Blood Stones (11 page)

‘I'll park here,' he said. ‘The apartment is in that corner building.'

Elizabeth followed him. It was on the first floor. He unlocked the front door and stood aside for her. ‘The owner is in Monaco,' he explained. ‘Working there for two years. He's prepared to take short lets of three or six months, that is why the rent is so high. But it's very beautiful.'

Elizabeth couldn't disagree with that. The main salon, as he called it, was a magnificent room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Esplanade des Invalides. The furniture was eighteenth century, rather stiff and formal, fine pictures … she recognized quality because she had grown up with it on the walls at home. The regal atmosphere was duplicated in a long cream and gilt panelled dining-room, with seating for fourteen. She walked through to the bedroom; whoever the gentleman working in Monaco was, he wasn't the type to put his feet up and relax when he came home.

She turned to Lasalle. ‘It's lovely,' she said. ‘But I find it a bit overpowering. I think it would be wonderful for entertaining, as you said on the telephone, but I'm not sure I want to live in it …'

‘Then let's have lunch and then go to rue de la Perle. That is also beautiful, but quite a contrast. I have booked a table in a little restaurant I know. I hope you like it.'

Elizabeth smiled at him. He hadn't tried to pressure her or resented her criticism of the flat. She liked him, and she was looking forward to lunch. The restaurant was small and modest, the sort of place patronized by native Parisians. The food was excellent. She refused more than a glass of wine. ‘I'm useless if I drink during the day,' she explained. ‘And I've got to keep a clear head. The trouble is it's all happened so quickly. I really have to make a decision today.'

‘It must be inconvenient for you, having to move in such a hurry,' he said. ‘My late wife needed a month before she would even go down to the Midi for the Easter holiday. And then there were the children … You have children, Madame Hastings?'

‘No,' Elizabeth said. ‘Not yet. But we hope to.'

‘Ah,' he nodded. ‘We have four. All grown up, two married, one son is in the States, another in Cannes, where we have a big office. We do a lot of business there; he's very successful.'

‘Do any of them come to Normandy?' He was a widower, and she had the impression that he lived alone in the city and his country home. There was something about him that was sad. The eyes, when they weren't looking at her.

‘Not very often,' he answered. ‘It's a long way for the married couples to come. A pity, they both have children, but …' He shrugged. ‘They try to come alternate Christmases. I am quite lucky. They do their best. But children grow up and lead their own lives.'

Elizabeth said, ‘How long ago did your wife die?'

‘Die? Ah, I'm sorry, my English … not late,
former
wife. We are divorced. For five years. She lives in Paris, but we are not friendly. Will you take coffee, or should we go to the rue de la Perle?'

‘Perhaps we'd better go,' she agreed. ‘It was a lovely lunch. Thank you.'

‘It was my pleasure,' Jean Pierre Lasalle said.

He was a charming man, with gracious manners, but she knew he meant it. Rue de la Perle was in the 3rd arrondissement. They entered a courtyard through a heavy oak door. ‘It was an
hôtel particulier
,' he explained. ‘Converted now into three apartments. It dates from the sixteenth century. Very thick walls. Cool in the summer …'

It was indeed cool, shaded by the walls enclosing the old house, and she knew immediately she was going to like it. Inside, she looked round. It was old, and its small windows looked on to a courtyard at the rear, with raised beds full of flowers. There were tapestries in the salon, which was half the size of the grandiose reception room of the other flat, the furniture was elegant but comfortable, the bedroom won her head at once, with a fine half-tester bed and a big open fireplace filled with artificial flowers.

‘I think this is the one,' she said, turning to Lasalle. ‘But I'd better look at the dining-room again, and the kitchen. We have to entertain a lot of people while we're here. Unfortunately.'

He stood with her in the oak-panelled dining-room. A narrow walnut table, ten chairs with little elbow room … Elizabeth hesitated. She liked it, she liked the intimacy and the age and the sense of home; she could imagine spending evenings there with James, playing their noisy games of backgammon, waking in the handsome old bed.

