Love under contract (12 page)

“Maurice is never on time,” Zara explained.

Gregor looked at her on an angle over his shoulder. “You know Maurice Maire?” he asked, startled. Whom didn’t this woman know? “He is a friend of my mother’s,” she said briefly. Yes, he knew Maurice, too; but that was a long time ago . . .

Gregor looked at a large painting: Father, mother and the daughter, it was without doubt of Zara and her parents; the mother still looked entirely normal, he discovered. No injections to the lips, no lifted face; and the father, the ancient noble line could not be denied: the long, narrow face, not unpleasant -- but incest could also not be denied. And finally, Zara, a young girl with curls and a shy smile.

Where did grandmother dig out this picture, it was ugly, the pits, Zara thought. Finally, she said, and it sounded quite bitter, “The ideal world . . .”

How old she was then, Gregor thought. “Your father was still minister here?” Zara nodded. “yes – that was the last year that my parents were married,  before their divorce . . .”

She really didn’t want to speak to him – or to anyone, but especially him – about how she suddenly became the laughing stock at boarding school when it became known that her father had had sex with an underage girl, who was almost the same age as his daughter, and that they had been photographed. That was something she could tell her therapist, but certainly not Gregor Levy.

All this went through her mind and actually Zara had to concentrate and control herself so that she could maintain the cool demeanor which one expected of her; that she didn’t scream or hit this tall blond man. It was he who had turned her mother’s head, he was at fault for everything. And she thought about the conversation she had had with her mother after the meeting in the evening at Le Grand Véfour.

Her mother, dressed in an elegant dark brown Armani suit -- one could also describe her as fresh from a facelift -- her hair perfectly styled, was waiting for her. She appeared to be drinking her second glass of Taittinger Champagne and leafing listlessly through a fashion magazine as Zara arrived at her table.

Aceline looked up and stood to embrace her daughter, while at the same time saying “You’re late . . .” Zara shrugged her shoulders and handed her white coat to the waiter.

“Sorry, Mama.” She sat down as the waiter adjusted her chair. Aceline looked at her daughter with raised eyebrows, as far as the many Botox-injections would allow. Zara looked a little tired. “So, what’s going on?” Zara asked and took a glance at the menu. She quickly said to the waiter, “Bring me a Taittinger rosé as well and some foie gras,” that will do. “Don’t you want to eat properly? You’re getting thinner all the time,” Aceline said, without a trace of real concern. Zara laughed. “Mama, as you always say, ‘a moment on the lips, forever on the hips,’ and ‘one can never be too thin!’” Aceline smiled. She was beautiful, her daughter, in her lilac knit, and the severe hairdo. No wonder that all the men were after her.

“So tell me, is the next divorce under way?” Zara asked and reached for the glass of Champagne, lifting it high. She toasted with her mother every time she divorced. Aceline laughed. “How well you know me!” “I’m your daughter,” Zara said without hesitation. How could she forget; after all, she also had a divorce behind her. Who knows, perhaps in thirty years she would look like her mother. This was a thought that she wanted to suppress quickly.

“And who is the lucky fellow?” Aceline sighed. “A banker,” she mumbled softly. “Mama, don’t touch that type!” referring to Gregor indirectly. “He’s no Levy, if that’s what you mean!” She looked into the gold-framed mirror behind Zara and pulled nervously on a strand of hair on her perfectly coiffed head. Zara sighed and took a long sip of Champagne.

“Okay, may be. Where did you find him?” “I have to clean up my finances. We’re broke,” she said in passing, while she poked around in her caviar, which had just been brought to the table. Zara thought that the finances would certainly be in better shape if her mother ordered fewer meals that cost $600. “How bad is it then?” Zara asked hesitantly. Aceline swallowed and said, “Bad.” Zara looked at her, wide-eyed. “What do you mean ‘bad’? Are we talking about millions, property, land . . . ?” What the devil had her mother done with all of the money? “A little of everything. The Paris apartment is mortgaged – and the bank wants to auction it off – and so on . . .” “You can’t be serious, Mama!” Zara was in shock. “Yes, unfortunately. The money was suddenly gone and I’ve never been good with finances,” Aceline sighed. “Well, great!” Zara pushed the food away; her appetite had disappeared without a trace.

