Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

  “Nobody in the family, I hope.”

  “Tempting, old boy, tempting. Specially the old trout.”

  Jordan’s back view as he left Simon’s office was jaunty and brisk, and Simon wondered if he’d have the patience to wait until the afternoon before picking up the Bentley. God, the money the agency spent on cars.

  The phone buzzed. “Mr. Shaw? I have Mr. Ashby’s secretary on the line.”

  It took Simon a few seconds to remember that Mr. Ashby was the senior Rubber Baron, a man who clearly liked to observe telephone protocol by making Simon—the supplier, and therefore the subordinate—hold on until he—the client, and therefore the master—was ready to speak. “Okay, Liz. Put her through.”

  “Mr. Shaw? I have Mr. Ashby for you.” Simon looked at the second hand on his watch, timing the wait and feeling hopeful. Prospective clients rarely called to tell you bad news; they preferred to write.

  “How are you today, Mr. Shaw? Beginning to feel festive, I hope?”

  “Not too bad, thanks. And yourself?”

  “Busy time of year for us, you know.” Simon vaguely recalled that the condom market peaked just before Christmas, presumably to cater to a surge in the nation’s libido brought on by office parties and invigorating amounts of alcohol. “Yes, the industry’s at full capacity, I’m happy to say. And I’m also pleased to tell you that the CMB has decided to appoint your agency with effect from January first.”

  “That’s marvellous news, Mr. Ashby. I couldn’t be happier, and I know my colleagues will be delighted. They were particularly excited about the advertising they produced for you.”

  “Ah, yes.” Mr. Ashby paused. “Well, we shall need to have a little chat about that as soon as the holidays are out of the way. Some of our chaps feel that … well, it’s a little near the knuckle.”

  Simon smiled to himself. The knuckle was one of the few parts of the anatomy that hadn’t appeared in the commercial.

  Ashby hurried on. “Anyway, that’s something our chaps can discuss with your chaps. The main thing is, we were all most impressed by your document. Very sound. And of course, the agency’s track record.”

  Simon had heard the death knell sounded for advertising campaigns many times before, and he was hearing it again now. But he didn’t care. He’d be a long way away by the time the chaps got together. “I’m sure we’ll be able to iron out any creative problems, Mr. Ashby. Very few campaigns are born perfect.”

  “Splendid, splendid.” Ashby sounded relieved. “I knew the two of us would see eye to eye. Let the young Turks lock horns, eh? Well, I must fly. I take it we can count on your discretion until the letters have gone out to the other agencies?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, good, good. Must have lunch in the new year. A great deal to discuss. The market’s expanding, you know. The sales curve is going up very satisfactorily.”

  Simon restrained himself from making the obvious comment. “I’m very pleased to hear it. And thank you for the news. The agency will have a very happy Christmas. I hope you do too.”

  “Jolly good,” said Ashby. “We’ll be in touch after the holidays.”

  Simon went through to Liz’s office. “Elizabeth, we are now one of the very few agencies that will be able to purchase condoms at cost price, direct from the factory. Aren’t you thrilled?”

  Liz looked up from some letters and gave him her sweetest smile. “Real men have vasectomies, Mr. Shaw,” she said. “And you’re late for your lunch appointment.”

  The business year was over. Simon had fed and watered his most important clients, circulated dutifully at the office party, dispensed bonuses and raises, and reduced Liz to tears with his present of a Cartier watch. Now it was his turn.

  He had decided to give himself for Christmas ninety minutes of total luxury and privilege, one last glorious rip of extravagance before leaving the agency. He had always hated Heathrow, hated the seething scrum at the check-in desk, hated being herded through the airport, told to hurry up, told to wait. It was unreasonable, he knew, but he hated it just the same. And so, this time, he was taking the billionaire’s alternative. He had chartered a jet—a modest seven-seater—to fly him from London to the little airport outside Avignon.

  The car pulled up outside the private aircraft terminal, and Simon followed the porter who had taken his luggage into the building. A girl was waiting just inside the door.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Shaw for Avignon, is that right?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “If you’d like to follow me, we’ll just go through passport control. Your luggage is being taken to the plane, and your pilot’s waiting for you.”

