“And I wouldn’t want it to be here overnight! Not unless I slept here with it. I wouldn’t want the responsibility, although we will insure it, of course, even if it’s here for only a few hours. Too risky not to.” Claire stepped out of the set and went to join Hercule Junot, who was standing on the studio floor. “When can you speak to your friend?”
“I shall be happy to telephone her this evening.”
Claire said, “My lead time is three to four months, as you know, and I’m shooting this for the March issue. It’s going to be the cover shot.”
“If she has not sold it, that might be an inducement for her to lend the Renoir. Having the exposure in the magazine could serve a purpose.”
Claire nodded. “Good thought. What’s the painting like?” She grinned. “Although who needs to know that? A Renoir’s a Renoir.”
Hercule’s face had lit up at the thought of the painting, and he beamed at her. “It is beautiful, bien sûr, a seminude, a bather sitting on a rock. But this is not a large painting, Claire. It would only be suitable to hang over the fireplace or above the console. You will need a larger one … for the wall where the sofa is placed.”
“I’m pretty sure I have one already. My assistant found a Seurat at one of the galleries, and they’re prepared to lend it to us.”
“That is good. A Seurat will be compatible. It will sit well with the Renoir. I shall telephone you tomorrow, after I’ve spoken with my friend.” He picked up his dark overcoat, which was thrown over the back of at wooden chair. “I must return to my bureau, Claire. Will you come with me? Can I take you to the magazine? Or are you staying here at the studio?”
“No, I’m not, Hercule. I’ve finished for today. I’ll just have a word with my staff, who are still working on another set, and then I’ll come with you. I’d love a lift to the Plaza-Athénée, if that’s not out of your way.”
“Ce n’est pas un problème, Claire.”
Claire had known Hercule Junot for twelve years, having met him when she first came to live in Paris as a young bride. They had been seated next to one another at a fancy dinner party, and the renowned older man and the unimportant young woman had taken to each other at once. He had found her irreverent, saucy, provocative, and challenging, and her knowledge of art and antiques, coupled with her journalistic flair for telling a good story, had been impressive. She had been the most interesting and entertaining dinner companion he had had in many a year, a sheer delight to be with.
Hercule Junot, who was now seventy-six years old, was one of the most famous interior designers in the world, on a par with his peers Stéphane Boudin, a fellow Parisian, and the Italian Renzo Mongiardino. Renowned for his elegant and glamorous formal interiors, he had great taste, immense flair, a discerning and critical eye, and was considered to be one of the foremost experts on fine French furniture. Another area of his formidable expertise was Impressionism, most especially the paintings of van Gogh and Gauguin, the latter a great personal favorite.
Rather than lessening as he grew older, his business seemed to be flourishing even more than ever, and he was in constant demand by those who appreciated his extraordinary gift for creating tasteful but eye-catching interiors full of style, wit, and comfort, those who had the vast amounts of money required to pay for the antiques and art of the highest pedigree and quality that he favored in his designs.
Claire had been at a crossroads in her career when they had met. She wanted to continue working as a journalist, but she felt more drawn than ever to the world of visual and decorative arts.
At that first meeting over dinner she found herself confiding her concerns about her career and the route it should take, and Hercule made up his mind that he must somehow help her.
The following morning he talked to a number of influential people, pulled a few of the right strings, and in the process contrived to get her a job on Decorative Arts and Design, a glossy magazine devoted to art, antiques, and interior design, which was popular with the French and with the international public. It was owned by a friend of his who had long owed him a favor.
Claire had started out in a most lowly position, that of caption writer, but such was her creative talent and energy that within eight years she had risen to the top of the hierarchy of the magazine.
Four years earlier she had been named publisher and editor in chief, answerable to no one but the owner. Hercule Junot, not unnaturally, was proud of her success and the name she had made for herself.
In the ensuing years since that first meeting, most propitious for her, these two had remained staunch friends, and Hercule had become her mentor. Claire trusted his judgment about everything in the world of design, and whenever she was doubtful about a project she ran to him for his opinion and advice.
Such had been the case today; a sudden lack of confidence about the set, an unprecedented occurrence for her, had induced her to invite him to the photographic studio to give his opinion.
The set had been painstakingly designed and skillfully installed with the utmost care; nonetheless, she had been unusually critical of her own work when she saw the finished result. She was also suddenly hesitant and indecisive about the art she should choose to complete the room.
Hercule was impressed by the beauty and quality of the formal salon and the splendid choices she had made, and more so than he actually said. Now he wondered if this had been an error on his part. Perhaps he should have expressed himself more volubly. She was certainly quiet, preoccupied, a silent companion in the Mercedes, and this was most unlike her.
Hercule sighed under his breath, leaned back against the leather upholstery, and glanced out of the window. It had snowed earlier, but the light flakes had melted, leaving the dark streets wet and glistening. Under the bright lights of the Boulevard du Montparnasse the road looked slick as a mirror, and his chauffeur maneuvered the car carefully through the busy traffic of the Left Bank.
