Three Weeks in Paris (6 page)

“Monday’s perfectly fine, I’ll be at the studio by about ten, and we can talk then. But just tell me one thing now … is he difficult to get an appointment with?”

“Yes, a bit, I’m afraid. But Gillian will help.”

“Can she?”

“Oh, yes, very much so … her girlfriend Mercedes has a strong connection, which is good.”

“It certainly is, and listen, I’m very appreciative, Sophie, I really am. Thanks for going to all this trouble.”

“It wasn’t anything, not really. I was happy to do it. So, I’ll see you Monday, then.”

“That’s right. Have a good weekend.”

“I will, and you do the same.”

“I’ll try,” Kay answered, and after saying good-bye she returned the phone to its cradle. Resting her head against the faded red velvet covering the chair’s back, she let her eyes roam around the room, her mind whirling with all manner of thoughts. Then quite suddenly she remembered the envelope that had arrived by FedEx yesterday, and she reached for the decorative wooden box on one end of the desk. Lifting the lid, she took out the envelope with its beautiful calligraphy—her name so elegantly written—opened it, and slipped out the invitation.

Once again she read it carefully.

Anya’s party was on the second of June, a good four months away. She wondered if she could get an appointment with François Boujon for around that time.

It would be perfect if she could, because Ian hadn’t been invited, and so she could travel alone to Paris. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought, and then she sat back in the chair with a jerk, frowning hard. Her vivid blue eyes clouded over, and her expression became unexpectedly grim.

They
would be there and she would have to see them. No, not only see them, but socialize with them, spend time with them. Not possible. They were no longer friends.

Alexandra Gordon
, the snob from New York. From the elite social set, Junior League, and all that ridiculous kind of thing. Always so toffee-nosed with her, stuck up, snubbing
her
.

Jessica Pierce
, Miss Southern Belle Incorporated, with her feminine sighs and languor and the dropping of lace hankies along the way. Poking fun at
her
, teasing her unmercifully, never leaving
her
alone with her taunts.

Maria Franconi
, another snob, this one from Italy, with
her raven hair and flashing black eyes and fiery Mediterranean temperament. And all those lire from her rich Milanese textile family, flaunting her money and her connections, treating
her
like a servant.

No, it’s not possible, Kay told herself again. I cannot go to Anya’s party. Because my tormentors will be there … how miserable they had always made her life.

She knew what she must do. She must go to Paris sooner rather than later, to meet with this man François Boujon. Hopefully she would get an appointment relatively soon. She would set everything in motion on Monday, ask to see him next month. And it did not matter what it cost.

She put the invitation back in the envelope, placed this in the wooden box, dropped the lid, and turned the key. Then once more she sat back in the chair, her eyes becoming soft and faraway as she thought of Ian. The man she loved. Her husband … who must remain her husband at all costs.

EVEN AS A CHILD, GROWING UP IN THE SLUMS OF
G
LASGOW
, Kay had always managed to escape simply by retreating into herself. When the cramped little flat where she lived with her mother and brother, Sandy, became overly oppressive, she would find a small corner where she could curl up, forget where she really was, and dream.

A great deal of her childhood was spent dreaming, and she found solace in her dreams. She could escape the impoverished, gloomy world she occupied and go to another place, anyplace she wished. It made her young life more bearable.

And she always dreamed of beauty … flower-filled gardens, picturesque country cottages with thatched roofs, grassy meadows awash with wildflowers, and grand open spaces with huge, canopied green trees where trilling bird-song came alive. And sometimes her dreams were of pretty clothes, and ribbons for her hair, and sturdy black shoes shining with boot polish for Sandy, and a beautiful silk dress for her mother … a pale blue dress to match her eyes.

But as she grew older, Kay’s priorities changed, and she began to replace her dreams with a newfound focus and
concentration, and it was these two qualities, plus her unique talent, that helped to make her such a great success in the world of fashion.

