by Peter Mayle
Crouch licked the sweat from his top lip. “It’s still the most influential newspaper in Britain.”
“That’s one of the reasons my agency spends over four million pounds a year buying space in it.” Simon sighed, as if he were reluctant to dilute this happy statistic with bad news. “Of course, that’s always subject to review.”
Crouch’s eyes narrowed above the puffy folds of his cheeks.
“Some of that four million pounds goes towards paying your salary, Mr. Crouch. Have you ever thought of that? Probably not. Anyway, it’s not important.”
“No, Mr. Shaw, it’s not.” Crouch started to move away, but Simon held his arm.
“I haven’t quite finished. Let me put it as plainly as I can. If there is any mention of the hotel during the next six months, either in your column or through a plant in another paper, I’ll pull the advertising from the Globe. All of it.”
Crouch’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “You wouldn’t dare. You’re not dealing with one of your tinpot little printers. You’re dealing with the British press. My editor wouldn’t tolerate it.”
“I don’t deal with your editor. I deal with your owner. Your proprietor—” Simon repeated Crouch’s earlier condescending phrase—“isn’t that the term you people use? I have lunch with him two or three times a year. He’s a very practical man.”
Simon saw that Crouch’s hand was shaking. “Careful. You’re going to spill your champagne.”
“This is outrageous.” Crouch sucked at the contents of his glass, and it seemed to give him inspiration. The sneer returned. “You know that I could put this—this whole sordid little attempt at blackmail—on the front page, don’t you? It would make a nice story. A very nice story.”
Simon nodded. “Yes, I expect it would. And if it ever ran, three things would happen: I’d deny it. I’d pull the advertising. And I’d sue the shit out of you. Not the paper. You.”
The two men stared at each other for a few moments before Simon broke the hostile silence. “Another glass?”
“Fuck you.” Crouch lurched past Simon and went back, fast and slightly unsteady, to the table where the Valiums were sitting. Crouch spoke to them; they looked across at Simon and got up to leave.
Jojo and Claude, leaning over pastis at the bar, watched as Crouch and the Valiums pushed their way to the door, lips tight and faces set in expressions of irritated disdain. Jojo nudged his companion. “Ils sont en colère, les rosbifs.”
Claude shrugged. “C’est normal.” In his limited experience, the English he had come across were usually upset about something—the heat of the sun, the plumbing, slow progress on the chantier. They missed no opportunity for restrained despair. But at least most of them were polite, not arrogant like the Parisians. Jesus, the Parisians. He drained his glass and yawned. There was another training session with the General tomorrow, more torture. His backside was still sore from the last time. Bicycle saddles weren’t built for big men. “Alors, on y va?”
They went over to say goodnight to Simon. He wasn’t too bad, they thought, for an Englishman. They shook his hand hard. He was going to keep them in work all through the winter—comfortable indoor work.
Simon felt himself relax. Crouch would behave himself, he was sure. The poisonous little bastard had believed him, and he didn’t seem the kind of man with sufficient confidence and guts to take a risk. Nor did he have the journalist’s usual advantage of being able to hit and run, to escape from the repercussions of his writing and hide behind his editor, who was hundreds of miles away. An enemy in the village, Simon thought, would be easier to deal with than an enemy in London.
It was well past midnight by the time the last guest, a flushed and boozily affectionate Mayor Bonetto, hugged the three of them goodbye and staggered home to the café. Ernest cut off the Gypsy Kings in mid-wail and replaced them with Chopin. The room became calm. The wreckage—bottles, glasses, plates, and ashtrays everywhere, the food table picked clean—was gratifying to see, the chaotic evidence of a successful evening. Simon had to tilt the barrel of red wine to fill three glasses.
