KATE FORSTER lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband, two children and two dogs, and can be found nursing a laptop, surrounded by magazines and watching trash TV or French films.

For my mother Joan, the ultimate Francophile.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title

Dedication

Prologue

Part 1: Spring

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part Two: Summer

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part 3: Autumn/Winter

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue
London, 2016

The ornate marble fireplace glowed from the fire that hissed and danced within it, as though in celebration of what was to come for Daphné Le Marche and, as she watched the flames, she imagined her final descent into hell.

Was it Mark Twain who said that you should go to heaven for the climate and hell for the company?

Daphné would always take the excellent company over a sunny day; besides, the state of the weather had never bothered her. She lived so much in her head that she often failed to notice the black clouds building on the horizon.

That was often the problem in her eighty years on Earth, she mused, as she watched the cremation dance in the distance of her bedroom.

The nurse had said it was too warm for a fire in this mild July summer, and the doctor said the smoke wasn’t good for her heart, but he had said it half-heartedly, she thought, and she smiled at her own pun.

What did they know about her frozen bones and broken heart? What did they know about being housed in an eighty-year-old body with a thirty-year-old mind?

Of course, the fire was lit as requested, and a new nurse was employed; one who didn’t sigh, and blow her fringe up with her breath when she entered Daphné’s bedroom.

She looked around her bedroom with her tired eyes. It was splendid; everything in her world was splendid. Her bedroom was perfectly appointed in every way, from the pale apricot silk curtains to the antique furniture, but the only items that gave her pleasure at that moment were her mother’s linen sheets which she lay upon, given to her on her wedding day sixty years ago.

How she wished for her mother now, tears burning her tired eyes, as the heavy oak door to her bedroom opened.

Edward Badger entered the room, standing awkwardly in the entrance, holding a leather satchel and an iPad.

‘Madame Le Marche,’ he said in a deferential yet somewhat embarrassed tone. He had probably never seen her so vulnerable and looking so old, she thought, and she took a little pleasure in still making those around her feel uncomfortable. She liked people to not feel too familiar with her. Just because they knew the stories, they didn’t know the woman, she often told those nearby, a boastful warning of who they were dealing with.

For twelve years, Edward had worked for Daphné Le Marche as her personal solicitor, starting as a junior and then working his way to her side. He was the most loyal person she had ever known, or the most stupid—she could never quite decide—but at least he stayed when everyone else had left.

‘Edward, please, sit.’ She motioned to the uncomfortable Queen Anne style chair, placed by her bedside for visitors. She had deliberately asked for this chair to be used, discouraging long stays.

Not that any of the visitors who had sat by her failing side had offered her any comfort. Who could offer her comfort now, besides the doctor and his heavy leather bag of medicines?

Edward looked handsome with the fire behind him, and Daphné wondered if he had left a woman’s bed to be in another woman’s bedroom at nearly midnight. Edward never spoke of his love life, although she was sure he wasn’t gay. Perhaps if she were younger, she might have helped him in some way to find his lover or she might have kept him for herself. She smiled to herself at the thought of her younger self in seduction mode.

‘I have decided,’ she said finally, feeling her heart beat in random triplets.

Edward nodded and sat down as she instructed. He then opened the satchel and took out a thick sheaf of papers.

‘Do you believe in heaven and hell?’ she asked.

To his credit, Edward didn’t seem perturbed by her question even though Madame Le Marche had never really engaged in small talk with him, but then again conversations about the afterlife could not be construed as small talk.

‘No,’ he answered as he shuffled the papers, finding the one page he needed to record her final wishes.

‘You seem so sure, have you already had a preview of what’s to come?’ She laughed a little.

He looked up at the old woman and smiled. ‘I deal in facts and there isn’t any evidence to suggest that such places exist outside this life.’

His eyes were kind and his voice steady and she wondered if he was as good to his own mother as he was to her.

‘Are you suggesting there exists a place within this life? That heaven is here on earth?’

Edward raised his broad shoulders and shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

Daphné felt a rare stir of interest. Age makes you not only weary but also bored, she often said.

‘Go on,’ she demanded.

Edward smiled, almost to himself, she noticed. ‘Do you know those days that are perfect? Where everything makes sense and who you are with, or your own company, feels like destiny, when everything is flowing your way, that is heavenly, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, slightly imitating him.

He went on, ignoring her dusting of scorn. ‘And those days or nights, yes it’s usually night-time, when you wonder how it all could have gone so incredibly wrong, why the person you love is in pain, or how can a baby have cancer? How can people suffer so much? I think that is hell. It’s usually between the hours of two and four in the morning that the worst of those thoughts occur.’

‘Hell has a schedule? A timetable?’ She laughed again, but it sounded hollow to her ears.

She knew those hours. She knew that hell.

Edward was silent, as though he had said too much, but she didn’t have time for his guilt. She had her own to deal with.

She paused, as her long, thin fingers clutched the edge of the sheets.

She remembered her mother tucking her into bed when she was sick, the smell of lavender on the sheets, the sound of a fire in the bedroom lulling her to sleep.

When I die, I will go downstairs and my mother will be upstairs, she thought, and at that moment Daphné regretted the choices she had made in life, for only her mother was enough to cause a woman like Daphné Le Marche penitence.

Edward waited patiently for her decision to be revealed.

‘Is the formula safe?’ she asked, and Edward nodded.

‘It’s in the bank vault,’ he said.

‘And the journals?’

‘Locked in the drawer in London,’ he answered.

Daphné sighed. There was no point postponing it any longer. She knew what she had to do.

‘The girls, I leave it all to the girls,’ she said finally.

Edward blinked a few times, as though trying to process her ruling.

‘And Robert?’ He asked of her only surviving child.

‘He made his decision years ago,’ she said and Edward was silent.

The Le Marche family history was enough to fill scandal sheets for years to come, but he knew her decision to overlook her only son and heir was not made lightly.

‘They must be here in London; they must work at Le Marche for a year before they can sell and they must always have two signatures on every decision. They are each other’s conscience.’

Edward wrote notes on the iPad as she spoke, her hands now running along the edging of the top sheet. Back and forth, like practising scales on the piano as a child.

She thought of her business and she wished she could stay. Nothing was as good as working, she once told her sons. What a shame neither of them had her work ethic.

‘And the formula?’ he asked.

‘They receive it after they have worked together for one year and one day.’

Edward made a note and snapped the cover on the iPad closed as though it was an audible full stop on the moment.

‘Where are the girls now?’ she asked, tiredness creeping up on her.

‘Celeste is mostly in Paris, but is sometimes with her mother in Nice, and Sibylla is in Melbourne—she lives alone but spends a lot of time with Elisabeth.’

Daphné felt her eyes hurt again at the thought of lovely Elisabeth. How she had suffered, in some ways more than Daphné, at the loss of Henri.

‘Mothering isn’t easy, that’s why I worked,’ she said almost to herself.

Edward was silent.

He was understanding company, she thought, wishing he would come again, but she knew she wouldn’t see him again after tonight.

‘A year. I give them a year to work together, and one cannot sell without the other. If one sells, they both sell.’

‘They can’t buy each other out?’ Edward’s face was now frowning.

‘Don’t frown, it gives you lines,’ said Daphné automatically.

Edward tried to smooth his face but failed.

‘They can’t sell the company to each other?’ he asked again.

‘No,’ said Daphné. ‘I want this family to rest its quarrels. The only chance we have now is with the girls.’

‘But they haven’t seen each other since they were children,’ Edward said.

‘You’re frowning again,’ she reminded him.

The fire spat in annoyance, and he glanced at it and then back to Daphné who was speaking again.

‘I am not concerned about petty reasons of an obstacle, such as separation. They’re family, they don’t need reintroductions. They have more in common than they think.’

Edward wrote quickly and then handed the papers to Daphné, who lifted her hand.

‘Where do I sign?’ she asked with a tired sigh. Dying was exhausting, she thought. No wonder people only did it once in their lifetime.

Edward picked up a book from her bedside table for her rest the paper on.

‘The Book of Perfumes,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Still working, are you?’

‘I am always working,’ she said tiredly, as the door opened and the nurse came into the room. ‘Even on my deathbed, I am working.’

‘Can you witness this, please?’ Edward asked the woman, in a tone Daphné admired. He had grown into a confident man and she trusted him, which was as rare in business as it was in love.

The nurse watched as Daphné signed her hand and then Edward and the nurse added their signatures to the document.

‘It is done,’ said Edward, in a deferential tone, after the nurse left the room.

‘I don’t envy you,’ she said, a small smile creeping onto her face.

‘Why is that?’ he asked, as he packed his papers into his satchel.

‘What is about to come, I am sure I don’t pay you enough.’ She laughed a little, happy at the thought she could still create waves, even after her death.

‘I am capable of handling anything, I’ve been taught by the best,’ said Edward, reaching down and touching her hand.

Her skin was cold, but her grasp firm, as she held his hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it deeply. Edward had been her greatest support over the last years and she hoped he could be the same for the girls.

‘Look after my petites-filles,’ she said, so tired now.

‘I will, and I will be back to see you again,’ he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

She nodded, but she knew he wouldn’t be back while she was alive. If there was one thing Daphné Le Marche knew how to keep it was a schedule.

After Edward had gone, and the fire was dying in the grate, she saw the colour she had been chasing her entire life.

Dernières lueurs—the perfect afterglow.

And she cursed God that she could never replicate it in her lifetime. All she had ever wanted was to create a product that gave women the glow as though they had just fallen in love or made love or even both. She touched her own cheek with her hand and tried to remember when she last had that glow.

It was too long ago, she thought sadly, and she closed her eyes and slept, and between the hours of two and four, just as she had suspected she always would, Daphné Hélène Le Marche née Amyx died. She had never been late to a meeting before, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be late for this one.

Part 1

Chapter 1
Celeste

Sometimes Celeste Le Marche wondered if she should have died instead of Camille.

If she had gone to the dance lesson with Camille instead of having a tantrum at home because she didn’t get new ballet shoes like her sister, then they would have argued over who got the front seat, and Celeste, being the more aggressive of the sisters, even though she was younger, would have won.

Camille would have been relegated to the back seat behind Papa, because that was the only seat belt in the back of the Audi that worked and it would have been Celeste that died instantly when the truck hit the car.

