Peach (53 page)

Noel liked the Crillon. It was a very civilised hotel, it was calm and luxurious and its switchboard operators were efficient. His telephone had been kept hot by calls back and forth to Detroit and after a final conference call with US Auto’s top management he had the go-ahead for his plan. Tomorrow half a dozen bright young executives from US Auto Marketing Division would be on a plane from Detroit to Paris. Noel would brief them personally on their approach and then he’d wine them and dine them in gay Paree before sending them off to do their job.

On the table in front of him was a list of the de Courmont dealers throughout Europe. The names of the largest and most important had been underscored in red—in France, Germany, Great Britain, Italy, Spain and Portugal. Noel was empowered to offer them exclusive European distribution
of US Auto’s successful “Stallion” at initially very favourable terms with the promise of solid advertising and promotional back-up in each country—a chance they would jump at despite their loyalty to de Courmont. Of course Noel didn’t plan on asking them to drop the “Fleur.” That wouldn’t be necessary. Presented with a choice between the “Stallion” and the “Fleur” he knew which the customer would choose. The “Fleur” didn’t stand a chance.

It hadn’t been easy to get the go-ahead from Detroit. Management were cautious, but they trusted his judgement and when he’d told them that he had an inside edge via a personal relationship with a member of the de Courmont family, he had finally clinched it. Of course this was only phase one of his game-plan. He had learned his corporate lesson well from Claire Anthony … results and numbers, a fast turn-around—today’s success for today’s rewards. He’d present US Auto with de Courmont’s market and then, with the company weakened by drastic sales losses, he would have driven a wedge through its door.

The high-pitched shrill of the French telephone system splintered his thoughts and he answered it abruptly.

“Noel? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Peach,” he said, leaning back in the chair and propping his feet on the table. “Just busy, that’s all.”

“Oh I’m sorry … shall I call you later? It wasn’t anything important.”

“
You
are important,” said Noel quietly. “And, besides, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing than talking to you. It’s a lot more interesting than what I have on my desk at the moment.”

The sound of Peach’s light breathy laugh warmed the lonely hotel room. “At least this time I’m not calling with more of my problems,” she promised. “I just wanted to tell you that Wil is here with me in London. Since your lawyers
put pressure on him Harry is being very reasonable—I suppose it’s only because he knows he had no choice but it does make it easier to have a veneer of an amiable relationship—and of course it’s so much better for Wil.”

“How is Wil?” asked Noel.

“He has to go to the hospital for final X-rays but then, if all is well, he’ll be able to travel. I plan to bring him to France to stay with Grand-mère on the Riviera. He’ll soon get back his strength there.”

Noel tucked the receiver under his chin and placed his hands behind his head, waiting.

“Shall I meet you in Paris, Noel?”

“I’d like that, Peach, but I’m not sure I shall still be here. Why don’t you let me know what your plans are?”

“Yes, of course I’ll do that.” Peach sounded disappointed. “I wanted to thank you again for your help—I don’t know what I would have done without you, Noel. Yes I do know—I would have lost Wil. How do I thank a man who put the pieces of my life back together again?”

“No thanks needed, Peach,” said Noel gently.

“I miss you,” said Peach suddenly. “I liked being with you, Noel Maddox.”

“Good. I miss you too, Peach. More than I should.”

There was a pause and then Peach said, “I’ll let you know then—when I’ll be in Paris.”

“Do that.” Noel replaced the telephone receiver and leaned back in his chair smiling. Life was good—and on perfect course.

Wil Launceton was a bright child. He’d observed the tight-lipped silent clashes between his father and his mother over the years and knew that their relationship wasn’t the same as those of his friends’ parents. But of course his father was said to be a genius and his mother was known to be French and eccentric, as well as being quite spectacular looking. All the fathers liked her, anyhow, though Wil didn’t think she was beautiful. Her mouth was too wide and she didn’t have one of those nice little turned-up noses like Jake Northrup’s mother, though Jake had told all the boys in his division at school—in confidence, of course—that his mother had had her real nose replaced by plastic! Wil had wondered for a long time how Mrs Northrup could breathe through a plastic nose until Peach had told him, laughing, that it had been something called “plastic surgery” that Jake had meant. Anyhow—Peach was too tall, she towered over everyone and she wore different clothes from the other mothers, but Wil had got over the stage of wishing that she looked like them and that she would use her real name—Marie or Isabelle instead of Peach—which he’d gone through for a while when he was younger—six or something—and now he was really proud of the way she looked, especially in those enormous advertisements. His mother had suddenly become a “star” and Wil’s stock at school had soared.

