by Peter Mayle
“That fridge is like a science laboratory. There’s life in there. Things are breeding.”
“Yes, Lulu.”
She bent down to kiss him. “Stay out of trouble, you hear?” He was starting to miss her before he heard the front door close.
Four hours later, still feeling pleasantly light-headed, Andre waited to be shown to Camilla’s table at the Royalton. As he was led across the room, faces turned to focus on him like pale camera lenses—brief, searching glances to see if he was sufficiently well known to merit a prolonged stare. There was no attempt to disguise their interest; nor any attempt to disguise the lack of it as the faces turned away.
Andre recognized it as a screening process common to a number of restaurants dedicated to the high-voltage New York lunch. The success of these establishments is based not on the quality of the cooking, which can often be excellent, if largely unnoticed, but on the status rating of the clientele. And for these fabulous creatures—the models, actors, and writers of the moment, the cream of the media cream, players alert to every nuance of the game—it is crucial to be well placed. Exile to an obscure table can turn the carpaccio of tuna to ashes in the mouth, and it seems that the law laid down by Brillat-Savarin has been rendered obsolete. “Tell me what you eat,” the great man used to say, “and I will tell you what you are.” Those simple days are gone. “Tell me where you sit, and I will tell you what you are” is a more appropriate motto, and it can only be a matter of time before the special of the day is not a dish, but a celebrity—the personnage du jour, whose presence in the restaurant is announced discreetly as the menu is delivered.
With these thoughts running through his mind, Andre was seated at a prominent banquette and fussed over with the ceremony due the honored guest of one of the restaurant’s most devoted fixtures. She was, of course, late. When she finally did arrive, finding her way through the tables mostly by memory (her vision being impaired by large dark glasses), her progress attracted a ripple of interest and a salvo of long-distance air kisses.
“Andre!” It was as though his presence at her table was a total surprise, bringing joy to an otherwise cheerless day. “How are you? Let me look at you.” Which she did, tilting her head first to one side, then to the other, the dark glasses at half-mast on her nose. “I detect a definite twinkle in the eye, sweetie. And what’s that on your neck?”
Andre ducked his head and grinned. “You’re looking well, Camilla. I haven’t seen you for ages. Been busy?”
“Frantic, sweetie. Night and day, working out my little surprise for you. But tell me all your news. Did I hear somewhere you’ve been to Europe?”
“A few days in England.” Andre gave her an edited account of his trip, filling it out with descriptions of Lord Lamprey and the tapestries at Throttle Hall. He was finishing the story of the runaway chicken when he was interrupted by the ringing of Camilla’s handbag. He ordered while she was taking the call; the waiter hovered until the phone was back in the bag. Camilla specified her preferred combination of green leaves and turned to Andre with the rueful sigh of an overworked and indispensable executive. “Where were we, sweetie?”
“You were just going to tell me about this project that’s kept you so busy.”
Sitting back, not knowing what to expect, Andre was then exposed to half an hour of Camilla at her most persuasive. The dark glasses came off, her eyes fixed on his with unblinking intensity, her hand fluttered back and forth, squeezing his arm gently for emphasis. Her plateful of leaves remained undisturbed. An observer would have thought her completely oblivious to everything except the young man sitting next to her. It was an act that she had perfected over the years, and despite the fact that Andre had seen it before, aimed at others, he found himself drawn in by her performance. And, he had to admit, he found himself attracted to the idea she was trying so hard to sell him. She knew him well, and she had chosen the bait with great care.
It was a book; no, it was more than a book. It was a definitive record of the most extraordinary residences on earth, all photographed by him, all expenses paid by the magazine. One of Garabedian’s associate companies would be responsible for publication and promotion. Great houses of the world, sweetie, Camilla said, her voice emphasizing the words with the vibrant sincerity of a politician making a campaign promise. And your name—here she paused to sketch it large in the air with her hands—your name above the title. There would be a promotional tour, there would be foreign editions—Germany, Italy, Japan, the universe—an exhibition of the pictures, a CD-ROM. It would establish him as the world’s most important photographer in his field. And of course, there would be money in profusion—from the foreign rights, from serial rights, from royalties. It would just pour in. Camilla shook her hair at the excitement of it all and waited for Andre’s response.