Then Camille would have gone to the hellhole school that was Allemagne and Celeste would have gone to heaven with Uncle Henri and Pépère, and everything would be as it should be.

She used to wonder what it was like in heaven. Every imagining changed according to her age. One year it was bowls filled with sweets on pretty little tables and talking goldfish that swam in ponds, then it was filled with every fabulous item of clothing she could imagine, and then it was champagne and cocaine and dancing without ever needing to sleep.

Now, as she wandered through the dark villa belonging to her mother, she wondered if heaven was actually being able to sleep through the night.

She could hear the sounds of the waves on the rocks below and she wondered about her uncle for a moment, and then pushed the thoughts from her head.

Why did the darkest thoughts always come when there was so little light?

She checked her phone and saw the missed messages from Paul in Paris.

Instead, there were over twenty messages from the press. News of her affair with the Minister of Trade had just been leaked by someone, probably that little shit who worked for him, she thought. He was always flouncing around wearing too much cologne and his pants too tight. Now it would be in the news tomorrow, unless Paul tried to put a stop to it by offering something in return.

A text came through from him as she peered at her phone.

Celeste, we need to talk. Now!

She snorted at her phone. He had a night free from the confines of the family home and he thought her worthy enough to give her his company, except she was in Nice and he wasn’t happy about it all, judging by the tone of his text.

He could wait for a change, she thought, as she sat on the cane chaise and covered her long legs with the cotton blanket her mother had left at the end of the lounge. The sun must be nearly up, she thought, as she peered into the darkness. On the horizon, a light glimmered, and Celeste was thankful the night was nearly over.

Matilde was so thoughtful to her guests, thought Celeste, as she straightened out the blanket. It was just her daughter she forgot about. The only time she had been nurtured by Matilde was when she had her tonsils out when she was six, the year before Camille died. Matilde had put her daughter into clean sheets and rubbed lavender onto her temples when she had a headache. Camille had sat at the end of the bed and had read her Babar, and Papa had bought her little honey sweets to soothe her throat.

Her mother certainly hadn’t been in this mood when Celeste arrived unannounced from Paris the day before.

‘Celeste, what are you doing here?’ she had asked, surprise showing in her blue eyes. At fifty-five years old, Matilde Le Marche had retained her figure, her married name, and her love of socialising.

‘I needed to get away from Paris,’ was all Celeste had said, pushing through the door of the villa.

‘Married men make women crazy and women make married men crazy. It is better to be single,’ said Matilde as she’d picked up her tennis racquet, which was next to the front door. ‘Look at me.’

Celeste knew better than to open the door to the conversation that would start if she commented on her mother’s statement. The only thing Matilde liked to do more than gossip was to complain about the affairs her father had had while they were still married.

Of course, Matilde had learned of Celeste’s affair with Paul Le Brun from the nephew of a friend, whose ex-boyfriend was in love with Paul.

Too many visits under the guise of decorating his office had brought attention to their relationship, and since then Paul had been retreating from seeing Celeste as often.

Was it just her, or was the sex a little less intense also, or was that because he was nearing fifty?

What if he died while they were making love? She had heard of such stories, and the idea of Paul dead on top of her while still inside her made her shudder.

Celeste tried to shake her morbidity and closed her eyes, the cool air caressing her face. Her phone chimed again and she rushed to turn it down and saw a text message from her father.

Grand-Mère passed last night

So much death in this family, she thought, as she read the message.

Her father Robert was not one for extreme displays of emotion and the news of Grand-Mère Daphné’s passing was handled in his usual taciturn way.

She thought about messaging him back, but what could she say to ease her father’s relationship with his mother?

She had enough problems with Matilde. The idea of her mother was far nicer than the reality. It was the same with Grand-Mère Daphné. She was always frightening to her as a child and she hadn’t seen her in a year, not since Daphné’s heart went into failure and she had gone into hiding.

‘I’m surprised she has a heart to fail,’ her father had quipped over their quarterly lunch at La Tour d’Argent, which Celeste loathed but knew it was vital to attend if she were to keep her measly allowance from Papa.

Daphné Le Marche was never a warm person to Celeste or anyone else, but she had rescued her granddaughter from her time at the Allemagne school and that alone was worth a moment’s silence for the old woman.

She would organise the funeral, she thought. It would be an elegant event, like Daphné. God knows what it would turn into if her father was left to manage the details. If he had his way, her grandmother would be shipped out to sea in a cardboard coffin, and not even a prayer offered.

Perhaps she should have said more to her grandmother over the years, especially after that telephone call from Allemagne, made to Daphné when she was sixteen, which saved her life. Robert and Matilde were so immersed in their own grief and self-destruction that they didn’t see their surviving daughter was dying at boarding school.

It was the only time in her childhood that Celeste had had a champion. It was Daphné who had told Robert that Celeste was anorexic, and a victim of extreme bullying and that she had tried to overdose on painkillers. It was Daphné who had told Matilde to step up and be a mother or she would lose both children. It was Daphné who had organised Celeste to attend hospital and finish her final classes at home with a tutor.

And it was Daphné who had ruined the school’s reputation with Europe’s elite when it refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing and turned a blind eye to the beatings of Celeste, the urine-soaked bed, courtesy of the girls in her dormitory, which Celeste was forced to sleep in most nights, and the ostracising of her from every meal and every social event.

What were once rumours of a culture of bullying at the school soon became absolute truth once Daphné made calls to certain important families. Soon there was a removal of some of the most elite students by their families and the school never quite regained its footing among the upper classes again.

Celeste never knew why it was her who had been chosen as the victim of the bullying. Was she too tall? Too thin? Too blonde? Too something?

The only time it had been discussed was when Matilde had called her on the telephone as Celeste was being put on a drip for dehydration and a low heart rate.

‘They don’t like you because you’re too beautiful, like me. Women don’t like women like us, we’re a threat,’ Matilde had slurred down the phone.

So Celeste grew to view all women as the enemy, even her own mother.

She opened her eyes, as she heard the sound of birds stirring in the bougainvillea, scratching and fighting to wake first. I envy them, she thought, it must be easy being a bird. She looked out at the growing light in the distance, colours of sherbet orange filling the sky and, for a moment, her eyes pricked with tears for Grand-Mère. She said a little prayer for Camille to look after her when she arrived in the afterlife.

She was under no illusions though that her grandmother would have thought of her on her deathbed. The woman barely had time for Robert, let alone his daughter. All she cared about was her business.

Now Le Marche would belong to Robert, and he would sell it to the Japanese as soon as he could. She pulled the cotton blanket up to her chest and wondered about Sibylla.

Did she know? Who would tell her? Would she come to the funeral?

But Celeste had no idea how to contact her cousin in Australia.

God, that was so far away, she thought. She struggled even travelling to London. Everything she needed was in Paris, Paul was in Paris. With his family, playing the perfect husband and father. That would be all over tomorrow if the news got out about their affair.

But if that were true, she thought, why had she run to Nice?

There were too many thoughts to try to put into order, so, instead, she watched the sun rise like fire in the distance.

But her thoughts came back like the waves below the villa, crashing into the cliff.

Was Paul at home in his bed with his wife, while their children slept peacefully in their little beds? Was he watching the sunrise from his balcony? Would he think of her as he showered? Would he think of her undressing as he dressed?

Did he sip on his coffee and wonder if she was thinking of him also?

Did he love her like she loved him?

Tears burned so harshly, she squeezed her eyes shut, even though Grand-Mère had always told her to never line her face with anything other than a smile.

A half sun sat on the horizon now, and Celeste felt more at peace in the glow.

Darkness was her worst time. Nights like this were hard to bear alone.

Thirty years old and the mistress of a politician. Thirty years old with no discernible career, except as an occasional interior designer and stylist. Thirty years old and still taking an allowance from her father.

What a joke she was. She lived off her father’s meagre allowance and her lover’s gifts, and was given her mother’s apartment in Paris because Matilde didn’t know how to love her only surviving child properly, and the apartment went some way to absolving her guilt.

For a moment, she was envious of her father and his inheritance. He could do anything he wanted with Le Marche, but she knew he would sell it, as much to spite Daphné as to live off the proceeds.

As the sun rose, Celeste thought of Daphné and her life.

At twenty-one, her grandmother had had two children and, within ten years, she had turned a family business into a cosmetics empire.

Self-esteem hadn’t ever been a mantle that draped Celeste’s shoulders, and now, when she thought of her brilliant grandmother, her self-sufficient mother and even her estranged cousin, Sibylla, who was a scientist or something similar, according to her research online, she felt hopeless.

She kicked off the blanket, stood up and stretched, then walked to the edge of the balcony.

The waves crashed below her and she could see the white foam greedily lapping the edges of the rocks.

She put her hands on the edge of the iron balcony and peered down further, trying to hear the sounds of the sea, seeing how far down the rocks were, or how far up she was.

What was below? she wondered. She thought of Uncle Henri. Is this what he felt? Did he hear l’appel du vide? The call of the void?

That’s what her mother once said when she had asked how he had died.

Was it calling her now?

She couldn’t be sure, as she saw a gull dive into the foam and pull a writhing silver treasure from the water.

‘Well done,’ she said with a smile to the bird.

Tiredness draped its heavy arms around her now, and she let go of the iron railing and nodded to the sea below.

‘Not today,’ she said, and went inside to finally sleep.

* * *

When she woke, dusk was settling in the sky. She walked out of her room and saw her mother had left her a note on the wooden table.

Gone to drink with the Michels. Come and join us if you want.

Celeste had no idea who the Michels were, but she knew her mother would be drinking too much with people who saw too much sun, regaling them of stories and gossip of her ex-mother-in-law, as no doubt the news of Daphné’s death would be out now.

Celeste sighed and picked up a peach from the mosaic bowl her mother had made during one of her artistic retreats. Matilde was a frustrated artist with no particular talent, but she had tried every mode possible in which to express herself.

It seems the peach doesn’t fall far from the tree, Celeste mused, as she bit into the soft flesh of the fruit. As the skin brushed her tongue, she missed Paul’s touch and so she picked up her phone from the table and dialled his number.

He answered on the first ring. ‘Darling, where are you? What’s happened? Are you with your grand-mère?’

Hearing his voice, Celeste relaxed. She walked out onto the balcony.

‘No, I’m with my mother,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, I’ve had some things in my head I needed to think about.’

She took another bite of the peach and then threw the rest over the edge, down into the void.