“But Owen has a lot of money!” “Nice for you, but may I remind you that the property actually belongs to me, according to what Papa explicitly stipulated in the divorce papers!” Zara was furious. “On paper, my dear daughter! I’ve got to have something to live on!” “And you’re not starving, are you?” “Owen . . . “ Zara interrupted her, furious. “Leave your new lover out of the discussion; your men haven’t brought you much luck anyway. Now I’ll have to take over!” Aceline flinched noticeably; she wasn’t used to such a tone from her own daughter, although she knew her daughter well, and she was aware that she wouldn’t put up with anything not to her liking. For Zara, men were a red flag, she used them, dropped them, changed them like her underwear, and kept real feelings at a distance – she actually did it right, Aceline had to admit.

“What do you mean?” Aceline asked. Zara crumpled the napkin on her lap and played with her glass. “Tomorrow, you have to put everything that doesn’t yet belong to the bank in my name, then I’ll find a way!” She considered whether she should tell her mother about the situation with Levy.

As she remained quiet for a while, Aceline noticed that her daughter still had something on her mind. “What else are you thinking? Would you like dessert? I recommend the mango sorbet.” She waved to the waiter and looked questioningly at Zara. Zara shook her head. “No, thank you.” After the waiter had taken Aceline’s order and left, Zara said straightforwardly, “Levy wants to marry me!” Aceline dropped her glass. The couple next to them looked at Aceline, startled. Everyone knew Aceline.

Aceline held her hand in front of her mouth. Zara sat there quietly and looked at her mother. “Calm yourself, Mother, you’re causing a stir here,” she said coolly and tossed her napkin over the wet spot on the tablecloth. The color in Aceline’s face turned from white to red. She thought for a moment that she had misheard. “Can you repeat that?” she asked in a deliberately softer voice.  At the name Levy, various thoughts crossed her mind: she saw Gregor’s face in front of her and her heart pounded to the point of bursting. How long had it been – ten, fifteen years, or more?

“Gregor Levy wants to marry me,” Zara repeated slowly.  Aceline shook her head. “How did he arrive at that decision? How did you actually meet him?”  She had no idea about Zara’s plan. “I work as an attorney for LHM and he was sailing with your ex-husband, the two are friends . . .” “Antonio had never mentioned that,” Aceline said, offended. “Well, now he’s your ex, so don’t get upset!” Zara leaned back. “And, no, I haven’t slept with him yet, and no, I have no plans to marry him,” Zara said, before her mother could ask these questions. “But – I don’t quite understand?” She waved to the waiter. “Please bring me a Cognac.” She needed one to get over this fright.

Zara folded her arms across her chest. “I am, for him, some kind of status-symbol, which he would like to have!” Aceline shook her head, she still didn’t understand. Then, yes then, she had wanted him, and how! This very young banker, former model, breathtakingly handsome , she would have done anything for him, but he?

“And you?” Does he still look so good?” She had seen pictures of him in the newspaper from time to time, but they were mostly photos out of focus. People said he didn’t like to be photographed. “Yes, he still looks good,” Zara said, a little unnerved. Her mother still seemed to be morose about him. “And what will you do?” “I’m going to finish him. He will be held accountable for everything, but everything,” she said softly, and reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Mama, believe me, he will regret that he robbed our firm and that he hurt you.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “Zara, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Aceline cautioned, weighing every word. On the one hand, she was grateful that her daughter was on her side, but on the other hand? All of that lay in the past and at that time . . . she hadn’t told Zara the whole truth about what had happened, but she simply couldn’t.

“Yes, it is a good idea, you’ll see – at the same time he’ll also clean up our finances and so discreetly – no one will even hear about it . . .” She already had her plan in mind, she just will have to have a little patience, he has to feel that he has conquered. She has to play the aloof aristocrat who lets no one, let alone any man, get near her.

“Zara, be careful, the man is not stupid,” Aceline cautioned again. Zara smiled; she found it touching that her mother was afraid for her; she usually saw her mother in an entirely different light.

“You don’t have to worry about me, I know my way around men!” Aceline sighed. “Apparently better than I do,” she admitted and it didn’t sound as if she was happy about it. Zara made a face. “I only make a mistake once!” she said, alluding to her mother’s many marriages and her own short one.

Lost in her thoughts about the dinner with her mother, she hadn’t noticed that Gregor was still nearby.

