Love in Vogue (38 page)

‘You too.’ He kissed her firmly on the lips. ‘Give Patrick what he deserves on Tuesday. And remember – I’m always here for you.’

Yolande kissed him goodbye and turned away. He watched her disappear down the street, savouring one last whiff of her perfume – 121, a sensuous fragrance from the new Hervy range. She always left him with a longing which, unfulfilled, somehow translated itself into inspiration. The outline of a dress came to him even as he trained his eyes on her retreating back, and he dashed into the boutique to draw a rough sketch. The design became one of the highlights of his Milan show the following year.

Yolande loved London in the rain, especially when it was growing dark and the pavements glistened in the light thrown out by shop windows, while people relaxed over cardiac-arresting pastries and steaming lattes in the coffee houses. Bustle, movement, the sort of excitement and anticipation she remembered from Christmas shopping trips with her mother when she was very small. By six o’clock she was tired, loaded down with presents to take back to France, and speeding along Kensington Gore in a taxi to her grandparents’ house in Campden Hill Road. She was staying with them during the twelve weeks of her course, and one bag contained special thank-you gifts. Amongst the others was a collection of nineteenth-century watercolours of the Thames – an offering for Marie-Christine, who was celebrating her sixtieth birthday the following weekend. Having missed all the festivities the previous year, Yolande was looking forward to them. It was bound to be fun, especially now Philippe was home; he had such a genius for parties. Her life was getting back to normal at last.

‘Quick, Yolande!’ shouted Lady Albury, who was on the telephone in the sitting room as she entered. ‘It’s Yves.’

Yolande dumped her shopping bags and took the receiver. ‘Hi, Yves. How are you?’

Fine. How was the retail therapy?’

‘Ruinous.’

He laughed. They chatted for a few minutes about nothing in particular. They had got used to speaking to each other again without constraint and he rang at least twice a week. Lady Albury had looked sceptical when Yolande had told her they were just friends.

‘I really wanted to know if you’d come with me to the Confrérie dinner at Vougeot next Saturday,’ Yves said at last. ‘Can you get away?’

He was an active member of Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin, the winegrower’s association that did much to promote Burgundy’s reputation, of which Jean-Claude Marchand had been a prominent member. An invitation to a dinner at the Château de Vougeot, the association’s headquarters, was not to be missed. Yolande hadn’t been to one of these grand
haute cuisine
affairs since accompanying her father to one when she was seventeen.

‘I’m going back to Paris with Miles on Thursday, so I ought to be able to manage it,’ she said. ‘It’s supposed to be a long weekend for home study, but I’d love to come. I’ve just bought a birthday present for your mother. Will she be home?’

‘She’s spending the weekend at Briteuil. Philippe and Claire have organised a party for next Sunday. You’re invited, of course.’

‘I’d better get all my work done on the train, then,’ she said, wondering how she would fit everything in.

They chatted a while longer, just because Yolande wanted to, and he rang off after making arrangements to pick her up from Le Manoir the following Saturday evening.

‘He’s making progress,’ remarked Lady Albury when Yolande hung up. ‘You haven’t gushed over anyone like that for ages.’

‘Granny!’ She sat down beside her on the sofa. ‘I don’t gush.’

‘Well it sounded like that to me. Watch it, darling. He’s sure to get ideas.’

‘About what?’

‘You, of course! Can’t you tell he’s as crazy about you as ever? God knows why, the way you trampled all over him.’

Yolande looked at her in surprise. ‘But he was never crazy about me at all. Yves isn’t like that. We’re friends, that’s all. Like we used to be before that ridiculous engagement.’

Her grandmother shook her head. ‘You’ll regret letting him slip through your fingers one of these days, Yolande. He’s simply obsessed with you.’

‘Obsessed! Oh come on, Granny. Just because he rings me now and then, and we happened to be engaged. But that’s all in the past.’

‘Believe me, there aren’t many men who would run to a woman’s sickbed like he did – a year after you’d jilted him. And he doesn’t call now and then. It’s a regular thing, and you know it. I expect he spends the rest of the week hoping you’ll have the decency to call him back.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ said Yolande. ‘He gets bored on his own, so he likes a chat.’

‘And have you ever asked yourself why a gorgeous man like Yves is
still
on his own? You shouldn’t lead him on again if you aren’t interested. Now, let’s see what you’ve got. Did you buy something for the premiere?’