‘But I’m coming back to you now,’ she said and everything was back to how it was before, except it all felt so different and she couldn’t explain why.

* * *

Back in Paris, Paul was late, as usual. Celeste, feeling less restless than usual, thanks to a glass of wine and a few puffs on a cigarette, leafed through a copy of French Vogue.

Her phone rang.

‘Darling, I can’t get away,’ Paul complained.

Celeste took a gulp of wine.

‘But I came back from Nice for you,’ she said, hating that she sounded so whiny.

‘I know, but there is a meeting I must attend,’ he said. She could hear laughing in the background. ‘I will come to the funeral. Has your father told you the details yet?’

‘No,’ snapped Celeste. She had tried to call her father numerous times to learn of the funeral plans, but Robert wasn’t answering his phone.

‘You will let me know?’ Paul asked, sounding very formal, and Celeste hated him for a moment.

‘Perhaps,’ she said and ended the call.

She then scrolled through her phone until she found a number that made her smile.

After dialling, she waited. He would always answer her calls.

‘Hello.’ His voice sounded wary.

‘It’s Celeste,’ she said in her most seductive tone.

‘I know, your number came up on my phone.’

This wasn’t quite the greeting she had hoped for. She had left Charles for Paul and had ignored his calls and heartache for a year. Surely he wasn’t over her yet? She needed to let Paul know she also had a life outside of her bed.

‘Did you want to get a drink?’ she asked, running her finger over the rim of the wine glass.

‘No thank you, I have plans,’ Charles said.

Celeste believed him. She knew he wasn’t playing games; that was her job.

‘Are you seeing someone?’ she asked softly.

‘I’m engaged,’ came the reply.

Celeste sighed. Charles was a good man, which was why she had left him for Paul. She had terrible taste in men, Matilde had once said, not that she was the greatest connoisseur either.

‘Felicitations,’ she said and then ended the call with no further promises.

She leaned back in the chair and lifted up her long blonde hair so it spilled over the black leather.

She had dressed for Paul just the way he liked, in a black chiffon cocktail dress and no lingerie. The dress was short enough to show off her endless legs and plunged to take advantage of her décolletage.

God, men were so easy to amuse, she thought, as she kicked off her heels and then stood up, and peeled off her dress and walked naked to her room.

Pulling on sweatpants and an old T-shirt that was fraying at the edges but softer than what she imagined clouds would feel like, she went back to her chair, collecting the bottle of wine on her way through. Celeste could have been a model if she had been prepared to work hard enough, attending the castings and doing prestigious jobs for little money to build up her portfolio, but she didn’t want to work that hard, and her first two years after leaving Allemagne were spent in Amsterdam, where she got stoned every day and worked in a café, trying to recover from her schooling experience.

Her head began to hurt, so she took two of her extra strong painkillers and put her music player into speakers. Soon the soft sounds of Marvin Gaye singing accompanied her as she poured herself more wine.

She needed to do something about Paul, but she didn’t have the energy for it now.

Marvin was asking her to dance and Celeste needed to move. She felt her feet tapping and then her head bob and soon her hips moved with the rhythm. Closing her eyes, she turned up the music, put down her wine and gave her evening to Marvin, the only man who had never let her down.

Tomorrow could wait, she decided and she wondered what, if anything, was going to change now that Grand-Mère was gone.

Chapter 2
Billie, Melbourne

The laboratory was empty when Billie March arrived at work. She turned on the lights and breathed in the cleanliness, and then put her bag away. After donning her white coat, she shoved her phone into her pocket and placed ear buds into her ears and turned on the music.

This was her favourite time of day—when her co-workers were exhausted at the end of the week and they struggled into work one by one, talking about their plans for the weekend.

Billie wouldn’t have a weekend if she could help it, but this weekend she had promised to help her mother and stepfather move into their new house.

Marvin Gaye sang about his Inner City Blues, which had seemed appropriate on the tram ride to the university, but now she needed something other than her father’s favourite singer and she settled on Florence and the Machine.

She moved through the scheduled work, testing new deodorants, and then onto a brand of soap powder that claimed to reduce all stains.

The sound of the door clicked and Nick Miller walked into the laboratory.

‘Morning, Billie,’ he said cheerfully. He was still wearing his bicycle helmet and had one leg of his jeans tucked into an unevenly pink-coloured sock, but neither of these facts took away from his happy face.

Billie smiled at him. ‘You look cheerful,’ she said. Nick was her work crush. He was what made it lovely to come in every day. With his good looks and his pleasant banter, she couldn’t wait to see him each day.

‘I got every green light on the ride to work today, do you know the odds of that happening?’

‘I have no idea but I’m sure you can work it out,’ she said, as she went back to her soap powder paste, which she was smearing on lipstick-stained cloth.

Nick had put away his knapsack and taken off his helmet and was walking back to Billie when she pointed down at his sock.

‘Untuck,’ she said.

‘Gee, thanks, Bill,’ he said gratefully.

When Nick had first starting working at the lab, his forgetfulness became an office joke and once, when Billie had taken a rare sick day, Nick had worn his helmet all morning, including in a meeting, and no one had told him because they thought it was so hilarious.

Nick had said it was funny also, but Billie saw the flash of shame on his face when he was teased and she took it upon herself to socialise him, or at least remind him to take off his helmet and untuck his jeans from his socks. Then they began to know each other more and Billie’s friendliness turned into friendship, and then a crush.

Not that she would do anything about it. Billie was as awkward around men as she was around make-up and fashion.

‘You’re in early,’ he said glancing up at the clock. ‘I wouldn’t have got here so fast if it weren’t for the green lights.’

‘I need to leave early to help my mum move house,’ said Billie, ‘so I thought I’d get a head start. God knows it’s going to be a bloody disaster with the amount of stuff Mum has hoarded over the years. The woman finds it impossible to throw out anything.’

‘I’m the same,’ said Nick with a sigh. ‘Thankfully, I live alone, so I don’t have to worry about anyone throwing anything out.’

At thirty-three, Nick was the epitome of a nerd bachelor, living in his little house in Northcote, where he would heat up something frozen for dinner and watch documentaries and reruns of QI for a little light relief—he liked to regale Billie with the highlights of Stephen Fry’s humour.

She knew some people in the lab thought him odd, even weird, but Billie saw through that and noticed his handsome face, and his patience in explaining things to others or when they teased him.

Billie often wondered if he even thought about women, but he hadn’t even tried to ask her out on a date, so she presumed it was safe to say he just wasn’t interested in women at all.

Not that Billie had pretentions about herself, but as a rare female in a science laboratory, who was pretty and had a slight resemblance to a popular character from Game of Thrones, she was nerd candy. Everyone, from the lab technicians to the top scientists, had asked her out, and even some of the married ones gave her the eye. It was exhausting, but slowly they realised she wasn’t there to play, she was there to work.

She glanced at Nick as he pulled on his white coat. He had a slim, well-built frame from bike riding, and his pants sat extremely well on his hips. She always looked at the way a man’s pants sat on his hips. They needed to hang, not cling and for a moment she wondered what was under his pants and then admonished herself for thinking in such a base manner.

‘Are you doing the soap powder tests?’ he asked, walking towards her.

‘Yes, working on lipstick stains,’ she said, wishing she had a solution for dissolving blushes.

‘What sort of lipstick?’ he asked.

‘Just lipstick,’ said Billie frowning. ‘I just went to the pharmacy down the road and bought one.’

Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Is it pearl, gloss, matte, long-wearing?’

Billie felt herself redden. ‘I don’t know, I don’t really wear make-up,’ she admitted.

‘You don’t need it,’ said Nick casually.

She reached up and touched her face, knowing she was blushing, but Nick was looking at the lipstick.

‘This is a Maybelline gloss. This has a lot of lanolin in it, so it will be more greasy than some.’

He smeared the pale pink lipstick over the back of his hand.

‘It’s a bit sickly, needs more depth,’ he said.

Billie watched him with interest. ‘How do you know so much about lipstick?’

‘I worked in a make-up lab before here, but they went bust,’ he said. ‘I actually enjoy the different compounds and ancient recipes. Some ingredients stay the same, regardless of the century.’

‘Like what?’ she asked, noting how excited he looked as he spoke.

‘Beeswax. In Victorian times, they used beeswax with spermaceti . . .’

‘What’s that?’ asked Billie, screwing up her nose.

‘It’s an organ from inside the sperm whale’s head,’ he said. ‘They would mix it with sweet almond oil and rose water and this became known as Crème Céleste or cold cream, as we know it now.’

Billie laughed. ‘I have a cousin called Celeste in France. I’m sure she’d love to know she was named after something that came from inside a sperm whale’s head.’

Nick shook his head and smiled. ‘Are you going to tell her?’

‘Oh God, no. I haven’t spoken to her in twenty-odd years,’ Billie said, as she held the lipstick up to her face. ‘I can’t even remember her.

‘Is it my colour?’ she asked, surprised at her coquettish tone.

She wasn’t usually a flirt, but something about Nick being so knowledgeable, and his compliment with no expectation attached, had her head in a little whirl. However, she took comfort in knowing she would never do anything about this work crush. Her life was simple, and love would only make it complicated. The surety of science made up for any brief love affair she might have, when she knew it was most likely destined to break her heart.

‘No, you’d look better with reds, but with a navy base,’ he said, peering at her. ‘It’s the dark hair and blue eyes combination, just like Snow White.’ He beamed at her. Then he moved and started smearing soap powder over the stains, as the door opened and the rest of the staff arrived for their day’s work.

And Billie spent the rest of the day wondering who exactly Nick Miller was and did he have a girlfriend and then Googling pictures of Snow White.

* * *

‘Mum?’

Billie stepped over the bubble wrap and packing tape that lay across the doorway of her childhood home in Carlton. It was a long terrace house, with a hallway the length of two cricket pitches, currently lined with boxes, art leaning against the wall, and ephemera from Elisabeth and Gordon’s attempt at moving fifteen years of their life.

The problem was that Elisabeth and Gordon found themselves easily distracted. Elisabeth would drop whatever she was doing to write down a poem that swam through her mind, and Gordon would find an old book that he claimed to have been looking for ‘since for ever’ and would then settle down in that exact spot to read some old volume on the history of an ancient civilisation of a far-flung country. Billie knew the only way she would get her mother and stepfather moved was if she marshalled them and assigned them tasks, overseeing the project with extreme bossiness, something she knew her mother hated.