For a moment, he was genuinely at a loss for words. It was, as Camilla had said, the opportunity of a lifetime, the dream assignment that exactly matched his ambitions. Under normal circumstances he would have been calling for champagne and threatening to spoil Camilla’s composure, and possibly her makeup, with an enthusiastic embrace. But even as he searched for a suitable reply, the worm of suspicion was at work in his mind. It was too pat, too perfect.
“Well,” he said at last, “you’ll have to forgive me, but I’m stunned. It’s going to take a while to sink in. Tell me how you see the timing. I mean, it’s not exactly a ten-day shoot.”
Camilla dismissed such trivial considerations with a wave of her hand that brought the waiter running. “Take all the time you need, sweetie.” The waiter gave her a confused look, making a tentative lunge at her salad before a second wave sent him away. “This is going to be a monument of a book. I see St. Petersburg, Jaipur, Scottish castles, Marrakech, Bali, Venice—God, Venice.” The hair shook again. “A year, eighteen months, whatever it takes.” Her voice became lower and more confidential. “As a matter of fact, I’ve mapped out the first leg, and there is just the tiniest urgency at the very beginning. It’s the most fantastic old taipan’s house in Hong Kong, and one can’t be sure about Hong Kong.”
“Can’t one?”
“The Chinese, sweetie. They’ve taken over, and who knows how long it will be before they turn all the grand houses into dormitories for the women’s revolutionary land army? So it’s important that you get out there before our little friend Mr. Choy gets cold feet and decides to scamper off to join his money in Beverly Hills.” She pushed her plate away and leaned her elbows on the table. “As soon as possible, really.”
The worm of suspicion was working overtime. “Have I got time for coffee?”
Camilla beamed and patted Andre’s hand. “I’m so glad you like the idea, sweetie. It’s absolutely you.”
She left him at the entrance to the hotel with instructions to get inoculations and visas, and to call Noel about tickets and expenses. In the car going back to the office, she congratulated herself. He seemed to have swallowed it, and with any luck he would be on his way to Hong Kong within a week. Rudi would be delighted.
Andre went back to the lobby and called Cyrus Pine. The art dealer didn’t give him time to speak.
“Good news, dear boy, good news—I’ve tracked Franzen down, and thank God he lives somewhere civilized. You’re not averse to a trip to Paris, I hope?”
“Cyrus, I’ve just had lunch with Camilla, and the plot seems to be thickening. When are you free?”
“Let’s see. I’ve left a dear old trout downstairs with a couple of rather nice watercolors. She seems to be itching to take out her checkbook. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her. How about this evening?”
“Can you come downtown? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Cyrus chuckled. “Is she pretty?”
“Stunning.”
They arranged to meet at Felix. After calling Lucy, who was full of questions but too busy for long answers, Andre had the afternoon to kill. On an impulse, he decided to walk to SoHo.
A long, unhurried
stroll down Fifth Avenue on a crisp spring afternoon is one of the treats of Manhattan. When New York skies are blue, they are piercingly blue, and when New Yorkers feel that winter is over, they loosen up their hunched shoulders, raise their faces to the sun, and occasionally even smile at strangers. The weather suited Andre’s mood, and although he felt he should be trying to work out what was behind Camilla’s offer, he found that his attempts to unravel the puzzle were pushed aside by mental pictures of Lucy, and Paris. It was a distracting combination.
He passed the seething racket of Forty-second Street and the New York Library lions, massive and benign in the sunshine, looking as dignified as lions can look with garlands of pigeons clustered on their heads. Then the shops and offices of lower Fifth Avenue, modest and workmanlike in contrast to their glamorous uptown neighbors. Every other block he checked his watch, counting the minutes. He dawdled through Washington Square and stopped for a cup of coffee, savoring the novelty of his impatience to be with somebody. It had been years since he had felt the tug of a human magnet.
His resolve—to arrive at the office as it closed—collapsed when he reached West Broadway shortly before five and almost ran the last hundred yards, hoping to find Lucy alone.
