‘Again, what does that mean?’ Louis asked.
Ethan looked at Silvie. She was holding the handkerchief between her thumb and forefinger, moving the material slowly this way and that. He wasn’t sure she was tuned in to what Bernard was saying. He wasn’t sure she was connected at all.
‘There is a proviso in Ferne’s will. A clause that she and I specifically designed to come into being if there was to be any mixed direction over the future of Perfect Paris,’ Bernard told them.
A proviso? Were you able to do that in a will? Make a clause of a clause with intricate meanings and consequences if one thing was achieved and not another? Ethan didn’t know. He didn’t have a will. When Ferne had made hers, back when they had formed the company, she had told him life could be unexpected, that they needed to make sure what they built together went to the right people after they passed. And Ethan had laughed. He was sober now, remembering that he had told his friend he had never had anything and as she was the one who had given him the something he did now have, he was only going to give it back to her. He’d promised to get one done. He hadn’t. Stupide.
‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Bernard told them.
‘I very much wish you would,’ Louis said, still agitated.
Bernard cleared his throat, checking the document in front of him again. ‘You knew that you were not allowed to seek a sale of the hotels until twelve months after the death, and that no sale would be able to be finalised until after the completion of probate.’ He smiled. ‘It was Ferne’s wish for there to be a period of grace where things could settle and the hotels could carry on being managed exactly as they had been—’
‘Yes, but it is past twelve months now,’ Louis reminded.
‘And after twelve months… this next clause takes effect.’ Bernard began to read from the text. ‘After the twelve-month period following my death, this clause shall take the place of clause 8.1.2 in relation to my interest in Perfect Paris. My shares will revert to being held as follows…’ Bernard took a breath. ‘Twenty per cent to my mother, Silvie Durand, twenty per cent to my best friend, Ethan Bouchard and…’ Bernard raised his eyes from the paperwork and Ethan knew this was the moment the game was going to change…
‘Ten per cent to the animal shelter in Rue Mallard.’
‘What?!’ Louis blasted jumping to his feet in a fit of rage. ‘That is… insane. What was she thinking?! She has given ten per cent of her share in the hotel to… animals.’ Louis pointed at Bernard. ‘Animals!’ he screamed. ‘This is unacceptable! It was a fucking cat that caused her accident and now she wants to give them everything else she had too?!’ He glared at Bernard. ‘Why didn’t you stop her?! She cannot have been of sound mind! Who would make a will leaving shares one way and then create a clause doing something else straight afterwards? It makes no sense!’
‘It makes perfect sense.’
These words came from Silvie. She was still rubbing her fingers against the cotton of the handkerchief, her eyes seeking the mid-distance. ‘It is perhaps the only thing in all this that does make sense.’
‘Silvie,’ Ethan said, putting a hand on her arm, sensing her distress about this whole situation.
‘We all of us knew Ferne. Who she was. What she loved. She loved all of us.’
‘But apparently not me,’ Louis snapped, pacing his way to the window then stopping, looking out at the street, putting his hands to the back of his head.
‘Louis,’ Silvie said. ‘How can you say that? Ferne left you her apartment!’
‘And what good is that to me?’
‘That is enough!’ Ethan roared.
He got to his feet then, incensed by Louis’s behaviour. Louis was talking about Ferne and her estate as if they were all meaningless items on a shopping list, not the hard work of someone he cared about. Someone who had worked hard for everything she was leaving them now. Yes, Ferne had had the best start – a good home, wanting for nothing – but that hadn’t made her entitled. She had never been complacent. She’d liked the good things in life, but she had achieved them all through dogged determination and taking risks. She had always taken risks and she had always looked out for the underdog. Or, in the case of her bicycle crash in London, the undercat. So determined to save the life of a furry friend, she hadn’t seen the bus coming and had ended up sacrificing her own.
Ethan walked towards Louis now. ‘You will not talk about Ferne’s decisions on death like that.’ He got closer, wanting the man to turn away from the window and face him. ‘And we will not fight about this. Because where will that get us?’
Louis turned around then, his eyes filled with tears, his blotchy face looking red again. ‘You have won,’ he breathed.
‘Won?’ Ethan queried. ‘What have I won?’
‘You will have the hotels. We cannot sell them now. Not without your say so or the say so of the animal shelter.’ Louis shook his head. ‘My crazy, crazy little sister.’
Ethan’s phone ringing broke into the room and he patted himself down, forgetting where he had placed it. It was Antoine at the Tour Eiffel hotel. He looked to Silvie. ‘It is Antoine. It might be a problem with the hotel. I should…’
‘Take it,’ Silvie told him. She was getting up from her seat now and, as Ethan headed to the door of the boardroom, he vowed to make the call short and get back to her. He turned back for a moment, watching Silvie go towards Louis and begin a conversation.
‘Hello, Antoine,’ he answered, turning his concentration back to the phone.
‘Monsieur Bouchard,’ the man replied, sounding out of breath. Ethan’s stomach tightened. This did sound like an emergency. He hoped there was not a burst water main or, heaven forbid, a fire.
‘What is it, Antoine. What has happened?’
‘The dog you brought to me,’ Antoine said, still breathless. ‘The one who was unconscious from medication. The one with the foot that does not work.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well… it is rampaging… completely out of control.’
Ethan took a second to think about what exactly his concierge had just said. ‘What?’
‘The dog in the box,’ Antoine repeated. ‘It is awake and it is causing chaos.’
Thirty-Five
Alsatian Christmas Market, Gare de l’Est, Paris
‘Erica still not answering?’
Keeley shook her head, looking at another timed-out call on her phone. They were at the most amazing Christmas market, stalls set up outside the beautiful Paris train station that was something to Instagram all on its own. Deciding they needed to up their gift-buying game while they were in one of the meccas of shopping, Rach had found the market online and they had taken a thirty-minute stroll to get here. And it was living up to all the Time Out article expectations so far. Beautiful rounds of Munster and Gerome cheeses were piled high, together with hams, jams and lots of gingerbread. It was a foodie’s nirvana with every kind of gastronomic delight you could imagine. They had already sampled wines, liqueurs and eau-de-vie – the latter, they were told, was a colourless fruit brandy using double distillation. Whatever it was it was very pleasant on the taste buds. But, experiencing the shopping revelry, Keeley had the urge to FaceTime Erica, particular when they had come across Christmas cookies Keeley knew her friend would have enjoyed seeing even if she couldn’t taste them.