The Paris Secret (25 page)

Natascha rolled her eyes, which her mother seemed to take as a yes.

‘Come.’ Lilian helped Jacques to stand. ‘This has been a great shock.’ She looked across at Flora. ‘Excuse us, we need some time alone to process this.’

‘I understand,’ Flora said, standing too and stepping back slightly to allow them to pass, noticing the beads of condensation slipping down the neck of the unopened champagne
bottle.

Something seemed suddenly to occur to Lilian and she stopped walking and looked over at Flora. ‘I want you to take the collection to Antibes. Work on it down there.’

Flora’s eyebrows shot up. ‘W-what? All of it?’

‘Yes.’

Flora swallowed. ‘But why there?’

‘I want my mother-in-law to see it, I want her to
trip
over her past . . .’ She paused, lost in thought. ‘I want her to face up to what she’s done. Whatever they
did, they did it together.’

And she turned and led her husband away, Travers following almost on their heels.

Flora found herself alone in the room with Natascha and Xavier, a curl already on Natascha’s lip. But before she could say a word, throw an insult or a cushion, Xavier spoke first.

‘Go.’

Flora looked between the two of them. ‘I’m . . . I’m so sorry.’

‘Are you?’ he asked, a scathing note in his voice matching the curl of his lip. She heard the blame, saw the shame in his eyes.

‘You heard my brother,’ Natascha hissed. ‘Get out of our house. Or isn’t this sufficient for you?’

Flora dropped her head and hurried out. It didn’t matter what she said. Words weren’t ever going to be enough.

‘So, is this business or pleasure?’ she asked as Noah stopped in front of her, looking fine in a cream suit and panama, one hand in his trouser pocket.
‘Because I need to know whether I’m off-duty or not.’

He smiled, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling gently. ‘Well, now that depends. You see, I need both a car
and
a lunch date, and you struck me as the perfect person for
both.’

Flora laughed. ‘I can’t say that classic cars are my area of expertise. If you’re serious about buying today, you’d have been better off with Angus.’

‘Oh, I sincerely doubt
that
,’ he quipped, giving her a blatant once-over in her lemons-and-oranges printed D&G dress that answered her question quite definitively.
‘I think we’ll just go with whatever looks best with you sitting in it,’ he said, placing a hand lightly on the small of her back as they began to walk.

She chuckled, the very suggestion amusing. He was joking – right?

It was a crisp day, the clear sky foreshortening their shadows on the ground. Flora thought there was probably no more magical setting to enjoy the classic car market than here in the grand
gardens of the Chantilly estate, where pleached trees were planted in long avenues and the frothy fancies of the baroque architecture were so beautiful as to be rendered not just once, but twice,
reflected perfectly in the marble-still moats. What car could possibly be more appropriate to crunch over this gravel than a Bugatti or Bentley?

She herself had come by limo. Noah had travelled here straight from the airport but had sent a car to collect her in Paris and it was as well he had; the showdown with the Vermeils yesterday had
overwritten everything else in her mind and she’d not only forgotten to cancel the date, she’d also forgotten all about the date until the driver had knocked early that morning, robbing
her of another much-needed lie-in.

She glanced at him as they dawdled through the displays, feeling like a fraud for being here at all. She wasn’t interested in him; he’d just been in the right place at the right time
in Vienna, he’d called at the right time in the rain . . . She was here
with
him, but she wasn’t here
because
of him; his presence was incidental to her.

And yet, it wasn’t a chore to be in his company. He was funny, good-looking, attentive, intelligent; all the things her mother would be buying a new hat for. What could she say? She liked
him, only liked him. It was the same old story.

The crowd was moving in a vaguely one-way system around the parked classic cars, people – mainly men – peering closer to read the detailed histories of each one, hands hovering
longingly over the don’t-touch, polished paintwork, eyes narrowing in appreciation of the hand-stitched leathers. She and Noah allowed themselves to be swept up in the drift, meandering,
almost lazily, around the
concours
, her scuffing at the grass with her feet as they talked, Noah making witty wisecracks that prompted her to touch his arm as she laughed. They began to
relax, Noah leaning in to her, their fingers brushing as they examined a brake light or steering wheel or brightly polished alloy.

