French Rhapsody Read online

  My parents both died in the same year, five months apart. I can’t describe how hard and how wrong it feels to have to share your grief with the press. It was all they talked about: the magazines ran front-page stories about ‘Heiress Blanche de Caténac’, along with pictures of me in dark glasses. I can’t help having a corneal defect that means I’m sensitive to bright lights. This Hollywood-style accessory must have given me an air of mystery, and they played it up to the max. The magazines kept up their soap opera, projecting fantasies from American TV series onto me, tarring me with the brush of 1980s popular culture – Dallas, Dynasty and so on – the way they tarred and feathered people to punish them in Westerns. All of the Caténac group’s holdings were splashed across the papers: luxury hotels, casinos, restaurants. At least they only saw the tip of the iceberg; they knew nothing about the company’s interests abroad, the other hotel chains or spas, still less the office spaces rented out all over the world. JBM was there, by my side. Just by being there, he reassured me. That’s something the journalists have never said, but JBM is a reassuring person; his calmness and his smile are more effective than any over-the-counter remedy. When he’s around, you’re not afraid of anything, because he’s not afraid. He’s never afraid. I can’t say he helped me take control of the group – my father had long since told me everything I needed to know, and the two faithful advisers who had worked with him for more than twenty-five years were there to support me.

  The mansion and surrounding gardens right in the middle of Paris were now mine. ‘Don’t go back to your hotel. Come to my place,’ I said. ‘Come to our place.’ I remember very clearly saying those words: ‘Come to our place.’ And we got married and had children, and this time JBM put his suitcase away in the back of the wardrobe. I remember he was on a work trip once, and I took out the suitcase and asked the housekeeper to throw it away. I did it so he could never use it again, never leave again. One day he said, ‘Hang on, that’s odd. Where’s my suitcase? I could have sworn I put it in there.’ I shrugged and mumbled that I had no idea.

  I think part of the reason I loved JBM was that my parents loved him, especially my father; he didn’t really understand what JBM did – still less this ‘net’ thing he was predicting would be big – but he was impressed by his success. It wasn’t every day you came across a young man of twenty-six who had already made two million francs. We kept his investments in Minitel Rose sex chatlines well hidden from my mother. She would have preferred me to go out with the heir to an empire like ours. JBM comes from a comfortable background – his father was a lawyer, his mother an interior designer – but not on the scale of the Caténacs. As an only child, I was mollycoddled, always well turned out; I went to the most exclusive places and even took part in one of those hideous debutantes’ balls.

  When the coming of the internet took place as he had prophesied, Arcadia, the company he had founded and which had become one of the major players in new technologies, took on the digitisation of the Caténac group. It was the first time I’d heard the word ‘digitisation’. Other than him, nobody used it. JBM came with me to a board meeting and read out a ten-point plan headed ‘Second World’. In it, he described the real world as we all knew it and in which the group had thus far been operating, and another world that was just around the corner: a ‘mirror’ world made up of virtual transactions, but real customers. The board members listened, feeling something between astonishment and fascination. He was predicting that hotels could be booked online, not via agencies but by customers themselves, sitting at their computers on the other side of the world, and that ‘platforms’, which were not yet called websites, would be created on which gamblers could play through the networks using their bank cards. He said we had to be the first to board the train, that it would never pass through again. I can still hear him now, pausing in his presentation to look the board members in the eye: ‘There will be no second chance; don’t even let that thought cross your mind. This isn’t a logistical evolution, but a complete change of paradigm. Those who don’t get on this train will be left behind in the old world. They’ll die, and they won’t go gently … They’ll be annihilated.’

  I supported him, and the board members voted through his three-year plan by a slim majority. The years that followed bore out his ten points. When our competitors began to panic at the rise of the Net, we had already been operational for over two years. Whereas others were starting from scratch, we were improving on what we had already built. Many years later, JBM approached Kodak, wanting to buy a stake in the company, and advising them to make the shift into digital images, freeing up two hundred million dollars of their own funds to buy up all the patents in new gel-image technology, which he saw as the future of the camera industry. The firm refused, perceiving his offer as a takeover bid. ‘They can’t see that I’m trying to save them,’ he said often over the course of those months. Less than a year later, the Kodak empire, which had dominated global photographic and cinematographic film production for almost a century, declared itself bankrupt and practically disappeared.

  JBM has made millions for the Caténac group – hundreds of millions. My husband is a genius. My husband is the kind of man plenty of women dream of. He’s given me two bright sons. Everything’s good, everything’s perfect. But have I ever loved him? Am I even capable of loving anyone? Since the day I was born, my life has been made up of codes, labels, money, connections. Not love. I’ve never known frivolity or insouciance. I don’t think JBM has either. I’ve often told myself that’s the main thing we have in common. But he has been capable of loving, I’m sure of it. There are two people he has loved: his brother, his eccentric brother with his encyclopedic knowledge, his objets d’art, his auctions and his decadent dandy ways. His brother, yes, and Aurore, his assistant. His inseparable Aurore Delfer. I think if JBM was to do one of those lists he’s so good at, entitled ‘What would you take with you to a desert island?’, Pierre Mazart’s porphyry urn and Aurore would be near the top of the list. I would come after. That’s if he remembered to mention me at all.

