Kitabı oku: «The Last Will And Testament Of Daphné Le Marche», sayfa 4
Chapter 6
Elisabeth, London, 1983
In London, 1983, the cultural landscape was shifting. Nothing was as it seemed and the roles that people were so familiar with were changing before people’s eyes.
Boy George was changing music with his gender-bending costumes and make-up, a film about a female welder and dancer was number one and Margaret Thatcher had just been re-elected for a second term as Prime Minister.
It was also the year Elisabeth Herod met Henri Le Marche.
As with the most extraordinary of relationships, their meeting was completely ordinary. Elisabeth worked at the bookstore, Hatchards in Piccadilly, and Henri had asked her opinion on The Name of the Rose. She had to admit to him that she hadn’t read the book, but she had heard only good things.
She decided that Henri had a look of a poet, taking in his rumpled suit but expensive silk tie and uncombed hair. His French accent was as delicious as a chocolate soufflé and she thought he would be the perfect man to lose her virginity to while she was in London.
He asked what was the last book she read, and she took him to the poetry corner and pulled out a slim volume and handed it to him.
Henri seemed as interested in her, which was lovely since her dark hair, dark eye combination seemed so uninteresting to English boys at the time. Samantha Fox was on Page Three of the Sun and the boys who were living in the hostel had images of her stuck to every bathroom wall.
Just seeing Ms Fox’s large breasts made Elisabeth feel uncomfortable, and she always glanced down at her own chest, lacking in everything compared to Samantha’s.
Henri turned the book over in his hands and then read aloud in French, ‘Louise Lévêque de Vilmorin—Poèmes.’ And then looked up at her. His blue eyes widened, and his dark hair fell over his face.
She quelled a desire to move it from his forehead so she could see his eyes again.
‘You speak French?’
‘Oui,’ she said, aware her Australian accent might ruin the romance of the moment.
‘And you read French poetry?’ he asked, a smile playing on his face.
‘Oui,’ she said again. Oh yes, she was definitely flirting now.
From the corner of her eye, Elisabeth could see her manager coming towards them and she snatched the book from him and put it back on the shelf.
‘Elisabeth, are you helping this gentleman?’ asked Bernard, the snivelling manager who reminded her of a court fop.
‘She is,’ said Henri, in an accent somewhat thicker than he had used with Elisabeth. ‘She is so knowledgeable and her taste is sublime, you are very lucky to have such a woman to work for you.’
Bernard almost bowed and then gave a rare, thin-lipped smile to Elisabeth. ‘She is a wonderful girl, who knew an Australian could be educated as well as she is. Please let me know if you need anything else.’
Bernard left them, walking backwards, and bumped into a table of discounted travel books. When Elisabeth turned her attention back to Henri, he was holding the book of poems again and he read to her,
‘Fiancée of a million deviations
what do you hide up your sleeve?
Is it a postcard
from the place where dreams are discarded?
Is it your revenge plan:
a vulture’s kiss: stolen and flown?’
Elisabeth felt her heart tighten and her breath squeezed her lungs until she thought she would explode.
‘You translated that from French? So quickly?’ she asked.
‘I know Louise de Vilmorin’s work,’ he said. ‘Did you know she was engaged to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?’
Elisabeth nodded and she wondered if in fact he would be more than just the thief of her innocence.
‘Dinner? Tonight?’ he asked, tucking the book under his arm.
‘OK,’ was all she could reply.
‘I will pick you up. Where do you live?’ he asked politely.
Elisabeth thought of the grotty hostel and the pictures of Samantha Fox.
‘Can I meet you here? I work till late,’ she lied.
‘Of course,’ he answered and he reached down and kissed her on each cheek.
‘Au revoir, Elisabeth,’ he said and then left her alone while he paid for the book at the counter.
It was only after that she realised she didn’t know his name and she rushed to the counter to see if he had left a clue with his credit card.
‘He paid cash,’ said the girl at the till. ‘Wasn’t half handsome, wasn’t he?’
Elisabeth spent the rest of the afternoon as though flying on a flock of wild birds, seeing London below as a fantastic adventure that finally she was beginning to undertake.
* * *
Henri was waiting for her when she left the bookstore at six in the evening. The streetlamps were turning on and the crisp autumn air made everyone look like smokers as they hurried home. Henry was leaning against a post box, wearing the same suit as earlier in the day, but this time with a camel coat draped over his shoulders.
He looked incongruous against the streetscape with a group of punks walking past, their hair pointed upwards and their mouths downturned.