It was another day of steaming temperatures and she took off her shoes after a while, allowing her bare feet to sink into the lawn as Noah lingered over the Bentley R-Type Continental with
Mulliner Park Ward coachwork, imploring her to stand by the Jaguar XK120 with closed-in wheels for a photograph as she, giggling, protested. He won in the end, but only after she stole his hat and
peered out from under the brim with a coy smile.

They walked some more, the sun beating in a constant pulse, and she stood still as he applied sun lotion to her shoulders, a kindness that felt strangely intimate amidst the milling crowds,
every person there from the same tribe – scented and silken in expensive creams, low-key in clothes that started in the early thousands.

‘It’s hot. What do you think? A drink to cool us down before the auction begins?’ he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the chateau.

‘Lovely.’

They walked towards the dramatically sweeping steps that had once been trodden by ladies in satin shoes and pompadour dresses and were today dotted with the well heeled sitting with their
catalogues and engaging in laughing conversations. Champagne bars were set out along the terrace, Bonhams banners flickering in the breeze, all the shaded tables already taken.

‘Try and find somewhere for us to sit,’ Noah said. ‘I’ll bring the drinks over.’

Flora smiled and turned to find a spot, just as she heard her name called. She looked up to see Max St John, head of Vintage and Prestige Car sales at Bonhams and a former associate of her
father’s, walking towards her. She went to call Noah back – this would be a worthwhile introduction for them both – but he had already disappeared into the crowd.

‘Flora Sykes, what  a delightful surprise,’  he boomed. ‘Had I known you were coming I’d have arranged special passes for you.’

‘Well, I’m here in more of a personal capacity today,’ she replied as he kissed her enthusiastically on both cheeks.

‘Even so, you should always let me know. How’s your pater? Retirement suiting him?’

She pulled a face. ‘So-so. I think he misses the hubbub of the salesroom.’

‘I quite understand. He’s only a few years advanced of me and I can’t . . .’ He looked out at the champagne-quaffing, silken throngs. ‘Well, I can’t imagine
not being a part of all this.’

‘I can’t imagine it either. You’ve done such an amazing job. What a coup! The setting’s just perfect, and the calibre of the cars you’ve attracted. You even booked
the weather . . .’ She shrugged as a sleek brunette with glossed limbs wearing a jade-green silk dress and black Dior straw hat glided past. ‘It couldn’t be more
perfect.’

‘Have you seen anything you like?’ he asked, waving an arm to encompass the exhibition of cars arranged on the lawns below them.

‘Me personally? Plenty,’ she smiled. ‘But it’s not going to be happening any time soon. I think I’ll still be bombing about in my Mini for a while yet.’

He laughed, leaning in to her more closely. ‘I say though, fine art’s your bag – what do you make of all this Von Taschelt business, eh? There’s a turn-up for the
books!’

Flora felt her blood freeze in her veins, the world spin a little more slowly, at the very mention of that name. ‘Sorry, Max, I . . . I don’t follow.’

St John lowered his head, and his voice. ‘The
Vanity Fair
piece. Haven’t you seen it?’

Flora slapped a hand to her mouth, not sure she wasn’t going to throw up. No, she hadn’t seen it but she immediately knew what had happened: Stefan. The filler article. The Urban
Explorers . . . What had he done?

‘Oh, don’t worry, you’re not behind the curve. It only hit the stands this morning.’

‘What did it say?’ she asked.

‘Have a read for yourself. They’ve got some copies behind that hospitality stand over there. Don’t get too excited – it’s not a big piece, only a page or so, but
it’s going to make a splash here today, I should wager.’

A man, passing by, laid a friendly hand on Max’s shoulder and he turned. ‘Oh, hello, Rick. How are you? Do you know—’

Flora took her opportunity to escape. ‘Hello,’ she nodded quickly, before smiling and kissing Max goodbye. ‘I’d better go and check out that thing we were talking about .
. .’

‘Absolutely! Lovely to see you! Let me know you’re coming next time!’ he called after her as she skittered away and over to the pale-blue tented stand.

