Three Weeks in Paris

‘Just outside Paris. A place with a peculiar name. Barbizon. My sister got me all the information. Do you want to know everything now, or shall I tell you on Monday?’

‘Monday’s perfectly fine, I’ll be at the studio by about ten, and we can talk then. But just tell me one thing now…is he difficult to get an appointment with?’

‘Yes, a bit, I’m afraid. But Gillian will help.’

‘Can she?’

‘Oh yes, very much so…her girlfriend Mercedes has a strong connection, which is good.’

‘It certainly is, and listen, I’m very grateful, Sophie, I really am. Thanks for going to all this trouble.’

‘It wasn’t anything, not really. I was happy to do it, Kay. So, I’ll see you Monday then.’

‘That’s right. Have a good weekend.’

‘I will, and you do the same.’

‘I’ll try,’ Kay answered, and after saying goodbye she returned the phone to its cradle. Resting her head against the faded red velvet covering the chair’s back, she let her eyes roam around the room, her mind whirling with all manner of thoughts. Then quite suddenly she remembered the envelope which had arrived by FedEx yesterday, and she reached for the decorative wooden box on one end of the desk. Lifting the lid, she took out the envelope with its beautiful calligraphy–her name so elegantly written–opened it and slipped out the invitation.

Once again she read it carefully.

Anya’s party was on the second of June, a good four months away. She wondered if she could get an appointment with Francois Boujon for around that time.

It would be perfect if she could, because Ian hadn’t been invited, and so she could travel alone to Paris. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought, and then she sat back in the chair, frowning hard. Her vivid blue eyes clouded over, and her expression became unexpectedly grim.

They would be there and she would have to see them. No, not only see them, but socialize with them, spend time with them. Not possible. They hated her. The feeling was mutual.

Alexandra Gordon, the snob from New York. From the elite social set, Junior League, and all that ridiculous kind of thing. Always so toffee-nosed with her, stuck-up, snubbing her.

Jessica Pierce, Miss Southern Belle Incorporated, with her feminine sighs and languor and the dropping of lace hankies along the way. Poking fun at her, teasing her unmercifully, never leaving her alone with her taunts.

Maria Franconi, another snob, this one from Italy, with her raven hair and flashing black eyes and fiery Mediterranean temperament. And all those lire from her rich, Milanese textile family, flaunting her money and her connections, treating her like a servant.

No, it’s not possible, Kay told herself again. I cannot go to Anya’s party. Because my tormentors will be there…how miserable they had always made her life.

She knew what she must do. She must go to Paris sooner rather than later, to meet with this man Francois Boujon. She hoped she would get an appointment relatively soon. She would set everything in motion on Monday, ask to see him next month. And it did not matter what it cost.

She put the invitation back in the envelope, placed this in the wooden box, dropped the lid and turned the key. Then once more she sat back in the chair, her eyes becoming soft and faraway as she thought of Ian. The man she loved. Her husband…who must remain her husband at all costs.

Chapter Five (#ulink_9c778c5b-eb06-57c6-91c0-34adc2e2c150)

Even as a child, growing up in the slums of Glasgow, Kay had always managed to escape simply by retreating into herself. When the cramped little flat where she lived with her mother and brother Sandy became overly oppressive, she would find a small corner where she could curl up, forget where she really was, and dream.

A great deal of her childhood was spent dreaming, and she found solace in her dreams. She could escape the impoverished, gloomy world she occupied and go to another place, any place she wished. It made her young life more bearable.

And she always dreamed of beauty…flower-filled gardens, picturesque country cottages with thatched roofs, grassy meadows awash with wildflowers, and grand open spaces with huge, canopied green trees where trilling bird-songs came alive. And sometimes her dreams were of pretty clothes, and ribbons for her hair, and sturdy black shoes, shining with boot polish, for Sandy; and a beautiful silk dress for her mother…a pale blue dress to match her eyes.

But as she grew older Kay’s priorities changed, and she began to replace her dreams with a new-found focus and concentration, and it was these two qualities, plus her talent, which helped to make her such a great success in the world of fashion.

