Heaven Scent (31 page)

‘Look, Dad,’ Max said, leaning forward.

‘Don’t speak,’ Guy cut him off curtly. ‘Don’t either of you speak. I can’t even look at you right now.’

Driving far faster than he should have done, Guy shot back to La Fleurie with red mist dancing before his eyes.

 

Later that day, having heard about their shocking expulsion, Cat went in search of the twins. Worriedly, she looked all over the house, then headed for the games room by the pool but it was empty. She went towards the graveyard, not quite sure why she was going there.

She stopped immediately when she discovered Guy slumped over Elizabeth’s grave. She read over his shoulder: ‘
Ici repose ma chère épouse, Elizabeth. Une femme et une mère dévouée. Aimee de tous, elle sera toujours parmi nous
.’ Here lies my dearest wife, Elizabeth. Devoted wife and mother. Cherished by all. . .

Cat’s heart went out to Guy. He was sobbing as if his heart was broken.

‘Help me,’ he pleaded with her silent headstone. ‘Tell me what to do. I’m a fucking terrible father without you . . . I can’t do this on my own . . . you have to tell me what to do . . .’

Cat backed out of the graveyard. Guy needed help.

Bored out of his brain at a cocktail party in the sixth arrondissement, the Luxembourg, Ashton tried Leoni’s mobile again. It went straight to voicemail and just like all the other times he had tried her, he didn’t bother to leave a message. Ashton’s heart sank. Ever since Leoni had started seeing Jerard, she had been as difficult to track down as Lord Lucan.

Gloomily, he glanced down at the pamphlet in his hand. ‘Celebrating Five Decades of Parisian Architecture’, it said. Normally, he loved this kind of event but since Leoni had left Paris to no doubt dive back into Jerard’s warm arms and bed, he had no enthusiasm for anything.

He stared out across the Seine sightlessly, not noticing how beautiful it looked with moonlight dappled across it. He wished for the millionth time that he didn’t feel the way he did about Leoni. What was the point?

Behind him, on a stage, someone made a speech about celebrating some of Paris’s most famous architecture but Ashton couldn’t be bothered to listen.

‘Having fun, Monsieur Lyfield?’

Marianne’s potent perfume caught in the back of his throat. Turning, he found her beside him, wearing a glamorous cream coat with a red and grey scarf coiled round her neck and red suede gloves. She pulled them off and slipped the coat from her shoulders to reveal a red wrap-around dress. Her red hair was piled up on top of her head in graceful, sweeping waves and her neck looked pale in the dim light.

Ashton wasn’t sure he was up to the high-octane verbal banter Marianne demanded. He politely kissed her scented cheeks but made no effort at small talk.

Marianne regarded him quizzically. Noting that his blue eyes were dull and that his chin was covered in pale-gold stubble again, she guessed his love life wasn’t going too well. Dips and troughs at work made a man look tense and stressed, they didn’t cause his shoulders to droop like Ashton’s were doing.

Marianne turned away thoughtfully. Ashton seemed to have no idea how attractive he was. His reserve and immaculate manners might give him a serious air but Marianne had a feeling that beneath that buttoned-down exterior there was a passionate heart. And there was nothing she liked more than a man who was sex on legs but oblivious to the fact.

‘She’s a fool,’ Marianne stated, slipping her arm through Ashton’s.

‘Who?’ He drained his champagne listlessly and handed his glass to a passing waiter. He felt Marianne’s fingers digging into his arm.

Marianne smiled. ‘Leoni Ducasse, of course. Who else?’ She glanced at the Seine impassively. ‘Take it from me, the Ducasse family aren’t easily won over.’

Ashton wondered how it was that he kept bumping into Marianne Peroux. The city of Paris was huge. Marianne was in the perfume business, not architecture, yet everywhere he went, there she was. Like Delphine Ducasse, she scared the hell out of him, albeit in a very different way. Ashton had a feeling that if he didn’t keep his wits about him, he would find himself pinned to the wall with his trousers round his ankles.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked her.

Marianne shrugged. ‘A friend of mine is an architect. I enjoy the thrill of finding the perfect building but discussing trends and changes over the past five decades isn’t exactly my idea of fun. But I felt I owed my friend a favour. He’s the one who found the lovely building we both like so much in the ninth arrondissement, actually.’ Marianne waved to a handsome, tanned man who grinned back at her.

