Copyright 2013 © by Leslie Hummel
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
San Francisco, 1980
Victoire
Vestey embodied the three Bs: brains, breeding and beauty. Life as an
ambassador’s daughter, coupled with her mother’s multiple marriages, armed
Victoire with four languages, adaptability and a narcissistic take on life.
A
degree in economics from Berkeley with honours hung on her large bedroom wall
alongside a high school diploma from a prestigious European boarding school. A
fencing certificate, skier’s gold medal and ballet grade 8 also prominently
punctuated the Fleur de Lys print wallpaper.
Not
one stuffed animal sat on a shelf nor was a cushion out of place upon her
canopied bed. Sentimentality didn’t feature in Victoire’s repertoire.
Hers
had been a life of an affluent nomad: private schooling, jet setting and zero
work experience, which she left to her father to sort out when the time came.
“Ambassador
Vestey,” piped the spindly secretary from the U.S. embassy in Budapest. “Your
daughter is on line two.”
Wilhem
Vestey dismissed the commercial attaché and settled comfortably behind an
imperially large desk. “Victoire, it appears you struck the right rapport with
my contact, Peter Prentice, last week. Well done. He wants you to start your
job at Bassadai on the first of next month.”
“I knew we hit if off. I spoke with the Vice President of
International and the head of marketing a few days ago and got a good sense of
what they are looking for. The job sounds perfect. Thanks for helping me on the
job front. I’ll keep you posted on how things work out. See you next Easter!”
A
moment later, her Parisian born mother entered her room with a vase of calla
lilies. “Maman!” she cried, “daddy’s
friend who runs Bassadai wants me to join the international division!’ Her
glacial blue eyes danced with pleasure.
“Peter
Prentice? Bravo, Victoire!” Vivienne cupped her daughter’s chin in her cold,
jewel-encrusted hands. “Too bad Bassadai isn’t located in San Francisco. Then
again, getting a place in Atherton is a possibility—no sea views, but lovely
nonetheless.”
“Trust
me: I’ll be commuting, like he does,” she clarified. Victoire had no immediate
plans of wasting money on rent when she had room, board and laundry service in
her stepfather’s splendid Pacific Heights house. “I wouldn’t be caught dead
re-locating no matter how convenient Atherton may be.” She scrunched her nose.
“It’s full of old farts.’
Vivienne
Vestey shook her head disapprovingly. “Perhaps, Victoire,” she said pointedly,
“but very rich old farts…”
# # # #
Peter
Prentice marvelled at the Dutch blue sky with not a wisp of fog in sight and
then gave the seating assignment one last look. “Perfect,” he said, returning
the typed sheet to his personal assistant scuttling about in a purple paisley
bow tie and pink shirt.
The
table had been set with exquisite care, everything decorated in navy and white.
The theme was to mirror Fleet weekend. Twenty guests due to arrive within the
hour were to take in the spectacular views of the bay from Peter’s Presidio
Heights mansion and be awed by the Blue Angels performing their daredevil
precision manoeuvres. You can practically
see the pilots faces, he remembered, delighted the weather was on his side
knowing his Midwestern associates would talk of the party for years to come.
Peter
Prentice had done very well for himself considering his circuitous avoidance of
his meagre background. His father walked out of the family apartment one stormy
night and was never heard from again. His mother worked seven days a week as a
seamstress with little more than broken English and a knack for sewing. Peter
helped after work, often as her mannequin. He was different from other boys his
age who worked off steam on the neighbourhood basketball court, got drunk and
canoodled with the local girls.
The
weight of responsibility hemmed him in early: he took odd jobs in the nearby
New York garment district and learned about the trade from the ground floor up.
Privately, he felt misunderstood by his peers and suffered from suicidal
thoughts. Mrs. Prentice worried about Peter’s loss of childhood. She took on
extra work that kept her up all hours of the night, but her son was determined
to break their chain of scarcity and vowed he’d one day to ensure she would
never have to work again in her life.
The
arthritic ridden seamstress retired her sewing machine when Peter turned
twenty-five. His first major investment, a small furnished apartment in
Brooklyn, went straight to his mother the day he got transferred to Georgia to
run sales and marketing for a top consumer goods company.
Prentice’s
career leapfrogged from height to height. Articles about Peter described him as
driven and single-minded, a man with a knack for spotting trends. The graying strawberry blonde also
possessed an unerring dress sense, watched his waistline and absorbed all
things cultural with a passion.
He
saw his driver Bradley pull up kerbside with a blonde in the backseat. Peter
adjusted his silk tie. He had been quick to hire Wilhem Vestey’s daughter fresh
out of college three years ago for more than her cosmopolitan education.
Victoria
was a cross between Grace Kelly and Tippy Hedren, Bassadai’s very own Hitchcock
blonde—and just as glacial.
“Victoire,”
he said, proffering her the European two-kiss version he had incorporated into
his repertoire. “I am very glad you could join us.”
“So
happy to be here,” she replied, flashing a perfect smile. She softly touched
his arm. “I hope I’m not the first one.”
Peter’s
personal assistant bristled. She always
is, the little bitch. He loathed—and admired—everything about the icy
blonde. He knew Peter’s inclination for men but couldn’t help feel threatened
whenever the young swan floated into his boss’s opulent turf.
The
young man’s open expression did not go un-noticed. Peter bit back a smug grin
and offered Victoire a flute of chilled champagne.
Gay
or not, the fifty-five-year-old was smart enough to abide by the unspoken
decorum that still prevailed in the progressive West Coast city. He kept his
involvements behind closed doors and handled his affairs with utmost
discretion. The glass ceiling that applied to female executives also applied to
his category, an obstacle Peter Prentice was not about to let get in his way.
Victoire
graced her end of the table and listened attentively to the conversations on
either side. She delighted in being chosen as hostess well aware of the
whispering circulating through the corridors of power. The age difference was
lost on her: Victoire was more sophisticated and self-assured than the average
twenty-five-year-old and stood out that much more in what she termed as Cowboy
Country.
Her
stepfather’s place was smaller by comparison, though beautifully decorated, its
look said traditional, and the bay window views did not include the Golden
Gate.
This is where I should live,
she thought wondering who could possibly provide it for her in the Silicon
Valley nerd gene pool. Victoire tapped her foot under the table and frowned. Maybe one of classless but cash-rich
international distributors could be an option. The sparkle in her eyes
sharpened at the idea.
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