Now, as she sat at her desk, thoughts of Ian lingered, nagged at the back of her mind. But eventually she let go of her worries about her marriage and became totally engrossed in her work, as she usually did.

In many ways, she loved this old day nursery here at Lochcraigie more than her busy, high-tech studio in Edinburgh, not least because of its spaciousness and high ceiling, but also because of the clarity of the light which came streaming in through the six soaring windows.

After looking through a few sketches for her autumn collection, which she had just finished, she rose and went over to the swatches of fabric hanging on brass hooks attached to the opposite wall. The vermilion wool she had focused on a short while before attracted her attention again, and she unclipped it, carried it over to the window, where she scrutinized it intently.

Suddenly, a smile flickered in her eyes as she remembered Sophie’s comment a short while ago. Smoochy, she had called the colour, as in a kiss, and Kay knew exactly what her assistant meant. It was a lovely lipstick shade, one which reminded her of the glamorous stars of those old movies from the fifties.

As often happened with Kay, inspiration suddenly struck out of the blue. In her mind’s eye she saw a series of outfits…each one in a different version of vivid vermilion red. She thought of cyclamen first, then deep pink the colour of peonies, pale pinks borrowed from a bunch of sweet peas, bright red lifted from a pot of geraniums, and all of those other reds sharpened by a hint of blue. And mixed in with them she could see a selection of blues…cerulean, delphinium and aquamarine, as well as deep violet and pansy hues, a softer lilac and the lavender shade of hydrangeas.

That’s it, she thought, instantly filling with excitement. A winter collection of clothes based on those two colours–red and blue–interspersed with other tones from these spectrums. What a change from the beiges, browns, greens, taupes and terra-cottas of her spring season.

Turning away from the window where she still stood, Kay went over to the other fabric samples and searched through them quickly, looking for the colours she now wanted to use. She found a few of them and carried them back to her desk, where she spread them out. Then she began to match the samples to the sketches she had already done for her winter line, envisioning a coat, a suit or a dress in one of the reds, purples or blues.

Very soon she was lost in her work, completely oblivious to everything, bubbling inside with enthusiasm, her creative juices flowing as she began to design, loving every moment of it.

At twenty-nine Kay Lenox was one of the best-known young fashion designers on both sides of the Atlantic. In London her clothes sold at her boutique on Bond Street, and in New York at Bergdorf Goodman. She had a boutique in Chicago and one in Dallas, and another on Rodeo in Beverly Hills.

Her name was synonymous with quality, stylishness and wearability. The clothes she designed were elegant, but in a relaxed and casual manner, and they were extremely well cut and beautifully made.

The fabrics Kay favoured gave her clothes a great sense of luxury…the finest light wools, cashmeres, wool crepes, soft Scottish tweeds, suede, leather, crushed velvet and a heavy silk which she bought in France. Her flair and imagination were visible in the way she mixed these fabrics with each other in one garment–the result a look entirely unique to her.

Kay worked on steadily through the morning, and so concentrated was she that she almost jumped out of her skin when the phone next to her elbow rang.

Picking it up, she said, ‘Lochcraigie,’ in a somewhat sharpish tone.

‘Hello, darling,’ her husband answered. ‘You sound a bit snotty this morning.’

‘Ian!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up. ‘Sorry. I was lost in a dress, figuratively speaking.’

He chuckled. ‘Is your designing going well then?’

‘I’ll say, and I had a brainstorm earlier. I’m doing the entire winter collection in shades of red running through to palest pink, and blue going to lilac to violet and deep purple.’

‘Sounds good to me. Did John phone by any chance?’

‘He stopped by, actually. He wanted you to know that the septic tanks at the Home Farm are under control.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Did you find a gift for Fiona?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, sounding vague, ‘Oh, yes, I did.’

‘So you’re on your way home now?’

‘Not exactly,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘Er, er, I’m a bit peckish, so I’m going to have a spot of lunch. I should be back about fourish.’

The brightness in her vivid blue eyes dimmed slightly, but she said, ‘All right then, I’ll be here waiting for you.’