Sparkles

Judy had a plan. And it was a simple one.

Show him such a good time that he’d forget his little student. Judy was inventive, in and out of bed: surprising him half-naked in his office, in the back of the stretch limo, skinny-dipping in the lake. And then cramming his nights with the finest Paris had to offer. The best new restaurants, the hottest exhibitions, the finest shows . . . She’d have dragged him to Disneyland Paris if she thought it’d do her any good. As it was, there had been that day trip shopping in Rome, and the private jet that took them to dinner in Gibraltar. . . .

And it was working. Judy gave him such a dizzying array of outings, sex, food, even her own clothes—every day she was a new woman. Like goddamn Madonna. Age should not wither her infinite variety, not if Judy could help it. She was rising at six, before him, each day, and exercising like a maniac.

If there had been a repeat of the disastrous Polly phone call, Judy hadn’t heard it. And even Katherine was less of a thorn in her side, because Tom and Judy were never at the château. Let her dine alone in the dower house, the old witch, and leave Judy be. She could have her ancient butler for company.

But . . . it sure was exhausting.

For a moment Judy felt an overpowering sense of weariness. Maybe if she took just one night off.

She dialled Tom’s mobile.

“Ici Thomas,” he said. It struck Judy, briefly, that she felt no thrill of happiness on hearing his voice. Not like Pierre.

“Honey, I’m so sorry. Got to cancel on our date tonight.”

“Why, what’s up?”

He didn’t sound too upset. Judy wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for her or a bad one.

“A combination of factors—work, and I think I’m just feeling a little burnt out. You know? I was thinking of going for a drink with some of the girls”—that was a joke, they all hated her—“maybe getting a massage. Do you mind terribly?”

“Not at all. You have fun. I’ll see you later.”

“What are you going to do tonight?”

There was that reedy note in her voice; damn it, she hated to sound whiny.

“I don’t know.” Tom spoke carelessly. “Maybe read a book. Call some mates from college. I’ve been losing touch with my old friends, it’ll be good to catch up.”

Judy’s stomach churned. She wished she hadn’t asked.

“I think that’s a great idea!” she said merrily. “Just make sure you get enough rest. You’re gonna need all your energy later.”

He chuckled. “You’re insatiable.”

“Always,” she said.

He hung up. Judy listened to the click and the dial tone, then slowly replaced the receiver. She looked around her office. There was work to be done, but she had no appetite for any of it. Judy felt sick. She closed the blinds on her door and curled up miserably on her couch.

Tom put the phone down and was surprised at the extent of the relief he felt.

Judy!

She was sexy, no doubt about that. And he’d been enjoying himself. But he was totally exhausted, and besides, he felt a bit guilty.

There was no future with Judy. He knew that now. All his energies had to be focussed on House Massot.

That wasn’t going so well right now, either.

Judy, well, he ought to break up with her. But she had given him the perfect excuse not to. It was never the right time, and the way things were going, the right time wouldn’t arrive for months: every day, some new pleasure; every night, that smooth, firm body slipping in between his sheets. . . .

Tom felt guilty even thinking about it.

Well, he wasn’t technically cheating. It wasn’t like he was back together with Polly. Not yet.

He just wanted to be, more than anything.

This is another opportunity, Tom thought. I must stop being a coward.

Ugly word, but accurate. Yes, he had been a coward. It was always so easy to say “tomorrow.”

Well, no putting it off anymore. He would wait for Judy to come home tonight and break the news, as gently as he knew how. There was somebody else . . . or should he just say things weren’t working out?

I’m growing up, Tom thought, as he walked out of the front door, past his scowling butler. When Grandmother wasn’t around, all the staff made faces at him. And who could blame them? He had not treated Maman well. Maybe she had made a mistake, maybe she had lowered herself in dating that pig, Lazard, but . . .

It was strange. Tom had imagined that all his problems would cease the day he ran his father’s company. And yet, now that he had everything he had wanted, even coveted—the company, the château, the girl—it seemed very empty. He’d rather be in a punt, on the Cherwell, or rolling around laughing at Polly in her scruffy jeans and unfeminine sweatshirt. With Judy, he never laughed.

Or playing cards with Maman, who always lost.

She’d lost in the big game of cards, too.

Tom walked over to his eighteenth-century desk and retrieved his mother’s letter from the secret drawer where he kept it stashed.

He missed her so much. It hurt so horribly. If he were honest, he was starting not to care that she was staying with Montfort. Tom still wanted to see her, to wrap her up in a bear hug.

Those words—about always loving him.

For weeks now, they had kept him strong. Massot was a bloody disaster, let’s face it, and Tom had no idea how to fix things. Judy was exhausting. Katherine was back to her usual cold self. . . .

Tom scanned the letter for the millionth time. He reread the line about Judy. Maybe Maman did know something about her.

Well—that was one barrier between them that he could dismantle.

And Tom was going to do it. Tonight.