Tired, but not yet ready for bed, they compared social notes. Nicole’s bottom had been pinched by the mayor. The burglar alarm salesman had attempted to horrify Simon with local crime statistics. The real estate agents had hinted at a commission for every client they recommended to stay at the hotel. Duclos from the garage had proposed that the dilapidated Citroën ambulance he’d been unable to sell for eighteen months be used as a taxi for the guests. They could lie in the stretcher beds in the back, he said, and sleep all the way from the airport to Brassière. Or, for couples on their honeymoon …
“And what about that little man with the perspiration problem?” asked Ernest. “I saw you having a cosy chat in the corner, and then he slunk away with his friends—who, I must say, would be perfect if one ever wanted to hold a completely silent dinner party.”
Simon repeated his conversation with Crouch.
Nicole shook her head. “How complicated,” she said. “In France, it’s more simple. You give journalists money.” She shrugged. “C’est tout.”
“What do you do when they come back for more?” Simon yawned and stretched. “I think he’ll keep quiet until I’ve sorted everything out with the agency. After that, it doesn’t matter. What’s more important is that the villagers seemed happy.”
They sat for another half-hour as Nicole told them what she’d overheard. As she’d predicted, the people of Brassière saw the hotel as a source of diversion and possible profit. Their properties would increase in value; there would be more jobs; perhaps their children wouldn’t have to leave the village to find work—for them, tourism was attractive. The postcard version of the peasant’s life, picturesque and sunlit, was a long way from the grinding reality of disappointing crops, aching backs, and bank loans. A chance to earn a living in clean clothes would be welcome.
And so it was with some satisfaction that they blew out the candles and locked the door on the debris. It had been a good party, and in two days it would be Christmas.
Simon made the call about the time when he thought that Jordan would be two gins into Christmas Eve and beginning to feel a deepening gloom at the prospect of humouring his parents-in-law for the next few days.
“Helleau?” It was Jordan’s wife, competing with a dog barking in the background. “Percy, do shut up. Helleau?”
“Louise, I hope I’m not disturbing you. It’s Simon Shaw.”
“Simon, how are you? Happy Christmas. Percy, go and find your slipper, for God’s sake. Sorry, Simon.”
“Happy Christmas to you. I wonder if I could have a very quick word with Nigel.”
Simon heard Percy being scolded and the sound of footsteps on a wooden floor.
“Simon?”
“Nigel, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s important. Could you drag yourself up to London for a meeting on the twenty-seventh? I hate to ask you, but …”
“My dear fellow—” Jordan’s voice dropped to just above a whisper—“just between you and I, there’s nothing I’d like more. What’s it about?”
“Good news. Why don’t you pick me up at Rutland Gate in the morning and we’ll go on from there. How’s the car going?”
“Like a bird, old boy, like a bird.”
“See you on the twenty-seventh, then. Oh, and happy Christmas.”
There was a snort from Jordan. “Very little chance of that unless I lace the port.”
“They say cyanide does the trick. Have fun.”
Simon put down the phone and shook his head. The family Christmas always made him think of Bernard Shaw’s comment about marriage. What was it? “The triumph of optimism over experience”?
But he had to admit, by the time the short French Christmas was over, that he’d enjoyed it. They had eaten lunch outside on the sheltered terrace, wrapped in scarves and sweaters, walked for hours in the rough country behind the village, and gone to bed early, stunned by fresh air and heavy
red wine. The next day had been spent in the gendarmerie going over the plans until it was time to leave for the airport to catch the evening flight back to Heathrow. As he and Ernest drove out of the village and down into the valley, Simon thought it had been a long time since he’d looked forward to a new year with such anticipation.
London was dead, sunk in its Boxing Day stupor in front of the television. Rutland Gate felt like a stranger’s flat, and Simon passed a restless evening, missing Nicole, unable to concentrate on his notes for tomorrow’s meeting, wishing it were over and he were back in the warm little house on the top of the hill. Ziegler was going to be even more of a shock to the system than usual.
He woke early, inspected the empty fridge, and went out looking for somewhere he could get some breakfast. Sloane Street was quiet and grey, with some of the more desperate shops already festooned with Sale notices. As he walked past the Armani boutique, Simon wondered where Caroline had spent her Christmas. Saint-Moritz, probably, where she could change her outfit four times a day and mingle with the Eurotrash.
