold.

‘Well?’ asked Philippe.

‘Sometimes when I’m abroad on business I go to clubs. You know what I mean. But I just can’t go through with it. Women like that make me sick.’

‘And in Paris?’

‘I’m hardly ever there for more than a few hours at a time. Maman really needs me here now she’s ill.’

‘So when did you last have sex?’

Yves was appalled that he had to think about it. Must have been with Nathalie, a girl he’d dated briefly before he’d finally got together with Yolande. ‘Almost two years ago.’

‘Christ! It’s a good thing I came home. First, Gabrielle – you don’t even fancy her, do you?’

‘No.’ Yves perched on the edge of the bath, feeling more relaxed.

‘Well you’d better do the decent thing and end it before she thinks she can’t live without you. Then we’ll find a woman who can appreciate your charms properly.’

‘But Philippe, I …’

‘I know you still love Yolande, but she’s gone. Surely you can’t bear any more years like this?’

‘No, but – well, I’m not like you.’

‘Obviously not. But you always used to be able to keep the ladies happy in bed. Why on earth didn’t you sleep with Yolande once you got engaged?’

‘I wanted our wedding night to be the first time.’ He became less tense. It was easy to talk to Philippe. When he was in a mood like this he was a good listener, and no one had listened to Yves for a very long time. ‘The marriage was supposed to follow soon after our engagement, and I thought I could wait.’

‘You honestly didn’t think she was still a virgin?’

Yves gave him a withering look. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘Not at all,’ agreed Philippe cheerfully, lighting a cigarette. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands off her.’

Yves squared up, clenched a fist. Philippe just smiled. ‘Idiot. I meant if I’d been you.’

His brother relaxed. ‘Yolande is special, unique. And I wanted
us
to be special because I loved her so much. That meant waiting until she was my wife. Otherwise she would have been like all the other girls I’ve had – a meaningless shag.’

‘She must have thought you were gay – or impotent. And if you love someone, it’s never meaningless. You moron.’

Yves sighed heavily. He didn’t need Philippe to tell him that now. ‘You don’t understand how it was here after you left. Jean-Claude, Maman, even Toinette – desperate to get it all right. And I really wanted that for us too. But Yolande was away a lot on modelling assignments and she kept postponing the wedding. We had a few rows about it, but she came back each time. How long she’d been Patrick Dubuisson’s lover before I guessed something was going on, I don’t want to know. Two days after Jean-Claude’s funeral she finally told me the whole thing was off. She went straight to Paris to do a fashion show and chase up Dubuisson – barely a fortnight after her father’s death! I’ll never trust a woman again.’

Philippe was momentarily reflective. Poor Yves. What a hopeless romantic. He sometimes wondered how he’d managed to have such a man for his brother.

‘You must think I’m crazy to love Yolande after everything,’ continued Yves. ‘But I simply can’t get her off my mind. At Christmas, when I saw her and Gabrielle together – God, it was hell. I’ll never be happy with Gabrielle, but I haven’t had the guts to tell her. She says she loves me.’

‘You’ve got yourself into a hole listening to sensible advice, haven’t you? Well, that’s something I could never be accused of. I’m going to offer you a practical solution. Now, what sort of woman do you fancy? Tall? Petite? Blonde or brunette? What turns you on?’

‘Philippe, I’m not going to be fixed up with some tart. Just forget it. I’m all right.’

‘Do you really think I’d call up a tart? Don’t you trust me?’

‘Well what are you getting at?’

Philippe drew on his cigarette and exhaled slowly before replying. ‘It’s quite simple. All I’m proposing to do is restore your va-va voom. There are women – discreet, classy, perhaps slightly older than you’ve been used to – who’d be absolutely delighted to have you as a lover. They like little presents and flowers and secret rendezvous.’

‘Married women?’

‘Naturally. You’d be better off with someone who wasn’t free as long as you’re still hung up on Yolande.’

‘I’m surprised you could even suggest such a thing after what happened between you and Claire.’

Philippe was silent, then he smiled. ‘
Touché
. But now I think what happened between us was a very good thing indeed – my daughter. You don’t know how great I feel when I look at Isabelle’s picture and know she’s mine. I hope she likes me.’

‘How could she resist you? By the way, when do I get to meet her?’

‘As soon as I’ve sorted everything out with Claire I hope Isabelle can be introduced to her real family. Apparently the Garnier-Dumonts have never taken to her.’

Yves drummed his fingers on the enamel rim of the bath. ‘Are you going to marry Claire?’

‘I’ll know the answer to that question tomorrow,’ said Philippe, standing up. ‘Now, I’ll get out of your way. I’m sorry if I thought you more desperate than you are.’

Yves rose and looked him in the eye. The offer was still there. Could he accept it? Admit that everything Philippe had guessed was right? But a married woman, when he still burned for Yolande …

‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said. ‘I’m going finish with Gabrielle today. About the rest – later perhaps?’

