Love in Vogue (32 page)

‘I don’t suppose congratulations are in order?’ she asked, her voice subdued.

‘I know your father would have been happy. Brozard never agreed before because he wanted to sabotage our relationship. Of course, now he wants to remarry himself, it’s all different. But one should always celebrate freedom, and I intend to do just that.’ She paused, eyeing Corinne anxiously. ‘I’ve invited Philippe and his fiancée, by the way.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, everyone needs to get used to the idea of their marriage, and she could do with some support. There were horrendous rumours floating about last week after Philippe announced that Isabelle was his daughter.’

‘So I heard.’

‘She’s a sweetheart. Have you seen her?’

Corinne hadn’t yet met Claire and Isabelle, though she’d seen Philippe a couple of times since he announced his engagement. The prospect left her undaunted. She stood up. ‘Is Yves coming tonight? I wanted a word with him about Elegance Hotels.’

Toinette led the way to the dining room to put the final touches to flowers and ornaments on the table. ‘I did invite him, but he said he was going to visit his mother at the hospital.’

‘Surely he could have gone this afternoon?’

‘Actually, I’m relieved. He’s so miserable he really depresses me. It was bad enough when he was going through that farce with Gabrielle, but it’s even worse now.’

Corinne grimaced. ‘The power Yolande has …’

‘It’s a shame we can’t bottle it. Our perfume sales would go through the roof.’

Corinne laughed and went to answer the door. It was Miles. He put a bouquet of flowers on the hall table, then crushed her against his chest.

‘Miles, you’re creasing my dress.’

‘Who cares.’ His lips were demanding, hers immediately responsive. ‘That’s better. God, I missed you. I’ve never hated London so much in my life as during the last three days. Have we got a spare half hour?’

‘And here I was planning to let you ravish me all night.’

‘Hmmm.’ He kissed her until she felt light-headed and then pulled back. ‘I don’t suppose it would be asking too much for some food? Real men find it hard to ravish on railway sandwiches and flat beer.’

She led him off to the kitchen, where Francoise scolded him for eating some chocolate biscuits, though he assured her it wouldn’t spoil his appetite for the substantial buffet in preparation. Corinne had briefed Miles about Philippe and Claire to avoid any awkwardness. Her gut feeling was that Philippe wouldn’t have told Claire about their affair, and when they were introduced his deliberate way of casting Corinne as a friend and neighbour from childhood left no doubt as to the conduct of future relations. Claire greeted her warmly, quite free of embarrassment. Corinne was agreeably surprised. Trust Philippe to land on his feet again.

‘So when do you two walk up the aisle?’ Miles asked, keeping a tight grip on Corinne’s waist.

‘The end of August,’ said Philippe decisively. ‘I do hope you’ll come with Corinne? Perhaps we’ll set an example.’

Claire nudged him reprovingly, noticing Corinne’s desperate look of appeal across the room at Toinette. Miles just held her tighter. He was surprised to find it a rather attractive idea. But he somehow found himself deftly detached from the group by Toinette to be introduced to some fresh arrivals, and Corinne asked Philippe for news of Marie-Christine, who had undergone her hip operation the previous week.

‘She’s doing extremely well. The consultant is confident of full mobility, but of course she’ll need physiotherapy and some sort of support for a while.’

‘That’s marvellous. I can’t tell you how pleased I am. We’ve been waiting for this for years,’ she added, turning to Claire. ‘I don’t know how Philippe managed to persuade her. No one else could.’

‘My superior charm, of course.’

Claire smiled at him affectionately, and Corinne saw how it had all happened. Claire really was attractive; not just in looks, but in her whole manner. Philippe seemed to appreciate his good fortune, and though Corinne felt he could never deserve such a wife, it would certainly be an ideal marriage for him now. She discussed their plans for the Château Briteuil, which they were in the process of buying, and asked them to bring Isabelle to see her soon.

Claire was favourably impressed, and looked at Corinne’s retreating back for some moments when she left to rejoin Miles.

‘So that’s Yolande’s sister. I see now why Yves is so upset.’

Philippe lowered his eyes, relieved the meeting had passed off so well. Corinne was a born diplomat. ‘You’re worried about Yves, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I don’t think your treatment is right for him.’