  My pilot, thought Simon. This is the life for the weary executive. The immigration officer handed back his passport, and Simon looked around for someone in a uniform.

  A tall man in a well-cut dark suit smiled at him and came forward. “Mr. Shaw? Tim Fletcher. I’m your pilot. We’ve got our slot, and everything seems to be taking off on schedule today, so we should be in Avignon by 1800 local time. We’ll just get you settled in the aircraft and I’ll get on with the driving.”

  Simon went up the steps and ducked into the sleek white plane. The interior smelt faintly of leather, like a new car. The girl who had met him was already on board. She came out of the tiny galley in the back.

  “Let me take your jacket and hang it up. Do you need anything from the pockets—cigarettes, cigars?”

  “Are cigars allowed?”

  “Oh, yes. A lot of our clients are cigar smokers.” She took his jacket. “May I offer you a glass of champagne while we’re waiting for takeoff? Or we have single-malt Scotch, vodka—”

  “Champagne would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Simon chose a seat, loosened his tie, and stretched his legs as the girl served the champagne. By the side of the glass she placed a box of Upmann extra-long cigar matches. It was the kind of detail Ernest would have approved of, he thought. A pity he’d had to go on ahead last week. He’d have enjoyed this.

  The plane started taxiing to its takeoff position, and Simon opened the folder that Liz had given him just before he left—cuttings of articles, a short CV, and a black-and-white head shot. The material had been compiled at Simon’s request as the result of a conversation with Nicole. It was a brief introduction to the life and works of Ambrose Crouch.

  Simon glanced through the CV. A minor public school; an undistinguished performance at university; a list of jobs in publishing and journalism; two novels, now out of print. Success had eluded Mr. Crouch, and this was reflected in his face—middle-aged and slightly puffy, with a thin-lipped mouth and unfriendly eyes; a dissatisfied, belligerent face.

  The articles, a selection of his recent columns from the Sunday Globe, were bile disguised as environmental concern. Crouch, it appeared, was opposed to anything more modern than a donkey. From his mediaeval refuge in Provence, he looked with horror at supermarkets, high-speed trains, autoroutes, and property development. Progress appalled him, and tourism infuriated him. With impartial xenophobia, he sneered at everyone—Dutch, Swiss, German, or British—who dared to visit what he constantly referred to as his village, driving their ostentatious cars, dressed in their vulgar bright clothes. “Vulgar” was a word that cropped up frequently.

  Simon looked through the final sheet in the folder, statistics about the Globe’s readership and advertising revenue, and wondered what kind of following Crouch had. Full of malice and snobbery though his work was, the man could certainly write. It was also certain that he would see the hotel as an irresistible target. Curiosity would make him turn up at the party, and a venomous column would follow very shortly afterwards. It was a problem that Simon hadn’t anticipated. How could he have known that a rogue journalist was going to be living on his doorstep? He looked again at the circulation statistics, and an idea began to form in his mind.

  “Some more champagne, Mr. Shaw?” The girl filled his glass. “Another twenty minutes and w
e’ll be there.”

  Simon smiled his thanks, closed the folder, and tried to forget about Crouch. He was going to spend Christmas in Provence, Christmas with Nicole. He felt the champagne prickle his tongue and looked out of the window at the pink-and-mauve glow left by the setting sun.

  The plane touched down, turned off the runway, and rolled to a stop a hundred yards from the terminal. The flight had been a pleasure—not quite a bargain, at a little over four thousand pounds more than the regular economy fare, but a fitting way to end a career largely subsidised by expenses, Simon thought.

  He looked for someone to show his passport to, but the immigration desk was empty, the arrivals area deserted. He shrugged and walked through to meet Nicole—a momentary flutter in his pulse as she came towards him with her coat swinging away from her legs, her face lit up by a smile that he felt in his stomach. He bent down and kissed her neck and stood back to take a look at her.

  “You’re far too chic to be hanging around an airport meeting an out-of-work executive.” He grinned and touched her cheek. “You’ve been having lunch in Avignon with that elderly lover of yours. I can tell.”