‘Hello,’ she said as she walked towards him. She was aware of the unfashionable coat she wore compared to his but she had a silk scarf she had found in lost property and had artfully wound it around her neck, just like she had seen Catherine Deneuve do in a television commercial.
He reached out and touched the scarf, ‘So chic,’ he said with a smile and then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek again.
He smelt of tobacco and soap and something else she couldn’t quite name.
‘What is that scent?’ she whispered in his ear while his face was still close to hers.
‘Opoponax,’ he said back to her.
She pulled away. ‘A pop of what?’
Henri laughed and she thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
‘Opoponax, it’s the sweet cousin of myrrh. It was used by the Ancient Romans as incense and helps people learn others secrets and portends the future like the Sibyls.’
Elisabeth thought her legs would give way and she clutched his arm.
Henri, however, seemed calm as he held her steady.
‘You need a drink, oui?’
‘Oui,’ she said feebly and allowed him to lead her to the bar at Claridge’s.
She didn’t know men who wore a scent like Henri and even knew its history. Her father had an old bottle of Eau Savage that Elisabeth’s mother had bought duty free on a trip to Singapore, and he wore it only at special events, which was about three times a year.
Henri helped her out of her coat, and she felt ashamed of her wool skirt and plain white blouse so she kept the scarf around her neck.
‘What will you drink?’ he asked her and Elisabeth shrugged as she slid into the private booth.
‘I don’t know, what do you think?’
She didn’t think she could ask for a pint at Claridge’s but she didn’t know any other drink other than cask wine.
‘Champagne,’ he stated and then ordered a bottle of Taittinger for them with a selection of cheeses to share.
Elisabeth realised how hungry she was and placed her hand on her stomach to stop it protesting about the paltry cup of soup that had masqueraded as lunch.
‘I don’t know your name.’ she said suddenly, as though speaking her thoughts aloud.
‘Henri Le Marche,’ he answered, as he sat back in the booth.
‘I’m Elisabeth Herod,’ she said and she put out her hand in a formal manner.
Henri laughed and took her hand and gallantly kissed it as Elisabeth laughed.
‘Sorry, I think it’s the environment, it’s very posh, isn’t it?’ she whispered.
‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ Henri asked, his handsome face now worried. ‘I didn’t know where you might like to go, but my mother always says Claridge’s is best when you’re in London.’
Elisabeth tried to hide her smile as she nodded in agreement but Henri noticed.
‘You don’t agree?’
‘I don’t really know,’ she said, deciding to be honest. ‘I’m from Australia, here on a gap year. The nicest place I’ve been to so far has been Harrods and even then the staff looked at me like I was going to steal something.’
Henri laughed. ‘You will tell me if you’re not happy here?’
The waiter arrived with the champagne and made a show of displaying it to Henri, who waved his approval with his hand.
When their glasses were filled, Henri picked up his glass. ‘To books,’ he said.
She felt herself smiling. ‘To books,’ she echoed and took a sip of the champagne, savouring the taste.
‘Gosh, that’s lovely,’ she said, as she watched the beads burst up in the glass.
‘It is,’ said Henri, and he took another sip. ‘Beeswax,’ he said then paused. ‘And blackberries.’
Elisabeth took a sip from her glass. ‘And apple,’ she added, remembering the cider she had drunk at her brother’s twenty-first birthday party.
Henri beamed at her. ‘Yes, apple.’
The waiter brought the cheese and they were silent until he left.
‘Do you work in the wine area?’ she asked, watching how he held his glass by the stem and not the bulb.
‘No, I work in the family business,’ he said, leaning forward and smearing Brie onto a wafer-thin piece of toast and handing it to her.
Elisabeth took the offering gratefully and popped it into her mouth.
‘We make cosmetics,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My grandfather started it and now my mother runs it.’
‘And you will take over one day?’ asked Elisabeth, as he handed her more cheese.
‘I hope not,’ said Henri with a sigh.
‘What would you rather do?’ Elisabeth sipped her champagne, as he thought.
‘I would like to write books,’ he said.
She thought her face would crack at the width of her smile.
‘Does your mother think you should write books?’ she asked.
Henri smiled now. ‘My mother doesn’t care what I do, as long as I’m happy. It is my brother Robert who will get the company one day.’
‘So why are you in London?’ she asked, feeling somewhat fortified by the champagne and cheese.
‘My mother lives here most of the year, she prefers London for business, so I come and visit her.’
Disappointment rose in Elisabeth that his would be a fleeting visit and she wouldn’t see him again.
‘But now I know Mademoiselle Elisabeth is in London, I will be here for a while, I think.’
She felt herself smile again and wondered if he could read her mind, or was the opoponax tapping her secrets for Henri’s benefit.