‘Madame Hastings,' his voice said gently, ‘if your husband has to entertain on a large scale … then this is not for you. Forgive me, but I know Parisians. Some would find this place an enchantment. But for a London director of Diamond Enterprises, it is not important enough.'

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. ‘How do you know?'

‘Because my wife was very much part of that world. She was extremely rich. Her grandmother was South African; of Huguenot extraction. We went to all the smart parties. I met Julius Heyderman and his wife several times. So I know a little about Diamond Enterprises. I sold Karakov his house. You know him?

‘No,' Elizabeth said. Karakov. James had talked at length about him. He was the reason for the move to Paris. To get on terms with Ivan Karakov, bring him into D.E.'s fold. That was what James had said. ‘No, I don't. What's he like?'

Again that Gallic shrug. ‘A genius. A brilliant salesman. A wonderful judge of stones. A terrible snob, and not at all nice.' He actually laughed. ‘It's so pleasant to be able to say that. I couldn't before, because my wife felt it was criticism. Forgive me, I shouldn't be so indiscreet. But … I would advise you that rue Constantine is more appropriate. And only for three months. If you were making a home here for longer … a year, say, then you would be happier here. It is up to you, of course.'

Elizabeth sighed. ‘The Place de la Concorde? It's smaller?'

‘It has only one bedroom, but two very large reception rooms and it is very chic. Decorator chic, if you see what I mean.'

‘Tablescapes,' she said wearily. ‘All that clutter … I'd go mad. I'm untidy, anyway. I couldn't bear it. No, I won't bother, thank you. Maybe I should look at rue Constantine again. We've got time, haven't we?'

‘Oh yes. I think that's a good idea.'

She felt depressed suddenly. In the car she said, ‘I really liked that flat, Monsieur Lasalle. It had such charm.'

‘See the other again,' he advised. ‘Then make a choice. Believe me, I am not thinking of the money. Only what will be best for your purpose here. And what will please your husband.' He smiled brightly. ‘That is always important.'

‘It's all that matters in this case,' Elizabeth said. ‘I mustn't forget that. And I know it's not the money.'

‘You can be sure it's not,' he said gently.

Inside the big salon, Elizabeth said, ‘Would there be any chance of putting something of our own in here? It's such a formal room. At my expense I'd like to change the ambience, put in a sofa, a big stool and another coffee-table. I
am
an interior decorator – I have a business in London. So I won't do anything outrageous! Would that be all right with your client?'

Lasalle considered. ‘I think so,' he said. ‘I don't see why he should object. So long as nothing is removed.'

She took a breath. James would love the place. It had been his first choice when he looked at the brochure. ‘Then I'll take this,' she said. ‘I know it's what my husband would want. And thank you. You've been very kind and helpful. I'd have taken the rue de la Perle, and it wouldn't have been right.'

At the airport she held out her hand. He kissed it very lightly.

‘I hope you'll come and see us,' she said. ‘My husband would like to meet you. Especially if you know Karakov.'

‘I would be delighted,' he answered. ‘I will arrange about the extra furniture with my client. And anything else you would like. Leave it to me. And a good journey home.'

‘My husband's office will call you tomorrow and we'll get on with the contract. Goodbye, and thank you again. See you when we come over.'

He waited till she had gone through into the airport before he turned away. She was a beautiful woman, and very nice. He attached a lot of importance to niceness in women. He had overlooked that quality when he got married. It was a hard lesson, but he'd learned it.

When Elizabeth got home, James was already there. He got up quickly and came to kiss her. ‘Darling … how did it go?'

She sank down into the seat beside him, kicking off her shoes. ‘I've taken a flat,' she announced. ‘It's the one you liked in rue Constantine. It's so grand and stuffy I nearly decided on somewhere else, but it wasn't really big enough, didn't seat more than ten at a pinch …'

He handed her a glass of white wine and sat beside her.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I can do with this … It was quite a long day.'

‘But are you happy with this place? I don't want you to live somewhere you don't like.' James looked at her anxiously.

