by Peter Mayle
Nicole smiled as she put the phone back in its cradle. Emma was good for her, always had been, ever since the divorce—permanently cheerful, addicted to gossip, kind, and happily married to an older man who did something important in Brussels. It had been too long since they’d seen each other.
Emma’s flat was in a crescent of ruddy brick buildings behind Harrods, solid and self-important like the Victorians who had built them. Nicole found a space between two Range Rovers, and wondered why anyone living in central London would need a car that was designed to conquer the wilderness. She took her bags up the marble steps and pressed the button beside the mahogany door, flinching at the shriek of welcome that came from the entry phone.
Emma was waiting at the door of the flat, a small, glossy woman with formidable earrings. Her hair, which changed colour with the discovery of each new treasure of a hairdresser, was tawny today, with blond highlights. The two women pecked cheeks enthusiastically.
“Lovely to see you, darling—and still bronzée! My God, I feel like a slug.”
They held each other at arm’s length for the mutual assessment that was necessary after three years.
“You look wonderful, Emma. I love your hair.”
“I’ve been going to Bruno in Beauchamp Place—an absolute poppet, and frightfully indiscreet. They see all the face-lift marks, you know, hairdressers. You’d be amazed who’s had them. Come on in.”
The flat was light and high-ceilinged, prosperously decorated and furnished. Whatever Julian did in Brussels, Nicole thought, it certainly paid well. “How is he, Julian?” she asked.
Emma was pouring two glasses of wine. “Desperately bored with the EEC, and rather peeved with the French, actually, who seem to spend the entire time either being difficult or having lunch. I’d love him to give it up, but of course we need the pennies. Very dreary. Here you are, darling.”
They sat opposite each other in plump armchairs covered in faded chintz. “Now then,” said Emma, “I want to hear all about the new man. Has he got a twinkle in his eye?”
Nicole smiled and shrugged. “Oh, maybe. I don’t know. I only saw him twice. It just seemed like good luck with the car—a chance to come over and see you.”
Emma cocked her head. “Sweet of you, darling, but I don’t believe a word of it. When are you seeing him?”
“I have to call him at his office.” She looked in her bag for the card Simon had given her. “Somewhere in Knightsbridge.”
“You go over there and call him, darling, and I’ll pretend not to listen.”
Nicole got through to Liz, who told her that Mr. Shaw, unfortunately, was at a client lunch. But he had left a message. Would Nicole be free to join him for a drink at Rutland Gate, and then dinner?… Yes? Good, he will be pleased. He’s terribly grateful about the car. About six-thirty, then?
Emma looked at Nicole’s face as she came back and sat down. “I have a feeling I shall be left to nibble my fish fingers all by myself this evening.”
Nicole tried to look apologetic. “I hate to leave you on the first night.”
“Nonsense, darling. You’re quivering with anticipation already, I can tell. Now, what are you going to wear? Do you want to borrow some earrings?”
It took Nicole five minutes to drive to Rutland Gate and twenty minutes to find a parking space. She looked at her watch as she walked along the pavement, which was slippery with fallen leaves and booby-trapped with offerings left by the neighbourhood dogs. God, the English and their dogs. She wondered if Simon had one. It was just after seven as she rang the doorbell and pushed back her hair, feeling pleasantly nervous.
The door was opened by Ernest, trim in a dark grey suit and pink shirt, eyebrows raised as if surprised to find anyone on the doorstep. “Good evening,” he said. “You must be Madame Bouvier.”
Nicole smiled and nodded.
“Please.” Ernest stood back to let her in, and followed her down the hall. She could feel that she was being studied from behind as Ernest continued talking. “Mr. Shaw only got back himself a few minutes ago, but he won’t be a moment. If you’d like to make yourself comfortable on that hideous couch—practically impossible, I know—I’ll get you a glass of champagne.” He looked back over his shoulder as he went into the kitchen. “We’re renting, you see, while we look for something more suitable.”
