Love in Vogue (11 page)

Couldn’t get it up
, was Patrick’s conclusion. ‘I see,’ he said.

She could tell that he didn’t even begin to see. How could he, not having visited Rochemort and soaked in its atmosphere of romantic chivalry and centuries of strong moral fibre?

But Patrick’s mind was on more immediate concerns. He scowled as he recalled Philippe’s arm around Yolande’s waist, the lordly way he had kissed her lips when he said goodbye, his dazzling and sophisticated performance. Patrick recognised the act for what it was – a bravura display from a man who looked extremely able to claim his
droit de seigneur
. Somehow he had been insulted even by Philippe’s mocking blue eyes. They had excluded him, raising a barrier between him and Yolande. He suddenly realised that in his effort to keep his own background obscure, he had failed to take proper account of hers.

In Paris, she blended easily into his chaotic existence, happy to leave the formality of the Avenue Foch and the Hervy salon for his studio and his friends who congregated in a café near the Place des Vosges. But in New York, the realities of her life were highlighted all around him. Her mother and stepfather for a start; they obviously preferred that impotent fiancé. Patrick had been thrown off guard by the established opulence of their apartment. Even Yolande’s stepfather turned out to be old money, a descendant of one of New York’s city fathers, with tastes and lifestyle to match. Tex Beidecker’s great-grandfather had built the large classical townhouse as a retreat from the noise and pollution of Lower Manhattan in the mid-nineteenth century. The family had lived in the whole house then; now the Beideckers occupied the top two floors, with the remaining storeys leased to suitably discreet and well-heeled tenants with their WASP wives, who doubtless were on the committee that had organised the Hervy gala and did a great deal of socialising for charitable causes. Having Philippe de Rochemort appear to remind him of his status as an interloper was just too much.

‘Patrick, what
is
the matter?’ asked Yolande, after she had paid off the cab.

‘Nothing.’ He followed her sullenly into the building.

‘Thank you, Javier,’ she said, smiling at the burly doorman as he called the lift for them. ‘How did the game go?’

‘The Giants rule!’ He grinned. ‘And I had twenty bucks on it. You had a good evening, Miss Yolande?’

‘Terribly dull,’ she said, stepping into the lift. ‘We weren’t allowed to throw any balls around.’

Javier laughed uproariously as Patrick followed her into the lift. When they were inside, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately.

‘Do you still love me?’

‘Darling, whatever made you think I don’t?’ Yolande kissed him back, her hands clasped round his neck. ‘Has Vic Bernitz turned you down?’

He smiled. ‘No. In fact, I’ve got the part. As soon as the backing is arranged, we start shooting.’

She couldn’t take it in for several moments. ‘You’re not joking?’

‘No. I just have to get the contract finalised with my agent.’

‘Oh, that’s marvellous! Fantastic! Oh, Patrick, I’m so happy for you …’

It was exactly what he wanted to hear. Soon he would really put her to the test. She would have to choose between him and her hidebound family, which, he sensed, sneered both at him and his profession.

Hank Pedersen stared in astonishment at his wife, then walked across to the window of his Central Park West drawing-room to look out at the rain, pouring down on a dark October evening.

‘You’re nuts, Althea. It won’t work.’

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and turned to face her. Tall and blond, his physique had suffered from years of desk work. His face was gaunt. He’d been up nearly all the previous night, sorting out a problem with one of Pedersen Corp’s Far East subsidiaries. Though Hank always insisted on recreational facilities for his staff, he himself was never to be found working out in the corporate gym housed in the basement of his company headquarters in Midtown. A guy didn’t get rich pulling weights.

‘So you’re not really interested in buying Marchand Enterprises?’ asked Althea. ‘I wish I’d known before. I’ve almost fixed everything with Rikki von Stessenberg.’

Hank joined her on the sofa, frowning. ‘Well, it’s a great opportunity. … But Jesus, Althea, I couldn’t. Tex Beidecker is a good friend of mine.’

‘Tex Beidecker doesn’t own Marchand.’

‘But the girl’s his step-daughter. He’s fond of her.’

‘Well, well.’ Althea leaned back and surveyed him cynically. ‘I never thought you of all people would let sentiment get in the way of the bottom line.’

‘I thought Rikki and Vic Bernitz had fallen out. How are you going to convince Vic that Rikki won’t pull out of this movie like he did the last?’

‘I’ve taken care of all that. Rikki will be our agent. He won’t be openly involved in the deal at all. Neither will we. We just step in at the end and buy his shares in Marchand – that gives us 35% of the company. We could soon put in a bid for the rest.’