‘Don't be silly,' she smiled at him. ‘I can put some things in and make it comfortable. It'll be great for entertaining the beau monde. You'll love it. The agent took me out to lunch. He was really charming. And he knows this jeweller Karakov. Knows him quite well, he said, or rather his wife did. They're divorced now. He was the one who persuaded me to take the “Palace”. Said it would suit us better. You'll like him. I said he must come and see us when we move in. Oh …' she sighed. ‘It's so nice to be home though. How was your day?'

‘Hectic,' he admitted. He didn't say anything, but he was irritated by the idea of the charming estate agent she'd invited to visit them. He had never had reason to be jealous, but he was. Other men must feel about Elizabeth the way he did, and he didn't like it. Knew Karakov, did he? He answered her question with a brief résumé. ‘Andrews has made contact in Moscow. About bloody time. And that shit Kruger came up and said he didn't mind lending me his secretary. I hate that man. He takes a swing at me every chance he gets.' Maybe he would have the agent over if he was friendly with Karakov. Just for a drink … He slipped his arm round Elizabeth and hugged her. ‘Thanks, sweetheart. You've been great about the move and the upheaval. Hopefully we won't have to be there for very long. Not wearing your watch?'

The present ordered from Cartier was upstairs in its red leather case, in the wall safe in their bedroom. It was gold with a diamond-studded face. Beautiful, as all Cartier designs were, but hardly appropriate to wear in the daytime.

She said gently. ‘I keep it for the evening, Jamie. You know how much I love it.' Which wasn't absolutely true.

He said, ‘I want you to take all your jewellery with you. Pity so much of it is old-fashioned.' He frowned.

Elizabeth's mother had given her a Georgian diamond necklace as a wedding present. An aunt had parted with a heavy Victorian sapphire brooch, dripping pearl drops. Both were family pieces. Elizabeth treasured them, but couldn't think when she'd ever wear them. His remark surprised her.

‘I like old-fashioned things,' she said. ‘I actually think all that Karakov stuff is very ugly. So hard and vulgar, all you see is some bloody great rock, no setting at all.'

‘Just remember not to say that,' he said softly. ‘Maybe I can arrange to borrow some pieces for you … he's not impressed by heirlooms, darling.'

‘You can borrow what you like,' she said sweetly. He knew what that tone of voice meant, and prepared to retreat. ‘So long as you wear them, because I won't. Any messages?' She changed the subject because she didn't want to argue with him.

She was tired, she'd had a long day, enjoyed part of it, agreed to live in a flat she thought looked like the Throne Room at Buckingham Palace, and was
not
, she emphasized silently, not going to be dolled up like an English version of Ivana Trump to impress
anybody …

‘I wrote them down off the ansaphone,' he said. ‘One was a call from Valerie Kruger, of all people. Wants you to go to lunch.' He hesitated; he'd backed off about the jewellery. He didn't want her getting friendly with Kruger's ex. He knew Elizabeth was hostile enough to Ruth Fraser, and, in spite of what he'd promised, there would have to be times in Paris when the two women met.

‘I don't think there's much point in you going.' He said it casually. ‘We're not likely to see her any more, our paths simply don't cross—'

‘I suggested it,' she retorted. ‘Certainly I'll go if I'm free. I liked her. I'll call after dinner. Another glass of wine?'

He got up. ‘Not still cross about the jewellery?' She shook her head. He knew how to defuse her. He looked like an anxious little boy, not wanting to be out of favour.

‘No. I'm just not into being a glitter bag. Sorry I snapped at you.'

He went and poured a glass of wine for her. He should have wiped that message off. He was a fool.

Elizabeth met Valerie Kruger the day she was driving down to Somerset for her father's birthday. They'd agreed to make it early, as it was a long journey. Valerie Kruger chose San Lorenzo in Beauchamp Place. It was the smartest Italian restaurant in London, patronized by the young Royals, celebrities and socialites, and those who hoped to see one or other. Elizabeth knew it well; she liked the food and the easy atmosphere.

Valerie had asked for a corner table. It didn't give them the coveted view of who else was lunching there, but it was secluded. Elizabeth didn't mind. She wasn't a star gazer. She thought Valerie looked tired and rather strained.

‘How nice of you to come,' she greeted Elizabeth. There was a half-finished drink on the table.