‘Your boyfriend?’ Ashton asked. The man rather resembled his mental image of Jerard – good looking and sexy, with lots of confidence, the kind developed through years of always getting the girl. Ashton told himself to stop being such a twat; he had no idea what Jerard looked like or what his track record was with women.

Marianne let out a raucous laugh. ‘I don’t have boyfriends, Ashton. My life is far too busy and complicated for that. I have lovers instead.’ She didn’t elaborate on whether or not the handsome man was her lover but her eyes ran over him hungrily.

Ashton was too tired to deal with her. ‘I’m afraid I must be going, Madame Peroux. I’m really not in the mood for this event.’ He went to kiss her cheeks but she held her cream coat out to him.

‘I’ll join you,’ she said, allowing him to help her into it. ‘Paris can be a little unpredictable at night, as you know. Perhaps I could call a cab from your apartment?’

About to point out that Marianne could just as easily call a cab from here, Ashton hesitated. He didn’t want to antagonise her, not when the building sale was still undecided.

Marianne pulled her red gloves on and slipped her arm though his as they strolled towards his apartment. They said nothing, they simply walked.

‘You live . . .
here
?’ Marianne said when they reached his apartment. She was clearly astonished and Ashton smiled proudly, in spite of himself.

‘Stunning, isn’t it? And yes, rather more opulent than you might imagine for an architect. At my age, anyway.’

‘Can we go in? I’d love to look around. This is one of the most desirable buildings in Paris!’

Flattered, Ashton showed her to the elevator. When they reached his doorway, he let her in and switched some lights on. He gave her a quick tour, noting the excitement her eyes.

‘It’s magnificent,’ Marianne breathed, walking around and trailing her fingers across sculpted mantelpieces and perfect archways.

‘Isn’t it? I oversaw the renovation myself, just to make sure every detail was spot on.’

Marianne raised an eyebrow. ‘You did an amazing job. It’s superb. Not one thing jars . . . everything has been restored beautifully.’ She nodded approvingly at the richly coloured curtains and the exquisite furniture. ‘I see you have a wonderful eye for interiors too.’

Ashton shook his head. ‘No, a friend helped me with all of that. I’m afraid my creativity runs out when it comes to colours and textures.’ He wondered what he could offer as a drink and settled on Scotch, because it was all he had.

‘Thank you.’ Marianne seemed unable to tear her eyes away from each detail of the apartment, but finally she refocused her green eyes on Ashton. ‘You must be lonely, living here all by yourself,’ she said, moving closer.

Ashton sidled towards the window. ‘Not really. I enjoy my own company.’ He wished Marianne would sit down; she was making him nervous.

‘Ah, but everyone needs someone, don’t they? Now and again.’ Marianne had somehow managed to shimmy forward and pin Ashton to the window. She ran a finger down the lapel of his dinner suit.

Ashton gulped. He felt like Benjamin Braddock in
The Graduate
. And Marianne made the perfect Mrs Robinson.

‘I’m in love with Leoni,’ he asserted, hoping Marianne would take the hint.

She didn’t. Slotting her leg between his, she looked up at him, her full mouth curving into a smile. ‘I know that. But it’s not your heart I’m interested in.’

Ashton quailed. This was going to be tougher than he’d thought. ‘I don’t sleep around. I mean, I probably should and, believe me, I’ve tried, but it doesn’t make any difference.’

Marianne gave him a withering look, sensing he meant what he said. ‘You love her that much?’

Ashton nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’ He pushed his hair out of his eyes, looking rueful.

Marianne let out an impatient sound and removed her knee from his thighs with obvious regret. ‘What a shame,’ she said lightly. ‘I think we could have had fun.’

Ashton wasn’t so sure; being eaten alive wasn’t his idea of a good time. He hoped he hadn’t offended Marianne. The sale of the building was so important but when it came down to it, Ashton wasn’t ready to take one for the team.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her, meaning it. To most men, she probably was. Only Ashton preferred women with earnest brown eyes and severe bobs that revealed a slender, vulnerable neck . . . ‘I’m just a lovesick fool. What can I say? Leoni . . . she means everything to me and while she’s still in my life, I can’t be with anyone else.’