No reply came to her call and Billie sighed, as she put her bag down on an empty armchair.

Assessing the living room, she saw plastic boxes of photographs from the shed had managed to make their way inside, but the lid had been lifted and now snapshots of Billie’s childhood lay sprawled across the wooden floors. Photos of her and her father, and her mother, photos with her and her mother’s parents, family friends, parties, but no one else. She knew nothing of her father’s past, or his family, and loyalty to her mother meant she didn’t pry into the past.

‘Billie.’ She heard her mother say her name and she pulled herself away from the photos.

Dropping the photographs back onto the table, she looked up to see her mother standing in the room, phone in hand.

‘How’s it all going?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Henri’s mother has died,’ came Elisabeth’s reply; her face went its usual shade of ivory whenever she mentioned Billie’s father’s side of the family.

‘Oh, shit. I guess she was pretty old,’ said Billie casually.

‘Don’t swear when you learn of someone’s death,’ admonished Elisabeth.

‘Why not? I didn’t know the woman,’ said Billie with a careless shrug. ‘It’s not like she made any effort to see us after Papa died.’

Billie never asked about her any more. When she was younger, she had asked a few questions, but Elisabeth’s answers were short and angry, using words such as ‘toxic’ and ‘corrupt’, and Billie, who grieved her father deeply, needed someone to blame, so her father’s family from France seemed a likely reason. She trusted her mother’s opinion and so she joined her in hating them and getting on with their lives as a form of revenge.

‘I know, but she was still your father’s mother. That accounts for some respect,’ said Elisabeth. ‘That was her lawyer on the phone. A lovely man, very kind and discreet. He didn’t ask me about Henri at all; I assume he knows what happened.’

‘OK,’ she said slowly, trying to read her mother’s face. Elisabeth seemed stressed and worried, as though things were all out of place, which they were, thought Billie, but this was more than just moving house.

‘He wants you to go to London for the reading of the will,’ she said, surprise showing on her face.

‘London? Me? You also?’ asked Billie, aware she was speaking in staccato but unable to piece together the thoughts jumbling in her mind.

‘Just you, not me. He said it’s vital,’ Elisabeth stated, clearly saddled with the importance of the message.

‘I don’t want anything of hers,’ said Billie, bending over and picking up the photographs and stuffing them back into the plastic box they had escaped from.

‘He said it was vital,’ her mother repeated, her eyes widening at the last word.

‘I doubt it. Probably some old relic she wants to be passed to me,’ said Billie. ‘I’m not interested in anything they want to give me or you.’

Elisabeth paused as though about to speak and then deciding against it.

‘Go on, say what you were thinking,’ said Billie, crossing her arms.

The house felt cold, and the dust was making her eyes itchy.

‘Billie, the thing is, you father . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

‘What about him?’

‘He was from a good family in France, they have money.’

‘I don’t need money,’ said Billie.

‘No, I know, it’s just that, well, when your father died, I changed our names to March, to try to take away the legacy of his family.’

‘So what is his name?’ Now Billie felt that everything was out of place. She was Billie March. All her documents said so, and it was her mother’s name. She had just assumed they were Marches.

‘Le Marche,’ said Elisabeth, looking ashamed.

‘OK, Le Marche. And what else do I need to know that you might have omitted from my past?’ Billie felt her arms cross and she tried to uncross them, but she felt like everything was coming at her at once.

‘The Le Marches own a successful skincare company across Europe.’

Billie stared at her mother, trying to understand.

‘They are very, very wealthy, and I think your father would like you to have what Daphné has left to you.’

‘You told me my entire life that they were next to evil in terms of family, and now you’re telling me to go there and take whatever trinket or cash they have left me? Do you realise what a hypocrite you sound like?’

‘I thought it would be good to find out what it is. It might have something to do with Henri,’ Elisabeth said in a flat voice.

Billie knew her mother wasn’t a manipulative woman, but she was also not without demands. While Elisabeth would never ask Billie to do anything she wasn’t comfortable with, there was always something around her husband’s death that made her lose all sense of herself.

But she was as selfless as she was generous, which now made Billie now feel terrible.

Since her father’s death, Billie had watched Elisabeth try to get on to the best of her ability without her beloved Henri and, to the outsider, she had succeeded. As a well-respected professor of French poetry, and a poet with a few volumes of her work published, a new husband and a daughter who had a degree in chemistry, she had done well as far as the benchmark of success indicated.

What others didn’t see was the toll that came from coping with a death she didn’t see coming, and one that she wondered every day if she might have prevented. The anniversaries of Henri’s death where Elisabeth wouldn’t get out of bed. The man missing in the photos at Billie’s birthdays and at Christmas that caused Elisabeth to shed a tear in the kitchen, where Billie had found her many times, weeping over the sink.

But now Billie was furious. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who Dad’s family are?’

Elisabeth swallowed a few times. ‘I didn’t want you to leave me for them,’ she said. ‘The lure of money can be very enticing.’

‘Did you think I would do that? God, Mum, you don’t know me at all.’

‘I’m sorry, I just hate them,’ said Elisabeth passionately, and then she burst into tears.

‘Mum, I don’t want anything from them, even if it is Papa’s. He’s gone, we’ve all got lives now that are successful away from the Le Marches.’

Elisabeth looked down at the phone in her hand and slowly nodded. ‘Of course, you’re right, I will let the man know that they can send you anything via mail, or ship it, whatever it is.’

Billie saw the disappointment in her mother’s face and she knew the real reason she wanted her daughter to attend the will reading was to see if there was a final clue to Henri’s death. Something, anything, to tell her why it ended the way it did.

‘It will be an old painting or something, Mum, honestly, they’re not going to give me anything valuable. No doubt the family would have got their hands on anything worth money by now.’

Elisabeth raised her dark eyebrows and rolled her eyes a little.

Billie felt better seeing her mother’s scorn replacing her bewilderment.

‘You’re right,’ she said, looking relieved.

‘Of course I’m right, I’m a realist,’ said Billie. ‘You can try so many different ways to get a different result but often end up with the same outcome. That family is exactly the same. No matter what you do, they will always be self-interested, selfish and toxic, the best thing you ever did was move us to Australia. I feel sorry for them all stuck in the past. Now let’s get you moved, I’m feeling very organised.’

‘God help me,’ laughed Elisabeth, as Billie picked up a flat carton and started to assemble it.

But, as Billie worked through the rest of the day, packing and sorting, labeling and lifting, she couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Grand-Mère had left her and would it be worth something. If it was, she would give the money to her mother; that was the least of what she deserved after what she had been through. Losing a husband so young, starting a new life with a young child.

Her mother was the bravest person Billie knew and there wasn’t a chance in hell she was going to let her mother get caught in the Le Marche web again since she spoke so badly of them. She always said her heart was broken after Henri died, and Billie knew they were somehow to blame. Why else had her mother cut all ties?

That night, when she lay in bed in her own little apartment, Billie looked at the framed picture of Elisabeth and her father from their wedding day in Paris.

Her mother was wearing a white shift dress with daisies in her hair, and her father a broad grin. They looked so happy, she thought, so why then did he decide to take his own life?

Chapter 3
Daphné, 1956

Daphné Amyx was eighteen and had two options available to her. Marriage or work. Marriage was possible in the village of Calvaic, but she didn’t want a pig farmer with his rough hands and crude tongue. She wanted a man like Jean Gabin, or the American actor, Jimmy Stewart who she saw in the movies at Saint Cere; and she knew that wasn’t someone she wasn’t going to find in the village.

Not that she had met the man yet, she just knew there wasn’t anything for her in the village any more and, as much as she regretted leaving her beloved mother Chantal, she knew it would be better for them both if she earned money in Paris while looking for a husband.

The day she had chosen for her reconnaissance to Paris was going to be beautiful and, as the light rose with the dawn, the garden had never looked as pretty in the growing kaleidoscope from the sunrise. Daphné felt the rising sun on her shoulders as she hung the washing on the makeshift clothesline in their back garden. Her mother’s sunflowers were facing east and sweet peas were climbing up the fence, as though greedily trying to get as much of the light as possible.

The morning and evening light was the best, she thought, as the kids danced next to their mothers in the field next to them, their little goat antics never failing to make Daphné giggle.

For a moment, Daphné felt almost nostalgic and then noted the beautifully mended holes in the nightgown she pegged to the line and let go of her sentimentality.

Rural life was hard enough, let alone for a mother and daughter who made a living from the land and making handmade soap from goat’s milk and selling it on the side of the road to the occasional tourist. Lately business had been good with the Americans who passed by. They liked the sweet little labels that Daphné had made and pasted onto the jars. She had even added some pretty linen over the lids and tied them with pink ribbon to really appeal to the customers. But then Daphné, ever the realist, pulled herself from her musing and focused on the day ahead. There was no time to be pondering the light when food needed to be put on the table.

She finished her task and walked back inside the small stone cottage, where her mother sat mending a linen sheet. The cottage was neat as a pin, and everything was polished and folded in perfect order, thanks to Chantal, Daphné’s mother.

The bus to Paris would be arriving soon, and Daphné checked her small case of soaps and lotions she and Chantal had made. If she couldn’t find a job, then she would sell the stock on the streets of Paris and return next week to try again.

She had a small overnight bag of a change of clothes and a coat belonging to her mother and would stay with the Karpinskis, who had fled Poland and had hidden in their village during the war, finding themselves unable to make their way to London.

The couple now had children and a small jewellery store in Le Marais, which they lived above and where Daphné would stay.

She picked up her case and smoothed her dark hair. ‘Mama, I’m going,’ she said to the back of her mother who stood at the kitchen sink.

Her mother turned and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Be safe,’ she said and Daphné could see the worry in her sad eyes. Losing her husband in the war meant she had little faith in the world to care for her beloved daughter. If Chantal had her way, Daphné would stay at home for ever.

‘I will be fine, Maman,’ said Daphné sincerely. She was smart, resourceful and brave and a two-day trip to Paris alone didn’t worry her like it did her mother.

‘You look very pretty,’ said her mother, admiring Daphné’s figure in the peacock blue dress which Chantal had made from fabric she had saved from before the war. Nipped at the waist, with a full skirt, the shape showed off her tiny waist and the colour complemented her sultry looks.

