Love in Vogue (35 page)

‘Yolande!’ Toinette shouted with surprise as a devastated Yolande, wearing dark glasses and a hat, stepped into the salon of her Avenue Foch home. Françoise was beside her, patting her arm excitedly and asking what to do with her luggage.

‘Put it in my room, please.’ Yolande collapsed onto a sofa.

‘My God, you’re all bruised! Whatever’s happened? Let me call Doctor Limon.’

‘No, Toinette, please. I meant to say hello.’ She stretched out a hand. ‘I feel awful. Sorry.’

Toinette sat down beside her, alarmed. Yolande took off her hat and glasses, and the tell-tale marks on her face were clearly visible beneath her make-up. Her lovely eyes were red and swollen, the skin around them blue and purple. She looked as though she’d been crying for hours. Toinette dragged her into an embrace and just held her close.

‘So it’s over with Patrick?’

Yolande nodded against her shoulder.

‘And these bruises?’

‘I  – I had an accident. A fall. ’

She started to cry. Toinette cuddled her, stroking her hair. So Patrick had beaten her; after all she’d done for him. But she’d be too proud ever to admit it.

‘When did all this happen?’

‘Yesterday. I came straight back. I never want to see Los Angeles again.’

‘You ought to go to bed, darling. You look terrible. Shall I get you something to eat? A drink?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Does your mother know?’

‘No.’ Yolande suddenly broke from Toinette’s arms and stood up, drying her eyes with a very crumpled tissue. ‘Where’s Corinne?’

‘At the office.’

‘I want to see her. I’ll go now. I need some fresh air.’

‘Yolande! You can’t. You must rest. Françoise will make up your bed. Go and lie down.’

She shook off Toinette’s restraining hand and bolted out of the apartment, down the stairs, past the ancient concierge, Monsieur Boniface, who was sulking because she hadn’t greeted him with her usual sunny smile. She stumbled out onto the street, oblivious to everything except her own grief. She could never sleep in that bed again. The last time she’d slept there had been with Patrick, when she’d agreed to back the film. She loped unevenly along the pavement, her eyes full of tears. Beautiful Paris on a beautiful day. It would be perfect if she didn’t feel so ill. Her whole body ached from sleepless hours on that jumbo jet – hours in which to turn black and blue. When she had finally managed to shut her eyes, Patrick’s fists seemed to dance around her head.

A tourist stopped and tried to ask her the way somewhere, but she kept going. Down side streets, using her old route to the Hervy salon and Marchand’s head office on the Avenue Montaigne. Past familiar shops, restaurants where she used to dine, a news stand where she was well known. She crossed the street to avoid an interrogation from the Tunisian lady who ran it. Her legs felt increasingly shaky, her vision blurred by tears that brimmed over in spite of her efforts to check them.

Then she was there. The Avenue Montaigne, busy with traffic on a warm May afternoon. Yolande quickened her pace to get to her sister’s office. She didn’t have the patience to walk to the traffic lights. Looking around briefly, she stepped off the pavement. A small van appeared out of nowhere, honking its horn furiously. She ran. Not fast enough. The screech of the brakes as the driver tried to avoid the impact brought the security guard hurrying out of Marchand’s reception. Only minutes later Corinne learnt that her sister was lying badly injured and unconscious in the road outside. She went with her in the ambulance to the emergency department of the Hôtel Dieu – the hospital where her father had died.

It wasn’t until late evening that Yves heard the news, and then in the cruellest way possible. He was alone at Rochemort, and had made good use of the lack of interruption to work on tax returns and urgent export documents. After a light supper, he switched on the television news. The same stale items. He was about to switch off when a picture of Yolande came up.

She was in intensive care in Paris: serious accident, unexpected return from America, her sister at her bedside, in a critical condition… Thank God he was alone. He cried – loud, harsh sobs which shook his whole body. He hadn’t cried like this since his father’s death when he was only a boy. When he had recovered from the shock, Yves rammed some clothes into a backpack, jumped into his car, and sped off. He arrived at the hospital just as Yolande was being wheeled out of the operating theatre.

Chapter Nineteen

‘So you had the showdown while I was out of town,’ remarked Hank Pedersen, lolling on the sofa, his hands behind his head. ‘I always miss the fun.’

