Envy

By MIREILLE PAVANE

Isabeau's life has not been all smooth sailing but she has survived and thrived, rising to the pinnacles of New York society. Isabeau is beautiful, intelligent, poised, widely coveted and envied. When she meets golden boy Jacob Wakefield, the habits of a lifetime cannot prevent her beguilement. Fate, however, seems to enjoy toying with Isabeau. Fate, and Isabeau's nemesis - sweet, adored, privileged, unattainable Manon Alexander, whom Jacob loves. If it wasn't for Manon... Except life, as Isabeau finds out, is rarely so simple or accommodating...

• Language: English
• Publisher: MIREILLE PAVANE
• Release date: Oct 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463728734

MIREILLE PAVANE

Mireille Pavane cannot recall exactly when she began messing about with books and literature but since then (brainwashed at a young age by the French and Russian writers and E.M. Forster) it has remained an abiding love. Mireille continues to scribble away in secret when not otherwise distracted by a professional career or gardening duties in her alternate life. She also has an unhealthy curiosity and fondness for footnotes which she attempts to curtail from time to time. Mireille is a member of the international and local chapters of the Village Idiots’ Guild.

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ENVY

Mireille Pavane

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2018 Mireille Pavane

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN (e-book): 9780463728734

Cover design © Mireille Pavane

Cover image: image by MR1313 at Pixabay

ENVY

Isabeau’s life has not been all smooth sailing but she has survived and thrived, rising to the pinnacles of New York society. Isabeau is beautiful, intelligent, poised, widely coveted and envied. When she meets golden boy Jacob Wakefield, the habits of a lifetime cannot prevent her beguilement. Fate, however, seems to enjoy toying with Isabeau. Fate, and Isabeau’s nemesis—sweet, adored, privileged, unattainable Manon Alexander, whom Jacob loves. If it wasn’t for Manon... Except life, as Isabeau finds out, is rarely so simple or accommodating...

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

SYNOPSIS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPHS

PROLOGUE: INVIDIA

THOU SHALT NOT: ISABEAU

NO GOOD DEED: MANON

EPILOGUE: THE OCULAR PROOF

AFTERWORD

THANK YOU FOR READING

ALSO BY MIREILLE PAVANE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

To M.R.T.,

for everything that was suffered and endured.

Sometimes the fair and happy endings that prove so elusive in life can be found in fiction.

EPIGRAPHS

ἦθος ἀνθρώπῳ δαίμων

(A man’s character is his destiny.)

— Fragment 119, Heraclitus

Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof

— Othello (Act 3, Scene 3), William Shakespeare

PROLOGUE

INVIDIA

Alack! it is not when we sleep soft and wake merrily that we think on other people’s sufferings; but when the hour of trouble comes, said Jeanie Deans.

— Walter Scott (epigraph to Chapter XI of Manon Lescaut by Abbé Prévost)

Ei mi tortura sempre:

"Ove fuggì? Con chi?

A Nord? Ad Est? A Sud?"

Io rispondo: Non so!

Ma alfin l’ho persuaso!

(He keeps on pestering me:

"Where’s Manon?

Where has she gone? With whom?

To the north? The east? The south?"

I reply: I don’t know!)

— Manon Lescaut (Act Two), Giacomo Puccini

The annual retreat for the partners and senior associates of the firm of Sinclair Martindale Page hosted by the Pages at their vast Southampton estate was enlivened this year by the anticipatory whiff of fresh scandal.

People drifted in and out from the multiple French doors separating the house from the wide veranda (which Mrs. Page called a loggia) to the pool and down to the boathouse and undulating dunes of the private beach (for a smoke—Mrs. Page was very particular about the house rules). A munificent brunch spread was laid out on the veranda which drew some guests like an oasis: the latecomers (The babysitter was late and the traffic was horrendous!), the late arrivers (The conference call went overtime again and the traffic up here!), the late risers (God, Frette linen, never slept better in my life!), the returning, freshly showered, early rising runners and swimmers (Have you been down to the beach yet? The air is fantastic! The pool is great too, fifty laps easily. Is that freshly pressed guava and pomegranate juice?), the day spa and solarium widowers (Peace and quiet at last!), the stragglers and dawdlers, and the guests who had overindulged on the gin and tonic the previous evening, making a weak show of picking at their plates from behind dark glasses. The absent men had gone off early, following Mr. Page to the Shinnecock Hills Golf Club and were not expected back until late in the afternoon at the earliest; and the golf widows had disappeared with Mrs. Page to the indoor gymnasium which housed an Olympian sized swimming pool, a solarium, day spa facilities, a fully stocked bar and rattan deck chairs liberally strewn with cushions.