While Daphné wasn’t a beauty, she had an appeal that seemed to make men look twice at her. At seventeen, she knew it was sex appeal but was too shy and far too inexperienced to know its power.

She picked up her case, and kissed her mother on her weather-beaten cheek. Years of being in the garden and tending the animals had created lines on her skin yet it was soft from the goat’s milk soap and cream that she made and used.

‘I will see you on Thursday,’ she said and she smiled brightly as she went to the door. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck and give my love to the Karpinskis,’ said Chantal, and then Daphné was on her way.

* * *

The bus journey to Paris was long and slow, frequently interrupted by roaming sheep, goats, and even a family of ducks, who insisted on crossing the road in single file.

Everyone on the bus thought it charming, but Daphné just wanted to get to Paris. She knew there was something waiting for her there, but what it was, she wasn’t sure.

The only highlight was a women’s magazine that a woman had left on her seat after she had departed the bus. Such a luxury wasn’t in Daphné’s budget and the trip went quickly while she read every article and studied every picture.

When the bus arrived in Paris, it was after lunch and Daphné was tired, grimy and hungry, but she knew she didn’t have time to waste. Work was hard to come by in Paris and, as Anna Karpinski had said in her letter to Daphné, only the tenacious survived, but Daphné didn’t plan on just surviving, she wanted to thrive in the city.

Of course Anna and her husband Max were tenacious enough to have survived the war in hiding and make a life in Paris, but when Daphné arrived at their tiny shop, and she saw shabby state of their establishment and how rough the neighbourhood was, she wondered if life in Paris was as wonderful as the magazines she read at the village store claimed.

‘Daphné,’ cried Max, as she opened the door to the store, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.

‘Max,’ she said warmly and let him embrace her like her father would have.

Anna and Max had moved from house to house for three years during the war and often slept in barns or cellars. They never complained, and always worried for those who were protecting them.

It was Anna who comforted Chantal when the telegram arrived informing them that Daphné’s father had died.

It was Max who suggested goats to Chantal, and Anna who taught Chantal how to milk them and make the soap. The oil they needed was hard to come by at the end of the war, so they improvised with lard but it worked, and with some sweet lavender from Chantal’s own garden, they had something she could sell on the side of road.

‘Anna, Anna,’ Max cried up the slim staircase, and Daphné looked around the store.

Dark and dreary, filled with a few cabinets of stock, and a curtain behind to separate the back room from the store, Daphné thought this was no place she would want to buy jewellery, yet she knew Max’s work and it was beautiful.

‘How is the business?’ she asked when Max turned from the stairwell.

‘You know, hard, I do what I can with what I have,’ he answered vaguely, but Daphné read his face and knew the answer.

Her thoughts were pushed aside when Anna came down the stairs in a rush and held Daphné for a long time, occasionally pulling away to touch her face.

‘And Maman?’ she asked of Chantal, who was Anna’s mother figure as her own mother had never been heard of after the invasion of Poland.

‘She is fine, worried about me and you and if the world is going to keep turning,’ laughed Daphné.

‘Of course, she is a mother,’ said Anna and her hands gestured to her children.

Daphné had met them once when they were younger, but now she saw a smaller version of Anna and Max, with the same proud face of their mother and the ingenious twinkle in their eye from their father.

‘Peter, Marina, this is Daphné,’ said Anna gently to the boy and girl who stepped forward politely to shake Daphné’s hand.

Upstairs, Anna had created a makeshift bed on the sagging sofa, but it was warm and clean and much more appealing than the shop.

The children had been sent outside to play, and Anna warmed up some vegetable and barley soup and placed it in front of Daphné with a large chunk of rye bread.

She ate it hungrily, savouring the flavours of the sour bread and the sweet broth.

‘How is the business?’ she asked as she dipped the bread into the soup.

Anna shrugged. ‘It’s hard,’ she said and Daphné thought she looked older than her thirty years.

As Daphné wiped the remnants of soup up with her last piece of bread, she thought about the store.

‘It needs to be lighter,’ she said. ‘To show of Max’s work.’

‘But there is no way,’ said Anna. ‘The only light is from the front windows, and the street is so closed in.’

‘Then you must paint it,’ said Daphné, thinking of the light that rose over the horizon on the farm.

‘Paint it? What colour?’ asked Anna, her face bewildered.

Daphné looked around at the utilitarian space. Anna didn’t have the time or money to think beyond the practical and everyday survival. ‘Why?’

Daphné picked up her bowl and plate and took them to the small tin tub that Anna used as a sink and put them in the water to soak.

‘Blush,’ she said, ‘The colour of make-up powder you see in the magazine.’

She took went to her bag and took out a magazine, flicking to a page and finding an advertisement, showing Anna.

It was a drawing of a woman holding a glass of pink champagne, her face beautifully contoured in shades of pink.

‘Pink lightens the skin, it takes away the age lines,’ read Daphné and she looked up at Anna and smiled. ‘And it’s pretty,’ she said.

‘What sort of pink?’ asked Anna suspiciously.

‘The sort of pink you see in a woman’s face when she’s happy, when she’s been outside in the sun, but she’s not sunburned or hot, she’s warm, inside and out,’ said Daphné thinking of Chantal. Her mind wandered as she kept speaking. ‘The rose in the sky at the end of the day, that looks like old paintings of heaven.’

Anna smiled and touched Daphné’s face. ‘You mean the afterglow,’ she said.

‘Is that what it’s called?’ asked Daphné, surprised there was a name for what she was describing.

‘It’s also the colour in a woman’s face when she falls in love,’ said Anna with a smile and Daphné bit her lip in anticipation. She was ready to fall in love, have an adventure, and to bathe in the afterglow of the world.

But first a job, she thought, as she washed her hands and combed her hair, and applied a little goat’s cream to her face.

‘I am off to find work,’ she said to Anna and, after picking up her bag, she headed out the door, waving to Max as she left the shop.

Paris wasn’t so hard to navigate. She and her mother had been there before, but this was her first time alone.

She paused and thought out the arrondissements in her head and got her bearings. She needed to cross the river to get to Montparnasse, where the cafés were. She could become a waitress, she thought, as she walked with purpose across the bridge and through Saint-Germain.

Jazz musicians busked on the streets, and tourists wandered with cameras about their necks. American accents mingled with the French and Daphné wondered why on earth she thought she could have stayed in the village. Paris was the only place for her, she could feel it in her soul, and she started her job-hunting in earnest.

Chapter 4
Robert

Paris never looked more beautiful than in the autumn, Robert Le Marche decided as he drove under a golden canopy of magnificent beech trees.

Everyone always went on about spring in Paris, but autumn was sublime, with the leaves changing and people looking so chic in their coats and boots.

Robert parked his navy Bugatti on rue de Grenelle and jumped out as two attractive women walked towards him. Just as they passed, he pressed the key to lock the car, making them aware that the machine was his.

The women strolled by in deep conversation, ignoring Robert and his car, much to his chagrin. He had twisted his back getting out of the car gracefully and all for nothing, he thought, cursing the women but not the car that was as low to the ground as a snake on roller skates.

He pressed the security code next to the ornate iron gates and then pushed them open and walked inside, entering the private garden. He ignored the last flush of melon-coloured tea roses that stood proudly in their immaculate beds and an espaliered orange tree ran across the ancient brick wall, bearing the last of the fruit while orange and white poppies waved in the sun.

He could never understand his mother’s obsession with the colour orange. She was like Monet, always chasing the light, looking for that ‘dernières lueurs’.

He had stopped listening to her ramblings of the search when he was a boy, but Henri had always listened, even encouraging the pursuit, delivering hand-dyed tangerine silk woven with gold thread from Varanasi, amber beads from the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, even a jar of antique buttons in her favourite shades of apricot and candlelight peach from the Camden Markets.

Henri was always such a sycophant, he thought, as he put the key in the lock of the front door and pushed it open.

The marble foyer and wrought iron staircase met him and he sighed, as he looked upstairs. Why his mother wouldn’t get an elevator installed in the place he could never understand. She had the money, but she refused, claiming it was sacrilegious to install such modernity in such an old home.

Robert hadn’t argued with his mother because he would never win. He learned that years ago, but now, as he stood in the foyer of the four-storey family home, he felt nothing. He thought he would feel some sort of relief, even some satisfaction that she was gone, but there was only silence in his heart and in the house.

He walked up the stairs slowly, stopping at each level to catch his breath, and silently cursing his addiction to cigarettes.

Finally, he reached the top level and loosened his tie from his neck. He was once a handsome man, but a lifetime of sunbathing, smoking, drinking and eating rich food had ruined his fine features and had turned him into a doughy version of his former self.

He crossed the room, with its heavy, ornate furniture, and opened the drawer of the Louis XV desk. He pulled out a kidskin file and opened the gold lock with a small key that hung on his key ring.

He rifled through the papers inside and then, not seeing what he wanted, pulled them all out and spread them across the desk.

Birth certificates, the marriage certificate, deeds to the houses and other items that Daphné had deemed important were inside. Everything except the one thing he wanted.

He pulled out his phone, dialled a number and waited.

‘Edward Badger please, Robert Le Marche,’ he said, as he checked the papers again.

‘Edward speaking,’ came the crisp English accent.

‘Where is the will and the formula?’

‘Let me first offer my condolences on the loss of your mother,’ said Edward smoothly. ‘She was a remarkable woman.’

Robert had never liked him. He tried too hard to be Henri’s replacement.

‘Remarkable is one word,’ said Robert drily. ‘I’m at rue de Grenelle, the documents aren’t here.’

‘The formula is in the bank vault, and the will is in the office, as per your mother’s instructions before she passed.’

Robert felt his blood pressure rise. ‘She wrote her will three years ago,’ he said.

‘No, there was a codicil the night before she died,’ said Edward.

‘A what?’

‘A codicil is an amendment to a will,’ said Edward.

Patronising prick, thought Robert.

‘I know what a fucking codicil is,’ he snapped, walking around the top floor, staring unseeingly at the view across Paris. ‘When can I see it?’

‘We have some details to attend to, and then we will read the will. Madame Le Marche expressed very firmly that it should be after her funeral.’

Robert clutched the back of a gilt-edged chair.

‘I need to get things moving,’ he said, trying to control his voice.

‘Yes, I can understand that,’ said Edward and then he paused on the end of the phone. ‘We have to wait for Sibylla’s response,’ he said.