Nicole heard him sniff loudly, and then the muffled pop of a champagne cork. Ernest’s head suddenly appeared round the kitchen door. “I’ve quite forgotten my manners. Perhaps you’d prefer Scotch? Sherry?”
“Champagne is very nice. Thank you.”
Ernest brought out a small silver tray with a flute of champagne, a bowl of macadamia nuts, and a small linen napkin and arranged them carefully on the low table in front of Nicole. “Voilà.”
“You speak French?”
“Like a terribly backward schoolboy. But I do have the most expressive shrug, although I say it myself.” He twitched his shoulders at her and put one hand on his hip. “Very Gallic, don’t you think?”
Nicole laughed and raised her glass to him. “Santé.”
There were hurried footsteps on the parquet floor, and Simon came into the room, his hair still damp from the shower, spotted tie slightly crooked. “I’m sorry.” He looked at Nicole apologetically and grinned. “Still speaking to me?” He bent down to kiss her. As his lips touched the scented skin of her cheek he wished he’d shaved again. Their eyes met for two seconds longer than was socially necessary.
“Hello, Simon.”
“A glass of champagne for you, Mr. Shaw?”
“Thank you, Ernest.” Simon stepped back and took the glass and held it up to Nicole. “To the chauffeur. It was very kind of you. I hope it wasn’t too much of a bore.”
Nicole wanted to straighten his tie. “No, really …”
Ernest delivered a small but emphatic cough. “Well, I shall take myself off to the leafy glades of Wimbledon.” He looked at Simon. “Unless you need me for anything.”
“I don’t think so, Ern, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ernest inclined his head towards Nicole. “Bon appétit, madame.”
“Merci, Airnest.”
“Ah, ‘Airnest,’ ” he repeated. “It does have a ring to it, doesn’t it? So much nicer than ‘Ern.’ Goodnight.”
The front door closed behind him, and Nicole laughed. “He’s an original, isn’t he? I like him. How long has he been with you?”
Simon told her about Ernest and the early days of the agency, when it had been fun—the time when Ernest had pretended to be a client to impress a visiting bank manager, his feuds with ex-wives and secretaries, his disdain for office politicians, his persistent and undemanding loyalty.
“You’re very close with him, aren’t you?”
Simon nodded. “I trust him. He’s about the only person I do.” He looked at his watch. “We should be going. I’ve made a reservation at an Italian restaurant—I hope that’s okay. I thought you’d like a change from French cooking.”
As Simon stood aside to let Nicole through the door, she stopped. “Sorry. Impossible to resist.” He looked down at her and felt a tightness in his throat as she straightened his tie. “I suppose Ernest usually does that, non?”
“I think he gave me up as a slob a long time ago.”
“Slob? What’s a slob?”
While they walked to the car, Simon explained about slobs; and as they drove through Hyde Park towards Kensington, he was conscious of her closeness and realised that he hadn’t been out with a woman in London for months. Nicole watched his profile as he talked, the straight nose and determined jaw, the dark hair that needed cutting, the formality of his tie and suit. He had looked more comfortable in Provence, she thought.
The restaurant that Simon had chosen was still enjoying the patronage of that small, apparently recession-proof nucleus of Londoners who treat dinner as a spectator sport. For six months, maybe a year, they fight for tables, cultivate the head waiter, and wave t
o each other across barely noticed food. The restaurant becomes hysterically fashionable. The owner dreams of early retirement in Tuscany or Ischia while the waiters flourish their pepper mills, their Parmesan cheese, and their olive oil—“extra vergine, signorina”—with increasing familiarity. And then, quite suddenly, the nucleus moves on, to be replaced by sensible couples from the Home Counties who are prepared to put up with the noise and the prices because they have heard that this is the new temple of glamour, garnished with white truffles, sun-dried tomatoes, and one or two minor members of the media aristocracy.
Simon had known Gino, the manager, since they were both struggling, many years and many restaurants ago. He greeted Nicole and Simon with a genuine smile and showed them to a table in the corner, arranging Nicole’s napkin on her lap with obvious enjoyment.
“Don’t make a beast of yourself, Gino.”
