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In the beginning Alexia hadn’t particularly shared Lucy Meyer’s enthusiasm for their respective children to become an item. But Summer had been good for Michael. She’d calmed him down and brought peace and contentment to the point where Alexia had begun to hope that perhaps the kids would get married. Certainly Summer Meyer would make a far more acceptable daughter-in-law than the motley parade of cocktail waitresses, models, and Lithuanian “students” that Michael had been dating before they got together.
“You’re still happy together, though, aren’t you?”
“Mmm-hmm.” The napkin twisted tighter.
“And she’s coming to the party?”
“Uh-huh. She’s flying over with Lucy and Arnie. Can we change the subject?”
“Of course.” Mother and son chatted happily for the rest of the meal, both making fun of Teddy’s utter obsession with the Kingsmere celebrations and with the great De Vere family history. By the time Alexia had to leave, Michael’s earlier odd mood had evaporated. He hugged her with his usual carefree grin.
“So, Paris tomorrow?”
“Paris tomorrow.” Alexia sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much work on.”
“Can’t you?” Michael smiled to himself. His mother had been a rabidly ambitious workaholic since the day he was born, and almost certainly long before that. “Listen, Mum, I meant what I said about Roxie. Don’t give up hope. Deep down she still loves you. I know she does.”
Alexia kissed him on both cheeks. “Sweet boy.”
She swept out of the restaurant and didn’t look back.
The Paris trade meetings were as dull as trade meetings always were, at least during the morning sessions. In France, everybody drank wine with lunch, making the afternoons slightly more bearable for most. Unfortunately, Alexia was teetotaler, a concept so alien to her Parisian hosts that it became quite a talking point.
“But of course you ’ave wine in the evenings, madame?”
“No, no. I don’t drink.”
“Ah, oui, je vois. You are not drinking at work. I understand. This is a British habit, n’est-ce pas?”
“I actually don’t drink alcohol at all.”
“No, I am sorry. I don’t understand.”
“I don’t enjoy it.”
“Don’t enjoy it?”
“No. It’s not to my taste.”
“Ah, d’accord. But you will ’ave a little Château Latour, of course? This is not alcohol, madame. This is a great wine.”
Alexia was as sure as she could be that Kevin Lomax was behind the rumor that she didn’t drink because she was an alcoholic. But the last thing she wanted was to be drawn into a slinging match with Kevin, so she let it slide. Meetings with Lomax were stressful at the best of times, and the alcohol issue didn’t help. It was a relief to be able to escape for a couple of hours. While the trade and industry secretary toured the Renault Headquarters and enjoyed the CEO’s “déjeuner de bienvenue” alone, Alexia had taken herself off for a spot of shopping on the Avenue Montaigne. No doubt the other delegates would be three sheets to the wind by the time she got back to committee rooms. It did irritate her that so little was achieved in afternoon sessions, but she tried to focus on the job at hand: choosing a dress for Roxie. The assistants at Christian Dior were all male, all impeccably dressed in dark suits like nineteenth-century butlers, and had all mastered the art of efficiently unobtrusive service.
“ ’Ow may I help you, madame? You are looking for professional wear, or something for the evening perhaps?”
“Actually I wanted something for my daughter,” Alexia said. “A gift.”
She’d taken Michael’s advice to heart and decided to make more of an effort with Roxanne. Since communication of a personal, emotional nature had never been Alexia’s strong point, she thought she’d start with a peace offering. A present.
The assistant took her arm. “Well, madame, we ’ave some classic silk scarves, of course. Very chic, very beautiful. And our new collecti
on of sac-à-mains is just arrived.”
“I thought perhaps a dress? We’ve a summer party coming up and my daughter will want to look her best. She’s the same size as I am.”
“And as beautiful as madame, I am sure,” the assistant said smoothly.
An old feeling of irritation rose up within Alexia, but she suppressed it. It was not an attractive trait, to feel jealous of one’s own daughter’s youth and beauty, and she disliked herself for it. When all was said and done, she did love Roxanne and always had.