‘Sibylla? Henri’s child?’ asked Robert. He now circled the chair and sat on its overstuffed silk cushion.

‘Yes, she’s in the will,’ said Edward.

‘What did Daphné leave her?’ Robert ran through the list of chattels and houses. The château now used as a wedding venue, the house he was sitting in, the apartment in London where she died? Perhaps it was some art? Robert could accept some art going to the girl, she deserved that much, and a flush of guilt ran through his body, causing a cold sweat.

‘Why do we need to wait for her? If it’s an item, we can ship it over, can’t we?’ Robert’s voice betrayed him as his desperation rose.

‘That’s not going to work,’ said Edward. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I have more details to attend to, as I’m sure you do also, for the funeral will most likely be enormous.’

Robert sat in the chair, staring at the wall.

Sibylla Le Marche. He barely thought of Henri’s child nowadays. How old was she when he died? Nine or ten? He searched his memory for the girl who had played with Celeste while he and Matilde pointed blame at each other for Camille’s death.

She was more like her mother Elisabeth, he remembered, dark haired and quiet, in contrast to Celeste’s boisterous beauty.

Just thinking about the past gave him a headache and he decided he needed two things. A strong coffee and blowjob from one of the escorts he used for such purposes.

He dialled a number and waited. ‘Anika, it’s Robert, can I see you?’

‘Darling,’ she purred in her German accent, ‘I’m in Cannes.’ She laughed and he could hear the sound of laughter in the background.

‘Why are you in Cannes?’

‘I’m with a sheik I met at the festival, who offered me an obscene amount of cash to stay for a while. We’ve been all over the Mediterranean, and we’re just coming back into Cannes now.’

Her voice hushed to a whisper. ‘I can pay my apartment off with this trip,’ she said.

Robert wasn’t sure if he should congratulate her or call Interpol in case she went missing.

‘Please be careful,’ he pleaded with Anika. She was by far his favourite of the young women he used for pleasure.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Jesus, you’re like my father.’ She was laughing as he ended the call.

The thought of Anika’s mouth around the sheik’s cock made him shudder, but he also felt a searing jealousy, while the thought of the wealth the sheik must have made him livid.

Yes, Robert had money, but he wasn’t obscenely liquid like the Middle Eastern sheiks or the Russian oligarchs.

His thoughts went back to his mother’s will and he felt a small seed of doubt sprout in his mind. Maybe things weren’t going to go to the way he expected after his mother’s death, and he wondered why he thought they would since they had never gone to plan while the old bitch was alive.

Leaving the kidskin wallet on the table, he made his way downstairs and through the garden out to the street, where he saw his Bugatti was now sporting a parking fine.

Today was proving to be the worst, he decided, when his phone rang and he saw his daughter’s name on the screen. Now it was proving to be even more hellish.

‘Celeste,’ he barked. ‘I can’t talk now.’

‘Why not?’ He could hear the pout in her voice. ‘I just want to find out about Grand-Mère’s funeral. When is it?’

Robert pulled the ticket off the windscreen and unlocked the car.

‘I don’t know, I haven’t organised it yet.’

‘Papa, she died two days ago, what do you mean you haven’t organised it?’

‘I haven’t had time, I have a company to run, not everyone lives your life,’ he said as he slid into the seat of the car, cursing his back. He needed one of those driver’s pillows he had seen in a catalogue for people with disabilities when he was last visiting his mother.

He made a mental note to get his secretary to order one, as he started the car, the sound of the engine nearly blocking out Celeste’s question.

‘What did you say?’ He wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

‘Do you want me to organise it?’ she asked again, her voice sounding small. ‘I thought it might be nice for me to do it.’

Robert paused, the phone still up to his ear, the engine thumping impatiently.

‘That would be lovely, Celeste, really, if you think you can handle such a sad affair. I need to be looking at the company and all that it entails, so your help would be so wonderful.’

His charm soothed him, and he felt the anxious grip in his chest loosen.

‘Do whatever you need and just send the invoices to Le Marche,’ he said. ‘Now I must go, darling, about to head to a meeting, message me with any details.’

And he hung up before she could speak.

What a gift, he thought happily, as he pulled out into traffic without looking, knowing he wouldn’t be hit by another driver. Who wanted to deal with the insurance on a Bugatti? He laughed as he turned up the radio to a song he didn’t know the words to until it annoyed him enough to change it to the jazz station he loved. Soon John Coltrane was playing Lush Life, and Robert thought that his life was indeed very lush, and once he had Le Marche sold, then he would be the one sailing through the Greek Islands or the Mediterranean and girls like Anika would never leave him for a sheik again.

Everything was looking up, he thought. He was even feeling generous to Henri’s child. Let her have whatever it was Daphné had willed to her, what did he care now. Most likely it was one of her hideous paintings or some jewellery. He was about to get what he deserved and, even though he was fifty-eight years old, he still felt thirty. With this in mind, he dialled another girl he liked.

‘Chloe, my place, twenty minutes?’ he demanded more than asked and she responded as he thought she might and agreed to see him but for double the price.

But what did he care? He was truly rich now and, as his mother always said, the wealthier you become the more life costs you.

His ex-wife’s face came to mind and he felt himself scowl and then stopped. Matilde wasn’t worth getting more lines over, he thought, as he glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. His blond hair had turned silver, which, he’d decided when he turned fifty, was elegant. He could have dyed his hair, like his grandfather had for years, according to Anna. What a pathetic old man, he thought, thinking of Giles Le Marche.

Robert was very proud of himself for growing up without a decent male role model. His father was inept, his brother too. He was his own creation, and now without his mother’s domineering influence, he would finally, at the age of fifty-eight become the man he was always knew he was meant to be.

Better late than ever, he said to himself, and pressed the accelerator on the car, making sure he would be able to meet Chloe for his celebratory blowjob.

Chapter 5
Matilde

Matilde adjusted the collar on her black Dior coat, aware that all the eyes of society were on her, and then genuflected at the altar of Sainte-Chapelle.

She had stopped believing in anything when Camille died, but Daphné had believed in God, or so Celeste had said when she planned this spectacle of a funeral.

Daphné’s coffin was lying in state, covered in what seemed to be one hundred amber roses, the heady scent mixing with the frankincense that was burning in the brass censers on the altar.

Slipping into a pew further down the back of the church, Matilde looked around at the attendance. A decent enough showing of the right sort of people, she thought, and watched as Paul Le Brun walked up the side of the aisle and slipped into a seat.

News of her daughter’s affair with Le Brun had made the gossip pages for a day, until a terrorist threat overtook all other news, and Celeste was spared of too much humiliation. Still, people stared at Paul when he arrived, and she saw their heads joined in covert whispering.

Celeste could do so much better, she thought, as she noted his slightly coloured hair. Matilde was an expert at spotting three things: plastic surgery, hair colouring and sexual attraction.

It had proved to be a very valuable set of skills over the years. She had worked it to her benefit, finding lovers for herself and for her friends, and knowing the exact point in which to topple someone’s ego with a well-placed barb about any work they had done to their appearance.

Matilde was known within her circle as a sharp wit; to those outside of it, she was just a bitch.

More faces, known and unknown, walked into the church and soon it was a sea of black with hushed gossip sending waves through the sacred space.

Finally, Celeste and Robert arrived, arm in arm, Robert’s face looking concerned and upset, but not so much that he might cause any lines, thought Matilde, with a roll of her eyes.

God, being married to a fop with an unquenchable sexual appetite had been exhausting, and even if Camille hadn’t died, she would have left him anyway. She told him then and still stood by her statement. She needed a rest from him, the sex, and his lies.

She saw Celeste glance at her and she raised her head in approval. Celeste had done a wonderful job, with so little time to organise everything. Of course Robert had dumped it on his daughter; he was a lazy son of a bitch, she thought.

Daphné’s funeral had only just made the French rule that all funerals needed to have taken place by the sixth day but Matilde knew that people wouldn’t miss the chance to see the fall of the last of the Le Marche family.

There were more gossips in this church than friends, thought Matilde, as the priest stood at the altar and the ceremony began, and she stood with the rest of the crowd to say goodbye to Daphné Le Marche, the woman who saved her daughter.

* * *

Matilde was the face of Le Marche when she was nineteen, after Daphné decided that they needed to bring in a model to represent the brand and become more current.

By twenty-one, she was dating Robert. At twenty-two, she was pregnant with Camille.

And at twenty-three, she married him, but only after Robert had been threatened with disownment by Daphné.

Camille had changed Robert’s mind about marriage. The moment the child was placed in his arms, he adored her and that was enough for Matilde to forgive him for his transgressions.

There was no father as devoted as him to Camille, and then came Celeste. He would get up to them in the night, which was rare, according to her friends in Paris, and he took them to school. He knew everything that was going on in their lives and their friends and was as much fun as they could wish with a father.

He drove them everywhere. No matter where they wanted to go, he took them, speeding in the latest sports car and bringing back a treat for whoever was at home.

Matilde felt her eyes sting with unshed tears as she remembered, or was it from the incense. She tried to focus on the coffin and the roses, but her mind would not stay with her, and she felt it wander off again and there she was, back as though nothing had changed, and yet everything was about to be shattered.

‘Can you take the girls to ballet?’ Matilde had asked, knowing he would.

‘I’m not going.’ Celeste had pouted. ‘Camille got new shoes and I didn’t.’

Matilde didn’t have time for Celeste’s sulking.

‘Go to ballet, Celeste. You had new shoes last month, and the reason Camille got them was because her feet have grown so much.’

Matilde had looked at her long-legged daughter, who had the best of both of her parents’ looks. The blonde beauty of Matilde, and the fine, aquiline Le Marche nose.

She could model one day. Matilde and Daphné had discussed this quite often, while Robert denounced her plans.

‘No, Camille will take over Le Marche with me one day,’ he had said proudly and Matilde had noticed the shadow cross Celeste’s face.

‘And then Celeste can join when she’s old enough,’ added Matilde.

‘I don’t want to work with Daddy and Camille, I hate them,’ Celeste had said, lashing out as she did when she was hurt.

She was so like Robert, Matilde always said to people when they asked about her demeanour, or was it because of Robert.

The priest was now swinging the censer around, the smoke billowing out, lifting up the prayers to heaven, and Matilde felt the tears fall.