Althea fidgeted nervously with the bracelet he’d given her on their last wedding anniversary, looking out through the French windows to the garden and the blue Pacific beyond. He was staring at her in a way that made her feel acutely uncomfortable, and his voice had an edge to it she’d never heard before.

‘Well, Althea, aren’t you going to fill me in on your movie pals? It must have been quite a circus.’

‘You seem to know all about it. I can’t really add much more than the media.’

Hank sat up, his eyes still fixed on her. ‘And here I was hoping for some first-hand juicy details. It sounds as though Yolande has been smashed up pretty badly, poor kid.’

‘Yes.’

‘But what was she doing in Paris? And why’s Patrick Dubuisson here instead of at her side? I guess I shouldn’t ask, but you know me, sweetheart – insatiably curious.’

‘If you really want the lowdown, ask Vic. He’s getting all the reports. She’ll be OK. There was some rumour she was paralysed, but it wasn’t true.’

‘And
Patrick
?’ He pronounced the name in an affected French accent. ‘Why don’t you tell me about
Patrick
?’

He stood up and walked over to her, his expression intense and angry. She backed away as he approached. Surely he didn’t know. Nobody knew.

‘What’s wrong? You’re not afraid of me, are you? Just your husband, baby. That shouldn’t scare you.’

‘Darling, are you OK?’ She backed further away. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’

Hank stood there, looking not only angry, but disappointed, and somehow that made her feel worse. ‘So you’re gutless as well as faithless, Althea.’

She was absolutely silent. He knew. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Hank turned away and sat back on the sofa.

‘I guess you’re wondering how I found out,’ he said calmly. ‘Well, I have asked Vic. He tried to brush me off, but that sidekick of his was less discreet. I gather there was such a brawl between Dubuisson and Yolande he’s been traumatised. A bit of a wimp, that Ethan.’

Althea’s hands were trembling. She sat down, still saying nothing.

‘I’m not speaking just on my own account,’ Hank drawled on, his voice strangely calm and disembodied. ‘When I think of what’s happened to Yolande. Jesus, what you’ve done to that girl! You and that bastard Dubuisson! She must have been happy once – before you cooked up this movie deal. I guess you couldn’t wait to get your hands on him, could you? You just duped me about buying Marchand. But you’d checked out his assets in Paris first, hadn’t you, huh? Althea, what have you got to say?’

‘No! Hank, believe me, I didn’t – I wanted you to get Marchand. I never meant things to turn out this way. But I couldn’t help it.’

‘You couldn’t
help
it!’ he thundered. ‘There’s just one word to remember for assholes like Dubuisson. No! How come you forgot such a vital part of the English language?’

‘Hank, please! I can explain.’

Then she stopped. No explanation came. Now he had put it that way, she couldn’t even begin to understand how it had happened, how she’d schemed and lied, been so pitiless towards Yolande, even continued the affair with Patrick after the news came through of her accident in Paris. And for what? A month or two’s sex. They both knew it wouldn’t last. Althea had made it clear from the start that she had no intention of leaving her husband, and Patrick certainly had no plans to settle down. Suddenly she realised that she would also be a casualty in this game of selfish pleasure.

‘I guess I’d better go,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level.

‘Go where?’

‘Does it matter? You can reach me through my lawyers. I shan’t contest the divorce.’

‘Divorce!’ He bounded to his feet. ‘What divorce? Althea, are you crazy? We haven’t even talked this thing through. Or is it the chance you’ve been waiting for? Do you love him?’

‘No, no.’ She looked up at him. ‘I love you.’ Her voice broke. ‘But you must hate me. I don’t blame you for it. And we have no kids, nothing to hold us together.’

‘Come here.’

Then she was in his arms, sobbing against his shoulder. Tears of shame and regret. She felt she could never look him in the face again. ‘Hank, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

Why was he being so gentle? It made her feel worse. He ought to get mad, shout, tell her to go to hell. But he just held her close, running his fingers through her hair.

‘I guess I’m partly to blame,’ he said at last. ‘I neglected you too long. I didn’t realise how bad you felt about it. But I never cheated on you, never. Hey, come on, sweetheart, stop crying. We’re going to change everything. Starting with a vacation – a real, long vacation. Want to come? Just the two of us.’