“Zara?” She stopped in the door of the salon briefly and looked at him. What else did he want?  “You will marry me,” he said assuredly. Oh no, she thought, that she will not, but she would get him anyway and finish him off.

Her eyes were so sad, he thought, something wasn’t the same as usual; she was also not as confrontational as usual. She shrugged her shoulders resignedly and sighed. Her plan seemed to be moving along, she saw compassion in his eyes. Suddenly she smiled: Maurice had arrived. She left Gregor standing there and went off to welcome Maurice.

Maurice, a man in his sixties, still wiry and well-groomed, with salt and pepper hair and dark eyes, had worked as a designer for years, a few of them in renowned fashion houses such as Dior and then as head designer at Amacord. After all these years he was burned out, and, to be honest, the take-over had come at a convenient moment for him and gave him an excuse to step down, with his head held high. But he still wanted to haggle a bit, to assert himself, above all when he found out with whom he was dealing, one of his former top models, to whom he had even dedicated a perfume. He had always described him as one of the most beautiful of men. He was so perfect, but unfortunately not homosexual. Gregor Levy, the blond German Jew, who fit none of the clichés, neither model, nor Jew, or now as CEO. He was, however, even more astonished when he saw Zara.

Zara, Aceline’s daughter. The little girl who, even in her younger years, already wore his collection; the little one in the school uniforms and her incredibly beautiful mother. The family was a little crazy. The father, who preferred girls under the age of consent; the mother, who chased after younger men – yes, and the daughter, who didn’t miss a party, although highly intelligent, was also a little loopy. An unusual family, if one can describe that as a family. He saw Gregor, whom he still found as handsome as ever, in conversation with Zara.

So that’s what it was; the handsome CEO had fallen in love with the little princess, Maurice thought, amused. If he doesn’t get burned by her, like half of the men in Paris. He had heard rumors; no one escaped when Zara was in campaign mode, intent on conquest. Well, he wasn’t her father – and he didn’t seem interested, living on his drafty estate and planting vineyards!

A little later Gregor asked Zara where she had gotten her dress. She grinned. “From my mother’s closet, a bottomless font.” Who knows, if these didn’t also belong to the bank? But even that could be changed by this man with the hard German accent, if she wished.

As the multi-course dinner progressed, Gareth had to apologize to Zara, who was sitting next to him. He, an American, was very impressed by the elegance of the evening. It was just as he had seen in films, and she, the hostess, reminded him so much of a combination of Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn, that he himself felt as if he were in a film from the fifties.

“I’m sorry about the lawyer’s apartment,” he said and took her hand. “Yes, it’s quite something  when someone doesn’t recognize me,” she said graciously and characterized him as a damn uncultured American banker in her mind.

After dinner Maurice withdrew into the salon with Gregor, Zara, Nevill and the bankers. Even before they got there, Maurice whispered to Zara, “I never thought that you would be working for LHM.” She knew exactly what he meant. She shrugged her shoulders – she couldn’t tell Maurice of her plan, since Gregor was once one of his top models. Who knows what kind of close relationship he still had with Gregor. So, she said only, “Times change, Maurice; one can’t always make the choices one would like.” He sighed. How right she was.

At some point in the discussion the freedom of artistic expression came up, and Gregor, who had kept relatively quiet and left the discussion to Nevill, spoke for the first time: “Maurice, is the issue about your creativity? Are you afraid that we’re encroaching too much?” Maurice nodded, that was exactly it, that’s what he was concerned about, the business itself was never his interest.

“My heavens, Maurice, how naïve are you? Today almost no one can afford haute couture – and if, the collections must sell – and besides a few good years,” he looked at Zara; her dress clearly belonged to that time, “that is certainly not the rule in your case!” Maurice opened his mouth and wanted to defend himself. He had always received words of praise in the press, his collections were rich in ideas, creative, unusual . . . but he remained quiet when he saw Gregor’s gaze. “Don’t tell me that it’s not true; I personally had the pleasure of wearing your artworks for a few years!” His blue eyes glinted. A few of the men, particularly the two bankers, perhaps didn’t know how he had made his money, and grinned in amusement. Now Maurice had found his voice again. “But it was a sensation!” he interrupted. He thought about the almost-twenty-year-old blond boy in the hot jackets.