Flora found several copies fanned on a wicker coffee table. She grabbed one, flicking through the pages, her breath coming fast and shallow. She needed to know what they’d said.

It didn’t take long to find the article. They had used an old paparazzi picture of the family at a society event, taken a couple of years back judging by the length of Natascha’s
hair. They were all in black tie, Lilian shimmering in pale Armani, Natascha in a skin-tight Balmain dress with heavily kohl’d eyes, Jacques like a retired Hollywood actor with his crinkled
suavity, Xavier like a panther in his narrow-cut black jacket as he stared up from beneath his heavy brows. God, did he
ever
smile?

They looked very rich and very unhappy, Flora thought. There were other smaller photos too – of Lilian and the President’s wife, photographed together at Roland-Garros; Natascha
dishevelled and head down as she stumbled out of a club, flashing her knickers (at least she was wearing some); Xavier flipping the bird from his scooter – no helmet again – a beautiful
brunette riding pillion; Jacques crossing the road with a woman who wasn’t Lilian, her hand looped through his arm, a small red Cartier bag in his hand.

But it was the headline that made her gasp:
The Hypocritic Oath!
She hadn’t noticed it at first, her eye instantly drawn to the pictures of this photogenic, broken family, but it
was unambiguous. She scanned the text quickly.
How?
How could they have known all this? They knew more than she did!

Her hands shaking, she delved into her bag and retrieved her phone, finding Stefan’s number.

He picked up after one ring.

‘
Salut?
’

‘Stefan?’

‘Yeah? . . . Flora!’ His panic and the ensuing silence – loud as a gunshot – confirmed her hunch. Her anger exploded as she felt his shock reverberate down the line.

‘You bastard! How could you do this to me?’

‘Listen—’

‘No! You used me! You took information that was confidential, information that was shared between friends, and you used it for your own selfish ends! Fuck it if I lose my job,
right?’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘I understand it fine! I understand perfectly! You had an opportunity to hit back at a guy you considered to have slighted you and you took it – to hell with anyone else if they get
in the way. What do they call that? Collateral damage, yeah? You
knew
how big this project is for me. I trusted you!’

‘Look, I didn’t plan it like this, OK? I thought it was just going to be a case of name-dropping the Vermeils. When you said the apartment belonged to a client of yours, I guessed
that was who you meant; you had already told me you were working for them so it was just something to put their names in there and make the article look better. I was desperate. But you know what
our legal team’s like, Flora. Our researchers are on steroids! Nothing goes through till every fact has been checked and checked again.’

Flora didn’t reply. She rubbed her temples. She had the beginnings of a headache coming on.

‘We had the pictures of the apartment but we had to double-check who owned it; families like the Vermeils sue for smaller mistakes than that. But when it came back with Von
Taschelt’s name on the deeds . . . what could I do?’

Flora closed her eyes, able to see how they’d worked it out: like her, they’d discovered there was no François Vermeil and never had been, the two men’s histories
converging at the date when the apartment was closed up, one man appearing on the face of the earth just as suddenly as the other was wiped from it. ‘Come on! It’s a fucking sensation,
Flora! I had to do my job. They are hypocrites! The public has a right to know.’

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She felt literally mute with rage.

‘Look, you’re my friend and I like you, Flora. A lot. You
know
I do.’ The stress in his words told her exactly how he liked her. ‘But I’m a journalist. We
would have got there with or without your help. We
were
getting there. We already had the photos . . . Please, I wasn’t trying to hurt
you
—’

‘It’s not just about me, you fool! You’ve got no idea of what you’ve done,’ she said, her voice like a whipcrack down the line. ‘Not just to their reputation
but to the charities they support, all the good they do. Everyone will turn their backs now. They’ll have to or be accused of hypocrisy.’

There was a half-pause.

‘I’m sorry about that. But all I have done is tell the truth.’

‘Oh, yeah? And what good has it done? No one benefits from this, Stefan! No one but you and your fucking magazine sales! I could lose my job over this. I only found it out myself
yesterday! I only told
them
yesterday. They’ll know it came from me.’

‘But it didn’t,’ he argued.

‘It did and it didn’t. Are you going to reveal your sources to them? Are you going to tell them it
wasn’t
me that told you?’