The policeman had escorted her to the hospital, with a screaming Celeste, who didn’t want to go, and had to be lifted into the back seat of the police car.

Robert was almost unscathed. Camille had died instantly.

It was rare Matilde let herself remember that time, but she was at the mercy of her memory as she listened to the prayers, and remembered the year after Camille had died.

Elisabeth and Henri had brought lovely Sibylla out from Australia to try to be a companion for Celeste, but Celeste had hated her on sight and the trip was a disaster, with Robert and Henri having harsh words before they abruptly left.

What the argument was about, Matilde never knew and she never asked, too caught up in her own pain to care.

Only a year later, Henri had died. The Le Marche family had lost two members in two years. It was the sort of thing that the gossipy society Matilde moved in thrived on.

So Matilde drank, and Robert slept with anything that had a heartbeat, and Celeste was ignored.

Matilde wasn’t proud of her mothering. Robert was always the better parent when they were small, but when Camille died, he stopped parenting and Celeste was left with no one.

So she and Robert separated and they sent Celeste away. Out of sight, out of mind, she had thought, but it wasn’t Camille she dreamed of; it was Celeste.

And when Celeste broke down about her unhappiness and had tried to kill herself, Daphné had stepped in.

Without Daphné, Matilde might have no living children, and she said a silent prayer for the woman under the roses.

She loved Celeste, she just didn’t know how to help her. When she had arrived in Nice last week, her face all tear-stained and so thin, Celeste had wanted to hug her and put her to bed and feed her soup and bread and watch her sleep, but the opportunity for her to be a mother had long gone.

Celeste had resisted hugs, and instead went out on the balcony and stared into the horizon. She refused to speak of her pain, even though Matilde knew it was that arrogant Paul Le Brun, and she glanced at him in the church. Handsome yes, but what good is handsome when you’re married to someone else.

Oh, Celeste, don’t choose a man like your father, she thought, looking at the back of Celeste’s blonde chignon at the front of the church.

So many times Matilde wished she had something wise to say to Celeste, or that Celeste would even listen, but she was scared of her daughter now.

Scared she would lose her like she lost Camille, scared of her temper and her biting tongue, and scared of her restlessness.

Matilde stayed in the past, as the service went on, and when it finished, she was one of the last to exit the church and that’s when she saw him.

A man, as handsome as any man she had ever met, in a navy suit, and silk tie, with a crisp white shirt, and a beautiful coat draped over his arm. He had dark, thick hair, cut close to his head, and slightly tanned skin, but it was natural, she could tell. He walked slightly beside her, and they stopped at the entrance of the church, waiting for the crowd to exit.

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said in her ear and she felt a ripple of something in her body—fear or lust, she wasn’t sure, but God knows, he was too young for her and too handsome to be good for any woman.

‘It is not my loss,’ she said firmly, turning to see eyes of lapis blue. ‘It is my daughter and ex-husband’s loss.’

‘But you were sad, non? I saw it in your face, you had many memories cover your face during the service.’

Matilde felt herself frown. Where had he been sitting? Why had he been watching her?

‘Who are you?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes. He was cunning, she thought, cunning was always hard to manage. Daphné was cunning.

‘Dominic Bertiull,’ he said, extending a hand that Matilde didn’t take.

She sniffed as though the name meant nothing to her, and she pushed her way into the crowd and away from the blue-eyed libertine, who still followed her, but Matilde knew everyone who mattered, that was her job in life.

‘It must be hard for Robert to have to take over the company when he has not really worked in it for a long time,’ said Dominic in a hushed whisper that smacked of false concern.

So the vultures have started to circle, she thought, and she wondered if she should tell Robert that Dominic Bertiull, the corporate raider and slash and burn CEO, was at his mother’s funeral.

And then she remembered Camille. Why should she care if Dominic took Le Marche from under Robert’s rule? He had lost Camille, now he could lose the company he had always desired to be at the helm of, and only then did Matilde feel that justice would be served.

‘I don’t know what Robert does and what he will do next. My only concern is for my daughter, please excuse me,’ Matilde said and, with a push, she forced her way through the crowd to Celeste’s side, where she took her daughter’s hand.

Glancing back to the steps of the church, she saw Dominic Bertiull staring at her and she wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered or scared, or a little of both.

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.

Chapter 8
Giles, Paris, 1956

Giles Le Marche had closed his pharmacy for lunch was and preparing to go home to a cooked meal, thanks to his housekeeper, Bertie.

Giles liked routine, procedure and process, and his owning his own pharmacy in Montreuil, right next to the main Paris bus depot, afforded him a good living with all number of people coming for their travel sickness remedies and medicines they were unable to find in their village.

He adjusted his hat on his dark head of hair—a genetic gift, thanks to his maternal grandfather, but he told his gentlemen customers the bounty on his head was due to the hair tonic he made, and used daily.

Men willingly bought the tonic, just like women bought all manner of balms and lotions for their ageing.

Everyone was looking for something, he thought, as he closed the door and locked it with his brass key and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit coat and set out on his walk home.

As he passed the bus station, he saw a small group of people gathered, all quibbling over the price of something.

Perhaps it was some delicious figs that a farmer had brought up from Autignac. He had a lovely blue cheese that would go well with the figs and a class of Tempranillo after dinner.

Moving to the back of the crowd, his height gave him a vantage point to see the spectacle below, but instead of a valise of figs, there was a young girl selling what looked to be cakes of soap, wrapped in raffia ribbons. Glass jars of varying sizes were filled with a lotion that the women in the crowd were trying on their hands and arms and murmuring to themselves.

‘Very soft.’

‘Lovely.’

‘How much did you say?’

As the women discussed the product and the price, Giles stepped forward and dipped a finger into the jar that one of the women was holding. He smeared it onto the back of his hand and sniffed it, then gently rubbed it in.

His skin absorbed the smooth emollient and left it feeling fresher and, dare he say it, almost younger.

He picked up a cake of soap and held it to his nose. Lavender, he noted, and picked up another and recognised pungent citrus scents.

‘How much?’ he asked the girl, who looked up at him with indigo blue eyes, and a shock of dark curled hair.

‘The soap? Two francs. The lotion is five francs,’ she said, as a woman handed her the money for one of each of the products.

He rubbed the back of his hand again and noticed that his skin was still dewy where he had sampled the cream. There was something different compared to the creams he made in his pharmacy, but he couldn’t quite place the core ingredients.

There was lard, which was common, but there was something else.

‘What is in it?’ he asked her, feeling his stomach rumble. If he had the ingredients, he could experiment in the pharmacy and create his own Le Marche creams.

The girl looked up at him, and he saw her tired smile. It was amused and defeated all at once, and he felt sorry for her for a moment. So many girls like this came into Paris to find work, but the city was becoming overrun with the country mice just like her.

He waited for an answer impatiently. She handed a woman her change and a jar of cream and then leaned over and put her hand on Giles’ shoulder and whispered in his ear.

He could feel her mouth next to his skin. Her hair smelt of sunshine but her whisper was redolent with ambition.

‘An enchantress never reveals her magic,’ she said and stepped back from him. He felt the hairs on his neck rise with a feeling he thought would never visit him again.

‘I will buy them all,’ he said, without thinking twice.

And later, when surrounded by the cakes of soaps and lotions, he wondered if it was the product he wanted or the girl from the country.

* * *

Daphné Amyx stood opposite him in the small pharmacy, her hands twisting around each other, as though she was resisting the overwhelming urge to touch the rows of perfectly lined up bottles with their pretty labels.

‘I can make more,’ she said, as she watched the man line up the jars and soap on the marble-topped bench in the dispensary.

‘When you’re next in town, bring me some,’ he said brusquely.

Daphné shook her head. ‘No, I mean I can stay here and make more for you. I could work for you. I’d be an excellent assistant.’

He looked up at her, as though seeing her for the first time. She was ten years younger than his own son and yet she had more self-possession and directness than anyone he had met of that age.

He was used to the teens coming into the store, the girls trying to shoplift the peroxide for their hair, the boys wanting the hair cream for their pompadour.

But this girl with the cloud of dark hair and a waist he could have spanned with his outstretched fingers was beguiling him.

‘I don’t need an assistant,’ he snapped.

‘I think you could.’ She gestured around the space. ‘Women like other women to recommend things, it’s part of the secret women’s business,’ she said with that smile that shifted his perspective of the world.

It had been twenty years since he had loved a woman. His existence was carved out of routine and duty, yet this girl turned his mind into a whirling dervish, spinning him back in time before responsibility and duty took over his life.

‘An assistant,’ he harrumphed. He was fifty years old and being manipulated by a woman. It seemed time didn’t change a thing. He liked to sleep with whores, that way there was no misunderstanding about the future.

‘Where are you from?’ he barked.

‘Calvaic,’ she answered.

‘And your parents?’

‘Only my mother is alive now, she works a small property with a few animals and vegetables. If I worked here, I would send her money to help.’

He paused, thinking of Yves, who never asked for anything or ever offered him anything. ‘Where would you live in Paris?’

‘I have friends in Le Marais I could stay with until I found something more suitable.’

He snorted. ‘Le Marais? Jews.’ He shook his head as he spoke the last word.

Daphné raised her head proudly. ‘Yes Jews, and my friends. My mother and I hid them for a time during the war, and I would do it again for anyone, even you.’

Giles looked up startled at the hardness that crept into her tone. ‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘I agree. I am just commenting on them taking my business. There are more and more pharmacies opening and a few of them are run by Jews.’ He felt ashamed as he spoke, realising his shame at not doing more during the war, in fact, avoiding it at all costs.

The war had interrupted his routine. He’d sent his son Yves to Switzerland to finish school and stay safe with his chemistry teacher’s family from university and, since then, Yves had stayed there, much to Giles’ disappointment. A trip back to France once a year for a weekend didn’t allow them to connect as a father and son. Instead, they were polite, like cousins once removed, knowing the skin of each other’s life but not the bones.

Yves mother, Louise, was the unspoken ghost in their lives, dying when Yves was fourteen years old.

The conversations about Louise and her death hadn’t evolved into a respectful mourning from both of them, and then the war started in earnest and Yves was sent away.

Daphné adjusted the belt on her teal dress, which was well made from shabby fabric. She would need clothes, he imagined, and he thought of the pharmacies on the Champs-Élysées where the women wore white shirts with little black bows tied around their necks.

