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.
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