‘I just don’t like this emotional stuff, Althea.’ Hank gave her a piercing look. ‘You’re banking on the girl’s feelings. Suppose she dumps Dubuisson? We lose the deal.’

‘But we can’t lose anything by trying, darling.’

He was struck by the remark. ‘No, I guess not.’ There was a pause. ‘You really have fixed it?’

‘Rikki’s keen – he wants to offload his Marchand holding anyway. All we need to do is get Patrick Dubuisson to persuade his girlfriend to back the picture. Vic is desperate now it looks as though Belco is going bust. I’ve spoken to him. He’ll make the initial approach, then Dubuisson will turn on the sweet talk.’

‘Then what?’

Althea picked up a file from the coffee table and handed it to him. ‘I’ve checked her out. She’s very rich, but it’s all tied up in Marchand equity. If she agrees to back the picture she’ll have to sell out. Rikki will buy her shares. And we’ll buy them from him. Couldn’t be simpler. Vic gets the finance for the movie directly from her. That’s nothing to do with us at all.’

‘What about her sister? Surely she won’t let this Yo –  how the hell
do
you pronounce it?’

‘Yo
lande
– as in bond.’

‘Surely she won’t let Yolande sell outside the family?’

‘She can’t stop her. I don’t think she can buy her out, either. Marchand may have a high profile, but they have huge borrowings.’

Hank ran his eye down the company’s latest figures. Yes, Althea had certainly done her homework. The profits were good, the potential was phenomenal, but they were over-leveraged and had few capital reserves. He smiled in anticipation.

‘Well, count me in. I’ll back you one hundred per cent.’

‘What do I get?’

‘How about a yacht?’

‘I get seasick.’ Althea leaned towards him, her expression serious. ‘The only thing I want is you, Hank.’

They kissed, but she knew he wasn’t in the mood. A sweet, meaningless kiss which meant he was tired and wanted a good night’s sleep. She rested her head against his shoulder and playfully pulled his tie. ‘What an awful colour. I hope I didn’t buy it for you’

‘Damn, I used to wear this when I was in college! Must have grabbed it this morning without looking.’

Althea swiftly removed it, then unbuttoned his collar. ‘That’s better.’

Hank hugged her and kissed her forehead. Outside the rain continued to pour. Althea kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the sofa, her head in his lap. He stroked her hair.

‘There is one thing,’ he said. ‘How can Rikki be sure Yolande will sell the shares to him?’

‘She won’t – not directly. But he’s got a French nominee company. She’ll sell to them. Actually, her stepmother has a stake in it.’

‘Oh.’ He sounded wary.

‘Now what?’

‘Too many women. Too many feelings.’

‘Look, Marchand wouldn’t be in business at all if people didn’t give way to their feelings. Glamour, fashion, romance – they sell the stuff. If you want to muscle in on their market, you’ve got to play ball their way.’

‘Sure you can handle it?’

‘I’m a woman, aren’t I?’

He ought to have caught her up in his arms and devoured her with kisses, but it didn’t happen. He just murmured ‘hmm’ and stopped stroking her hair. Althea could have cried with frustration. Nothing could drag him away from his balance sheets, his board meetings, his eternal conference calls. He said he loved her, they still wanted children, but even now on a perfect night for passion, he was too hung up with business. She sat up, and he seemed glad to release her.

‘Tell me about the movie, Althea. Is it good?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You aren’t thinking of bailing Vic out, are you?’

Hank laughed. ‘No way. I swore I’d never back a picture after I lost five hundred dollars to a pal of mine at Harvard who was supposed to shoot a promotional video. He blew it.’

‘I guess the experience traumatised you,’ she said frostily.

‘Honey, what’s wrong?’ He stretched out his hand and caressed her cheek. ‘I’m tired, OK? Tomorrow, I promise.’

‘Put it in your schedule in case you forget.’

‘Althea, please don’t get like that. I do love you. I’m just very busy right now. Hey, come here.’

He pulled her back into his arms as the tears welled up in her eyes.

‘I always come last, always. Hank, what’s really wrong? Don’t you want me anymore?’

‘Come on, don’t cry …’

He held her close and kissed her – quick, halting kisses on her lips and cheeks. Althea knew it was hopeless, and allowed herself to be pacified. He needed time. Ever since he had learnt that his sperm were sluggish he’d been even less interested in sex. A man’s prick was an inalienable part of his ego, she realised. It was too bad when it was on the droopy side.