Stephen met him at the office door. “You’re early, I’m leaving, Lucy’s gone home to change, and if you make her late for work again tomorrow, I’ll sue. Have a nice evening.”
“Stephen, since you’re here …” Andre pushed him gently back into the room. “I was wondering … well, the thing is, I was hoping you could do without Lucy for a day or two. You know, a long weekend. Maybe a week.”
Stephen smiled and shrugged. “Do I have a choice?”
“I haven’t asked her yet.”
“Where are you going?”
“Paris.”
Stephen put his hand on Andre’s shoulder, his face serious. “Go ahead and ask her. But there’s one condition.”
Andre nodded.
“If she turns you down, I’m coming.”
They left the office together. Andre waited outside the building, his head turning toward every cab that slowed down. Evenings were gradually becoming longer now, and softer. Dusk, mysterious and flattering, had covered the imperfections and sharp edges of West Broadway. The lights glittered a welcome to the evening, and Andre felt a quickening in his blood as a cab stopped, the door opened, and one slim brown leg emerged. Say what you like about New York cabs, he thought, but whoever designed them must have been a leg man. He watched approvingly as a second leg appeared, then he walked across the sidewalk to help Lucy out.
She was wearing a dark-gray dress, short and simple, with a black coat slung around her shoulders, her hair pulled back, her eyes shining in the street light. She straightened the collar of his shirt. “You’re early,” she said.
“I was just passing by,” he said, “hoping my luck would change.”
Arm in arm, they walked slowly toward Grand Street. “Lulu, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She looked up at him, light catching the silver studs in her ear. “Let me guess. You cleaned out the fridge.”
“Even better than that.”
“You made Camilla eat french fries at lunch.”
He shook his head. “Have you ever been to Paris? Would you like to go?”
“Paris!” It was almost a scream, loud enough to make two passing men stop; they waited to hear more. “Paris! Are you serious?”
“It’s all set. I spoke to Stephen. You’re getting a week off for good behavior. We’re meeting Cyrus now to fix up the dates, and …”
She reached up to his face, and West Broadway was treated to the sight of a kiss that threatened to stop traffic. One of the passersby nudged the other. “They’ve got to come up for air soon.” His friend sighed and shook his head. “Would you?”
By the time they reached the restaurant, Lucy had her excitement sufficiently under control to sit at the bar, order a rum and water, and start asking questions—Was this a job? What was the weather like in Paris? Where were they going to stay? Would she look dumb over there in her beret? Was Cyrus coming? Would he like her?—dozens of them, tumbling out in a stream that gave Andre no chance to reply. Eventually, he picked up her drink and put it in her hand.
“A toast,” he said, “before you lose your voice. Your first time in France.”
They touched glasses and watched each other drink. Andre was leaning forward—to kiss or to whisper, he hadn’t decided which—when there was a diplomatic cough behind them. Andre turned, to catch Cyrus studying Lucy with evident enjoyment, his eyebrows going up as he took in the curve of her body and the brevity of her dress, which was accentuated by her perch on the barstool.
Andre put down his glass. “Lulu, this is Cyrus.”
She held out her hand, which Cyrus cradled in both of his. “Delighted to meet you, my dear. I haven’t been to SoHo for years, but if the girls are all as pretty as you, I shall be down more often.”
“If you’d like to give her back her hand, Cyrus, you’ll find it easier to deal with this.” Andre passed him a Scotch, complimented him on his red and white spotted bow tie, and steered them away from the bar to a nearby table.
They sat down, Lucy between the two men. “Where shall we start?” said Andre. “Cyrus, you want to go first? Lulu knows everything that’s happened so far.”
Cyrus was a man who liked a story properly told. He began with an account of the rise and fall of the unfortunate Villiers, before going on to describe their first meeting, the brief negotiations that followed, and a second meeting, which took place in the lobby of a bank on Park Avenue, where Franzen’s phone number was to be exchanged for five thousand dollars.
Lucy whistled softly. “Isn’t that a lot for a phone number?”