She cried. She confessed. She was forgiven. But the wound remained inside; a distrust of her own character that would take a long time to heal. When Althea thought of Yolande, she hated herself. But then hadn’t Patrick initiated the whole affair? No, not entirely. She’d led him on. She’d thought she could flirt with danger and not get burned. Not hurt Hank. Not put her entire happiness on the line. How could she have been so stupid? She and Hank left Malibu for a holiday in St Bart’s two days later.

Patrick listened to Althea’s voice on the end of the line in ego-shattered silence. Leaving with her husband? Never wanted to see him again. Don’t even think about calling her. It was fantastic, Patrick, now fuck off. He’d never felt so used and humiliated.

He was stranded until the film went on location to Mexico. He wanted to get away from LA. The girls were less friendly since the news of Yolande’s accident had been splashed all over the press. A new town, a new country – and a new woman. Meanwhile there were interviews to be given for this publicity campaign Vic had started. Patrick had promised interesting revelations about his background, though questions on his private life were not allowed. Ironic, really, because for the moment his private life was non-existent.

Vic told him that Yolande had been transferred to a private clinic on the outskirts of Paris, where she apparently entertained vast numbers of friends in her room. Her mother had begged him to go and visit her straight after the accident, but he could hardly interrupt his schedule with Althea for the girl who had almost wrecked the affair. Yolande meant nothing at all to him. He was haunted by a vague twinge of conscience at having hit her, but she’d asked for it. Anyway, she would clear a handsome profit on
Fast and Loose,
which was already billed as the movie of the year, and her injuries were much less serious than at first feared. Patrick was quite convinced she would be all right. She’s served her purpose in his life. It was time to move on.

Grace smiled at the duty nurse as she made her way along the corridor to Yolande’s room. Another fine June day; another morning to be pleased with her daughter’s progress.

‘How is she?’

‘Physically – coming along very well. But she’s moody again today, Madame Beidecker.’

‘Boredom, I expect. When do you think she’ll be allowed out?’

‘At the end of the month, the doctor says. The bones are mending well now, and we’ll be increasing the physio soon. But her nerves – well, perhaps she’ll be better when she gets home. Some days I feel I just daren’t speak to her.’

Grace went into Yolande’s room – bright, cheerful, and festooned with ‘get well’ cards. Not really like a hospital room at all except for the machinery at the head of the bed and that pervasive clinical aroma. Yolande was sitting up, reading a book which she tossed aside with a look of relief when her mother appeared.

‘I’ve brought you some more magazines, darling,’ said Grace, kissing her. ‘Corinne says she’ll come this evening, and I think Toinette will be in this afternoon.’

Yolande smiled wanly. With her long chestnut hair loose over the pillows, she looked pale and sad, but still beautiful.

‘Do you have to go on Monday, Mummy?’

‘I’m afraid so. But I’ll be back again soon. We thought you’d like to convalesce in Dorset. Corinne and Miles will be there on holiday, and Tex will come and join us. It will be fun.’

Yolande looked unenthusiastic. So it was one of those days when no one seemed able to cheer her up, persuade her that she would soon be fit again and that life was still worth living. Her depression was obviously connected to Patrick, but Grace had no details of the quarrel, and she was afraid to ask in case it was too disturbing. She’d been quite horrified by his flat refusal to come and visit Yolande immediately after the accident.

Grace pulled the magazines out from her bag and put them on the table. ‘There’s something about Franco in one of them, but I can’t remember which. By the way, he’s promised to come and visit you again next week.’

‘That’ll be great. Is he really going to do
prêt-à-porter
for Hervy?’

‘I think it’s more or less fixed. He’s coming to finalise everything with Corinne and Georges – when they can spare the time from the Elegance Hotels deal. It’s going to be a complete takeover by Marchand.’

Yolande managed to discuss the topic with more interest than she felt, then they turned to her situation. She hated the subject. The doctors had told her she’d been extremely lucky to escape with compound fractures to her left leg, arm, collar bone, six cracked ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The van had caught her left side as she had stepped into the road. She’d been in a coma for five days, so had no knowledge of the internal bleeding, the operations to screw her shattered leg back together and fix her arm. But she was on the mend now. It no longer hurt her just to breathe, and although she hated the casts and the pulleys and having to get a nurse to help her with every little thing, there was no reason to suppose she couldn’t even resume a modelling career after physiotherapy and a few months’ rest. But she felt she never wanted to step onto a catwalk again. That part of her life was over.