Over tea they talked about Yolande’s meeting with Franco, but her thoughts kept wandering. She had danced (or tried to dance, since she had still needed a stick) with Yves at Philippe’s wedding, and nothing much had happened. He’d kissed her, but hadn’t said anything, hadn’t pushed for anything more. It was like old times. How could he be obsessed with her? She had never thought he was really in love with her, even when he asked her to marry him. Oh, he loved her, she knew that. But that was different – it was like a heartbeat that would always go on, always bind them. Not the blinding heat of passion when you were
in love.
He was so formal, so restrained. It was all too much in keeping with the arranged marriage both their families had wanted.

But they were friends again now, and she had been in love with him once, a very long time ago. A little girl’s love – admiration for his strength and good looks, conceit that he had chosen her when he could have had so many others. When they used to kiss she felt hardly anything. Then she remembered the way he’d kissed her at the hospital, that time he came with Isabelle; hardly the kiss of a friend. She had felt heat then, and hunger. And he was still single. Perhaps her grandmother was right. Yolande decided to be extremely careful the following weekend at St Xavier. It wouldn’t do to give Yves false hopes now she had finally straightened herself out. She had to think of her career.

‘Yolande, are you sure you want to go to this premiere?’

‘Absolutely.’

Miles looked at her thoughtfully as she sat opposite him in the Alburys’ comfortable sitting room. She was dressed to kill. Long chestnut hair swept back from her face, figure-hugging black dress, endless legs encased in black silk, three-inch heels, a flash of diamonds on her ears, and a small silver cross studded with emeralds around her throat.

‘You know Dubuisson will be there.’

She touched the cross, smiling. ‘Why do you think I’m wearing this?’

‘Superstitious, aren’t you?’ Miles laughed. ‘But you won’t need it.  I’ll be there if he tries anything on.’

The doorbell rang. ‘Must be the taxi,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘It feels odd to be taking an evening off. I’ve not been going out much – too much work.’

‘Join the club. Corinne’s already got the furniture for your office. Better get a break in before it really kicks off.’

‘Oh, I will. Ten days at St Xavier and then it’s New York for Christmas. What about you and Corinne?’

‘Christmas at my uncle’s, then we’ll join you in New York. Honestly, it’s going to be impossible to get round to all our relations when we have children.’

Her head swivelled. ‘Children! Have you told Corinne?’

They moved out into the hall. ‘Mmm … ah, no. But you know how I feel about her. There’s never going to be another woman I’d want to have my children.’

‘So you’re going to propose?’

‘Don’t you dare breathe a word.’ Then he looked worried. ‘I just don’t know what I’ll do if she says no.’

Yolande patted his arm in sympathy. ‘She’d be mad if she did. Just take a chance.’

‘I hope you’re right. Got your handbag?’

She giggled. ‘I see she’s got you well trained.’ She held it up. ‘Check.’

‘Tickets?’

‘Check.’

‘Credit card, mobile phone that you’ll forget to switch off, powder compact, lipstick, comb, keys, tissues, and all the other useless stuff you females cart around.’

‘Check, check, check, check, check, check and check – you horrid man.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, come on, or we’ll be late. It’s a good thing I happened to be over, or you’d have been without an escort. Met anybody tall, dark, and handsome recently?’

‘No. And I don’t want to.’

‘Strange girl,’ said Miles good-humouredly. ‘Think of all the legions of tall, dark, handsome men you’re making suicidal. My colleague is going mad over you. I haven’t had a decent day’s work out of him since he met you.’

Yolande vaguely remembered James Chetwode, who had tried to monopolise her at a party Toinette had thrown to welcome her home from hospital, and she laughed. Tall and dark he might be, but handsome he most certainly was not. He had, however, cracked some very funny jokes, most of them quite lost on the French guests.

Miles kept up the banter during their drive to Leicester Square, hoping to boost Yolande’s spirits. He couldn’t decide whether she was putting on a bold front or  was now quite calm about meeting her movie acquaintances. She’d sworn that she hated the whole lot of them when she was lying broken and bandaged in the emergency ward, and the very word ‘Hollywood’ made her wince. He couldn’t forget Corinne’s anguish, and having by now got to know Yolande rather well, shared it himself. She was such a lovable character – sometimes so mature and dry, then quirkily naïve, emotionally vulnerable, given to impulsive acts of generosity, and always ready with an infectious chuckle when something caught her sense of the ridiculous.
Just like Papa
, Corinne said.
Just like Papa
, Yolande would say about one of Corinne’s business manoeuvres. They really were an extraordinary pair.