He would walk out to the orchard and see if any of the plums were ripe. When he was younger, Tom had loved going out there with Maman, hunting through the trees for those telltale signs of purple, pulling down the branches and trying to bat off the ones that were out of reach, stuffing the sun-drenched sweetness into his mouth, laughing while Maman tickled him. . . .

No menopausal romances were going to change any of that.

The trees calmed him. The plums were still streaked with green, but he admired their beauty; it was late afternoon and a gloriously sunny day. Tom made a decision. He sat on a mossy stump, fished out his mobile, and called his mother.

“Hello?”

“Mum, it’s me.” Tom realized he was using the anglicism she preferred.

“Oh darling—darling Tom. It’s so wonderful to hear from you. I love you, angel.”

“And I love you.” Tom was embarrassed to find he had a lump in his throat. “We mustn’t let this come between us, Mum. I—I’m sorry I threw you out of the house.”

“It’s all right, darling. I understand you thought you were protecting Daddy.”

He didn’t want to talk about that.

“Hugh never felt any personal animosity towards your father. I promise. Will you give him a chance?”

“I’m going to break up with Judy,” Tom said. He wanted to change the subject.

“Oh, thank God.” Sophie heaved an audible sigh of relief. “She wasn’t right for you.”

“I agree. You see, I can see reason.” Already he felt a lot happier. “It’s always been you and me, Mum. I shouldn’t have lost sight of that.”

“I can understand why you did.” His mother started to cry. “Darling—I just want to see you. Shall I come back to Paris?”

“That’d be great,” Tom said, cheered. He didn’t want to see Montfort, especially not in his own house. Plus, he didn’t think he could spare any time away from House Massot and its sales meltdown.

“Then I’ll be there tomorrow.” There was a hesitation. “Tom—I’ve got some news. Do you think you can take it calmly?”

He laughed, despite himself. “Oh, Mum—this is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure you’ll think so at first. But promise me not to fly off the handle.”

Tom could hardly refuse. “Okay.”

“I’ve spent over a month here with Hugh. We—we’re in love, darling. Last night he proposed to me.”

“And you accepted.”

“Yes.”

“And you were going to tell me—when?”

“I wanted you to call me. If you hadn’t—in a day or so.”

The happiness of a few moments earlier seeped away from him. Tom thought of his father, and felt a black pit of despair come up from nowhere and engulf him. A chill wind blew through the plum orchard, and he shivered.

“I can’t accept him, Mum.”

“I understand that. But you will.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t come—right now.”

“Oh, Tom!”

There was the disappointment in her voice. He struggled with himself.

“Look—I don’t want you to see this bloke, much less marry him. I still think Papa might be alive.”

“Darling—”

“We won’t get into that now. But I do know one thing. Even if you do marry him, I’ll still love you. You’ll always be my mum. And we’ll see each other some time soon. Just—just not now.” A tear rolled down Tom’s cheek, and he brushed it off, angrily, glad he was alone. “That good enough?” he asked, gruffly. No way did he want his mother to hear his voice crack.

“Yes.” She was teary, too. “Yes, sweetheart—my darling. That’s fine, for now. I love you, Tom.”

“Me too, Mum,” Tom said, hanging up. Then he put his head in his hands, and surrendered to his private grief.

Judy sighed with relief. It had been a long and brutal day, and she was thankful to be turning into the long drive of the château. The last golden leaves of the oaks were tumbling to the ground; the real cold of winter was setting in, and she was looking forward to a hot bath and a blazing fire in the drawing room.

Tom was being extra-polite lately. She was starting to feel hopeful on that front. All the humiliation would be worth it if she could come out of this Mrs. Tom Massot.

Judy indulged in a pleasant little daydream as the tires of her BMW crunched on the gravel of the château’s drive.Yes.That was perfect. It was the way she’d finally be revenged on the lot of them. She’d marry the son, take over the business—Tom was supremely easy to manipulate. Once the honeymoon period was over, she could do it, no problem.

Let that old bitch Katherine gnash her teeth; she’d be dead soon anyway.

No more humiliation. No more being the loser in love.

Judy was sick of second place.

I’m going to do it, she told herself. I’m going to make him propose. It’s going to happen tonight.

Judy walked up to the steps of the porch, and the large walnut door swung open; that butler, whose name she could not recall, bowed to her.

“Good evening, madam,” he said in perfect English.

She nodded back, coolly. Yes. This was the life.

“Mr. Massot is waiting for you in the drawing room, madam. He asked if you would join him for a cocktail.”

How charming. Judy deigned to turn and smile at the butler.

“Why, thank you,” she said, sweetly.

She normally didn’t speak to the staff. After all, she was hardly on their level. But Judy made an exception for the bearers of good news.

