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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 (#ulink_05895f10-c7b3-5d2b-9bb0-917114270e44)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_ad90df46-d877-5409-8009-516df0231579)
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.