Of course, he’d known something was up even before the accident. Aunt Augusta came to stay at Launceton more
and more often, and his mother stayed in Paris or she met him in London instead of at home. Aunt Augusta was all right but he couldn’t imagine why his father preferred being with her to being with Peach. Augusta was too predictable to be much fun. When she was at Launceton Wil’d bet anything he could tell you exactly what they’d have for lunch each day of the week; he’d bet against himself once and he’d been one hundred per cent right. But he supposed Dad liked knowing that.

It had been a bit of a blow, though, just when he was beginning to feel better to be told that he was going to live with his father and Augusta for ever and Peach wouldn’t be coming back. He’d cried every night for ages and he’d even overheard the housekeeper saying it was a shame, the boy was pining for his mother. Then suddenly it all changed again and life would go on pretty much as it had done before, sometimes with Dad and sometimes with Peach—but never again with the two of them together. And here he was in Paris with Peach. And this new man.

Wil inspected Noel suspiciously across the table on the
Bâteau Mouche
. His mother looked very pleased with herself, all sort of smiley and soft, and he could tell she wanted him to like Noel Maddox. It had been Mr Maddox’s idea that they go on this boat trip down the River Seine, though personally Wil thought it a ridiculous thing to do—who wanted to eat dinner and look out of the window at a lot of old buildings, anyway, even if they were floodlit? When they’d gone to meet Mr Maddox at the Crillon and he’d told Peach that he’d booked a table on the
Bâteau Mouche
because he thought it might be fun for Wil, Peach’s eyes had met Wil’s in a signal that he knew had meant smile and be nice, so he had. Hadn’t he said, “Thank you very much, sir, that will be very nice”? But it didn’t mean he had to
enjoy
it. He’d have preferred a hamburger and chips at the “drugstore”
near the Place de l’Opéra and the new James Bond movie was showing at a cinema in the Champs Elysées, but this American had thought he was a
tourist
. Why, he knew Paris just as well as he did London—and that was a lot better than Mr Maddox!

“Look, Wil,” said Peach as the
Bâteau Mouche
slid beneath the Pont de Sully, emerging to the glorious view of the Ile St Louis on the right with the spires of Notre Dame on the Ile de la Cité ahead. “Look darling, you can see the house.”

Wil stood up, peering through the sloping windows of the boat, and Peach turned to smile at Noel. “We’ve never seen it from the river before,” she said.

“You live there?” asked Noel, staring at the imposing grey stone façades.

“There!” shouted Wil excitedly. “The one almost on the corner, just there!”

Other diners turned to stare and Peach said, “Ssh, darling,” smiling at his excitement. “The house was built by a de Courmont in the seventeenth century and is quite famous. All the great private houses in Paris were called ‘hôtels’ like the ‘
hôtel de ville
’—the town hall. I’m afraid the Hôtel de Courmont has had to go through a few changes lately. It’s working for its living now—like the family. It’s become part of de Courmont’s identity—the company’s Parisian image to the world.”

Noel’s face was impassive as he turned back to the table and poured more wine.

“Look, Mum, look at that,” cried Wil excitedly as the stern ramparts of Notre Dame hove into view, floodlights illuminating the gargoyles and creatures that climbed its buttresses and projected from its towers.

“You see,” murmured Peach, “he is enjoying himself after all.”

Noel shrugged. “I’ve not had any practice in knowing what small boys would really like—but I guess he’d rather have grabbed a burger and seen the new James Bond movie than had a grown-up dinner like this while looking at a lot of old buildings.”

Wil turned and grinned at him, eyeing him with a new respect. “That’s all right, Mr Maddox,” he said kindly, “I don’t mind. We can see the Bond film tomorrow.”

“You’re on,” promised Noel, smiling back.