‘Did you read that stuff about treatment they sent you from the clinic?’

‘Yes.’ He kissed her again. ‘It’ll work out, darling. Just be patient. I’ve got to sort out this Singapore problem.’

‘Then there’ll be a storm brewing some place else. Can’t you
ever
relax?’

Hank smiled knowingly. ‘Relax for five minutes in this town and you can kiss goodbye to a few million bucks. This is no kindergarten, Althea.’

It was an unfortunate remark, and he fell silent. She looked over his shoulder at his latest acquisition – a Monet. Bright blue, green, red; a riot of colours depicting a Norman cornfield. It had to be worth thirty minutes’ relaxation. The silver candlesticks on the sideboard standing beneath it represented a mere few seconds. The Turner canvas hanging nearby: ten minutes? Fifteen? She wasn’t sure, but she knew that she’d gladly give them all up in return for a bigger percentage of her husband’s time. He stifled a yawn, and she loosened her arms around his neck.

‘Do you really want to know about Vic’s movie?’

‘Yes.’

She stood up and held out her hand. Hank smiled and got to his feet. He was sound asleep before she had even half finished outlining the story that would make Patrick Dubuisson a worldwide sex symbol and bring Pedersen Corporation control of one of the most prestigious companies in France.

Gianni’s on West 44th Street didn’t usually figure on Yolande’s list of places to eat out in New York. Too kitsch, far too many tourists, too much noise. She generally preferred the restaurants that Tex and her mother frequented on the Upper East Side, but today was different. Vic Bernitz had invited her to lunch in the Theater District to chat about Patrick’s film. He had brought along his assistant, Ethan Casavecchia, whose jaw dropped when she sauntered in with a distinctly Parisian élan.

‘You haven’t thought of going in for movie-acting yourself, have you?’ he asked as she joined them at their table.

‘No. Why?’

‘Can’t you see you’ve got them all rubbernecking?’

Yolande surveyed the clientele with cool green eyes, then shrugged her shoulders.

‘I can’t act.’

‘That’s not necessarily a problem.’

‘Where’s Patrick?’ asked Bernitz. ‘This was meant to be a celebration.’

‘He’s got neuralgia. He got soaked going to Liberty Island yesterday. I’ve asked Franco Rivera to make up the four. He should be here soon.’

Bernitz didn’t seem unduly surprised, and promptly ordered drinks. Franco showed up ten minutes later, cursing New York traffic in rapid Italian, French, and English.

‘Yolande, how does your adorable mother get around in this city? Magic carpet?’

‘You need a drink, Franco.’ She poured some wine.

He sank gratefully into a chair and took the proffered glass. The mood mellowed, and soon all four were discussing the film. Yolande asked how far casting had progressed, and was staggered when Bernitz informed her that so far Patrick was the sole actor with whom he had agreed terms.

‘By the way, tell him the contract won’t be ready for another three weeks at least.’

She caught a guarded look in his eyes. ‘Why the delay?’

‘We have a funding situation,’ said Ethan.

‘Do you mean you’ve got no backers? And you’ve already given Patrick the role? But it might never come off!’

‘Don’t panic,’ said Bernitz, waving his hand. ‘We have a few problems, that’s all. I had everything set up, but my main backer is in a bad way.’

‘He just got arrested for fraud.’

Yolande looked at Ethan uncomprehendingly, uncertain whether his deadpan remark was serious or not. He gazed at her owlishly from behind large round spectacles.

‘It’s true. You’ve heard of Jason H. Bronckmann? He’s been pulled in for insider dealing, corporate tax fraud, embezzlement. I forget the rest.’

Franco raised his eyebrows as if to say that’s exactly what he would have expected. ‘You have a big problem, Mr Bernitz?’

Vic Bernitz never got agitated about anything. It was not his way. He thrived on a calm, laid-back approach which matched his deep, lazy voice and imperturbable cast of features. But insofar as it was possible to deviate from this carefully cultivated image he gave Yolande and Franco the impression that yes, indeed, he had a very big problem.

‘Bronckmann owns Belco Pictures, which has the rights to the movie. Do you remember
Night Below Zero
? Belco backed that. It was my first success. Then I didn’t do so well with
The Far Coast
and Belco lost interest for a while. After
Dreaming of Youth,
which I made for Zelden, Bronckmann asked me back. He was really hooked on this script, and believe me, a lot of other guys will be now he’s in the can. Belco will go into liquidation soon unless someone steps in, and bang goes our movie.’