‘Oh. And what do you know about it?’ he asked, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘Been having a heart to heart?’

‘Not exactly. But we had a long conversation about life in general.’

‘And what’s your verdict, doctor?’

‘His symptoms show no signs of abating, and I think you’ve made a wrong diagnosis.’

‘Really!’

‘You think it’s just sex, but that’s not the whole story, Philippe. He’s an emotional type.’

‘I know that. But I was hoping that if he got back into circulation he’d see that there are other women out there who could make him happy.’

Claire shook her head. ‘He’s obsessed with Yolande. Couldn’t we get them back together?’

‘My darling, short of kidnapping her and carrying her down to St Xavier by force, it’s impossible. Because she’s also obsessed – with that rat-bag Patrick Dubuisson.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure it will last. I saw an article about him last week to publicise this film he’s making, and not a word about Yolande, even though she’s backing the film. They ran a photo of him in a clinch with Miss California.’

‘I might have guessed,’ he said. ‘I give up! Let them both be miserable and wreck each other’s lives. It’s not our responsibility.’

Claire allowed the subject to drop. Perhaps she shouldn’t interfere. Yet she still had a feeling that no amount of prompting by his family would help Yves to find a replacement for Yolande or jolt him out of his depression. From scraps of gossip, she gathered that he was widely considered a loser for having let Yolande go and an even bigger idiot for moping about it.

Yves had spent a couple of hours with his mother as usual. Late April, and he could hardly believe the transformation. Philippe hadn’t been home even two months, yet life had already changed completely. His mother was recovering well from her operation and could walk without pain. She would be able to leave hospital in a matter of days and it had been decided that she would convalesce at Claire’s Versailles home, to be near her physiotherapist. The new arrangements meant that Yves found himself spending most of the week in Paris, and he was well aware that his family had a hand in the unwanted invitations to parties now flooding in from all quarters.

Driving back to his flat, he debated whether or not to go to a cocktail party later in the evening hosted by Jacqueline Lenormand, whose politician husband had recently sprung to ministerial prominence. One of those affairs where by dint of cramming as many people into as small a space as possible, sociability was compulsory. Probably a political crowd, with a sprinkling of journalists. Yves remembered being introduced to a rather lovely reporter at Jacqueline’s last party – Anne-Louise Chevagnac. She had been interesting. He decided to go.

The Lenormands had an apartment on the Ile St Louis, and Yves was greeted by serried ranks of official-looking cars as he cruised along the Quai de Bourbon, searching for a parking space. It promised to be a tedious couple of hours, but he deserved a drink for manoeuvring into the narrow gap between a Volvo and a Mercedes, while a taxi driver who had deposited other Lenormand guests nearby watched beady-eyed, willing him to reverse into a bollard.

‘My dear baron, how good of you to come! How’s your mother? Tell her I’ll visit as soon as I can. For me? How kind. Such beautiful flowers! Do come and meet everyone.’

Yves half-listened to Jacqueline’s effusions. She always said ‘
My dear baron
’ very loudly, so quite a few people looked round. He found it amusing. She was an ungainly middle-aged woman with a certain charm, not at all in harmony with the slinky low-cut gowns she always wore. He followed her dutifully into her small salon, and was immediately lost in the crowd. These things were managed so much better on the Avenue Foch.

The usual Lenormand set – conservative politicians, one or two media types, a fair number of businessmen, and an assortment of women – at this stage engaged in energetic girl talk on the hard chairs lining the walls. Yves managed to pick up a couple of canapés and a glass of wine, and dodged a purposeful-looking man who would probably want to discuss the latest initiatives on unemployment. He headed towards the women. One or two smiled invitingly. Then he saw Anne-Louise, and promptly occupied the vacant seat next to her.

‘Hello. I don’t know if you remember me? Yves de Rochemort.’

‘Of course.’ She gave him a mischievous look, and he realised her eyes were green like Yolande’s. But she had blonde hair, and a totally different cast of features. ‘How are you,
my dear baron
?’

It was a wicked imitation, and he laughed. ‘You look bored.’

‘Seen it all before,’ she replied. ‘I’m supposed to be gleaning some valuable insights into Lenormand’s policies, but I had to give up the ballet to come here, and so far the talk isn’t much compensation. Nor is the food for that matter.’

