Christmas at Tiffany's (38 page)

‘So Anouk, did you hear about Cassie’s fantastic idea for the party?’ Florence asked. She was wearing a black draped Victoria Beckham dress that fitted like a second skin, and had a string of black pearls around her wrist.

‘No,’ Anouk said, looking over at Cassie, who was red-faced from running between the kitchen to help Claude and refilling everyone’s glasses.

‘You’ll never guess. Monsieur Westley just
loves
it.’

‘Enlighten me. Please.’

Florence paused for dramatic effect as Cassie came over with the wine bottle.

‘The catacombs,’ she said, leaning in. ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’

There was a weighty silence as the women contemplated partying in a crypt.

‘Well, it certainly sounds atmospheric,’ said Victoire, eavesdropping from her conversation with Jacques, Marc and Pierre by the windows and turning to join them. It was the fourth of March and the French windows were open fractionally, allowing the chug of the boats on the river to serve as a bass beat to their conversation.

‘It was the bones that clinched it,’ Florence said. ‘The Corsair collection three seasons ago was one of Monsieur Westley’s most iconic collections and a big commercial hit for us. It drew heavily from pirate culture, and we did particularly well with a nebulous crossbones motif printed on to chiffon.’

‘Really?’ Victoire asked. ‘You’d never have thought . . .’

‘Oh yes. It did for us what the Stephen Sprouse leopard print has done for Vuitton. In fact, Cassie suggested relaunching the print for a limited-edition run to make up some scarves for the goody bags.’

Anouk, who was looking especially ravishing tonight in a black lace dress overlaid on ivory silk, with a deep scoop neck and tight sleeves, squeezed Cassie’s arm proudly. ‘Well, I knew Cassie would come through for you,’ she said, and Cassie beamed, almost faint with relief not to have embarrassed Anouk the way she had Kelly.

‘Well, that’s more than I did,’ Cassie demurred, smiling modestly. ‘I only thought of it the morning of our meeting. It was a lucky break, that was all.’

‘No, no, no,’ Florence protested, watching the two friends. ‘I knew all along you were the right person for that job. Everyone else in the department is too close – they don’t see Paris with new eyes the way you do. It is always the person on the outside who sees things most clearly.’

The words seemed loaded, but Victoire stepped in diplomatically. ‘Not that Florence means to suggest you’re an outsider, Cassie.’

‘I do not think it is any bad thing to stand apart from the crowd. In fact I rather envy it. I wonder what else you see about Paris that we have become blind to?’

Cassie laughed lightly, but she definitely detected a frisson in the air and was relieved to hear a knock at the door.

‘Bas, I’m so pleased you made it!’ she said, hugging him as he stepped in. ‘I was so sure something would come up and you wouldn’t be able to get away.’ True to her fears, their meetings had been sporadic and brief, and the days were rushing away from them.

‘It did, and I nearly didn’t,’ he said, shrugging off his coat. He looked exhausted, a paler shade of walnut. ‘Selena was up to her usual tricks again.’

Cassie froze. ‘Selena? She’s in Paris?’

‘Yes, of course. You knew that.’

‘I guess so. I just forgot, now that I’m not at the coal face any more.’ She took his coat for him. ‘What’s she been up to then?’

‘Oh, just refusing to have even so much as an aloe vera mask, much less a red rinse. Sonia’s threatening to leave her out if she doesn’t do it. All the girls are going red – it’s to pay homage to her thirty years in the business – but Selena’s booked for Balmain two hours later . . .’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘Honey, I just left them to it. They’ll still be going by the time I get back. And a boy’s gotta eat, right?’

She patted his arm fondly. ‘Well, thank God you’re here. I was feeling totally outnumbered. Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone.’

‘Wait,’ he whispered, holding her back by the door. ‘Give me a quick run-through from here. You know I’m a disaster with names.’

They looked in towards the assembled party. ‘Well, that’s Victoire in the patterned dress. She’s Anouk’s closest friend and a textile designer. That print is one of her own. Don’t you just love it? She does a lot of stuff for Dries Van Noten.’ Cassie sighed.

