Sparkles

Tom told himself that a thousand times an hour, it felt like, but it did no good. He’d got up in the morning and the nightmare was still there.

His baby. Judy’s baby.

Tethered for life to an older woman who his mother hated and he couldn’t stand.

He had no idea what to do.

Or what the hell he’d tell Sophie.

So, he’d try to put it off. Taking over Massot had been an utter disaster.Tom’s ideas for reviving sales had been disastrous. Nobody liked his cost-cutting in the sales room; there were mass resignations of key staff; he had no idea how to recruit; negative press was flooding in and the Brandts, the design leaders, had quit. His testing of replacements wasn’t going too well. And the accountants wanted a lot of answers. . . .

He knew he was in over his head. The shiny corner office was one thing. Knowing how to use it was another.

“Celine!” he shouted. “Could you bring me another cup of coffee?”

His secretary popped her head round the door and raised her eyebrows.

“Another, Monsieur?”

“Believe me, the jitters can’t get any worse.”

“I’ll make a decaf,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Mayberry stock was sinking. And the meltdown at Massot was a huge part of it. Tom pushed a hand through his hair, sweating. The stress was unbelievable. It was only nine thirty and already he wanted a drink.

His door opened.

“That was quick,” Tom said.

But it wasn’t Celine. And he knew instantly that this shitty day was about to get much, much worse.

“Hi, kid,” said Pete Stockton.

Stockton was as blunt as he was unpleasant. He stank of sweat, a stench that was only partially disguised by the sickly sweet smoke from his Cuban cigar.

“You don’t look so pleased to see me.”

“Hi, Pete.” Tom sounded calmer than he felt. “Don’t call me kid.”

“Oooh.” The pudgy slob rolled his eyes. “Big talk from a guy that’s about to get canned.”

“What?”

“Canned. Fired. Sacked. Au revoir,” Stockton gloated. “Ain’t that how they say it in Frog?”

“You can’t fire me, Pete. We have an agreement—”

“Had—an agreement. Now that I’ve got your shares I really don’t need you. And to be frank, nor does anyone else. Specially my shareholders. I’m taking this job away from you and giving it to a real expert. Continuity, that’s what they want.”

“Giving it to who, exactly?”

Pete Stockton grinned. “Your mom’s old pal. Gregoire Lazard. I’m reinstating him and giving him your office. Poetic justice, since it was a Massot who canned him. Don’t you think so?”

Tom flushed with anger. “You can’t. I have it in writing. I become chairman and chief. . . .”

“Yada yada yada.” Stockton described a circle in the air with his Monte Cristo. “Need to read your contracts a little better, kid. Said I’d make you chairman. Didn’t say for how long. Got to fire you; stock’s down almost seven percent. To be honest, though, would have done it even if the stock went up.”

“Why?” spluttered Tom.

“Don’t like you. Privileged little brat, never had to work for it. Snooty Eurotrash. You and Montfort and your hoity-toity mom. That uptight old maid nearly got me fired. Refusing to sell. I tell you,” Stockton chuckled, his chins wobbling, “she wouldn’t have made a rookie mistake like you. Guess that’s what you get for selling mommie dearest down the river!”

Tom didn’t hesitate. His fist lashed out and caught Stockton in the temple.

“Ahhhh ... FUCK YOU! I’ll fucking sue! I’ll—aaaaahhhhhh!”

Tom’s left foot had swept up neatly and kicked him in the balls. Stockton squealed and toppled over, clutching at the table.

Celine had been listening outside the door. She opened it, and stared at Tom, wide-eyed.

“Call the police! Call the goddamned police!” Stockton shrieked.

“Why, Monsieur,” said Celine quickly, “then they’ll arrest you, for I saw you assault M. Massot, completely unprovoked.”

“Bless you, Celine.”

“And I quit. I don’t want to work for a man like that,” she said, then held the door open for Tom as he followed her out.

“You didn’t have to quit for me,” Tom said gratefully.

She looked at him coolly.

“I didn’t. I heard what he said about Mme Massot. She was an amazing woman to work for.” Celine looked at him with disapproval. “You were wrong to dismiss her, Monsieur. She was brilliant.”

Tom sighed.

“Mme Sophie inspired everybody here. If you want to understand why people quit, that is the reason. She was the difference. She understood jewels. She understood beauty.”

“And I don’t?”

“No. You don’t.” Celine was firm. “But you might have been able to learn.”

Stockton’s moans rose up from behind the closed door.

“He’s crying,” Tom observed.

“Like all bullies, he is a coward.” Celine sniffed. “I’m going home.”

“Can I drive you somewhere?”

“I have a car. Tell me, M. Massot. Did Madame explain to you about Judy Dean?”

Tom froze. “She told me she didn’t approve.”

“Nothing more?”

“Is there something more?”

Celine considered for a long moment.

“Non,” she said finally. “It is not my place. But take my advice, Monsieur. Call your mother. There is much, I think, you have to learn from her. And not just about diamonds.”