‘Perhaps I could …’ He hesitated, trying to remember his moves. Be bold. Let her think he made a habit of this sort of thing. ‘Perhaps I could take you to dinner later?’

She seemed rather surprised. After all, they barely knew each other, and his romantic failures were no secret. ‘That would be lovely.’

Dinner and – well. He couldn’t deny he found her very attractive and his body was screaming for action. They chatted for a while about her job, which she said she greatly enjoyed when it didn’t involve evenings like this.

‘I’m off to New York next week,’ she said.

‘For long?’

‘Three weeks. Debate on sub-Saharan Africa at the UN.’

A flashgun popped in front of their eyes.

‘Go away, Marcel!’ she snapped.

Yves looked up, annoyed. Marcel Froment’s pictures usually appeared in all the scandal-sheets. So much for discretion. Inviting photographers to her parties was one of Jacqueline’s bad points. To avoid further intrusion, he took Anne-Louise’s empty glass and went off to refill it, hoping the photographer would have disappeared before he got back.

Yves found it difficult to get through the press of people to the buffet. He was cut off by a group of men, who were deaf to any suggestions that they might move. Then he heard one of them mention Yolande’s name. He strained his ears to listen. Yes, it was definitely her they were talking about. His heart began to thud.

‘You haven’t got a hope, André. She’s been the exclusive property of that actor since she left Hervy.’

Yves felt his hackles rise, and pushed forward to hear the rest. He recognised André Hamel, a stocky, dark man in his thirties, the editor of a fashionable weekly journal.

‘She never used to be so exclusive. I had her before she even knew Dubuisson,’ said Hamel. ‘About the time she got engaged to be married, in fact. Never had such a great lay.’

Yves felt something within himself snap; no self-control, no polite heartache now. Just sheer, overpowering rage. He dropped the wine glass and grabbed Hamel’s tie, forcing him round so they were face to face. Everybody suddenly fell silent and backed away.

‘How
dare
you talk about any woman in such a disgusting way? Yolande wouldn’t have looked twice at a heap of shit like you! Maybe this will teach you to brag about your imaginary lovers in future.’

Afterwards no one quite remembered how it happened, but Hamel appeared to fly across the room, sent sprawling by the punch Yves planted expertly on his jaw.

‘Come on, get up and fight.’

Hamel moaned, and a bevy of women hurried over to help him.

‘Leave him!’ ordered Yves.

They scattered. Nobody recognised this Yves de Rochemort as the butt of their malicious gossip. His blue eyes were ferocious, his lips curled in scorn, he towered over Hamel.

‘Come on, Hamel, get up!’

‘Yves!’

It was Jacqueline, absolutely frantic. Her reputation, her sophistication, all threatened by this ‘most unfortunate misunderstanding’. ‘For God’s sake,
my dear baron
.’

There was a muffled laugh from Anne-Louise Chevagnac.

‘Get up! Get up and repeat what you said!’

Hamel held his hand over his mouth, blood running down to his chin, very reluctant to risk another blow. Yves stood over him, ready to haul him to his feet, while Jacqueline kept pulling his jacket and begging him to calm down. He shook her off, then turned and faced the spectators.

‘What the hell are you gawping at? Maybe you didn’t hear what he said. Why don’t you repeat it, Hamel? Go on!
Who
was it you slept with while she was engaged to me? Or did you just dream up the whole thing?’

Hamel cowered by a chair, dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘It was a lie. I withdraw everything.’

Yves unclenched his fist. ‘I knew it was. If I ever hear you – or anyone else – insult her again, you know what to expect.’ He turned to Jacqueline. ‘Forgive me, madame, but no man could allow that slander to pass unpunished.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. It was all a terrible mistake, I'm sure.’

An uneasy air of studied normality returned as Hamel got to his feet and was led off to a bathroom to bleed in peace. Yves found people making way for him as he searched out Anne-Louise.

She appeared to find the whole episode a welcome diversion. ‘You were superb,’ she said.

He was silent, suddenly acutely embarrassed. What a scene. What an unutterable mess. He would have to leave.

‘Are you coming?’ he asked. ‘I’m hungry.’

As soon as they were through the door, the whole salon erupted into a storm of gossip. It was the most exciting party the Lenormands had hosted for a very long time.