Marianne felt irrationally envious of Guy’s silly niece. What was wrong with the girl? The Ducasse family wreaked havoc wherever they went, Marianne thought, even more determined to get the building now.

‘I’ll see you at the auction,’ she told Ashton and drained her Scotch. ‘Prepare yourself for a battle.’

Ashton felt a shiver of apprehension. ‘Shall I call you a cab?’ he asked politely.

She let out a tinkling laugh. ‘No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. I can take care of myself. . . I always have done.’ With one last, lingering look around the apartment, she sashayed to the door and left.

Ashton ran a hand through his hair with a shudder. He couldn’t help thinking he had made an enemy of Marianne by rejecting her but there was nothing else he could have done.

He picked through his post lethargically and discovered a card bearing Delphine’s distinctive spidery handwriting on the front. Opening it up, Ashton saw he’d been invited to the celebratory Rose-Nymphea party at La Fleurie. Would Leoni attend with her new boyfriend, Jerard? Probably.

Ashton picked up the open bottle of Scotch and decided to get absolutely plastered.

 

Having spent the morning sorting paperwork on her desk, Delphine was restlessly sifting through the pile of party RSVPs that had been delivered to her by the housekeeper. She was looking forward to the party; it would be glamorous and extravagant with plenty of celebrity attendance.

Delphine put the RSVPs down and stood by the window. Crossly, she saw that Cat was sitting by the pool with Seraphina, no doubt lending a sympathetic ear when in actual fact Seraphina was in disgrace and should be ostracised. Fancy riding a horse naked round a school field! Delphine was shocked to the core and her lips tightened at the mere thought of the incident. She couldn’t imagine what had possessed her granddaughter to behave so outrageously. And what about Max? Doing drugs on school grounds like that . . . something had to be done about the pair of them but Delphine had other things to attend to at the moment.

‘Plan Angelique’, as she liked to call it, was shaping up nicely; she simply needed to utilise Cat to her advantage to get everything up and running. Delphine tapped an RSVP idly and wondered what Xavier would say when he clapped eyes on Angelique again. She felt sure she had made the right decision and that Xavier would be delighted. Angelique was the one woman he had been serious about, the love of his life; whatever had come between them could surely be resolved after all this time.

Opening a box, Delphine took out the celebratory bottles of Rose-Nymphea she’d had especially created for the party. Nestling in small white boxes lined with satin, they were 30ml versions in frosted glass the colour of blush-pink tea roses, with silver ribbons spiralling from the neck. They were perfection.

Delphine realised she was late for a meeting. Hurrying to the library, she waited for Pascal, shivering slightly as she realised it was the first time she’d been in the library since Olivier’s funeral. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the edge of Olivier’s headstone but she refused to look at it. It didn’t do to be sentimental, she reminded herself, her chin in the air. Life was tough; people died and it was sad but life went on. Firmly telling her hands to stop shaking, she turned as she heard the door open.

‘Good morning, Pascal,’ she said, her voice devoid of warmth. Pascal had been very disappointing of late; she couldn’t understand what was taking so long with the legal documents she had asked him to draw up to cut Cat Hayes out of Olivier’s will. Delphine was all for loyalty but if Pascal didn’t get his finger out, he could find employment elsewhere. He had been baffled by her urgent phone call the night before but Delphine had cut him off before he could make excuses. She didn’t want to make it easy for him by allowing him to pass off his failings on the telephone; she wanted him quailing and apologising in front of her.

Pascal shuffled in, his spectacles threatening to fall off his nose. As ever, he was clutching a bundle of paperwork tied up with ribbons and no doubt full of legal jargon no one understood.

Delphine sighed and rubbed her temples. Pascal, Yves – why were these men so incompetent? She wished she could do her own investigating and her own legal work and then she wouldn’t have to waste her time chasing people all over France.

‘What do you have for me?’ she demanded, not wasting time with small talk.

Pascal looked confused. ‘I don’t understand, Madame Ducasse. What is it you are expecting me to produce?’

‘The legal documents, of course, Pascal! Why else would I have called you here?’

‘That’s what I was trying to tell you last night on the phone,’ Pascal explained earnestly.