‘What are Sibyls?’ she asked, thinking of his comment about the scent he was wearing, grasping at a casual conversation to try to balance out the sexual tension she was feeling.
‘They were prophetesses or Sibyllas from Ancient Greece, who could predict the future. They were very wise and gave sage advice to the priests, but they only spoke in riddles.’
‘It’s a beautiful word “Sibylla”,’ said Elisabeth, rolling the word around her mouth like a sweet.
‘Yes, if I have a daughter, I would like to call her Sibylla. I think she will be very wise, but that, of course, would come from her mother.’
He looked at her pointedly as he said this and Elisabeth choked on the invisible sweet.
‘More champagne,’ said Henri, as he lifted the bottle from the silver bucket and refilled her glass and then his.
‘Now tell me all about you,’ he said. ‘And Australia, I’ve always wanted to go there.’
Elisabeth went through the details quickly. An only child of two working-class parents, she had excelled at school and received a scholarship to a private girls’ school. This led to an acceptance at university to study English, which she hoped to be able to teach at high school one day.
‘But why high school? Teach at university, become a professeur des universités.’ He clapped his hands happily at his decision on her behalf.
‘You will be the beauty and the brains in your long robe, all the men will desire you and be intimidated by you.’
Elisabeth laughed and blushed. The need to kiss him was disconcerting, or was it the champagne?
‘Tell me about you,’ she said, desperate to steer the topic from her.
Henri Le Marche was twenty-six years old and the second son of Daphné and Yves Le Marche. What he lacked in ambition he made up for in charm and intelligence.
‘You cannot make a living reading,’ she said, ‘unless you work in a library.’
Henri thought this sounded perfectly reasonable and decided to one day open his own library in Paris when he received his share of the business.
He wanted a simple life. Books, a woman with dark hair and dark eyes who would read him love poems, while she lay naked in their bed, and a child when the time was right.
When he spoke of his last wish, without pressure or embarrassment, Elisabeth wanted to jump up in the bar and scream, Pick me, pick me.
Instead, she felt a quiet calm cloak her and, emboldened by Taittinger and lust, she drained her champagne and stood up. ‘Shall we have dinner or go and read naked, in your bed?’
Henri’s room was upstairs from the bar, and the walk to the elevator was silent. They were silent as the elevator doors opened, and Henri took her hand and led her into the small space.
He didn’t let go of her hand until the doors opened again and he found his room key, then led her down the lush carpeted hallway, past the art that probably cost more than her ticket over to London and towards a door with the number three hundred in gold on the front.
At the door, he turned and held her face in his hands. ‘L’amour est la poésie des sens.’
Then Elisabeth kissed him. Was it the Balzac quote, or the fact that something like this moment happening was so extraordinary to a girl who lived such an ordinary life that she became someone else for a moment? Or was this who she always was?
As they kissed, he managed to open the door and they fell inside the suite, hands pulling at clothes, words in French and English being muttered.
Elisabeth felt as though she needed to feel every part of him inside her. She wanted to touch him, suck him, lick him, kiss him, caress him until she knew every single part of his body and soul.
Naked on the bed, she felt his hands slide up her slim frame, and gently cup her breast. ‘You, Elisabeth, you are my dream.’
‘Love is the poetry of the senses.’ She repeated the Balzac quote back to him in English, as she pulled him to her.
She never told him she was a virgin. It didn’t matter any more. She realised she was only ever meant for Henri.
* * *
Elisabeth spent a week in bed with Henri, learning every part of him and him, her. She was fired from Hatchards at the end of that week and, on the following Monday, she phoned her parents from the hotel.
‘Mum, I’m moving to Paris,’ she exclaimed.
‘Paris? What’s in Paris?’ her mother asked, confused.
‘Henri Le Marche, my future,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’m going to write poetry, and become a professor and have a mystical little baby. If it’s a girl, we’ll call her Sibylla and if it’s a boy, we’ll call him Antoine.’
‘Elisabeth, don’t be ridiculous,’ her mother cried from the other side of the world.
‘There’s not a thing you can say to make me change my mind, the heart wants what the heart wants.’
And then she put down the phone and fell back into Henri’s waiting arms.
Chapter 7
Edward
After the funeral, Edward took a plane back to London.
Daphné had died in London, but requested to have her funeral in Paris, which was fine, except it took a whole day, and Edward didn’t have a whole day to spare, not even for Daphné.
He had avoided Robert and Celeste at the funeral, which was easy since they were surrounded by hangers-on and work associates. He had felt almost sorry for Celeste, having to organise the funeral at such short notice, and, while it wasn’t as full of pageantry as Daphné Le Marche would have expected, it was appropriate and the right sort of people had turned up to pay their respects and/or to be seen.
