Love under contract (11 page)

If one wanted to give credence to the gossip columns, then Antonio wanted a divorce; her mother apparently had an affair with an American investment banker who, however, was still married. Nothing new in this regard, but her mother was always one for surprises, Zara thought, and turned toward the reception area.

LHM was housed in a former palace on the Boulevard Haussmann. In the elegant lobby, a number of young women dressed in black, with severe hairdos, sat and watched her enter. They knew who she was, of course. Who in Paris didn’t know Zara? Zara now stood before them and was thoroughly examined. She wore a white cashmere coat with a light silver fox collar and a narrow black leather belt. Her hair was combed straight back from her face and only her lips were painted a vivid dark red.

“Nevill Bechat is expecting me,” she said to the redhead. “Yes,  Madame.” Zara found it strange that everyone had begun calling her Madame after she turned twenty.

“Third floor; they are waiting for you.” Zara nodded and turned to head toward the elevator when she heard a familiar voice and an unmistakable accent, this time in French. The man changed languages as he did countries. “Your Highness is punctual.”

The redhead giggled softly. “Good Day, Doctor Levy.” She smiled at Gregor. Gregor hardly looked at her, only at Zara. “Doctor Levy, I am always punctual,” she said curtly.

The files were so heavy that Zara’s hand hurt. She turned around and walked to the elevator. Shortly before they got there, Gregor reached for her briefcase and took it from her with a firm grip.

“Are you carrying all the State Archives in here?” he asked merrily and pushed the button for the elevator. “I can carry my files myself,” Zara insisted, irritated, and took off her gloves. “I don’t doubt that,” Gregor grinned and allowed her to enter the elevator first as soon as the doors opened.

He looked at her coat. “Is that real?” he suddenly asked her. Zara wrinkled her nose – what did he think? That she wore knock-offs? “Naturally – it’s a Gucci coat!” she said angrily, and then noticed that it was the fur that was bothering him. “That may be, but that is a dead animal!” He twisted his mouth in disgust. “Don’t tell me, you’re a member of Friends of Animals!” Zara laughed loudly. Gregor looked at her briefly, quite indignant.  “To be honest, yes!” he admitted. “Then complain to Tom Ford,” she said pointedly, and leaned against the wall opposite him. He looked good, as always, in the dark blue coat, open over the blue tailored suit, a white shirt and a blue figured tie, very businesslike, unapproachable? It wouldn’t be all that bad to sleep with him, not at all, rather the opposite. She hardly heard him, as he responded to her advice: “That I’ll do ...”

Just before they arrived on the third floor, he suddenly asked: “Have you thought about it?!” Zara knew exactly what he meant, but acted as if she didn’t, however. She hoped that the doors of the elevator would open at any moment and would save her from having to answer. “What do you mean?” she asked, seemingly clueless, as if she had long ago forgotten his offer.

Zara was lucky; she couldn’t continue the conversation since the elevator doors did open and Nevill Bechat, the partner from the Paris office and three other men whom Zara didn’t know stood waiting for them.

Before she could leave the elevator, Gregor whispered quietly, “We’re not finished yet; we’ll speak about this later!” She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “We’ll see,” she replied.

Gregor thought about how beautiful she was and that he would have liked to kiss her at this very moment, despite the others in the room. In the anteroom adjacent to the Conference Room, Gregor handed his coat, which he had put over his arm, to a secretary. Bechat gave him a knowing smile as he noticed that Gregor had carried the young lawyer’s briefcase. Naturally each of the attorneys had already found out that he had requested her. It didn’t make any difference to him, and no one was surprised when they caught a glimpse of Zara. She had taken off her coat, and was wearing a tight, dark violet knit dress, combined with pointy-toe shoes with very high heels.

The two other men whom Zara had not seen before were bankers who apparently knew Gregor very well, and he called them by their first names. Finally, after an hour, the contracts finally came up for discussion, and Zara pushed her prepared notes across the table to Bechat. He sat at the corner, next to the fat investment banker and Gregor, who sat across from Zara. She had also prepared copies of her analysis for everyone and distributed them around the table.