Now, as she sat at her desk, thoughts of Ian lingered, nagged at the back of her mind. But eventually she let go of her worries about her marriage and became totally engrossed in her work, as she usually did.

In many ways, she loved this old day nursery at Lochcraigie more than her busy high-tech studio in Edinburgh, not the least because of its spaciousness, high ceiling, and clarity of light.

After looking through a few sketches for her fall collection, which she had just finished, she rose and went over to the swatches of fabric hanging on brass hooks attached to the opposite wall. The vermilion wool she had focused on a short while before attracted her attention again, and she unclipped it and carried it over to the window, where she scrutinized it intently.

Suddenly, a smile flickered in her eyes as she remembered Sophie’s comment a short while ago.
Smoochy
, she had called the color, as in a kiss, and Kay knew exactly what her assistant meant. It
was
a lovely lipstick shade, one that reminded her of the glamorous stars of those old movies from the 1950s.

As often happened with Kay, inspiration suddenly struck out of the blue. In her mind’s eye she saw a series of outfits … each one in a different version of vivid vermilion red. She thought of cyclamen first, then deep pink the color of peonies, pale pinks borrowed from a bunch of sweet peas, bright red lifted from a pot of geraniums, and all of those other reds sharpened by a hint of blue. And mixed in with them she could see a selection of blues … cerulean, delphinium, and aquamarine, as well as deep violet and pansy hues, a softer lilac, and the lavender shade of hydrangeas.

That’s it, she thought, instantly filling with excitement. A winter collection of clothes based on those two colors— red and blue—interspersed with other tones from these color spectrums. What a change from the beiges, browns, greens, taupes, and terra-cottas of her spring season.

Turning away from the window where she still stood, Kay went over to the other fabric samples and searched through them quickly, looking for the colors she now wanted to use. She found a few of them and carried them back to her desk, where she spread them out. Then she began to match the color samples to the sketches she had already done for her winter line, envisioning a coat, a suit, or a dress in one of the reds, purples, or blues.

Very soon she was lost in her work, completely oblivious to everything, bubbling inside with enthusiasm, her creative juices flowing as she began to design, loving every moment of it.

At twenty-nine, Kay Lenox was one of the best-known young fashion designers on both sides of the Atlantic. In London her clothes sold at her boutique on Bond Street, and in New York at Bergdorf Goodman. She had a boutique in Chicago and one in Dallas, and another on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

Her name was synonymous with quality, stylishness, and wearability. The clothes she designed were elegant, but in a relaxed and casual manner, and they were extremely well cut and beautifully made.

The fabrics Kay favored gave her clothes a great sense of luxury … the finest light wools, cashmeres, wool crepes, soft Scottish tweeds, suede, leather, crushed velvet, and a heavy silk she bought in France. Her flair and imagination were visible in the way she mixed these fabrics with each other in one garment—the result a look entirely unique to her.

Kay worked on steadily through the morning, and so
concentrated was she, and focused on her designs, she almost jumped out of her skin when the phone next to her elbow jangled.

Picking it up, she said “Lochcraigie” in a somewhat sharpish tone.

“Hello, darling,” her husband answered. “
You
sound a bit snotty this morning.”

“Ian!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Sorry. I was lost in a dress, figuratively speaking.”

He chuckled. “Is your designing going well, then?”

“I’ll say, and I had a brainstorm earlier. I’m doing the entire winter collection in shades of red running through to palest pink, and blue going to lilac to violet and deep purple.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Did you find a gift for Fiona?”

There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, sounding vague, “Oh, yes, I did.”

“So you’re on your way home now?”

“Not exactly,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Er, er, I’m a bit peckish, so I’m going to have a spot of lunch. I should be back about fourish.”

The brightness in her vivid blue eyes dimmed slightly, but she said, “All right, then, I’ll be here waiting for you.”

“We’ll have tea together,” he murmured. “Bye, darling.”

He hung up before she could say another word, and she stood there puzzled, staring at the receiver in her hand, and then she went back to work.

