A Sudden Change of Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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he had talked to a number of influential people, pulled a few strings, and in the process had contrived to get her a job on Decorative Arts and Design, a glossy magazine devoted to art, antiques, and interior design which was popular with the French and with the international public. It was owned by a friend of his who had long owed him a favour.
Claire had started out in a most lowly position, that of caption writer, but such was her creative talent and energy that within eight years she had risen to the top of the hierarchy of the magazine.
Four years ago she had been named publisher and editor-in-chief, answerable to no one but the owner. Hercule Junot, not unnaturally, was proud of her success and the name she had made for herself.
In the ensuing years since that first meeting, most propitious for her, these two had remained staunch friends, and Hercule had become her mentor. Claire trusted his judgement about everything in the world of design, and whenever she was doubtful about a project she ran to him for his opinion and advice.
Such had been the case today; a sudden lack of confidence about the set, an unprecedented occurrence for her, had induced her to invite him to the photographic studio to give his opinion.
The set had been painstakingly designed and skilfully installed with the utmost care; nonetheless, she had been unusually critical of her own work when she had seen the finished result. She had also been suddenly hesitant and indecisive about the art she should choose to complete the room.
Hercule had been impressed by the beauty and quality of the formal salon and the splendid choices she had made, and more so than he had actually said. Now he wondered if this had been an error on his part. Perhaps he should have expressed himself more volubly. She was certainly quiet, preoccupied, a silent companion in the Mercedes, and this was most unlike her.
Hercule sighed under his breath, leaned back against the leather upholstery and glanced out of the window. It had snowed earlier, but the light flakes had melted, leaving the dark streets wet and glistening. Under the bright lights of the boulevard du Montparnasse the road looked slick as a mirror, as his chauffeur manoeuvred the car carefully through the busy traffic of the Left Bank.
If he had any regrets about Claire professionally, it was only that he had not brought her to work for him as his assistant all those years ago. She would have been a godsend to him today, the perfect right hand. She had flair and taste, and her skills as a designer were wasted at the magazine; they only came into play when she created a room to shoot for one of the magazine’s covers. The rest of the time she was plying her trade as a journalist. C’est dommage, he thought. My mistake.
Hercule had one other regret about her, and this was intensely personal. He never ceased to wish he had courted Claire when she and her husband had separated seven years ago. He had wanted to do so, but he had been…afraid. Yes, afraid of looking foolish…of being rejected…of spoiling the friendship. Better to have her in his life as a friend, than not there at all.
There was his age to consider: he was forty years older than Claire. What could she possibly want from him? he had asked himself innumerable times. His late wife Veronica had always said he did not look his age, and he had believed her. He was fit and trim, mercifully not as lined and ancient-looking as some of the men he knew who were his age. Admittedly his hair was white, but it was a full head of hair. And sex was not a problem, not at all.
Initially, he had not pursued Claire or pressed his suit because she had been so distraught at the time of the divorce, a state he had found most odd since she purported to detest her husband. And so time had slipped by, other things had intervened, and the opportunity had been missed. They had fallen into a pattern of loving friendship, and he did not know how to change this without upsetting her unduly.
Veronica had been dead for fifteen years. There was not a day he did not miss his wife; yet he had known, when Claire had separated, that this young American woman could so easily fill the void created by his wife’s death. Veronica had been an American too; they had that in common. There any resemblance between them stopped. Veronica had been tall, long-legged, an all-American beauty, blonde, blue-eyed and wafer-thin, one of the great post-war models in Paris, on Christian Dior’s runway showing his New Look and on the cover of every fashion magazine in the world. When he had met her it had been love at first sight, a coup de foudre, and a most happy union until the day she died.
Hercule stole a look at Claire, surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye, and for the second time today he thought she did not look well. She had faintly bluish smudges under her eyes, and the short, curly auburn hair, the bright burnished halo he found so attractive, did not have its usual glossy lustre.
What struck him with such force when he had arrived at the studio this afternoon was her weight, or rather loss of it. Always slender, she appeared thinner than ever. Maigre. A waif, that was how she appeared to him. An appealing gamin in looks and style, somehow she had become bony. Had she looked like this last week when he had lunched with her at Taillevent? No, she could not have; he would have noticed. He wondered if she were ill? But no, he did not think this was so; she had been full of her usual energy at the studio.
Worries of another nature? Money? If this were the problem then there was no problem. He would readily give her as much as she needed. Instantly, Hercule dismissed the thought that Claire lacked money. The mere idea of it was ludicrous. Her husband provided for Natasha, and she was well paid by the magazine. Could it be that Natasha was causing problems for her? No, no, he did not think this possible either. The girl was unusual, very steady and practical, older than her age in a number of ways. Whenever she had been concerned about her daughter in the past, Claire had discussed it with him and he had given the best advice he could. Since he had never been a father, he felt somewhat inadequate in doing so, and yet how kind she had been, always so appreciative of his interest in Natasha.
He began to formulate an opening sentence in his mind. He wanted to pose certain questions. How he longed to make whatever it was that ailed her go away. He knew he could do that. If she would let him. He loved her. He had loved her for a long time now. He would always love her, and because of this he had the need to ease the burdens of her life, if he could. And if she would permit him to do so. Women, ah, they were so contrary. He was a Frenchman, and he knew about their natures only too well.
Claire had always felt exceptionally comfortable with Hercule Junot, and there was a great sense of ease in their relationship. And so she did not think twice about drifting along with her thoughts, as his car eased its way through the early evening traffic, heading in the direction of the avenue Montaigne.
She considered the older man to be her dearest friend in Paris; and they never stood on ceremony with each other. To Claire, the silence between them was perfectly normal, acceptable; she never felt the need to talk to him, to entertain him. And she knew he felt exactly the same way about her.
She was thinking about Laura; she was looking forward to having dinner with her tonight. Laura was the only family she had, except for Natasha. Her parents were dead; Aunt Fleur was dead; her husband was ostensibly dead since they were long divorced. Momentarily, his face danced before her eyes, but she pushed it away. She did not want to think about him now; it would spoil her evening.
On their walk from the museum she and Laura had planned the weekend. It was going to be fun. Natasha was as excited as she was about Laura’s unexpected sojourn in Paris, and without Doug in tow for a change. Not that she minded Doug, he was fine. But having Laura to themselves was a very special bonus.
‘Is there something troubling you, Claire?’ Hercule asked, cutting into her thoughts.
Turning to look at him, Claire exclaimed, ‘No, of course not, Hercule! Why do you think there is?’
‘You’ve been very quiet on our drive across Paris,’ he remarked, touching her arm. ‘And I have to confess to you, I was most forcibly struck by your appearance this afternoon. You’ve lost weight, Claire. You’re like a…a waif.’
‘No, wafer-thin!’ she shot back, laughing, pleased with her play on words. ‘Remember what the Duchess of Windsor said: “You can never be too rich or too thin.”’
‘But