If he had any regrets about Claire professionally, it was only that he had not brought her to work for him as his assistant all those years ago. She would have been a godsend to him today, the perfect right hand. She had flair and taste, and her skills as a designer were wasted at the magazine; they came into play only when she created a room to shoot for one of the magazine’s covers. The rest of the time she was plying her trade as a journalist. C’est dommage, he thought. My mistake.
Hercule had one other regret about her, and this was intensely personal. He never ceased to wish he had courted Claire when she and her husband had separated seven years before. He had wanted to do so, but he had been … afraid. Yes, afraid of looking foolish … of being rejected … of spoiling the friendship. Better to have her in his life as a friend than not there at all.
There was his age to consider, he was forty years older than Claire. What could she possibly want from him? he had asked himself innumerable times. His late wife, Veronica, had always said he did not look his age, and he had believed her. He was fit and trim, mercifully not as lined and ancient-looking as some of the men he knew who were his age. Admittedly, his hair was white, but it was a full head of hair. And sex was not a problem, not at all.
Initially, he had not pursued Claire or pressed his suit because she had been so distraught at the time of the divorce, a state he had found most odd since she purported to detest her husband. And so time had slipped by, other things had intervened, and the opportunity had been missed. They had fallen into a pattern of loving friendship, and he did not know how to change this without upsetting her unduly.
Veronica had been dead for fifteen years. There was not a day he did not miss his wife; yet he had known when Claire had separated that this young American woman could so easily fill the void created by his wife’s death. Veronica had been an American too; they had that in common. There any resemblance between them stopped. Veronica had been tall, long-legged, an all-American beauty, blond, blue-eyed, and wafer thin, one of the great postwar models in Paris, on Christian Dior’s runway showing his New Look and
on the cover of every fashion magazine in the world. When he had met her, it had been love at first sight, a coup de foudre in fact, and a most happy union until the day she died.
Hercule stole a look at Claire, surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye, and for the second time he thought she did not look well. She had faintly bluish smudges under her eyes, and the short, curly auburn hair, the bright burnished halo he found so attractive, did not have its usual glossy luster.
What struck him with such force when he had arrived at the studio that afternoon was her weight, or, rather, loss of it. Always slender, she appeared thinner than ever. Maigre. A waif, that was how she appeared to him. An appealing gamine in looks and style, somehow she had become bony. Had she looked like this last week when he had lunched with her at Taillevent? No, she could not have; he would have noticed. He wondered if she was ill? But no, he did not think this was so; she had been full of her usual energy at the studio.
Worries of another nature? Money? If this were the problem, then there was no problem. He would readily give her as much as she needed. Instantly, Hercule dismissed the thought that Claire lacked money. The mere idea of it was ludicrous. Her husband provided for Natasha, and she was well paid by the magazine. Could it be that Natasha was causing problems for her? No, no, he, did not think this possible either. The girl was unusual, Very steady and practical, older than her age in a number of ways. Whenever she had been concerned about her daughter in the past, Claire had discussed it with him and he had given the best advice he could. Since he had never been a father, he felt somewhat inadequate in doing so, and yet how kind she had been, always so appreciative of his interest in Natasha.
He began to formulate an opening sentence in his mind. He wanted to pose certain questions. How he longed to make whatever it was that ailed her go away. He knew he could do that. If she would let him. He loved her. He had loved her for a long time now. He would always love her, and because of this he had the need to ease the burdens of her life if he could. And if she would permit him to do so. Women, ah, they were so contrary. He was a Frenchman, and he knew about their natures only too well.
Claire had always felt exceptionally comfortable with Hercule Junot, and there was a great sense of ease in their relationship. And so she did not think twice about drifting along with her thoughts as his car eased its way through the early evening traffic, heading in the direction of the avenue Montaigne.
She considered the older man to be her dearest friend in Paris, and they never stood on ceremony with each other. To Claire, the silence between them was perfectly normal, acceptable; she never felt the pressing need to talk to him, to entertain him. And she knew he felt exactly the same way about her.
She was thinking about Laura; she was looking forward to having dinner with her that night. Laura was the only family she had except for Natasha. Her parents were dead; Aunt Fleur was dead; her husband was ostensibly dead, since they were long divorced. Momentarily, his face danced before her eyes, but she pushed it away. She did not want to think about him now; it would spoil her evening.
On their walk from the museum, she and Laura had planned the weekend. It was going to be fun. Natasha was as excited as she was about Laura’s unexpected sojourn in Paris, and without Doug in tow for a change. Not that she minded Doug, he was all right. But having Laura to themselves was a very special bonus.
“Is there something troubling you, Claire?” Hercule asked, cutting into her thoughts.
Turning to look at him, Claire exclaimed, “No, of course not, Hercule! Why do you think there is?”
“You’ve been very quiet on our drive across Paris,” he remarked, touching her arm. “And I have to confess to you, I was most forcibly struck by your appearance this afternoon. You’ve lost weight, Claire. You’re like a … a waif.”
“No, wafer thin!” she shot back, laughing, pleased with her play on words. “Remember what the Duchess of Windsor said: You can never be too rich or too thin.”
“But you are too thin.”
“I’ll confess, Hercule, I’ve been on a diet. I want to be slender and chic for your New Year’s Eve party.”