“Everyone takes a cut in situations like this,” Cyrus said, “and the cut gets bigger as you get closer to the painting. I shudder to think what Franzen’s prices are like. Anyway, there I was, lurking by the door with an envelope full of cash. Villiers arrives, looks around as if he’s being followed by half the CIA, and comes sidling up to me. It was the most suspicious thing you’ve ever seen in your life. I kept expecting someone to jump out of the woodwork and wave a gun at me. So we exchanged envelopes, and then the cheeky little bugger made me wait while he counted the money. And off he went.” Cyrus looked at his empty glass with a faint air of surprise.
“Let me get you another one.” Andre went over to the bar, and Cyrus turned to Lucy. “One of the privileges of reaching my age is that I feel I can ask impertinent questions.” There was a quick twitch of the eyebrows. “Are you and Andre—how shall I put it?—close?”
Lucy grinned. “We’re getting there. Maybe you should ask him.”
“No need to, my dear. It’s perfectly obvious to me. I don’t think he’s looked at me more than once since I got here. I couldn’t be happier. I’ve become very fond of him; he’s a good man.”
Lucy pushed her glass around. “Yes,” she said. “I think he is. Cyrus, before he gets back—would you mind if I came to Paris too? He asked me on the way here, but I don’t want to—”
Cyrus cut her short with an upraised hand. “Not another word. If you don’t come, I shall be extremely disappointed.”
She leaned across to kiss him on the cheek, and Andre, arriving at the table with a Scotch in his hand, could have sworn that Cyrus was blushing. He looked from one to the other as he sat down. “Do you two want to be left alone?”
Lucy winked at Andre. Cyrus cleared his throat. “I was waiting for you to get back and hear the end of it,” he said. “But I was attacked by our traveling companion. Now then.” He took a swig of his drink. “I called the number that Villiers gave me, and spoke to Franzen, who seemed quite interested, although we obviously didn’t go into details over the phone. We’re meeting him next week, on what he calls neutral territory. I must say the man has an expensive sense of humor. He wants to meet at Lucas-Carton, for the artistic ambience. He said it was
one of Toulouse-Lautrec’s favorites.”
Andre shook his fingers as though he’d burned them and saw the puzzled expression on Lucy’s face. “It’s one of the best restaurants in Paris,” he explained, “on the Place de la Madeleine. I went there once, on my birthday.”
“Not cheap,” said Lucy.
“Not exactly.”
Cyrus put aside financial concerns with a shake of his head. “My dears, you must consider this trip an investment. The possibilities here are enormous. Besides,” he said, looking at Andre, “I had a very good afternoon—the old girl bought both watercolors for her grandson, and I’m feeling flush. We won’t be short of funds.”
Andre frowned. “I don’t know, Cyrus. You’ve already laid out a lot.”
Cyrus raised a finger at him. “You have to speculate to accumulate, Andre. What did I say that painting might be worth? Thirty million plus.” The finger went down, and Cyrus leaned back as if he’d just won an argument. “Now, tell me about your editor.”
Andre started to go through Camilla’s proposal, with occasional muttered remarks from Lucy, while Cyrus listened without speaking. As Andre was describing the details of the book and its publication, he sensed growing skepticism coming from his companions, and when he finished, it was with a shrug and the comment that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Even to him, this sounded rather lame.
Lucy was the first to break the short silence. “She’s a piece of work, Camilla. Does she really think you can take off for eighteen months just like that, with a few days’ notice? The woman’s crazy.” She turned to Cyrus. “As you may have noticed, I’m not a fan.”
“Lulu, it’s all possible.” Andre ticked off the points on his fingers. “She has the contacts, she has Garabedian’s money behind her, the idea makes sense, and she knows I don’t have much work coming in. Cyrus, what do you think?”
Cyrus was shaking his head. “Fishy, dear boy. Lulu’s quite right—it’s the timing. If I were a cynical man, I’d have to say that all the guff about exhibitions and foreign editions and God knows what else is a smoke screen. The whole pitch—and I admit it’s ingenious—is designed to get you on a plane. She wants you a long way away, preferably by yesterday.”