‘I can pay you sixty-four francs a week,’ he said, waiting for her to argue. Instead, her eyes opened wide and she smiled with such radiance, he thought he might be thrown backward by the force of her happiness.

What had happened, he thought, as she clapped her hands? How had he been so bewitched by her? He had lost his mind, he thought, and was about to rescind his offer when she leaned forward and touched his face with her soft hand. Too soft for a rural girl, he noted, as she leaned into his ear again, whispering conspiratorially.

‘Goat’s milk,’ she said and pulled back, and he saw amusement in her eyes. She smiled again and he inhaled sharply, as everything within him that was dormant woke.

* * *

Daphné went back to Calvaic to get her possessions and see her mother again, on the strict instructions from Giles she was to return in three days’ time, ready to work.

She was all he could think about during those three days, with her absence draped around his mind and body.

Daily he told himself off for his desire, nightly he indulged in fantasies far beyond anything he and Louise had experienced during their marriage, or even anything he had done with the occasional whore he found in the back alleys of La Marais.

Then she walked through the door on the third morning. He could hardly concentrate all morning, waiting for her arrival, just before he set off home for Bertilde’s leek and Gruyère tart.

‘You’re here,’ he stated, as though she wasn’t going to come back to him.

The girl nodded, and he saw her eyes her were red, and she was pale.

‘Your farewell to your mother was difficult, I imagine,’ he said, somewhat more kindly.

She nodded, and he saw her eyes fill with tears again. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

She shook her head and he picked up his jacket from the hook next to the dispensary and slipped it on, adding his hat and picking up his keys for lunch.

‘Home then,’ he said and he walked out of the shop with Daphné following him, locking the door after them.

Bertilde had left him the tart, still warm, covered by a linen tea towel on the dining room table. A small salad but enough for two sat next to it in a glass bowl, with a vinaigrette in a little jug. It was all exactly as it was every Thursday but to Giles it felt unusual and exotic.

Daphné stood in the middle of the room, looking around at his life and he wondered what she saw. The orderly room now looked sterile to his eyes. The darkness from the blinds being half closed felt ignorant and the closed windows suffocating.

He threw up the shades and opened a window, letting the warm air inside.

‘Shall we eat?’ he said, gesturing to the table.

Daphné sat down opposite him and watched him as he served her and then himself. He gave her more than him, and she looked up and smiled at him.

‘You should take the bigger piece,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to put on weight,’ he said, touching his flat stomach. He was in excellent shape, from his programme of walking every day and exercising self-discipline in all things.

They ate in silence and Giles watched, as she carefully used her knife and fork. There was something so endearing about her, and he wanted to protect her, teach her, love her.

He stood up and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘Wine?’ he asked Daphné who shook her head in refusal.

He saw a flush building on her neck, and he wondered if the air from the open window was too warm on her.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.

She paused, as though finding the right words.

‘Do you expect me to have sex with you?’ she asked, her bluntness outweighing any shame she might feel at the honesty of her question.

‘What? No,’ he cried and it was true. He had long ago given up having expectations from other people.

‘It’s just Mother said some men hire young girls so they can have something to toy with at work, and a wife to cook for them at home.’

Giles gestured around the room.

‘I have no wife, as you can see. I have a son, who I barely see who lives in Switzerland, and I have no desire for anything from you but the formula for your creams. I think we could make a very good business if we tried.’

Her eyes were downcast and then she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and he saw something that he imagined was disappointment in them for a moment, but then he remembered that Louise had said he had always been a fool, except now he was just an old fool.

Chapter 9
Dominic

Dominic Bertiull left Sainte-Chapelle with no more idea of what was next for the Le Marche dynasty than any of the mourners. His strategy to approach the ex-wife hadn’t played out as he had hoped. Usually they sang like birds, bitter and twisted with their place outside of the family, ready to spill their opinion on everything wrong with the past and placing curses on the future. But Matilde Le Marche hadn’t said a word. Dominic’s charms hadn’t worked; in fact, he thought, as he sat back in his office, they had quite the opposite effect.

Most women fawned over Dominic, particularly older women. He was deliberate in fashion, preferring expensive suits, silk ties and handmade shoes. He only wore shades of blues and greys, with black saved for casual wear and black tie events.

He knew he was pleasant looking, but good clothes and a slim and muscular frame ensured he went into the next category of class, and money lifted him up one more level again.

He was rich, beautiful, successful and single. Europe was his oyster and beautiful women his pearls. Born in London to his diplomat French father and a German mother, he was educated in England but went to university in America, much to his father’s disappointment. But Dominic wanted to become wealthy by the time he was thirty and money and America seemed to go hand in hand. He came back to Europe and set up an office in Paris, ready to embrace his Gallic blood, and to use his French charm to buy and sell companies for a profit.

He was rich by the time he was thirty, obscenely rich by the time he was thirty-five and, by forty, he was bored.

Matilde Le Marche came into his mind and he typed her name into his computer.

Photos of her came up from her modelling days, and he still saw the beauty in her face, although it was lined from sunbathing.

She was fifty-five years old, he noted. Ten years older than him and he wondered what she would be like in bed.

Dominic had slept with women older than Matilde, and younger than eighteen—he wasn’t an ageist. Sex was sex and he liked it because he was good at it.

He typed Celeste’s name into the computer and images of her filled the screen. She was attractive, he thought, but not like her mother had been. Celeste had sad eyes that caused her mouth to turn downwards, as though she was disapproving of everything around her.

Maybe she was like Daphné, he thought, amused at the idea. He had heard the stories of the woman’s iron fist in a velvet glove.

He flicked through the images and read some more about the company he had been watching for the last year.

There was nothing he didn’t know about the company.

Giles Le Marche, a chemist, had started the company in Paris in 1902. He married a French woman called Louise who had died just before the Second World War started.

Daphné married Yves in 1956 and was soon working in the company, turning it from a small family concern into a product that was found in every pharmacy across France.

In 1978, Yves died and Daphné took over the running of the company and soon the products were across most of Europe, but they never made it to the same level of success in America or the United Kingdom where French pharmaceuticals were seen as indulgent or too foreign.

There was a head office in London, and an office in Paris attached to a laboratory. They had excellent skin products and their lipsticks were moderately successful, but the rest of their line was struggling. Cosmetics was competitive and it wasn’t enough to have appropriate colours; they needed to have an edge, and Le Marche had lost its edge twenty years ago when Henri had died.

Dominic sat back in his chair and stared at a picture of Daphné and her two sons. They must have been sixteen and nineteen, he imagined. Robert looked like a younger version of his father, and Henri looked like a young Alain Delon.

Dominic peered at the image on the screen. Henri had a casual elegance that Robert didn’t, he noted, and he wondered what would have happened if Henri had survived and worked in the company.

He scratched his head, careful to smooth down his dark hair again and clicked through the pages on the computer again. Yes, he knew everything about the company and the basics of the scandals that befell them, with tragic deaths and any number of rumours that followed them through the years, but what he didn’t know, and what he needed to know was what were Robert’s plans for Le Marche.

The Japanese company was desperate for an established cosmetics company with a European presence they could build on, and Le Marche was perfect if Dominic could get it for the right price.

He had two choices—he could pay what it was worth and have the deal done in a matter of months, or he could try to lower the value of the company, so his client paid less and he was paid more as a bonus.

Dominic thought for a moment and then decided he never liked to pay full price for anything and so he began his war on the House of Le Marche.

* * *

Edward Badger was still at his desk when Dominic Bertiull rang him from Paris.

‘I have a client who is interested in purchasing Le Marche,’ Dominic said, then paused for effect, ‘and the formula.’

Edward cleared his throat, ‘Madame Le Marche has only just been buried today, Mr Bertiull. I don’t think we’re in the position for any such offers at the moment.’

Dominic heard the tiredness in the man’s voice and he smiled. This was going to be easy, he decided. The lawyer and right-hand man of Daphné Le Marche was most likely sick of his position. No doubt he was already looking elsewhere for another job. No one in their right mind would work under Robert Le Marche, everyone knew how hopeless he was.

‘When do you think you will be ready?’ asked Dominic, with just the right amount of respect.

‘I will have to speak to the family,’ said Edward.

The family? thought Dominic. That’s interesting. Perhaps Robert isn’t the only concern. Perhaps the granddaughter got a slice of the company also?

That was easy enough to handle, he thought. He’d done his homework on Celeste and saw she was having an affair with a married man and had no real career. She would take the money in a heartbeat.

He clicked on the screen again and saw images from Paris Match of a small dark-haired child at the funeral of her father.

Henri’s child, he reminded himself, but then dismissed her. Daphné and the mother of the child hadn’t spoken since Henri had died and, according to his private investigator, she hadn’t been back in the country since the funeral.

There was no chance the woman would make a claim now, was there? He made a mental note to speak to his private investigator to find out her whereabouts, and if she was still in Australia.

‘When will the reading of the will be? Perhaps I can speak to Robert directly?’ he offered smoothly. ‘I know how busy you must be.’

‘The reading of the will is actually none of your business, but you’re more than welcome to speak to Robert, as that’s none of my business,’ countered Edward with the same slick tone.

Dominic ignored the barb and kept focused.

‘Robert mentioned the formula. He said his mother told him she had discovered something that would change a woman’s face, make her look younger, more beautiful. He said it was being trialled around the world.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Edward. ‘I have to go. Goodbye, Mr Bertiull.’

Dominic hung up the phone and sat in thought.

Something odd was going on. Edward Badger was very cagey about the formula, and then said that the decision to sell the company would be made as a family.

He needed to know more, but he didn’t want to scare the granddaughters away. His eyes turned to the computer screen, and settled on Matilde. Perhaps he might try seeing what she would reveal away from the Le Marche and Paris gossips. According to his sources, there was no love lost between her and Robert, so no doubt she would be happy to spill the secrets for some revenge and a price; there was no doubt that she would be left nothing by the old woman, and Robert wasn’t going to share anything he had with his ex-wife.

Robert really was a repugnant man, thought Dominic, as he left the office and got into his waiting car. When Robert had first approached him with the news that his mother was dying, and would he want to buy the company from him, Dominic wasn’t interested, but then he spoke of the formula. A contact at the private bank, Lombard Odier, told him there was a sealed envelope in a vault belonging to Daphné Le Marche with the words written on the front—

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