“You are a lovely young woman; all this dieting is not necessary. Starving, starving, starving, and all for a size four dress. Mon Dieu, you could slip through the eye of a needle.”
“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God,” she murmured, smiling at him, grasping one of his hands. “I first heard those lines from the Bible in that old Tyrone Power movie with Gene Tierney, Anne Baxter, and Clifton Webb.”
“The Razor’s Edge,” he said. “How could I forget it? Ever. I have seen it a hundred times with you.”
“Not quite a hundred,” she laughed. “But we’re getting there, and I’m fine, Hercule, really I am. Actually, I’m as fit as a fiddle. A bit overworked, that’s all. But, listen, I want to talk to you about the Renoir. If it’s not been sold, Laura might well be interested. For one of her clients. I know she has her heart set on a Matisse and a Bonnard if she can find them, but why not a Renoir as well? She has several big collectors as clients.”
“I know she does, and that is an excellent idea, Claire. I have a feeling that the painting is still hanging in my friend’s house. I am sure she would have told me if she had sold it.” He gave her the benefit of a wide smile and nodded his head, looking pleased. “I shall tell the countess there is the possibility of a sale.”
3
“It’s going to be like old times this weekend,” Laura said. “The way it was when I was studying at the Sorbonne, and you’d just arrived here with a husband and a baby. We really had a ball in those days, didn’t we?”
Claire laughed. “Yes, we did. And some baby she is today! Fourteen going on forty, taller than both of us and into makeup, clothes, and boys. You’ll get a shock when you see her, Laura. She’s really sprung up in the last couple of months.”
Laura nodded, settled back against the chair, and took a sip of her champagne.
The two women were sitting in Laura’s room at the hotel, lingering over their drinks before dinner. In the half hour they had spent greeting each other effusively and discussing the Renoir, the weather had turned nasty. By the time they had been ready to go to Benoît, one of their favorite bistros, it was snowing hard and, according to the doorman, an icy wind had blown up. And so they had agreed it would be much wiser to stay at the hotel and have room service.
“What do you feel like eating?” Laura now asked, picking up the menu on the coffee table. “I’m going to have anything with their pommes frites. They make the best, as you well know.” She grinned. “If I eat too many meals here, I’m going to start putting on weight. I just can’t resist them.”
“I know what you mean. I’m going to have grilled sole —and pommes frites too.”
“That’s what I’ll have. Want anything first, Claire?”
“Just a green salad. Hercule thinks I look like a waif, far too thin. What do you think? I don’t, do I?”
“You’re a bit thinner than you usually are, but you look great, Claire, honestly, and very chic. I love you in deep purple. It sets off your red hair.”
“Thanks. I must admit, I have been dieting a bit more strenuously to fit into my dress for Hercule’s New Year’s Eve party.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “He gave me a bit of a lecture on the way from the studio. About my weight, I mean.”
“He fusses about you, I know that. But then, he loves you.”
Claire stared at her and raised a brow. “Like a father, yes, I realize that.”
“Not like a father, no. Like a lover, or, rather, a potential lover, potential husband.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Claire exclaimed, looking askance. “Hercule and me. Don’t be so silly.”
“I’m not being silly. I’ve always known he has … well … a thing about you, Claire. It’s written all over his face. Even Doug has mentioned it to me, and more than once
.”
“So I’m the last to know, huh?” Claire shook her head vehemently. “I love him as a person. He’s been wonderful to me always, my best friend in Paris … but I’m not interested in him … romantically.”
“Because he’s too old, you mean?” Laura probed.
“No, age doesn’t matter, and in any case, he’s much younger than a lot of people I know in their thirties, even though he’s seventy-six. I’m just not interested in men anymore. I’ve told you that for years now. Shall we order dinner?”
“Yes, let’s, and I’m going to have another champagne. What about you? Another martini?”
“God, no! I’ll be drunk. One’s enough for me.”
Laura went to the phone, dialed room service, and gave their order. Then she went on carefully. “Look, just because you had one bad experience doesn’t mean you’ve got to close up shop, close your heart to another man. Okay, so you’re not interested in Hercule, but maybe there’s somebody else out there who’s just right for you, Claire, if only you’d give yourself half a chance—”
“No!” Claire cried softly but emphatically. “I’m not interested. Marriage is a battlefield, and I have the scars to prove it. I won the war by getting off the battlefield, and I’ve no intention of putting myself in the line of fire ever again.” She laughed hollowly. “Being in harm’s way is being no place … no place at all.”
“Marriage doesn’t have to be a battlefield,” Laura argued. “Mine isn’t.”
“You’ve been luckier than most, Laura. You met Doug and fell in love, and somehow, for you, it all went smoothly. No arguments and fights, no big differences of opinion. The two of you perfectly in sync, leading nice, orderly, happy lives together.”
“You make it sound awfully dull!” Laura exclaimed. “Doug’s not all that easy to live with, and you know he isn’t. He’s persnickety, a perfectionist, and he can be very opinionated. And he’s a nag! God, he never stops nagging about my having a baby—” Laura broke off and pursed her lips, shook her head. “That sounds disloyal,” she finished lamely, looking chagrined. She sat back hard against the sofa.