Love in Vogue by Eve Bourton

Philippe seemed to draw some comfort from it. His face brightened, and he restrained her when she tried to get up to join Patrick, who was visible in a distant part of the gallery earnestly engaged in conversation with Althea Pedersen and Vic Bernitz.
    ‘Stay here and talk to me. I want to know what’s been going on. What really happened between you and Yves?’
    She decided it was worth holding on for a while, if only to persuade him that he ought to attempt a reconciliation with his family, though admittedly she was equally keen to discover the unexplained reason for his abrupt departure from France. He also seemed anxious to ask her something, and eventually the words came out, too careless to be as casual as intended.
    ‘You haven’t told me about Corinne. How is she?’
    Yolande looked at him sharply. ‘Fine. She’s become head of Marchand.’
    ‘I know. Do you think she’s forgiven me?’
    ‘Corinne doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve.’
    ‘No, she never did,’ said Philippe after a pause. ‘She’s so controlled. So lovely, too. And I treated her appallingly. I’ll always regret it, Yolande. Always. Tell her I’m sorry.’
    ‘But why did you leave her?’
    ‘Because I was unfaithful and I lied to her. She was far too good for me.’
    Yolande was mystified. A minor fling hardly seemed sufficient cause for the family crisis precipitated by his departure, nor grave enough to warrant a self-imposed exile from France. He caught her expression and his eyes twinkled.
    ‘So you want to know what was really at the bottom of it all, my inquisitive little cat? Well, I’ll tell you. It involved a certain government minister – or more precisely, his wife.’
    Yolande leaned forward expectantly.
    ‘Not to mention official skulduggery,’ continued Philippe. ‘By the way, this is strictly entre nous – and Corinne, if you want to tell her.’
    ‘Well? Who was the minister?’
    He shook his finger reprovingly. ‘You know I can’t tell you that. He was a very busy man. His wife was much younger and bored to tears, so I helped her while away the time. Unfortunately she became pregnant – just before Corinne and I were going to move in together. So you see I was in a bit of a fix. The minister’s wife felt obliged to tell him everything, and he not only refused her a divorce, but made it impossible for her to terminate the pregnancy. Religious grounds or something.’     
    ‘But the baby? What happened?’
    ‘In a minute. I’m not finished with the minister yet. He wanted to bring me down. I think it was more to punish his wife than me, because she loved me. I had a visit from two tax inspectors with a warrant to search my apartment. The first time I thought it was a warped joke. The second time it wasn’t so funny. I went home one night to find the place ransacked. They really were trying to pin something on me – perhaps even plant evidence. You can imagine what it would have meant – the family name dragged through the mud, the image of Château de Rochemort ruined, everything we stood for discredited. So I decided to get out. Of course my mother wanted to know why, but I didn’t dare tell her the truth – she would have killed me. And as for Corinne …’ he waved his hands despairingly. ‘I couldn’t bear her to find out what I was really like. Now I live in Manhattan, my daughter doesn’t know I exist, and she’s being raised by a pious arsehole in France.’
    He took his wallet from his breast pocket and extracted a snapshot which he handed to Yolande. ‘She’s called Isabelle.’
    Yolande gazed at the picture of a chubby, smiling two-year old with the Rochemort blue eyes and black hair. ‘She’s absolutely adorable, Philippe!’
    She was surprised by his proud paternal smile. ‘Isn’t she just? My pretty baby. And I don’t suppose I’ll ever know her. Her mother sends me news now and then. She was trying to find an excuse to bring Isabelle to New York, but with her