It was great that they were reconciled, and it would be even better if Yolande would put Yves out of his misery. Miles reckoned he would have a perfect opportunity this evening to size up the competition. Everyone had been shocked by Yolande’s total lack of interest in men in the past few months – for a girl who had had men draped around her for the best part of eight years, she was in danger of turning into a nun. It could only be Patrick who was holding her back.

A damp and very bleak Tuesday evening, typical of London in November, but Leicester Square was awash with TV floodlights and an eager crowd was waiting outside the cinema to see the celebrities arrive. Miles was rather disconcerted by the heavy security, paparazzi, and reporters, but Yolande sailed past them all with barely a word, pausing for just a second to have her picture taken.

‘God, it’s like a madhouse,’ he said. ‘You didn’t mention the Queen was coming.’

‘She’s not. It’s Jayne Herford they’re waiting for – the Queen of Hollywood.’

He wasn’t a film buff, and the name hardly registered. ‘Shall I lay down my cloak for her?’

‘She’d love it. She expects men to fall at her feet. Now, let’s see who’s here.’

They went in. A crowded lobby, ushers organising the crush, some of the cast and crew already lined up to greet the French Ambassador, who had been prevailed upon to be the guest of honour in lieu of royalty. That was Ethan Casavecchia’s one publicity failure. He couldn’t understand why you couldn’t hire a British queen or princess at short notice. So it had to be the French Ambassador, to promote the film’s European dimension in the macho form of Patrick Dubuisson. The substantial European funding from Yolande Marchand didn’t even make the billing.

‘Yolande! Wow, you look fantastic!’ Vic Bernitz approached at speed, looking slightly over-large for his dinner jacket. He gave her a bear hug and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. We’ve got profits to discuss some time. You just won’t believe it. And I’d like to run anther project past you.’

‘Meet my financial adviser,’ said Yolande, smiling. ‘Miles Corsley – he’s a banker.’

Miles shook Vic’s hand rather stiffly. So it was going to be one of those evenings, with all differences forgotten in the general euphoria over the accumulation of dollars. He liked Ethan even less, but Sam MacPherson seemed a pleasant enough young guy without an inflated ego. He sauntered up to them shyly and pumped Yolande’s hand with genuine pleasure.

‘Yolande! It’s so good to see you again. I was real sorry to hear about your accident, but you look fantastic. I hope you got my flowers?’

‘I did, thank you. It was sweet of you. Are you with Jayne?’

‘Nah. I’ve teamed up with Donna this evening. Jayne will be along in a while with Patrick. Ethan thought it would come across better if they made a couple for the press.’ He raised his eyebrows expressively. ‘I know my place. Why don’t you come over and say hi to the others?’

They followed him and spent several minutes chatting to the supporting cast. Miles felt decidedly superfluous, but made the right noises and looked impressive. He recognised some of the names, but he was damned if he was going to kow-tow to any of them. They in turn seemed rather awed by him.

‘Is that your new boyfriend?’ Donna Jenkins, a petite and perennially cheerful character actress whispered to Yolande.

‘My sister’s, actually. I borrow him sometimes, but she doesn’t charge me interest.’

Donna laughed uproariously. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re still able to make jokes after that smash. It was so horrible. We all felt for you, you know. Particularly as Patrick …’ she dropped her voice conspiratorially, ‘… acted so goddamn mean. I got suspicious when Althea Pedersen suddenly vanished with her husband after hanging around the studios so long. They’ve sold their Malibu place now. But Patrick didn’t seem to mind. When we were in Mexico he was acting like some frigging Valentino.’ She hastily cupped a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I always talk too much.’

‘I’ll live,’ said Yolande. She took Miles’ proffered arm and moved on.

Then there was a huge roar from outside and a general increase of tension in the lobby. Jayne Herford, sizzling in red, swept in first. The dress was eye-popping, with a low plunging neckline and no back at all (as far as Miles could see when she turned to embrace Vic Bernitz). Patrick followed a few steps behind her and shook hands with a few dignitaries. He looked across the lobby and started visibly when he caught sight of Yolande. She stared at him coolly.