  Nicole straightened his tie and winked. “Of course. He buys me diamonds and silk lingerie.”

  “I’ve brought some smoked salmon,” Simon said. “Will that do?”

  They walked over to the baggage claim area, Simon’s arm round her shoulder, the movement of her hip smooth against his thigh. “I’m afraid there’s quite a lot of stuff,” he said. “Ern gave me an enormous shopping list. How is he?”

  “Happy. Very excited. He’s cooking for us tonight. I took him to buy truffles at Richerenches.”

  As they drove back into the hills, Nicole gave Simon a progress report. He would see a lot of changes: the pool was almost finished, the terraces cleared, preparations made for the party. Ernest had found a tiny house to rent in the village. Blanc was optimistic, the villagers curious but friendly.

  “How about Crouch?”

  Nicole’s expression, in the half-light, looked as though she had smelt something unpleasant. “I sent him an invitation. He came to the gendarmerie, asking questions, but Blanc told him nothing. He’s vaseux, you know? What did Ernest say? Slimy. Is that right?”

  “Probably. We’ll find out tomorrow.” Simon put his hand on Nicole’s thigh and squeezed. “I missed you.”

  They drove up the hill, and Simon saw that the village was dressed for the holidays. Both churches were floodlit, and coloured lights on a frame slung between two plane trees wished everyone Joyeuses Fêtes. The butcher and the baker displayed bottles of champagne in their windows, and a poster on the café door announced a grand Christmas Loto, first prize a microwave oven, second prize a leg of lamb from Sisteron, nombreuses bouteilles for the runners-up.

  Simon got out of the car and looked up at the vast, cold sky. He took a deep breath, clean air and wood smoke. Very soon, this would be home. Nicole was watching him as he looked around.

  “Happy?”

  “It’s wonderful.” He leaned his elbows on the roof of the car. The mist of his breath floated upwards, transparent against the lights from the café, and as a man came out he heard a gust of laughter through the open door. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be, specially at Christmas.” He straightened up and shivered. “You go on. I’ll bring the bags.”

  The house, now familiar to Simon, was warm and full of music. Ernest was going through a Puccini phase, and the voice of Mirella Freni poured through the room, pure and sweet. Simon piled the bags in the hall and went through to the kitchen, sniffing the air to catch the gamey scent of truffles, smiling as Ernest, dapper in dark blue sweater and slacks, handed him a glass.

  “How are you, Ern? Surviving?”

  “Full of the joys, dear. What a busy time we’ve had these last few days! I think you’ll be pleased. How about you? I want to hear all about the office party. Drunkenness and licence everywhere as usual, I suppose. I hope several people disgraced themselves.” He raised his glass. “Welcome back.”

  Nicole came down the stairs and joined them as they laughed and talked, trying to follow the gossip about the agency. She wondered if Simon would miss all that when he finally left it for the quiet, closed life of the village.

  “… And then,” Simon was saying, “Jordan’s wife arrived to pick him up while he was in the conference room with Valerie from the art department—”

  “The tall creature with the bottom?”

  “That’s the one. So I had to park the wife in my office with a copy of Horse & Hound while I went to find him.” Simon stopped to take a drink. “Do you know, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him with his waistcoat undone.”

  Ernest shuddered dramatically. “Don’t go on, dear. I can just imagine the whole squalid spectacle.”

  Simon turned to Nicole. “I’m sorry—it’s not very interesting when you don’t know the people. No more social news from London, I promise.”

  Nicole was looking puzzled. “Why didn’t they go to an hotel?”

  “Ah,” said Simon, “a Frenchman would have done that, but there’s this tradition at British office parties—love among the filing cabinets. It’s cheaper.”

  Nicole wrinkled her nose. “It’s not at all elegant.”

  “No, you can’t often accuse us of elegance, I suppose. But we can be very loveable.” He leaned over and kissed her.