‘Just say the word.’ Philippe patted his shoulder, knowing it would take time. ‘Are you taking Gabrielle out for lunch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’ll try to knock some sense into Maman while you’re gone. There’s a specialist in Paris who’s got a brilliant track record with hip replacements. I want her to let me arrange a consultation.’

He turned away, but was halted by a towel hurled expertly over his head. He pulled it away from his eyes and looked round.

‘I’m glad you’re home,’ said Yves, grinning.

Philippe laughed and tossed the towel back. He had stayed away far too long.

Gabrielle giggled throughout lunch. At the clumsy waiter, her own jokes, and a woman sitting at a nearby table in Le Tastevin. Embarrassed, Yves ploughed through the meal in virtual silence. As they left he smiled apologetically at the woman, who looked angrily at Gabrielle but gave him a delightful smile in return. The sort of woman who could appreciate him properly? Late thirties, attractive, a full, firm figure, stationed opposite a man who looked decidedly gay. Surely not her husband. Just a friend. Perhaps she was a divorcee. Not a bit like Yolande. That stopped his reflections at once. He hurried out after Gabrielle.

‘You didn’t have to show me up like that,’ he said sternly as they got into his BMW. It was always the BMW for Gabrielle; she wouldn’t be seen dead in his muddy estate car. Yolande had never minded. She made any vehicle she sat in look like a supercar.

‘Sorry, Yves,’ said Gabrielle, still smirking. ‘But really, that dress! And her husband – have you ever seen such a creature?’

He put his foot down hard on the accelerator and drove off, heading east out of St Xavier.

‘Aren’t we going back to see your mother?’

‘No. I’m taking you home.’

‘But I don’t have to get back for ages! I wanted to talk to you. I’m thinking of applying for university.’

‘That’s a great idea.’

‘My parents keep pushing me to make a decision, but it’s tough.’

‘Not really. Just work hard for your
bac
and you’ll be all set.’

‘Do
you
think I should go to university?’

She sounded worried. He looked at her and noticed that her bottom lip was trembling. So she was trying to get him to propose and rescue her from higher education. He turned on the radio and kept his eyes on the road. When they drew near her home, he stopped in a lay-by. Gabrielle turned off the radio and waited for him to kiss her, her features now perfectly tranquil. Cold. Ugly in their immobility. He realised that he’d only ever managed to kiss her when he’d had a drink or two and kept his eyes firmly shut. Philippe had nailed it in one.

‘Gabrielle, I owe you an apology. I feel I may have misled you. Although I’m fond of you, I’m afraid things aren’t really working out. I don’t think we should see each other again.’

She turned towards him, goggle-eyed, thinking it had to be a joke. Her father had told her to expect a proposal, pointing out that it was a very good match. Better than she could really hope for with her silly face and feather brain (she was doubtful she would even scrape through her
baccalauréat
exams). And Yves was handsome as well as rich, even if he did seem to have some weird hang-ups about pre-marital sex. She guessed her parents had warned him off, but she was going to tell him that she was quite willing to let him have her, there and then, in the car. She’d done it a few times with boys in cars already, and although she hadn’t really enjoyed it, in fact found it all rather gross, it seemed to make them deliriously happy. She hoped Yves would get her pregnant; he was far too decent not to marry her then.

‘So you aren’t upset, Gabrielle? I was afraid you might be.’

‘Yves, stop teasing me.’

‘I’m not.’

Then the reaction came. First she pouted, then she yelled at him, and finally she began to cry. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. At least he hadn’t broken her heart. Bruised her vanity a little, but she’d get over it. When Gabrielle calmed down, she sulked, refusing to speak to him. He deposited her at her home and drove back to St Xavier a free man.

He was going straight back to Rochemort, then remembered that Philippe would probably still be trying to persuade their mother to consult that orthopaedic surgeon. He drove to Le Manoir instead.

‘Yves! How lovely.’ Corinne, beaming, almost jumped into his arms. ‘Come and meet my new boyfriend’

‘Boyfriend?’ He couldn’t process it. ‘How? Who?’

‘Miles, silly.’

He was flabbergasted for a second, but when he thought about it, things had been heading in that direction for some while. His mother had hinted as much after lunch the day before, but Yves had been so wrapped up in his own misery he hadn’t paid attention. But he did all the right things; hugged and kissed Corinne, shook hands with Miles, and teased them about it for fifteen minutes, as was only proper. They were so happy, so much in love. He felt a sharp stab of envy, though he was very pleased for them both. Corinne had been having a tough time recently, and her love life had seemed as disastrous as his own. And he genuinely liked Miles – a straightforward guy who talked with equal authority about corporate finance, cars, rugby, and politics.

It was Miles who dragged him upstairs to ask some questions about the equipment being used in the pictures of nineteenth-century
vignerons
. Afterwards they moved along to the alcove containing Yolande’s portrait. Yves loved it – the look of trust and tenderness, a smile uncorrupted by the lens of the paparazzi or the lips of Patrick Dubuisson.

‘I gather you were engaged to her,’ Miles commented.

‘Yes,’ he said sombrely.