He checked his phone and saw missed calls from the office and from Robert, but no international calls. He opened the world clock. It was midnight in Melbourne, and he wondered if Sibylla Le Marche would still be up. If she were anything like her cousin, then she would most likely still be out, he thought.
Taking a risk, he dialled the number that Elisabeth Le Marche had given him the third time he had spoken to her.
The estranged side of the family was proving to be very difficult, he thought, as he listened to the sound of international connection and then the echoing ringing of Sibylla’s phone.
‘Hello?’ came a muffled voice.
‘Sibylla Le Marche?’ he asked, needing to be sure.
‘It’s Billie March, who is this? You do know it’s midnight?’
Her accent was jarring after being with the French all day, and he screwed his face up, as though this would help him to listen more clearly.
‘This is Edward Badger, I’m your grandmother’s lawyer,’ he started to say.
‘Edward Badger, are you serious?’ asked Sibylla.
‘Yes, I’m Daphné Le . . .’
‘That’s quite a name,’ she said and he thought she might be laughing.
‘What is?’ he asked, confused.
‘Edward Badger. Teddy Badger. You sound like something from The Wind in the Willows. How hilarious.’
Edward was silent. She was mad, he decided. Absolutely, convict raving mad.
‘Oh I’m sorry, I’ve offended you,’ she said. ‘It’s actually quite sweet, isn’t it? My name is Sibylla, but I go by Billie. If we got married, I’d be Billie Badger. Teddy and Billie Badger, and their adventures in Toy Town.’
‘Have you finished?’ asked Edward, ruing Daphné’s decision. He had thought it was a good idea, better than working under Robert, but this girl was nuts, and she was rude.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous.’ Her voice sounded normal now.
‘I know my grandmother died, and Mum said she left me something in the will, but, honestly, I don’t want it. I’m fine here. I didn’t even know who they all were besides a cousin Mum mentioned and who I have vague memories of, so I don’t need any money, I mean we’re fine and I work. I have my own little flat, which I’m doing up. It’s lovely. I’m going for a whole Nordic feel, very clean lines and bright fabrics.’
Edward listened to her prattle and waited until she realised he wasn’t responding.
‘So yeah, whatever it is, maybe you can just pop it in the post or whatever . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘It’s a bit hard,’ he said drily. ‘And since you won’t be here for the will reading on Friday, I think you should know, she’s left you half the company.’
‘What?’ she yelled and he held the phone away from his ear.
‘What about Celeste, or whoever else is in the family?’
‘Celeste is the other inheritor,’ said Edward, starting to enjoy himself. He had hoped to do this in his office, so he could see the horror on Robert’s face when he realised he had lost his bet, but this was almost as good.
‘And there is an uncle, Robert Le Marche,’ he said, trying not to colour his voice with distaste.
‘Oh my God, an uncle? Dad’s brother, yes, Mum said he’s a prick,’ Billie said.
Edward didn’t argue with the truth, so he left her statement as it was.
‘So you will come?’ he asked.
‘No. I don’t want it, sell it to Celeste or something. She can have the lot.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, Sibylla,’ he said.
‘Billie, please, Billie.’
‘OK, Billie,’ he said, pronouncing her name slowly. ‘You will have to come over here and sort out the details, as there are caveats on the will and clauses about selling and so on. I think it’s something you will need to discuss with Celeste.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, I’ll think about it,’ snapped Billie, then there was a pause before she spoke again. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t swear, it’s just that sometimes I can’t seem to find a more appropriate word.’
Edward thought he hadn’t been this entertained at work in a long time, and he hoped Billie Le Marche would come to London, just for a while, to shake up Celeste and Robert. With her foul mouth and candour, she was exactly what Le Marche was lacking now Daphné was gone.
Edward’s role as the most trusted advisor to Daphné had been accidental, or was it? he wondered now.
He had seen the lack of insight from her lawyers in the London office that represented her. Le Marche might not be their biggest client, but it was certainly their most loyal, and since they were moving their head office to London, Edward saw an opportunity for the firm to step up and create more value for the company.
Except none of the other partners cared to hear his opinion.
‘It’s an ailing cosmetics brand, run by a French Miss Haversham, what do we care? As soon as she dies, she will leave it to the son, who will sell it off. It’s not worth the time. God knows why she’s moving the company to London either. I’m sure no one supports that inside the business.’
But Edward could see her reasoning for the move. Closer to the rest of the English-speaking world, and part of the London beauty legend, Le Marche was popular in France, but it was relatively unknown to the rest of the world.