  675 x 564

  Aurore opened her bag in the car and took out the latest issue of Forbes. The magazine had been delivered to her by courier that afternoon and she had not yet had a chance to read it. She kept turning the pages until she reached the article she was looking for: ‘Tycoon’s Angels’. An insight into the lives of personal assistants. ‘They’re young, they’re beautiful, they live in the shadow of the most powerful men in finance and they know secrets they will never tell,’ the article began in the glamour-loving style the glitzy magazine was known for. Interviews with six assistants from six different countries followed, accompanied by a photo of each woman with her boss.

  ‘To find out more about this unique and fascinating career,’ the journalist gushed, ‘we talk to six women in the business. From the United States to Japan, by way of France and Russia, the role of business PA involves organising meetings and business trips, drafting correspondence, preparing files, undertaking research and helping with decision-making. Business person and PA must understand one another perfectly. At this level of responsibility, the boundaries between professional and private lives are blurred. The word “personal” appears in “personal assistant” and makes all the difference, because working so closely together can make these roles very psychologically and emotionally demanding. “It’s important to remember it’s just a job!” explains Jenny Davis (page 55). The role requires many of the same skills as an executive assistant, with particular weight put on language skills, given the number of contacts PAs have to deal with abroad. One of the most rewarding aspects of the job can be having your opinion taken on board by a high-ranking business person, and sometimes even changing their mind. The personal assistant is an essential link, and all the business person’s contacts know her. She is the last line of defence before gaining direct access to her boss, “the invisible fortress”, as Aurore Delfer puts it (see interview page 57).’

  Aurore flicked on
two pages to find her interview and photo, taken a year earlier after a conference in London. With her phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, she had one hand pointing towards a photographer and the other resting on JBM’s shoulder while he looked on. ‘More than a bodyguard!’ read the caption. ‘Aurore Delfer, personal assistant of French economist and businessman Jean-Bernard Mazart, also known as JBM. Probably the most discreet of the women we interviewed, but one of the most powerful. Former assistant to the Secretary-General of the European Commission, she left her job to work for JBM seven years ago, becoming, at the age of twenty-six, the youngest assistant ever to work for such a prominent figure. JBM and Aurore are undoubtedly one of the most endearing of our duos.’ Aurore was reminded of those magazine features in which celebrities were asked to talk about and pose with their pets. She skimmed over the terse answers to the interview she had already read and signed off a month before.

  Forbes: You’re the youngest of our six assistants at this level of responsibility …

  Aurore: I started out very young and I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given.

  Forbes: Has anyone tried to headhunt you?

  Aurore: I’ve had some offers.

  Forbes: But you haven’t followed up on them?

  Aurore: Obviously not.

  Forbes: Your nickname is ‘the invisible fortress’. Does that bother you?

  Aurore: I’m used to it. If you think about it, it’s quite a fitting metaphor for our profession, or part of it, at least. It’s to do with his phone: other than his friends and family and a few close contacts, nobody has JBM’s mobile number; they have to go through me.

  Forbes: In French, there are two forms of address: vous and, less formally, tu. Do you call each other tu?

  Aurore: No, we use vous. I don’t think we could ever switch to tu. It works well as it is.

  Forbes: How did you meet JBM?

  Aurore: Seven years ago, I was one of the assistants to Mario Moncelli [Editor’s note: Secretary-General of the European Commission]. JBM was at the European Parliament for a digital conference. I went up to him at the drinks reception and told him I’d like to work for him.

  Forbes: Not shy, are you!

  Aurore: No, I’m not.

  Forbes: Why were you so keen to work with him?

  Aurore: He asked me exactly the same question. He didn’t wait for my answer, but asked me what 675 times 564 makes.

  Forbes: And?

  Aurore: And the answer is 380,700. He was very surprised I knew the answer, and asked me to do some other calculations. I got them all right. Both of us happen to be able to do complex sums in our heads. That immediately gave us something in common. I left Mario Moncelli’s staff and started at Arcadia as second assistant. Six months later, JBM’s assistant decided on a career change – as happens quite often in our line of work – and JBM asked me to work directly alongside him.

  Aurore opened the door of her flat. Inside there was no husband, children, dog or cat. Nothing, not even a lover any more. The last one had found it difficult to put up with a girlfriend who was away half the time and earned five times his salary. She looked at herself in the mirror in the hall and saw a pretty young woman with very long blonde hair and eyes that were still sharp in spite of her tiredness. Her phone gave a little buzz.

  JBM

  Goodnight Aurore, thanks for existing.

