Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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in, but it just so happened I was passing in the Land Rover on my way to the village, and I remembered I’d promised Ian I’d let him know about the progress on the septic tanks at the Home Farm. Would he be about?’
‘No, he’s not, John. He drove into Edinburgh this morning, but he’ll be back this afternoon. Do you want to leave a message, a note perhaps?’
‘No, no, I’ll phone him later. Basically, everything’s now in proper order, but I’d like to fill him in with the details.’
‘I’ll tell him. And how’s Margo?’
‘Oh she’s just wonderful. Busy with the church festival for spring. It’s a little way off, as you know, but she likes to get started early.’
Kay nodded, then smiled at him. She had always liked this loyal and genial man.
He said, ‘Look, I’d better get off. I don’t want to take up your time. And I’ve a lot of paperwork waiting for me.’
‘That’s all right, John. But like you, I have work to do and the morning seems to be escaping.’
‘Tempus fugit,’ he murmured, said goodbye and let himself out.
Kay left the conservatory and walked towards the front hall set in the centre of the house. It was a vast open space, with a high-flung cathedral ceiling and a double staircase, with carved balustrades, which ran up to the wide upper hall. The main feature of the latter was a soaring stained-glass window which bathed the front hall below in multi-coloured light, almost like a perpetual rainbow.
She took the left-hand side of the staircase, running up to the second floor, where her design studio was located in what had once been the day nursery at Lochcraigie.
As she opened the door and went in on this bitter February morning she was glad to see that Maude, the housekeeper, already had a fire burning brightly in the grate. It was a large, high-ceilinged room with six tall windows, and it was flooded with the cool northern light she loved, and which was so perfect for her work. In this crystalline light all colours were true, and that made her designing so much easier.
Stepping towards the old Jacobean refectory table that served as her desk, she reached over and picked up the phone as it began to ring. ‘Lochcraigie House,’ she said, walking around to her high-backed chair and sitting down.
‘It’s me, Kay,’ her assistant said.
‘Hello, Sophie. Is something wrong?’
‘No, nothing. Why? Oh, you mean because I’m calling on Saturday. No, all’s well in the world, as far as I know. At least it is in mine, anyway.’
Kay smiled. Sophie was a darling, full of energy and life, and a joy to work with. At twenty-three she was bursting with talent, enthusiasm and ideas. ‘Then you are the lucky one,’ Kay said at last, wishing that all was well in her little world. She went on, ‘I just came up to the studio, and as I’m sitting here talking to you I can see that vermilion piece which came from the mill the other day…I like it, Sophie, I really do. It’s such a change from the colours I’ve been using this past year.’
‘I agree. It’s really vibrant, but also sort of…smoochy.’
‘What do you mean by smoochy?’
‘You know, smoochy, as in kiss-kiss-kiss.’
Kay burst out laughing.
Dropping her voice, Sophie now said confidingly, ‘I called because I finally got that information for you.’
‘What information?’
‘About the man my sister recently heard of…you know we discussed it two weeks ago.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Sophie, I guess I’m being a little bit stupid today.’ She clutched the receiver more tightly, filled with sudden expectancy.
‘His name is François Boujon, and he lives in France once again.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Just outside Paris. A place with a peculiar name. Barbizon. My sister got me all the information. Do you want to know everything now, or shall I tell you on Monday?’
‘Monday’s perfectly fine, I’ll be at the studio by about ten, and we can talk then. But just tell me one thing now…is he difficult to get an appointment with?’
‘Yes, a bit, I’m afraid. But Gillian will help.’
‘Can she?’
‘Oh yes, very much so…her girlfriend Mercedes has a strong connection, which is good.’
‘It certainly is, and listen, I’m very grateful, Sophie, I really am. Thanks for going to all this trouble.’
‘It wasn’t anything, not really. I was happy to do it, Kay. So, I’ll see you Monday then.’
‘That’s right. Have a good weekend.’
‘I will, and you do the same.’
‘I’ll try,’ Kay answered, and after saying goodbye she returned the phone to its cradle. Resting her head against the faded red velvet covering the chair’s back, she let her eyes roam around the room, her mind whirling with all manner of thoughts. Then quite suddenly she remembered the envelope which had arrived by FedEx yesterday, and she reached for the decorative wooden box on one end of the desk. Lifting the lid, she took out the envelope with its beautiful calligraphy–her name so elegantly written–opened it and slipped out the invitation.
Once again she read it carefully.
Anya’s party was on the second of June, a good four months away. She wondered if she could get an appointment with Francois Boujon for around that time.
It would be perfect if she could, because Ian hadn’t been invited, and so she could travel alone to Paris. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought, and then she sat back in the chair, frowning hard. Her vivid blue eyes clouded over, and her expression became unexpectedly grim.
They would be there and she would have to see them. No, not only see them, but socialize with them, spend time with them. Not possible. They hated her. The feeling was mutual.
Alexandra Gordon, the snob from New York. From the elite social set, Junior League, and all that ridiculous kind of thing. Always so toffee-nosed with her, stuck-up, snubbing her.
Jessica Pierce, Miss Southern Belle Incorporated, with her feminine sighs and languor and the dropping of lace hankies along the way. Poking fun at her, teasing her unmercifully, never leaving her alone with her taunts.
Maria Franconi, another snob, this one from Italy, with her raven hair and flashing black eyes and fiery Mediterranean temperament. And all those lire from her rich, Milanese textile family, flaunting her money and her connections, treating her like a servant.
No, it’s not possible, Kay told herself again. I cannot go to Anya’s party. Because my tormentors will be there…how miserable they had always made her life.
She knew what she must do. She must go to Paris sooner rather than later, to meet with this man Francois Boujon. She hoped she would get an appointment relatively soon. She would set everything in motion on Monday, ask to see him next month. And it did not matter what it cost.
She put the invitation back in the envelope, placed this in the wooden box, dropped the lid and turned the key. Then once more she sat back in the chair, her eyes becoming soft and faraway as she thought of Ian. The man she loved. Her husband…who must remain her husband at all costs.
Even as a child, growing up in the slums of Glasgow, Kay had always managed to escape simply by retreating into herself. When