And then he took the biggest risk of his twenty-five years. He flew to Paris on his own ticket and told Daphné that she needed to change legal firms, and explained why. He then said he would be leaving also and he wished her the best. He had always liked the sharp old woman, who spoke to him as though he was more than a junior.
‘I don’t need a legal firm in London any more,’ she said imperiously
‘Oh you will, I’m sure, just maybe one that’s more respectful of what you have achieved and what your international goals are for Le Marche,’ he explained.
She shook her grey curls, perfectly set in a chic bob.
‘No, I have you, you can be my legal firm, you can come and work for me, and you get some lawyers you like to help you and we can do it together,’ she had said with a wave of her crêpe paper-like hand, a huge aquamarine surrounded by diamonds catching the light on her ring finger.
She’s mad, he thought, as he pasted a smile onto his face.
‘I’m not sure that would work,’ he said slowly, trying to make her understand.
‘It will work,’ she said with a roll of her eyes. ‘I know you can do it. I trust you, you just have to trust yourself.’
And so Edward Badger went to work for Daphné Le Marche.
Edward sat in the back of the taxi he had hailed as the driver asked him where he wanted to go.
Edward had two choices, the silence of his riverside apartment, or a ton of work at the office?
No one would begrudge him if he took the afternoon off when the boss had died, would they? Edward thought about his sterile apartment, with its iconic view of the Thames, and made the right decision for him—he went right back to the office. After all, what was waiting for him at home?
The problem with working for Daphné Le Marche was that you didn’t get a social life. The woman was working on her deathbed, for God’s sake, he thought, as he paid the cabbie and went into the Grosvenor Street address.
Orange roses filled vases in the hallway, and a plethora of flowers with cards attached lined reception.
‘Mr Badger, where shall we send these?’ asked a pretty receptionist whose name he forgot.
He glanced at the flowers and shrugged. ‘Send them to nursing homes in the Greater London area. Someone should enjoy them,’ he suggested.
The girl nodded and smiled. ‘Good idea, Madame Le Marche would like that.’
Edward thought that Madame Le Marche probably wouldn’t care what happened to them, since they were all white. Lilies, chrysanthemums, roses and delphiniums spilled over the desks and he found the smell sickening.
‘Take something for yourself,’ he offered generously.
The girl blushed. ‘Thank you, Mr Badger,’ she gushed.
He nearly asked her to call him Edward but then refrained. The last thing he wanted was an office dalliance. The last time that happened, she left him with a set of spreadsheets of their finances and moved to a rival company. He had nearly lost his job, and Daphné had reminded him, no, he thought again, warned him to never mix business with pleasure again, unless it was family.
He strode up the hallway and nodded at those who passed him by, and finally found the silent security of his office.
His capable secretary, Rebecca, barrelled in with her six-month pregnant stomach and barked messages at him, and he listened while watching her bump in its tight jersey top.
‘Is that thing moving?’ he asked, peering at her.
Rebecca stared down at the bump. ‘Yes, they’re busy today. It’s because I had laksa for lunch and now they’re all high on chilli and lemongrass,’ she laughed, cupping the twins in their safe house.
Edward laughed but wished for a moment she wasn’t going to leave next month to have the babies. How on earth would he replace such a wonderful assistant?
Rebecca was still speaking. ‘And Sibylla Le Marche called for you,’ she said.
Edward looked up. ‘She called here? To the office?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she said she had trouble getting through to you on the mobile,’ said Rebecca, glancing down at the notepad she was holding. ‘She said, thanks but no thanks.’ Rebecca raised her eyebrows and waited for his instruction.
Edward sighed and leaned back in his chair. This whole arrangement was proving to be more difficult than he had imagined and he wondered if he should have just gone home after all.
He sat thinking. There was no way he was going to leave Daphné’s legacy to that useless idiot Robert. He wanted to believe in Daphné’s granddaughters, but he had his doubts that the two estranged cousins had anything in common, let alone the ability to turn around a business.
Sometimes Daphné made impossible requests when she was alive, but he did his best to fulfil them. When he made her a promise, he never broke it, which was probably why he wasn’t a successful barrister with chambers at Gray’s Inn. But there was something about the Le Marche dynasty that was compelling, and Daphné’s energy was everywhere, even after her death.
He felt his eyes hurt with unshed tears for his boss and friend and he squeezed them tight to make them disappear.
Don’t frown, you’ll get lines, he heard her voice say and he smiled to himself as he opened a file. As long as the company was still under the Le Marche name, then it would have his loyalty.