‘Mmmmm.’

‘Florence, another close friend, and my boss at Dior, is in the tight black dress and pearls. She’s married to Jacques – he’s the tall, well-built fellow by the window. He’s in antiques. And—’

‘Way-hey-hey,’ Bas murmured. ‘Who’s the stud-muffin he’s talking to?’

‘Which one? The one in the striped tie is Marc, that’s Victoire’s husband—’

‘No, no, the lanky boy with the face of an angel.’

Cassie burst out laughing. ‘You’ve got no hope there, I’m afraid. That’s Pierre, Anouk’s man.’

‘Get out!’

‘Oh yes. And I wouldn’t try to take her on if I were you. Just look at her in that dress.’

Bas narrowed his eyes. ‘True. I can’t pull off lace like that,’ he murmured.

‘Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen first. I want to introduce you to Claude. He’s better one-on-one. Remember this is a big night for him . . . Bas?’

She turned back, but he was still leaning against the door frame, lost in thought.

‘Hmmm? Oh yeah, right.’ He stood up and walked towards her.

‘And remember, you promised honey . . .’

Jacques smiled appreciatively as he took a sip of the Sauternes Cassie had spent hours choosing to complement the pear tart sprinkled with hazelnuts and lavender honey.

He held his glass up to the light. ‘Soon you will be more French than any of us,’ he smiled. ‘Your choices tonight have been superb.’

‘Thank you,’ Cassie said, smiling radiantly. This dinner had been as much a success as the first had been a disaster. Everyone had steered well clear of controversial topics, and it didn’t hurt that Cassie had unearthed, in the meantime, a talent and passion that was even more French than an affair. ‘I think I’m in danger of becoming a Francophile after all.’

She looked down the table at Claude to check he was okay, feeling like an over-protective mother. He was nodding as Victoire spoke to him in confiding tones, and her heart lurched a little. She could see on his face the effort it took just to smile and not speak with a growl. Anouk, on the other hand, was being haughty with him. In spite of the fact that he had masterminded a triumphant birthday dinner for her, she still hadn’t recovered from his failure to fall at her feet, and was deep in conversation with Guillaume instead.

Cassie watched them for a second, feeling guilty that she couldn’t entertain the idea of a romance with Guillaume – not even to be French. But Guillaume didn’t seem too upset about it, despite what Anouk was saying to the contrary. On the occasions when they had met up as a four, they’d all had a great time together. She found him charming, intelligent and easy to talk to, and if everyone would only let them, they could become good friends.

A sudden rip of laughter alerted her to the fact that things were a lot more lively at the other end of the table. Florence and Pierre were listening intently to Bas, who was in what he called full ‘fashionating’ flight, wheeling out anecdotes about the week’s histrionics, which might have driven him to the brink of madness whilst they were happening in real time, but made for fabulous dinner-party talk afterwards. His listeners kept bursting into loud laughter and clapping their hands merrily.

Jacques followed her stare. ‘He is very much fun, your friend.’

‘Bas? Yes. Not at all French, of course,’ she said, aware he was breaking all the rules of conventional dinner-party etiquette. ‘But I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s got a heart of gold, he really has.’

‘It must be nice for you to have him here.’

‘Yes. I just wish it was for longer,’ she sighed, running her finger round the top of her wine glass. ‘I’ve not really got anyone like him here in Paris. He’s like a big brother in lots of ways: non-judgemental, fully supportive,
great
shopping buddy.’ She laughed.

‘And protective? He works with your ex-boyfriend, does he not?’

Cassie tensed. Oh no, not again. ‘Occasionally. They’re both freelance, so . . . it’s random when they meet.’

‘And is he over too?’

Cassie gave a small sniff. ‘Yes. I think so.’

‘But you have not seen him.’