He went into the Carlton Tower Hotel and found the dining room, normally filled with men in suits having their first meeting of the morning, but now thinly populated with Americans and Japanese studying their guide books as they struggled with the delights of the traditional English breakfast. Simon ordered coffee and took out the draft press release he’d prepared. It was, he thought, a model of superficially significant nonsense, and he had managed to fit in several of his favorite clichés: the “consulting sabbatical” was there, cheek by jowl with the “detached global overview” and the “continuing close ties with the agency.” A masterpiece of woolliness. Jordan would probably want a paragraph in it about himself and his management team, but that was easily done. And Ziegler? He’d call it horseshit, and he’d be right. But he knew, as Simon did, that horseshit in advertising is the corporate cement that holds everything together.
Simon made his way along empty streets back to the flat and settled down with a cigar to wait for Jordan. In a couple of hours it would be done.
Jordan’s arrival was announced by a throaty burble from the Bentley as it swept into Rutland Gate, and Simon went out to meet him. He was encased in another of his bulletproof tweed suits, brown and bristly as a doormat, with a knitted tie the colour of catarrh.
“Morning, old boy. Survived the festivities?”
Simon got into the car and looked appreciatively at the dark brown leather and polished walnut. “Just about. And you?”
“No casualties so far. But this little break has come at the right moment, I can tell you. Nonstop bridge is seriously boring.” He looked at Simon, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “This is all frightfully mysterious. What’s going on?”
“We’re meeting Ziegler at Claridges, and I’m going to resign.”
Jordan grinned as he turned out of Rutland Gate. “Pull the other one, old boy.” He stamped on the accelerator, and the big car was doing seventy as it reached Hyde Park Corner, causing a taxi to give way with an angry blast of its horn. “What do you think of the motor?”
“I’d like it better if it slowed down. You take the next on the right for Claridges.”
Jordan cut across two lanes of traffic. “You’re not serious? About resigning?”
“If I live that long.”
Jordan said nothing, and Simon smiled to himself. The loudest noise in the car was the ticking of Jordan’s brain as he drew up outside the hotel.
Ziegler received them in his suite, dressed for jogging in a grey track suit and pneumatic running shoes. He frowned at the unexpected sight of Jordan. “What is this, a goddamn delegation?”
“Compliments of the season, Bob,” said Simon. “I hope you’re well?”
Ziegler looked at them suspiciously. Men in pairs usually meant collusion and trouble, in his experience. He decided to start off being pleasant. “Sure. What are you guys going to have? Juice? Coffee?”
Jordan consulted his watch. “Wouldn’t mind a glass of fizz, actually.” Ziegler looked puzzled. “Champagne.”
Ziegler called room service, and Simon shuffled the papers he’d brought as Jordan went through his cigarette selection routine.
“Okay.” Ziegler sat as far away from the smoking area as possible. “What’s the story?”
Simon took them through his plans slowly and unemotionally, emphasising his desire to make his departure appear to be a positive development for the agency, promising his co-operation and a gradual release of his shares to other directors. He had just given them copies of the press release when the champagne arrived. He got up to tip the waiter and stood by the door, watching the two men frowning over the release as they absorbed the news and calculated its effect on them. Ziegler would be delighted to see Simon go and leave him as undisputed master of the world. Jordan would get a bigger office and a bigger title to go with his big new car. Neither of them would miss him personally any more than he would miss them. It was just business, business and self-interest.
Jordan stood up and came over to Simon, his face doing its best to look solemn. He patted Simon’s shoulder. “You’ll be sorely missed, old boy. Sorely missed. Valued our friendship enormously.” He sighed gustily at the thought of losing his dear comrade and reached for the champagne. “Ah,” he said, “Perrier-Jouët ’85. Splendid.”