————

LATER THAT AFTERNOON
, when she had eaten a smoked salmon sandwich and drunk a mug of lemon tea, Kay put on a cream fisherman’s knit sweater from the Orkneys, thick woolen socks, and green Wellington boots. In the
coat room near the back door she took down her dark green coat of quilted silk, pushed her red-gold hair under a red knitted cap, added a matching scarf and gloves, and went outside.

She was hit with a blast of freezing air, and it took her breath away, but her clothes were warm, the coat in particular, and she set out toward the loch, in need of fresh air and exercise.

This was one of her favorite walks on the estate, which in its entirety covered over three thousand acres. A wide path led down from the cutting garden just beyond the back door, past broad lawns and thick woods bordering one side of the lawns. In the distance was the narrow body of glassy water that was Loch Craigie.

At one moment Kay stopped and stood staring across at the distant hills, partially obscured this afternoon by a hazy mist on their peaks and lightly covered in snow. Then she swung her head, her eyes settling on the great stone house where she lived, built in 1559 by William Andrews, then new laird of Lochcraigie. From that time onward, the eldest son had inherited everything through the law of primogeniture, and fortuitously there had always been a male heir to carry on the Andrews name. An unbroken line for centuries.

Ian was the laird now, although no one ever used that old Scots name anymore, except for a few old-timers from his grandfather’s day who still lived in the village.

Aside from these vast lands, the Andrews family had many other interests, primarily in business, including manufacturing, publishing, and textiles. Everything belonged to Ian, but he was a low-profile millionaire content to lead the quiet country life.

Kay began to walk again, striding out at a steady pace, her eyes thoughtful as she contemplated her own past. She couldn’t help wondering what Ian would say if he
knew of her mean and poverty-stricken beginnings. He would be horrified, shocked, and perhaps even disbelieving.…

She let these thoughts float way up into the air, and took several deep breaths. Her troubles began when she was a teenager, but she had always known they would end, that she would have a different life when she was older.

And now she did. She had everything she had ever wanted, had ever dreamed about … a husband who was not only young and handsome but an aristocrat, an ancient historic house she called home, a big career as a fashion designer, fame, success.…

But no child.

No heir for Ian.

No boy to be the laird of these vast estates and holdings, one day in the far distant future, when Ian was dead and they proclaimed a new master of Lochcraigie.

She sighed under her breath. It was an old story. After a moment she increased her pace, almost running down to the loch. The body of water was flat and gray, leaden under the wintry sky, and she did not plan to linger long. The air had grown much colder and there was a hint of snow on the wind. But she walked along the edge of the water for fifteen minutes, always enjoying the tranquil view, the sense of peace that was all-pervasive here.

On her way back, she took the paved path that led past the Dower House where Ian’s mother lived. For a moment she thought of dropping in to see her mother-in-law but changed her mind. It would soon be four o’clock and Ian would be home; she longed to see him, to assuage her anxiety about him. She had plans for tonight, big plans, and she wanted him to be in the right frame of mind. If she were absent when he arrived, he could be put out.

And so she passed the Dower House and climbed the
narrow steps, thinking of Ian’s mother. She was a lovely woman, with impeccable manners, manners bred in the bone, and a kind and loving heart. She had always been
her
champion, and for that Kay was grateful.

Margaret Andrews had been born a Hepburn, and her family was somehow distantly related to the ill-fated James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, third husband of Mary Queen of Scots, who had died a terrible death in Denmark, imprisoned in the dungeons of a remote castle. Kay hated the story of Bothwell’s death. It always upset her; she couldn’t bear to think of that virile, vigorous, and handsome man dying in such a ghastly way. And yet the story haunted her … she chastised herself now for her morbid thoughts of Bothwell and ran across the lawn to the terrace in front of the conservatory. A second later she let herself into the house.

————

KAY KNEW AT ONCE
that Ian was in a good mood as he walked into the conservatory just after four. He was smiling, and when she went to greet him he hugged her close and kissed her cheek. “You look bonny,” he said to her as he moved away, went and stood with his back to the fire.