Cassie shook her head. She was still shocked by just how disappointed she was that he hadn’t called. Fantasies of a reunion at the George Cinq, or wherever he was staying, had run through her head during unguarded moments, and she had hoped that at the very least they might meet for drinks and a talk. It had been two months since she’d left now; she was halfway through her Paris visit, and she wasn’t going to be in London as long as she’d expected. In theory, they could be together again within weeks. At least, that was what she’d thought. But his silence was extinguishing that hope.

Jacques rearranged his napkin on his lap and changed the subject. ‘So tell me about Claude. It is an exceedingly rare privilege that he should be cooking for us tonight.’

‘Yes. I think I would gladly devote my life to learning from him. I’d jack in my job and sleep on the kitchen floor,’ she said, before realizing her blunder and quickly recovering herself, remembering that she was talking to her boss’s husband. ‘I mean, obviously I love working at Dior.’

‘But it’s not your passion,’ Jacques said, cutting to the chase.

‘No,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s not. But it’s only since coming here that I’ve realized what my passion actually
is
. I never knew before now.’

‘I had heard he was a recluse.’

‘He is very closed. Very private,’ Cassie confirmed.

‘He must see something special in you to accept you as a friend. Perhaps you are the one to break him free.’

‘I’m not sure about that. We have virtually no social contact. Just a conversation once at Ladurée, but even that was only to introduce me to macaroons before we made them.’ She shrugged. ‘I doubt he considers me anything more than a bothersome, over-enthusiastic student.’

‘Well, he came here tonight.’

Cassie looked down the table at Claude. He was staring at his hands. ‘Yes. He did.’

She suddenly remembered something. ‘By the way, were you at Vanves this afternoon? At the antique book market?’

‘Vanves?’ He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Really? Because I thought I saw you coming out of the park.’

Jacques shook his head again. ‘I was at the gallery all afternoon.’

‘Oh. Strange. I could have
sworn
it was you. Well, you must have a twin, then.’

‘I do. His name’s Gabriel Byrne.’

Cassie chuckled. ‘I had noticed the resemblance actually.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess there are a lot worse people to be likened to.’

‘Try telling that to my wife,’ Jacques said, rolling his eyes and looking over at Florence. ‘She would rather I was more like Robert Redford.’

‘Oh, there’s definitely only one of him in the world,’ Cassie smiled.

‘Luckily for me,’ Jacques laughed and gazed down the table at his beautiful wife.

‘How long have you two been married?’ Cassie asked.

‘Seventeen years now – and counting.’

‘And counting,’ Cassie echoed, as she remembered yet again that she hadn’t made it a single day past ten.

Cassie nestled further into the deep red sofa, the colour as warming as any fire. Bas was late, but that was to be expected. The schedule was out of his control – out of anyone’s control, it seemed. The Valentino show was supposed to have started at two-fifteen, but allowing for the usual delay, plus twenty minutes of actual catwalking, another twenty afterwards to pack up . . . She checked her watch. It was quarter-past five now. He should be here any moment.

A waiter came up again and asked if she was sure she wouldn’t like something while she waited.

‘Actually, I think I’ll have a coffee,’ she said, and he nodded with a smile of satisfaction, as though it really mattered to him that that she should not be empty-handed.

A group came into the room – loud, young, fiercely chic – and everyone looked up at them. The girls were clearly models. Cassie noticed a sweep of red hair and did a double-take – was that Bonnie? – just as someone did the same to her.

‘
Cass?
Is that
you
?’

Cassie looked up. Luke was staring at her, his camera in one hand as ever.

‘Luke!’

‘I’ll be over in a second,’ he said to the group, and they floated off to a far corner. He walked towards her, taking in the change in her appearance. ‘Jesus . . . look at you.’

She got up from the sofa and obediently looked down at herself. She had come straight from the office, wearing an ivory silk floppy blouse, Anouk’s red tweed jacket and black cigarette pants.

‘Hi.’ She smiled shyly as he took in the transformation, and she could actually see the conflict of wounded pride trying to assert itself over the happy surprise in his face. He was tanned, of course, wearing jeans, a pale khaki desert jacket and a navy scarf.