By early evening the entire take-over process had been discussed, while Zara thought about her mother the whole time. The take-over process must have been very similar to this then. The current owner of the fashion label – and it had to do here with an old master of haute couture – was probably not even aware that his firm no longer belonged to him. His name would remain above the door and on the labels, but that was about it.

Finally Bechat laid his hands on the table and said: “Now we have only one more problem: Maurice Maire. We should get his signature?” Was that a question? Had no one informed the fashion designer? Zara shook her head.

Gregor leaned back and looked at Zara; he was actually thinking of something other than that stupid Maurice who, in his view, was quite creative but a bad businessman. They were all like that, creative, but they didn’t ask who would pay the bills at the end of the month.

Gregor was thinking about the woman opposite him. At that moment, she looked up from her notes and blinked briefly, which she always did, and looked directly at him. She had blood-shot eyes, he discovered. Probably from the entire day here in this stuffy room. He himself was hungry and quickly glanced at his wristwatch. It was 7:00 o’clock. How time flies! “And what have you come up with?” he asked the attorney after a long pause. Why was he paying so much money for these incompetent lawyers? “He’ll sign if he trusts us, perhaps in a nice atmosphere, not a hotel or restaurant, something more familiar; he’s a little old-fashioned in that regard,” Bechat advised and pushed the papers together, looking inquiringly at the group.

Zara put the files in her briefcase and looked at Bechat. “Perhaps in my apartment,” she suggested. Bechat raised his eyebrows. “Do you really want to do that to yourself? It’s a lot of work, there are about thirty people involved, and it’s tomorrow?!” he asked, skeptically. Gregor grinned and looked at Zara. Naturally, she, who had organized countless events, would have no problem with thirty people. “I think Mademoiselle Valois can take this on,” he said.

Zara didn’t look at him, rather she nodded and stood up. A good opportunity, she just had to create a familiar atmosphere, pictures from her family on the wall, and a few phone calls were necessary, but everything do-able! She had done other such gatherings and thirty people were nothing.

The fat banker whom Gregor called Gareth wasn’t sure. He didn’t read any of the society pages, the name of this dark-blonde meant nothing to him, only that it was hard to pronounce, and that she was pretty, if a little too thin. She wasn’t to his taste; he preferred larger women.

“But Maurice Maire, a famous fashion designer, is certainly used to top quality in everything. We can’t just -- forgive me, Miss Valois – invite him to some apartment for coffee and cake!” He shook his head.

These French people, what were they thinking, did they want to conclude a contract between a kitchen table and a living room – maybe with cheap wine? Okay, the French didn’t drink cheap wine, but . . .

Gregor smiled and awaited Zara’s reaction. She remained completely composed and only looked at Gareth with a mocking smile.

Nevill Bechat cleared his throat. He knew where Zara lived; it was definitely not a little lawyer’s . apartment. It was a residence that most CEO’s in Paris would happily claim as their own.

“My dear Gareth, you can calm yourself. Zara will not disappoint you with her little lawyer’s apartment.” He had to stifle his laughter.

The other banker got up and said: “Alright, then we’ll see one another there tomorrow. Where is it, exactly?” he asked Zara. Zara told him the address; she lived near the Tuileries, on the Rue Saint Honoré, not far from the Place Vendôme.

Gareth sighed. “Well, at least a nice area,” he said, not very impressed, and stood up. Zara looked at him and said nothing. She looked at her watch. In half an hour she was supposed to meet her mother.

“Nevill, I have another appointment,” she excused herself, shook the bankers’ hands, and said good-by.

Bechat nodded and asked briefly with whom she was meeting. “Please say hello to your mother for me,” he said. He had once had an affair with her, but she was far too demanding and he wasn’t wealthy enough.

She had hardly left the room when Gregor laughed aloud and said to Gareth: “My dear man, you have insulted our little attorney! The reference to the small lawyer’s apartment was really funny!” Nevill also had to laugh. “The woman means nothing to me,” Gareth said, a little put out. “You apparently don’t read the society pages, you read the
Wall Street
Journal
,” Nevill diplomatically excused Gareth. “Right you are, damn it, and who is this thin Frenchwoman?”