“Eh.” Gino beamed. “It’s natural. I’m Italian. Signorina, a drink?”
Nicole looked at Simon. “I don’t know. Some white wine?”
Gino snapped his fingers at a waiter. “A bottle of Pino Grigio for the signorina.” He handed out the menus, kissed his fingertips, and trotted off to the front of the restaurant, smile at the ready, to welcome a group of young men and women in black clothes and sunglasses.
“So.” Nicole glanced round the crowded room, mirrored and marbled and pink and black. “This is where the chic people eat in London. Do you come often?”
“No, not really. I’m usually with clients in the evening, and they like the more formal places—the Gavroche, or the Connaught. Here they wouldn’t feel important enough.” He shrugged. “They’re not the most amusing people in the world, most of them.” He tried the wine and nodded at the waiter. “But then I’m not much better myself at the moment. I haven’t finished a book for months, haven’t been to the movies. If I’m not in the agency I’m on a plane.” He stopped abruptly and smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s very boring. What would you like to eat?”
They looked at the menu, unaware that they were the subject of considerable speculation at a table on the other side of the restaurant, where a group of Caroline’s friends were studying Nicole.
“Simon seems to be getting over the divorce, I see.”
“Who is she? One of his clients?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rupert. Clients don’t dress like that. I’m going to the ladies’.”
The woman got up and zigzagged through the tables, feigning interest in the contents of her handbag until she was close enough to pounce. “Simon, darling! What a nice surprise. How lovely to see you!”
Simon looked up from the menu and got to his feet, dutifully kissing the air two inches away from the proffered cheek. “Hello, Sophie. How are you?”
“Fine, darling.” She looked past Simon at Nicole. “It’s been ages.” She showed no sign of moving.
Simon gave in with minimal politeness. “Nicole, this is Sophie Lawson.” The two women exchanged nods and bright, insincere smiles.
“Nicole …?”
“Bouvier,” said Nicole. “How do you do?”
“What a charming accent. Well, I mustn’t keep you. Do call, Simon, and we’ll have dinner. We never see you these days. I don’t know where you’ve been hiding yourself.”
“Have you tried looking in the office?”
“Ah, yes. The office.” With a twitch of a smile and a final sideways glance at Nicole, she continued on her way, mission accomplished.
Nicole laughed. “You were not nice with her.”
“I can’t stand the bloody woman. One of Caroline’s poisonous friends. She’ll spend the whole evening keeping an eye on us, and she’ll be on the phone first thing tomorrow morning to tell Caroline all about it.”
They ordered, and Simon tried to ignore the sensation that they were being watched. “Tell me about Provence,” he said. “What’s it like in the winter?”
“Very quiet … sometimes very cold. We make big fires and drink too much red wine and read, and there’s skiing. I sometimes think I like it better than summer.” She picked up her glass, and Simon noticed that she was still wearing her wedding ring.
“We?”
“The people who live in the Lubéron all year round.”
“I loved it down there. It’s very beautiful.”
“You should come again. But next time, don’t drive your car in the fields.”
They both laughed, and the group at the table on the other side of the restaurant thought that they were beginning to look very cosy. Poor Caroline. Sophie could hardly wait to tell her.
Nicole ate with a good appetite, pasta and osso bucco and plenty of bread. It was a pleasant change, Simon thought, from watching Caroline pushing salad round her plate. He realised how much he liked to watch a woman enjoying food—the slight frown of concentration as meat was cut away from bone, the occasional flick of a pink tongue at the corner of the mouth, the small sounds of appreciation.
“You eat like a cat,” he said.
“No, I think more like a routier.” Nicole patted her lips with her napkin, drank some wine, and reached for her cigarettes. Simon held a match for her, and she touched his hand as she leant towards the flame. Sophie Lawson looked at her watch and wondered if it was too late to call Caroline.
The restaurant was becoming quieter now. Simon ordered coffee and lit a cigar. “What are you going to do while you’re in London?”
