Three Weeks in Paris by Barbara Taylor Bradford Read Free Book Online

wishing that all were well in her little world. She went on. “I just came up tothe studio, and as I’m sitting here talking to you I can see that vermilion piece that came from the mill the other day … I like it, Sophie, I really do. It’s such a change from the colors I’ve been using this past year.”
    “I agree. It’s really vibrant, but also sort of … smoochy.”
    “What do you mean by smoochy?”
    “You know, smoochy, as in kiss-kiss-kiss.”
    Kay burst out laughing.
    Dropping her voice, Sophie now said confidingly, “I called because I finally got that information for you.”
    “What information?”
    “About the man my sister recently heard of … you know, we discussed it two weeks ago.”
    “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Sophie, I guess I’m being a little stupid today.” She clutched the receiver more tightly, filled with sudden expectancy.
    “His name is François Boujon, and he lives in France once again.”
    “Where, exactly?”
    “Just outside Paris. A place with a peculiar name. Barbizon. My sister got me all the information. Do you want to know everything now, or shall I tell you on Monday?”
    “Monday’s perfectly fine, I’ll be at the studio by about ten, and we can talk then. But just tell me one thing now … is he difficult to get an appointment with?”
    “Yes, a bit, I’m afraid. But Gillian will help.”
    “Can she?”
    “Oh, yes, very much so … her girlfriend Mercedes has a strong connection, which is good.”
    “It certainly is, and listen, I’m very appreciative, Sophie, I really am. Thanks for going to all this trouble.”
    “It wasn’t anything, not really. I was happy to do it. So, I’ll see you Monday, then.”
    “That’s right. Have a good weekend.”
    “I will, and you do the same.”
    “I’ll try,” Kay answered, and after saying good-bye she returned the phone to its cradle. Resting her head against the faded red velvet covering the chair’s back, she let her eyes roam around the room, her mind whirling with all manner of thoughts. Then quite suddenly she remembered the envelope that had arrived by FedEx yesterday, and she reached for the decorative wooden box on one end of the desk. Lifting the lid, she took out the envelope with its beautiful calligraphy—her name so elegantly written—opened it, and slipped out the invitation.
    Once again she read it carefully.
    Anya’s party was on the second of June, a good four months away. She wondered if she could get an appointment with François Boujon for around that time.
    It would be perfect if she could, because Ian hadn’t been invited, and so she could travel alone to Paris. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought, and then she sat back in the chair with a jerk, frowning hard. Her vivid blue eyes clouded over, and her expression became unexpectedly grim.
    They
would be there and she would have to see them. No, not only see them, but socialize with them, spend time with them. Not possible. They were no longer friends.
    Alexandra Gordon
, the snob from New York. From the elite social set, Junior League, and all that ridiculous kind of thing. Always so toffee-nosed with her, stuck up, snubbing
her
.
    Jessica Pierce
, Miss Southern Belle Incorporated, with her feminine sighs and languor and the dropping of lace hankies along the way. Poking fun at
her
, teasing her unmercifully, never leaving
her
alone with her taunts.
    Maria Franconi
, another snob, this one from Italy, withher raven hair and flashing black eyes and fiery Mediterranean temperament. And all those lire from her rich Milanese textile family, flaunting her money and her connections, treating
her
like a servant.
    No, it’s not possible, Kay told herself again. I cannot go to Anya’s party. Because my tormentors will be there … how miserable they had always made her life.
    She knew what she must do. She must go to Paris sooner rather than later, to meet with this man François Boujon. Hopefully she would get an appointment