Gregor said quietly: “Let’s put it this way –  in earlier times, Mademoiselle’s ancestors were diminished in size by a head!” Gareth shrugged his shoulders. History was also not his thing. He looked at Gregor, who was very amused by this conversation.

Naturally, Zara could organize a dinner. Nevill had no doubt, as he and his wife were among the first to arrive at the elegant Parisian apartment building, where Zara’s duplex residence was located. He was impressed by its splendor, all the more so as a girl in an apron and black dress opened the entry door and greeted them. He saw the marble floors, the gilded furnishings, it was as if he had entered another world, the elegance of a lost world, which no longer had a place in the current century.

It was actually once the residence of Zara’s grandmother, whom everyone called Madame Duchess, who had died last year. After that, he had seen parts of the apartment in the newspaper, the antiques, the pictures, but in person it was far more beautiful. His wife, Estelle, pulled on his sleeve and whispered only a stunned “Wow, look at that!”

Zara had hired professional help, which also included a cook. The apartment spread out over two floors, in which the one with the entrance encompassed the public rooms, the salon, the music room, the kitchen, and a very large dining room, which Zara oversaw at this very moment with a very strict glance, as her French boss entered the room. She turned and also saw Nevill’s wife, a gaunt dark-haired Frenchwoman about forty years old in an elegant dark green evening dress.

She approached Zara and extended her hand. “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she said reverently. Zara smiled, exactly as one would expect from an aristocrat, arrogant and yet warmly. “I hope you like the apartment,” she said politely.

Zara was wearing a midnight blue silk dress with a wide pleated skirt and a draped bodice, with a low neckline down to her waist and held in place over her shoulder with a clasp. Her shoes were silver-color sandals with high heels and her hair had been blown into waves. Long sapphire earrings, the color of her dress, hung at her ears. She had chosen the dress deliberately; it was from an old collection by Maurice and had been lent by her mother, who had a great trove of designer dresses.

Zara also wore her hair down, since she had noticed that Gregor seemed to like it that way. The expression on his face always became soft, his eyes became so . . . she described them as Bambi-eyes. Some people assumed this expression when they saw little children.

Little by little the other guests also arrived with their escorts – and hardly a one of them was not impressed by the apartment, its elegance and furnishings.

Gregor arrived alone. He heard a Quartet quietly playing Jazz in the salon next to the piano. He didn’t discover Zara immediately, but he knew that she was taking care of dinner or tending to the guests.

The fashion designer had not yet arrived and Gregor hoped that he would actually appear, which was not a given since the man was quite difficult.

He looked at the rooms and thought that he had been transposed to the last century. In one room, he found photos of Zara’s childhood, in a ballet tutu, in a modest school uniform, in which her face looked unhappy.

Zara caught him standing in front of the photos and said, “You’re quite curious . . .” It wasn’t that it bothered her, for actually she had only hung up these photos two hours ago, so that he could see them. Moreover, there were very few photos of her as a child – so without further ado, she had gone into a shop and bought some children’s photos with girls that resembled her.

He turned around and smiled at her. She was holding a tray with Champagne glasses, caviar, and paté in her hands and offered him some. No one could say about a Valois that she didn’t know what was appropriate. “Not poisonous,” she said briefly, as he hesitated. He should already take the damn Champagne, she thought, since normally she didn’t serve it and did it only for him. The help was there for that!

“The apartment is huge,” he offered, in order to say something at all. A tense, crackling atmosphere lay between them.

As he picked up a glass and was about to reach for some paté, since it looked very good and he was hungry, Zara pulled the tray away. He looked at her, startled – that was not in keeping with her perfect manners. “No, that has pork,” she said, apologizing. Oh, yes, my dear, she thought, you can eat it if you want, but not here and now.

He laughed. She was really sweet; actually, he had expected that she would say nothing and only tell him later that it was pork. Because of her demeanor, he felt there was still hope, and in his mind he saw images that hadn’t been diminished here, and only confused him more. In order to think of something else, he asked her, “Our designer hasn’t arrived yet?” and looked again at the photos, above all so that he could stop looking at this woman with the deep neckline and the incredibly delicate face, and could avoid losing himself in those large cat’s eyes.