“Nothing special. I’ll spend some time with Emma, but I have to be back for the weekend. A friend from Paris is coming down. Besides, I don’t like to be too long in a city now. The country is better for me.”
Simon thought about his weekend—Saturday in the office, Sunday collapsed over the newspapers or in front of the television, waiting for Monday morning when it would start all over again.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “You enjoy where you’re living. A lot of people don’t.”
“You?”
Simon shook his head. “I live in an office.”
“Do you have to?”
“I think I’d better have a drink before I answer that. Would you like a glass of champagne?” Nicole smiled and nodded. Simon beckoned to a waiter, who called over to the barman.
“Well!” said Sophie Lawson as she was getting up to leave. “Did you hear that? Champagne, my dear! Do you think he’s going to drink it out of her shoe?” She fluttered her fingers at Simon from across the room. “Do call, darling.”
Simon nodded goodbye with a sense of relief, and leaned back as he considered Nicole’s question. She remained silent, her chin resting on one hand, looking at his face—a tired face, she thought, with a lined forehead and that grey streak in one eyebrow, and sad.
“So tell me,” she said, “why do you have to live in an office if you don’t want to?”
“I suppose I don’t have to, really. It’s a habit, the way I’ve been living for years.”
“And now you don’t enjoy it.”
“I stopped enjoying it a long time ago.” Simon stared into his champagne and shrugged. “I don’t know. It pays the alimony. I’ve often thought about doing something else—I nearly bought a share in a vineyard once—but there’s always some crisis at the agency, so you deal with that, and the next one, and then you suddenly realise that six months have gone by and you’ve done nothing except—”
“Except make money?”
“Exactly. And so you buy a new car or a new house and tell yourself that living well is the best revenge—it’s like a consolation prize for being bored and having to work during weekends and not liking what you do very much.” Simon drew on his cigar and frowned. “I don’t make it sound very attractive, do I? The poor old advertising man, suffering in luxury, dragging himself from the Concorde to the Mercedes to the restaurant.” He smiled. “Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?”
They were both quiet while they considered the problem of affluent dissatisfaction, a problem which Nicole found some difficulty taking seriously. She wondered i
f this was the moment to tell Simon about the idea she’d had, but decided against it. She didn’t know enough yet, didn’t even know if it would be possible. She should have found out from the notaire if the place was still for sale before she left Brassière.
She caught him looking at her, and her mouth turned down in mock sympathy. “Poor little rich man,” she said. “It’s a terrible life, with the cigars and the champagne and the Airnest to take care of you. Quelle tristesse!” She rolled her eyes upwards and laughed.
Simon shook his head. “You’re quite right. It’s pathetic. I should do something about it.” He finished his champagne and called for the bill. “But what?”
Nicole decided to call the notaire tomorrow. “Think of something you enjoy to do.”
“Let’s have dinner tomorrow. That would be a start.”
They left the restaurant in a state of tentative excitement, reluctant for the evening to end, each wondering if the other felt the same way. Nicole slipped her arm through Simon’s, and he enjoyed it like a caress.
As he unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for Nicole, the phone was beeping. Instinctively, he picked it up, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was Liz.
“I’m sorry to call you so late, but I didn’t want to give Mr. Ziegler the restaurant’s number.”
“Thank God for that.” Simon looked over at Nicole and smiled an apology. “What does he want that can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Well, I’m afraid he’d like you to be in New York tomorrow. He says it’s absolutely vital.” Simon could hear the rustle of paper as Liz looked through her notes. “Parker Foods worldwide, three hundred million dollars. Mr. Parker’s coming to the agency tomorrow afternoon. Apparently he wants to make a quick decision.”
Simon stared through the windscreen. Here we go again, jumping through the hoop like a well-paid seal. Bloody Ziegler. He certainly picked his moments.
“Mr. Shaw?”
“Yes, Liz. Sorry.”
“I’ve booked you on Concorde. You should be there in plenty of time. Mr. Ziegler would like you to call him tonight. He’ll be in the office until eight, and then at Lutèce. Do you want the number there?”