Ziegler began pacing up and down. Simon was distracted by his jogging shoes. They looked as if they were inflatable, and gave Ziegler the appearance of bouncing. “I don’t get it. You want to go run some rinky fucking dink hotel out in the boonies?” He stopped and swivelled to look at Simon, his head thrust forward like a dog examining an unexpected and possibly doctored bone. “You’re blowing smoke up my ass. There’s another agency.”
The room was silent except for the sound of Jordan’s unlit cigarette—tap, tap, tap on the gold case.
“No, Bob. Nothing like that, cross my heart. I’ve had enough, that’s all. I’m ready for a change.” Simon grinned. “Wish me luck and tell me you’ll miss me.”
Ziegler scowled. “What do you want, a chicken dinner and a goddamn medal? You give me a problem like this and I’m supposed to be pleased? Jesus.”
But underneath the bluster, Simon could tell that he was, and so was Jordan, and as they talked on into the late afternoon it became clear that neither of them wanted him to stay any longer than was absolutely necessary. In a matter of hours, his position had changed from indispensable to a potential embarrassment, an executive who had taken his eye off the corporate ball, a believer who had renounced his faith. People like that were disruptive, even dangerous, because they threatened to undermine the agency’s carefully cultivated aura of dedication.
Simon listened as Ziegler and Jordan went through the client list, assessing possible damage and discussing adjustments in top management. Not once did they ask his opinion, and he realised that he was already, in Ziegler’s terminology, history. The lawyers would take care of the details. He was out.
15
Ernest parked his old Armstrong Siddeley, dignified and gleaming, outside the flat in Rutland Gate. Today they were leaving for good, emigrating, driving down to a new life.
He let himself into the flat and found Simon kneeling on a swollen suitcase, cursing as he tried to close the locks. “Sorry about this, Ern. I never was a great packer. How much room is there in the car?”
Ernest joined him on the suitcase. “It might be just a tiny bit cramped, but we’ll manage. Is it just this one and the other two?” He snapped the locks shut. “There. Off we go.”
They carried the cases out to the car, and Ernest opened the trunk. “The big one we can squeeze in here, and the others can go on top of Mrs. Gibbons’s basket.”
Simon had forgotten about Mrs. Gibbons. “Where’s she going to sit?”
“Well, she does have this rather tiresome little habit—she’ll only travel in the passenger seat. If you put her behind, she gets terribly upset and eats the upholstery.”
“What about me?”
“You can be the English milor and sit in the back.”
Simon peered through the passenger window. Two pink eyes looked back at him, and Mrs. Gibbons sat up and yawned. She had, like all bull terriers, a pair of jaws that looked capable of cracking rocks. She cocked her head at Simon. One ragged white ear pricked up, and he heard a low, bubbling growl.
Ernest came round and opened the door. “We don’t want to hear any more of that nastiness. Now you come out and say hello to Mr. Shaw.” He turned to Simon. “Hold out your hand, dear, so she can have a sniff.”
Simon extended a tentative hand, which the dog examined carefully before hopping back into the car and curling up on the seat, one eye open and alert, the other closed.
“That’s not a dog, Ern. That’s more like a Japanese wrestler.”
“Appearances aren’t everything, dear. She has a very sweet disposition … usually.” Ernest opened the back door of the car and ushered Simon with a flourish into the seat next to the dog basket. “To France!”
They stopped for the night south of Paris at Fontainebleau and set off early the next morning, the old car keeping up a steady, silent sixty-five miles an hour, the sky becoming higher and brighter as they entered the Midi.
“We shall be in Brassière for the cocktail hour,” said Ernest. “And I happen to know that Nicole is making us a cassoulet.”
Simon leant forward, his elbows on the back of the passenger seat. Mrs. Gibbons opened a warning eye. “I’m glad that you and Nicole get on so well.”
“My dear, I can’t tell you what a relief she is after our last little venture. Incidentally, did you tell her that you were leaving?”
Simon had decided not to say anything to Caroline until he was safely in France. If she’d known he was leaving the jurisdiction of the English court, the lawyers would have been on him like flies. “No. I thought I’d drop her a note, tell her not to worry about the alimony. She’s got nothing to complain about.”