Later Noel wandered through the splendid salons of the de Courmont mansion, while Peach said goodnight to Wil upstairs. He stared at the grand marble staircase and the frescoes of flying cherubs on the great domed ceiling, imagining Peach as a tiny girl walking up those wide steps, one step at a time, on her way to bed. He paced the squared black and white marble hall wondering if she’d played hopscotch there, and he strolled the cushioned elegance of the grand salon admiring the Helleu portrait of Marie-France de Courmont—Peach’s grandmother. On the other wall hung a portrait by Sargent of Leonie, looking ethereally beautiful in a clinging golden gown, her arms outstretched and a sleeping black panther at her feet.

“That’s Grand-mère,” said Peach behind him.

“I know,” said Noel.

“Come and see ‘Monsieur’,” she said, taking his hand and leading him back into the hall. The portrait was a head and shoulders view of a handsome man whose mouth held a touch of cruelty in its stern curves. His eyes had a forceful piercing stare that seemed to follow Noel even when he moved away. And Monsieur’s eyes were the same blue as Peach’s, dark and disquieting. The small gilt label underneath said, “Gilles, le VIme Duc de Courmont.”

“I talk to him sometimes,” confessed Peach, “when I’m here alone.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Oh, I tell him what decisions I’ve made about his company, I tell him what I’m trying to do—I promise him I’ll do my best to win.”

“And are you?” asked Noel keenly.

“I’m trying,” sighed Peach.

“Tell me,” asked Noel suddenly, “when you were a kid did you ever play hopscotch on these marble tiles?”

Peach suddenly remembered the hated ugly braces and the smell of the black leather straps as though they still trapped her legs. “I never played hopscotch,” she replied abruptly. Taking Noel’s hand she led him along the wide corridor to the grand salon.

They sat opposite each other on the new white sofas on either side of the vast fireplace, beneath glittering Venetian chandeliers from the seventeenth century. A maid in a white lace apron placed a silver tray of coffee on the table beside Peach.

“Wil’s a fine boy,” commented Noel, “and bright too. He knew I’d made a mistake with the
Bâteau Mouche
but he let me off the hook.”

“Don’t feel badly about it. I make mistakes with him all the time—taking him to things he would have loved six months ago but are suddenly far too ‘babyish’. You can’t win with growing boys—they’re always one step ahead of you.”

“And one day all this will be his,” said Noel, sipping his coffee.

“All this—and whatever’s left of Monsieur’s ‘empire’.” Peach looked at Noel hesitantly. “I hate to bother you about this when you’ve been so good to me already, but I’d value your opinion. I know that you are one of the most respected men in the automobile industry.”

Noel watched Peach kick off her shoes—low heels, he
noticed, so that she wouldn’t look taller than him. She curled up on the white sofa, propping her head on her hand, meeting his eyes. In a soft coral coloured dress, with her golden skin and mane of russet hair, she had the earnest beauty of Rossetti’s pre-Raphaelite girls. And her eyes were the deepest marine blue tonight, gazing anxiously into his.

“You see, Noel, the ‘Fleur’ isn’t selling the way we had hoped,” explained Peach. “It was supposed to be de Courmont’s giant step into the world market, to compete with Japan’s Datsun and Italy’s Fiat and Germany’s Volkswagen range. It’s a good car, Noel, a bit expensive perhaps for the size, but it’s solid and well-made. The door handles won’t fall off and it starts on cold winter mornings—it’s
reliable
.”

“The ‘Fleur’ is a nice car,” agreed Noel cautiously.

“But then
why
, Noel? Why isn’t it doing well? All the dealers have massive stocks, they have been loyal to de Courmont for years—since before the war some of them. But the ‘Fleur’ is just sitting in the showroom windows instead of driving on the roads!”

“You want the truth?” asked Noel.

She looked at him. “Is it that bad?”

“The ‘Fleur’ is undersized and overpriced. The mistake began at the concept stage. The car was aimed at a market that doesn’t exist. Then the designers took the mistake a step further. The car is neither one thing nor the other—it’s too large for a compact and too small for a family car. There’s no room in that back seat for a couple of kids and a dog and maybe the shopping too. The lines are wrong—it’s not ‘sporty’ enough, it’s not quite ‘today’. The de Courmont ‘Fleur’ looks like last year’s style made-over. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Peach, your design team should be fired—all of them.”

Peach stared at him aghast. “But the ‘Fleur’ was meant to
save
de Courmont,” she protested. “They’ve invested millions in it.”