Amid heavy pounding thuds and barks and excited squeals (did the Pages own a pair of Golden Retrievers to match the pair of equally fidgety, tow-headed children of school age?), two senior associates, wrapped in the Pages’ Provençal blue towels from the cabana, raced up from the poolside to the veranda like a pair of teenagers, still dripping with the dew from their morning swim, overtaking the Pages’ butler, unceremoniously snatching the morning newspapers from the silver tray next to the samovar (which the Pages had brought back from their travels) and the pitchers of cold milk, and flinging themselves into chairs at the unoccupied end of the table to spread their bounty across the pristine white linen. The Pages’ butler gave a barely noticeable disapproving sniff but immediately left the veranda to return shortly afterwards with a loaded silver salver for the two women. Florence and Molly flashed grateful smiles at the butler as they accepted hot tea, crumpets, toast and home-made blackberry jam.

God, I could get used to this life! said Florence (or was it Molly?) flopping back into her cushioned chair.

Your billable hours pay for this life, snickered the other senior associate.

The languid clink of china and scrape of silverware and rustle of newspapers was soon accompanied by a back and forth exchange, punctuated by inappropriate giggles and scoffing snorts and excitable gasps, relaying, in great and varied detail, the decadent new luxuries they had discovered in their respective guest house suites alongside and tangled up with the latest office gossip and society scandals—which the other occupants of the veranda tried to ignore, pretending to doze, or leaned in closer to catch.

Did you see Duncan and Adelaide sneaking off last night…ongoing feuding between the Trasks and the Caldwells to put the Montagues and Capulets to shame…yes, it was Tobias, not Gideon, who convinced Mr. Sinclair…God, you have to try this jam, you could rot your teeth just looking at the jar…how funny was that brown-noser Cassidy with Mr. Martindale at dinner…the jewels dripping off the partners’ wives last night…sensational murders of the Tallis cousins…Braxton? Daphne and Braxton Sommerley-Ashe? But he comes from a family of pricks, how did he end up such a nice boy…must have been unlucky enough to inherit the recessive kindness gene…the Tate marriage is on the rocks if not falling apart already—God, what a sad foregone conclusion, the grass is always greener on the other side…do you think Haverbeke or Crawford will close on the Merton, Lockhart & Foster deal this time with Diane Foster…pandemonium at the social event of the year caused by falling chandelier…God, these danishes…

It’s actually kind of dull here this year, said Molly, or Florence, through a mouthful of tea and flaky pastry and oozing sweet filling. Nothing really to look at or flirt with to take the edge off all the kowtowing and schmoozing and correctness and utter boredom. I miss Jacob Wakefield.

You idiot! hissed the other senior associate. Haven’t you heard?

What? Molly, or Florence, batted her eyelashes demurely. ‘Oh, that Jacob Wakefield, he makes my heart all fluttery.’ You mooned over Jacob Wakefield as much as anyone else in the office, even when you and Finn were—

How can you not have heard? You are such a—

Heard what?

The veranda, with apparent fatigued and bored indifference, strained to hear.

No! gasped Molly, or Florence, wide-eyed. Not Jacob Wakefield!

I know. Who would have thought it?

Seriously? But he was so…why would…? Although that whole thing with—what was her name? Manon? Wait, the celebratory drinks…oh my God!

Yeah. And that cold bitch, Isabeau McAllister. I kind of look back and wonder. I guess she made the wrong choices.

"But Brooks and Vincent and Nicholson were saying—I even heard Fergus Sutherland say— Wait. I’ve got this all confused now. Isabeau? Not Manon? Wasn’t it just