  Revamp

  ‘Who is JBM?’ asked the front page of Le Figaro above a photo of the businessman. He had grey hair now, almost white at the temples, but still the same slightly melancholy expression, the same cat-like smile. His hands were clasped in front of him and you could see the domed blue cufflinks. The photo must have been taken at a conference. He looked as if he were listening attentively to something or someone. Le Figaro didn’t mention anything about JBM that was not already familiar to Alain. And the one thing the journalist did not say was that in 1983 JBM had financed the new-wave group the Holograms.

  The night before, Alain and Véronique had watched the programme eating croque-monsieurs. It was François Larnier’s face that stayed in Alain’s memory. The camera had not missed his fleeting expression of total panic. The unfortunate man must have felt the ground giving way under his feet. JBM had buried him without making the slightest effort, like those people who crush their pets when reversing into the garage of their second home. They hear a loud squealing, then nothing. ‘We’ve killed Médor.’ The official candidate had not even squealed. He had let himself be squashed in silence – totally squashed in fact. ‘Isn’t he the one who went out with your singer?’ Véronique had asked. Alain had muttered, ‘Yes, it was him.’

  *

  That morning Alain’s back was a little better.

  ‘I’ve contacted the others,’ he said, folding up the newspaper. He said it in the same matter-of-fact tone he would say, ‘I’m going to put you on antibiotics.’

  ‘There has to be someone who still has a copy of the cassette,’ he went on, seeking Véronique’s approval and also trying to convince himself he had done the right thing.

  Véronique, who had already emerged from the bathroom, impeccably coiffed and dressed, nodded. ‘That’s good; that will keep you occupied. So who will you go and see first? Your friend Vaugan?’

  Alain noticed her slightly ironic tone. ‘No, of course not,’ he replied, annoyed. ‘I’ve sent an email to Frédéric Lejeune, but he’s in Thailand …’

  Véronique raised her eyebrows with a little pursing of the lips that seemed to indicate that was an illogical thing to have done.

  ‘And I’ve sent another to Stan Lepelle, via his gallery, and also one to Pierre Mazart, JBM’s brother. He’s an antique dealer.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘In Paris.’

  ‘Why send an email? He has a shop with opening hours – why not go and see him? It would be a reason for you to go out; you haven’t left the flat all week. Get dressed, brush your hair, shave. You can’t stay in pyjamas all your life.’

  Alain did not reply. Instead he stood up to make himself another Nespresso, reflecting that Véronique was being rather sharp this morning.

  *

  While he had been in bed, he’d had the impression that as his condition deteriorated, Véronique, conversely, was rising earlier and earlier, and that she seemed to be more animated and energetic than she had been for several months. One afternoon he wondered if she had a lover, without being able to think of anyone they knew who could have fulfilled such a role. It was no doubt rather convenient for some husbands tired of their wives to abandon them to the arms of others. The wives would return from their escapades perked up and elegant and much more agreeable to live with. The lover only saw the good side of the spouse. The day-to-day irritations and chores, all the things that progressively extinguish love, did not feature in their little interludes during which they were able to lay aside the burdens of life, taking them up again afterwards. Alain had himself considered perhaps taking a mistress. He had reviewed the women of his acquaintance who might agree to an affair with him. The candidates could be counted on the fingers of one hand and were not exactly appetising. Instead of pleasing sensuality, Alain foresaw problems. He had let the idea drop.

  Now that he was on his own in the flat, he picked up the phone and dialled the number of Au Temps Passé, Pierre’s antique shop. After several rings, the answer machine clicked in and Pierre’s voice announced the opening hours of the shop, adding that the machine did not accept messages. Véronique was right, all he had to do was go there and the outing would do him good. Alain began to get ready. In the bathroom he removed his bathrobe, grimacing, and looked in the cabinet mirror. He looked rough – he hadn’t shaved for a week, and the resulting beard, noticeably white about the chin, in conjunction with his glasses, definitely made him look like his father. Alain reached for the shaving foam and a razor. Half an hour later, he was impeccably shaven, and had even trimmed his hair a little with scissors borrowed from Véronique. H
e had also found a box of contact lenses still within their expiry date. The rimless glasses that were supposedly ‘as good as a facelift’ were consigned to the bathroom bin along with Véronique’s make-up removal pads. Before dropping them in, Alain had given them a vicious twist, though not without a thought for the pitiful sum his insurance company had reimbursed him for their purchase.

  Now the mirror told him not that he looked like the Alain of the Holograms, but that he looked like someone who might once have been that Alain. From the wardrobe he chose a black suit and white shirt, then hesitated over a pair of red socks purchased in Rome from a shop that advertised itself as supplying the Vatican and the Pope himself. But he thought better of them and opted instead for a black pair with loafers. The outfit was chic, but simple. In the hallway his eye fell on a walking stick in amongst the umbrellas. The object, which he’d known all his life and must date back to his grandfather, was not without elegance, but was reminiscent either of a dandy, which wasn’t an appropriate look for a doctor, or old age or illness. Alain put it back with the umbrellas and swallowed two Ibuprofen with a glass of water.

  Véronique