Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro
It didn’t help that Arnaud’s mother, the fearsome Comtesse Honorée Bourgalt du Coudray, followed her around her own wedding reception at the Paris Opéra correcting her French and apologizing for the state of her new daughter-in-law’s hair.
Olivia glanced up, catching sight of her reflection in the oval mirror that hung across the room. She possessed the wholesome American glamour that inspires Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein; athletic good cheer coupled with classical features. Her blonde hair was thick and even, her blue eyes large, her cheekbones high, but, as she’d heard her mother-in-law declare loudly one evening to Arnaud, ‘She’s unremarkable, bland, no cachet.’ Then she’d uttered the damning verdict that had obsessed Olivia ever since. ‘Why choose fromage frais when you could easily afford camembert?’
Even now, the spectre of her mother-in-law haunted her; a constant front-row critic in her head.
Bland. Unremarkable. The Comtesse had only articulated what she had suspected all along: she was a fraud; a pale imitation of a person with no real talents or original thoughts, no tangible purpose in life. Her beauty and breeding had been sufficient for so many years. And now that she was forty, even those were fading.
Olivia was Arnaud’s second wife. By the time she married him, he already had two grown-up children, a huge social network spanning several continents, a daunting diary of engagements, houses all over the world, a variety of businesses, and armies of staff. He also had a reputation as an incurable playboy. At the time, she’d been foolish enough to think she could influence him. But after ten years of marriage, the opposite had happened.
And she’d failed in the one role nature might have provided.
No wonder Arnaud had grown so indifferent.
She sipped her coffee.
It was cold.
He had always been difficult, dictatorial. But before, she’d occupied a privileged position in his psyche; she was the prized object, perfect, unassailable.
Last year changed all that.
She’d wanted children so badly, for so long. Then she finally discovered she was pregnant. No longer clinging, limpet-like to Arnaud’s life, she developed poise and sureness. Best of all it endowed her husband with the one thing money couldn’t buy. He was young again, about to be a father; bursting with unassailable masculinity. Hand over her growing bump, he ferried her around London with pride. Never before had they been so close. Together they’d chosen nursery furniture, selected schools, debated names.
Then at eighteen weeks, she woke in the middle of the night. There was blood, sticky and warm, between her legs and pain, like a tightening fist, gripping her torso.
Arnaud was out of the country. She’d gone alone to the hospital. The delivery was long, painful.
She never saw her child; never held it.
Arnaud refused to mention the miscarriage. Instead, he bought her the eternity ring: flawless; gleaming; hideously expensive.
Night-time haunted her ever since.
So Olivia sat, holding the cold coffee in the beautifully decorated Regency-inspired gold-and-blue breakfast room of Chester Square. Behind her, on the mantelpiece, the ghastly ormolu clock the Comtesse had given them as a wedding present ticked loudly.
Fifteen minutes later Arnaud descended. At sixty-two, he was still tanned and trim; he was an avid tennis player and kept up to three yachts moored in Monte Carlo, depending on his mood. His black hair was thinning. He had it trimmed each morning by his valet so that it fell over any balding patches. He shook his head now, it tumbled into place.
Olivia ran her fingers over her hair; there was the familiar fear of being less than satisfactorily groomed in his presence.
Gaunt, the butler, stalked in, delivering fresh coffee and toast with grim formality.
‘Good morning, sir.’
Arnaud grunted.
Gaunt slunk away.
For a while Arnaud said nothing; tossed his toast aside, folded open the paper loudly …
Then, of course, she had to ask. ‘How did you sleep?’
His black eyes narrowed. He put the paper down. ‘How did I sleep? Let me ask you, how do you think I slept?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Badly! That’s the answer: badly!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she faltered.
‘Up and down! Up and down! What do you do all night?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, Arnaud.’
‘You need a pill! You need to go to the doctor and get a pill.’
‘Yes.’ She stared hard at her plate, at the black interlocking chain design that bordered its silvery white edges.
‘I’ll have my things moved into another room if this goes on.’ He pushed away from the table. ‘I have important things to attend to. Gaunt! Gaunt!’
‘Yes, sir?’ Gaunt appeared out of thin air.
‘Get Mortimer on the phone for me! I promised Pollard supper at the Garrick tonight. We have to discuss marketing strategies.’ He tossed his napkin down.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want the car out front in forty minutes.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Will you …’ Olivia hesitated.
He stared at her. ‘Yes? Will I what?’
She hated asking the question; her voice sounded small, plaintive. ‘Will you be home tonight?’
‘Sweetheart, what have I just said? I’m meeting Pollard at the Garrick tonight. Perhaps if you slept at night instead of wandering around like a cat I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.’
He stalked away, taking the paper and his coffee with him. Halfway up the stairs, she could hear him ranting at Kipps, the valet, who’d placed his slippers on the wrong side of the bed. Eventually a door slammed.
In the silence that followed, Olivia was aware of countless pairs of unseen eyes upon her; witnesses to their growing domestic disharmony. The months that Arnaud had spent wooing her belonged to another lifetime.
His personality was so strong, so forceful; he always knew exactly what he wanted and what to do. Then he turned the full glare of his powerful attention on her. Her initial indifference spurred him into unprecedented romantic gestures. Fresh boxes of flowers were delivered to her each morning; gifts of diamond earrings, a sapphire ring, even a rare black pearl necklace, were sent from the finest jewellers. Once he bought her a Degas sketch she’d casually admired in a Bonham’s catalogue. They’d travelled in his private jet to exotic locations all over the world where her every need was quickly catered for. She receded into the shadow of his larger-than-life persona. It was a relief to slot into a readymade life; where every decision was made for you.
But all that was gone now.
Slowly, she pushed her chair back.
Suddenly Gaunt was there again, picking up the napkin from the floor, folding it, holding the door open.
‘May I get you anything, ma’am?’
His attentiveness almost felt like kindness. The prick of tears threatened. ‘No,’ she forced a smile. ‘Breakfast was lovely. Just perfect. Thank you.’
She wandered out into the hallway. Hours stretched out before her, empty and unbearable.
‘Begging your pardon …’ Gaunt hovered like a dark shadow in the doorway.
‘Yes?’
‘The gardener would like a word about the new water feature.’
‘Oh. Of course.’