She crossed the marble floor of the hallway, pausing to fluff out her new hairdo—fifty euros for a wash and blow-dry at Jean-Philippe’s, Paris’s latest hot hair salon, and worth every cent. After her horrid day at the office, Judy always stopped by. She wanted to look absolutely fresh for Tom, at her best, every night. No exceptions.

The rearview mirror had offered reassurance on the way home; her lips in that sexy fire-engine red, matching nails, a bold scarlet dress, and black Manolos, with a chunky gold bracelet from one of the Mayberry collections. Her dark hair flowed sexily around her shoulders. Judy gave herself a little shake and pushed down on the brass handle.

Ah . . . perfect.

It was the scene of her dreams. There was indeed a blazing fire crackling and hissing in the eighteenth-century hearth; the curtains, antique orange silk fringed with gold thread, were drawn against the cold; and the shadows of the furniture danced around the walls lined with books.

Tom was standing by the polished mahogany table. It was set with cut-glass decanters and tumblers, a silver bucket of ice with tongs, and slices of lemon and lime.

He looked frighteningly like Pierre. And yet, not. Too young, too green. Judy was never satisfied with Tom; he couldn’t rouse her like Pierre had done. Oh, he looked the same, but the fire wasn’t there: the dominance, the total control. As the young girl, the hero-worshipping mistress, Judy had looked up to Pierre Massot, and he’d been able to bend her whichever way he wanted. Now, with Tom, she was the one doing the manipulating. She was in charge. . . .

It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t love. It was like sickly sweet methadone instead of heroin. And Tom could never get her high.

But he was still Tom Massot. The riches were his. The castle was his. The jewels. The name. . . .

The last vestiges of tension drained from her body. She flashed him a come-on smile.

“Hey Tom,” she drawled. “A drink would be perfect. It’s like you read my mind, baby.” Judy strutted across the room towards him. “It’s been a rough day. I can’t stand those bastards.” She shook her head to display her fluffy hair to best advantage; the salon made it look like a Timotei commercial.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He sounded a little nervous, and a jolt of electricity shot through her. Was he about to pop the question? “What will you have?”

“No alcohol; I’ll just take some juice.” She stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked her lips.

He silently poured out a tumblerful of the fresh orange juice; it came from the château’s own orangerie and it was utterly perfect. Judy took the tumbler gratefully, and chinked it against his glass of whisky.

“A toast,” she announced, “to—”

“Judy. Wait.” Tom glanced at the door. “Is that closed?”

“Absolutely.” She winked. “We’re private here. Why, did you want to christen the room? I think we’ve had sex most everywhere else . . .”

Tom swallowed. “Yes—and it was wonderful. I—I’ve got something to say to you, though.”

Oh shit. It’s going to happen.

Judy couldn’t stop the smile, although she tried to.

“Go on, Tom,” she said. “Go on, honey.”

“Judy—you’re a wonderful person,” Tom said. “And we’ve had a lot of fun together. And—I’m fond of you.” The last wasn’t strictly true anymore, but it was a white lie. “But this relationship isn’t going anywhere. I think for both our sakes that we should break up. You’ll need to move out, so if you want, I can have the staff pack your cases.” He ploughed on. “It just wouldn’t be fair to waste your time.”

Judy was staring at him with a rage he had not thought possible.

“I’m sorry,” he finished lamely.

She threw the juice in his face. It splashed all over Tom’s suit, ruining it; his eyes stung.

“You fucking bastard,” Judy said. “Just like your father.”

“Leave my father out of this,” he said coldly.

Judy laughed, high-pitched and manic.

“So that’s it?” she demanded. “That’s what I get? Six months of being screwed by an inferior little prick, then thank you and goodbye? Packed out of the house, with nothing to show for it. . . .”

“Not all love affairs end in marriage. You knew that.”

At least he hadn’t assumed she meant a payoff. But fuck him, Judy thought, infuriated.

“I knew I trusted you. I knew you asked me to move here. I thought that meant something.”

“It meant I wanted your company.”

“Oh, sure.” She laughed bitterly. “You wanted a convenience. A girl at hand. And now that you think you don’t need me, I’m out. On the trash heap.”

“Let’s be adult about this, Judy.”

“Adult? You’re a whiny little brat. You sold Massot for nothing. You’re not your father, Tom. You’re a pale fucking imitation. No fire in the belly. No guts.”

That stung.

“Again, I will ask you not to mention my father,” Tom said flatly. “You hardly knew him. You are not qualified to comment, Judy. You’re not a member of this family.”

That last one had her screaming. Judy heard her own voice, wild and high. But she didn’t care. All she saw was Tom—looking like Pierre—casting her out, dumping her, demeaning her.

You’re not a member of this family.

“I am,” she screeched. “I am a member of your precious little family! And I always will be! There’s nothing you can do about it—nothing at all!”

She saw the look of horror and disgust on his face as the implication sank in. And she loathed him for it.

“That’s right, you piece of shit,” Judy said. “I’m pregnant. I’m carrying your goddamn baby.”