  “Don’t spoil your appetite,” Ernest said. “We have omelette aux truffes and a simply enormous rabbit in mustard sauce. And after the cheese, I am poised to make a chocolate soufflé, unless we feel that would be too many eggs.” He looked at them enquiringly. “How is our cholesterol?”

  During dinner, they discussed the work that had been done so far on the hotel and the details of the following night’s party. Ernest was in his element, rhapsodising over the food and the flowers that were being delivered in the morning, confident that the evening would be the social event of the Brassière year.

  “There’s only one thing that bothers me,” Simon said. “It’s that journalist.”

  Ernest raised his eyebrows. “Why should you worry about him?”

  “Normally, I wouldn’t. But the timing’s awkward. I’ve got a meeting set up in London for the twenty-seventh to tell Ziegler and Jordan what I’m doing. Then the clients have to be told. By us, the way we want them to hear it. If anything gets out before then, particularly in the press, we’ll have a lot of explaining to do. You know what the business is like, Ern.” Simon sighed and reached for a cigar. “I should have thought of it before.”

  The other two were silent while Simon clipped his cigar and lit it, frowning as he watched the blue smoke rising above the table. “I’ve got an idea that might work, but he’s not going to like it.”

  “Disembowelment?” said Ernest.

  Simon laughed and felt better. He’d dealt with journalists before. Why should Crouch be any different? “That’s one way of putting it, Ern.”

  Simon was woken up by the sun slanting through the bedroom window. Beside him, the sheets were still warm from Nicole’s body, and he heard the hiss of the coffee machine coming from the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clothes that had been tossed hurriedly over the back of a chair the night before. Lust comes to the middle-aged man, he thought, and very nice too.

  Now he could smell the coffee, and it dragged him out of bed, through the bathroom to pick up a towelling robe, and down the stairs. Nicole was waiting for the coffee jug to fill, dressed in one of Simon’s shirts, the hand on her hip pulling the shirttail up to the top of her thighs.

  “Good morning, Madame Bouvier. I’ve got a message for you.”

  She turned her head and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Oui?”

  “You’re wanted in the bedroom.”

  She poured the coffee and brought it over to the table, pushed Simon down into a chair, and sat on his lap. “Ernest is coming in five minutes.” She kissed him. “And you have a very busy morning
.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for.”

  They were only halfway through the big bowls of coffee when there was a knock on the door. Simon watched Nicole run up the stairs and was thinking about a siesta as he let Ernest in.

  “We couldn’t have hoped for a more glorious day, dear.” He tilted his head and looked down his nose at Simon’s bathrobe. “But I dare say you haven’t noticed the weather.”

  “Jet lag, Ern. Otherwise I’d have been up hours ago. Help yourself to coffee while I get organised.”

  There were still white smudges of frost in the shadows as the two men left the house and walked down to the square, past the steamed-up windows of the café and the old plane trees, now bare of leaves and pruned back to their mottled grey knuckles. The light was piercing, the sky a hard blue. Except for the lack of green among the vines below the village and the bite in the air, it could have been a day in early summer.

  The parking area opposite the gendarmerie was crowded with vans and trucks. Monsieur Blanc’s BMW, the successful architect’s trademark, was the only vehicle that wasn’t scarred and dusty.

  “He comes every day, Monsieur Blanc,” said Ernest, “and he’s quite strict with those poor boys working all day in the cold. Why they don’t wear gloves and mufflers, I don’t know.” They stopped in front of the entrance. Wooden shutters had been put up at the windows, and a temporary but solid door of thick planks. Ernest pushed it open. “Now then,” he said, “don’t expect the Connaught, but it’s coming along.”

  The huge room shone with sunlight. A fire was already blazing, with stacks of oak logs arranged at either side of the hearth. On a long trestle table, covered with a cloth of red, white, and blue, a forest of bottles and glasses stretched from one end to the other, with a fifty-litre barrel of red wine in the centre. Smaller tables and chairs were placed in groups around black braziers, and a second long table was piled with plates. The middle of the room was dominated by a Christmas tree that touched the high ceiling, its branches looped with scarlet ribbon. At intervals around the walls, fat candles were set on antique iron candlesticks six feet high.