impromptu party.
If she was being honest with herself, she knew that part of her was scared – scared to go out, get drunk, meet a guy … have fun, a voice in her head chided. That was the real reason it was easier to keep saying no. She wasn’t like Dionne. Maybe it was something to do with being American, having that innate self-confidence, but Dionne seemed so at ease with herself. Okay, so she was also loud, irresponsible and unreliable, but she wasn’t racked with doubts and insecurities about everything, the way that Alyson was.
Alyson couldn’t imagine knowing her rent was due but blowing her last hundred euros on a bottle of champagne. She couldn’t see herself turning up for work three hours late because she’d got so out of it the night before that she’d slept through her alarm. And she certainly couldn’t envisage having a one-night stand with a guy she didn’t know – let alone love.
She thought about the man who’d come into Chez Paddy today. Philippe. If she closed her eyes she could still picture his face – warm, dark eyes, a few laughter lines creasing at the edges, and full lips pursed in a Gallic pout. Just the thought of him made her pulse race faster, an excited, nervous sensation flooding through her belly, moving lower … Was this what the other girls at school had meant when they talked about having a crush on some boy? Or what Dionne felt when she staggered home after a night out and declared she’d met some honey of a guy she wanted to fuck until she couldn’t see straight?
Oh, it was ridiculous, Alyson thought, waving the thought away. He was just one customer, passing through. She’d never seen him before and she’d probably never see him again, so it was in everybody’s interests if she just forgot about him.
But she couldn’t do that, and she knew it. He’d awakened something in her, something she’d never felt before. It was exciting and new and she wanted to see where it took her.
Idly, she wondered what the girls would say if they knew – if she’d announced to Dionne and CeCe that she’d fallen for a customer, a handsome, older man that made her heart pound and her insides fizz like a million tiny fireworks exploding throughout her body. What would Dionne do in that situation? There was no question – she wouldn’t be mooning around the apartment, kicking herself for the fact that she knew nothing more about him than his first name. She’d have gone for it, seduced him with her clever lines and perfect body and smouldering gaze, until he was begging for her phone number, desperate to take her on a date.
Alyson exhaled in frustration, annoyed at herself for being so reserved and unadventurous. Dionne might have many faults, but Alyson couldn’t help admire her headfirst approach to the world. Deep down inside, there was a small part of her that wondered what it would be like to lead Dionne’s life, just for a day. To be so outrageous and unselfconscious, to be the centre of attention, dance naked on the sofa if you felt like it and do exactly what you damn well pleased without having to worry about money or work or your sick mother back home—
Alyson slammed the final plate down and dried her hands, hurrying through to her room to get ready. Her shift at Chez Paddy started in half an hour, and she couldn’t afford to be late.
7
‘Everything’s under control, sir. No problems to report.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Philippe Rochefort nodded curtly at Alain Lefèvre, his immaculately presented head of security, who was prowling round his sumptuous office. The man was six feet four inches of burly muscularity encased in a black Hugo Boss suit, and he was the kind of guy you didn’t fuck around with.
‘The club’s filling up nicely, sir,’ he commented, glancing at the bank of monitor screens.
‘Yes, business has been extremely good since we opened.’ Philippe allowed himself a smile. ‘And I intend to keep it that way.’
He glanced at the Georg Jensen clock on the wall. It was just after midnight, the time when the beautiful people of Paris started to drift away from the early night bars and move on to their main clubbing venue. Since Bijou had opened three months ago, it had quickly become one of the most popular venues on the branché circuit, the well-heeled and well-connected loving its heady mix of funky interior, international DJs and gorgeous people.
‘Do we have any VIPs due tonight?’ Philippe asked, scanning the guest list.
Alain didn’t miss a beat. ‘Ophélie Winter is here already with a group of friends. Christophe Benoit and Nicolas Duchamp rang ahead to make sure their usual tables would be reserved for them,’ Alain informed him, naming some of Philippe’s business contacts. ‘And there’s a rumour that Leonardo DiCaprio’s in town, so I’ve warned my people to keep alert for that.’
‘Very good. Excellent.’ Philippe stood up, pulling on his jacket. He was dressed in a business-casual combination of stone-coloured trousers and a pale-blue Roland Mouret shirt, a relaxed, trademark style that came from spending much of his time in the South of France. ‘I’d better go down and make sure my guests are happy.’
Respectfully Alain stood aside, holding open the door as Philippe passed through, before speaking rapidly into his walkie-talkie to tell the rest of his team that Monsieur Rochefort was on his way to the main floor.
Philippe jogged steadily down the stairs. He was thirty-eight years old and in excellent shape. Three times a week – schedule permitting – he worked out at the gym with a personal trainer and kept a careful eye on what he ate. Since his father died of a heart attack in his early fifties, Philippe had tried to calm things down a little. Hitting thirty had been a turning point – he’d spent his twenties living the life of the idle playboy, taking full advantage of the fact that, thanks to a thriving champagne empire, his father was one of France’s wealthiest men.
Yes, it had been a decade of debauchery and excess, Philippe reflected fondly. Ten years of clubs and yachts, models and cocaine, of gambling and recklessness with no thought to the future. Then, one morning, following a high stakes game of poker, Philippe woke up with a pounding head, a set of keys clutched in his hand and the vague recollection that he had won a nightclub called La Boîte. After some deliberation he had decided to keep it, more with the notion that it would be a great place to entertain his friends after hours than with any coherent business plan in mind.
But to his surprise he’d found that he enjoyed running the club. Benefiting from his natural sense of showmanship and self-promotion, La Boîte was soon rivalling Les Caves du Roy as the hottest spot on the French Riviera. Other nightspots soon followed, including the addition of a chain of high-class strip joints, La Mauvaise Pomme.
Bijou was the latest addition to Rochefort Enterprises, his first nightclub in the French capital, and looked set to be just as lucrative as his other ventures. But Philippe didn’t take his achievements for granted. Initially somewhat surprised to find he had stepped out of the shadow of his father and was now a successful entrepreneur in his own right, he dedicated himself to his business, living out the maxim of working hard and playing hard. He had fantastic instincts when it came to striking a deal, and was proud of his ‘hands-on’ approach to running Rochefort Enterprises.
He was twenty-nine when his father died suddenly, making him the largest shareholder in the family company, Rochefort Champagne. It was worth at least twenty times more than his own fledgling business, but he was happy to appoint a CEO from the experienced board and leave the day-to-day running to his father’s associates, popping in occasionally to glance over the books or inspect the vineyards.
Rochefort Enterprises was his own baby, the one he had tended and nurtured. This was where he had made his name, and it was what
