by Peter Mayle
A separate table for ten had been laid on the terrace, decorated with shallow bowls of Ernest’s favourite pink-tinged white roses. Candlelight picked up the gleam of silver and glass and the long green necks of the champagne bottles that had been placed in ice buckets between the flowers. The frogs who had taken up residence around the fountain creaked an intermittent chorus, and a scatter of stars hung in the warm sky above the Lubéron.
Nicole and Simon made their way down the steps towards the sound of laughter which drifted up from the pool house bar. Simon heard a loud, familiar voice rise above the conversation and transferred his cigars to the inside pocket of his jacket. Uncle William was holding court.
“I see it now,” he was saying to a politely smiling Hampton Parker, “the vast sweep of Texas, the towering canyons of New York, the rustic simplicity of our little corner of Provence—a triptych, something on the grand scale.” He paused to drain his glass and held it out to the barman. “The instant your dear son suggested it, I was intrigued—nay, fascinated. And now, having seen your head—”
“My head?” said Parker.
“Has nobody ever told you? Distinct resemblance to one of the Caesars. Augustus, if I’m not mistaken.”
Ernest, passing by, raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes upwards. He was wearing his own version of traditional Provençal dress—white shirt, black trousers and waistcoat—with the added refinement of a wide pink and green striped cummerbund. He swept across to the bottom of the steps, a glass in each hand, and looked approvingly at Nicole.
“How nice it is,” he said, “to see a proper frock. You look the picture of elegance, madame.”
Simon bent forward to look more closely at the cummerbund. “I didn’t know you were a member of the Garrick Club, Ern.”
“I’m not, dear, but I adore the colours. Now come along. Everyone’s here.”
Parker’s bodyguards, in suits and boots and slightly bemused expressions, were listening to Uncle William’s views on the impressionists. Boone, scrubbed and cheerful, was gazing discreetly but with great interest down the front of the new dress that Françoise was at last able to demonstrate, a champagne flush beginning to colour her cheeks. Hampton Parker, in fluent, heavily accented French, was in deep conversation with Madame Pons, who had left the final arrangements to the sous-chef and was wearing her smartest, most flowing tent of dark blue bombazine and vertiginous high heels. Mrs. Gibbons prospected for fallen peanuts and sleeping lizards, the red, white, and blue ribbon that Ernest had threaded through her collar giving her the air of a disreputable regimental mascot.
Nicole tucked a hand under Simon’s arm. “Feeling better?”
He nodded. This was how he’d imagined it all those months ago: perfect weather, happy people, dinner under the stars, a dreamer’s idea of running a hotel. He’d never anticipated that it took so much more than money: physical stamina, patience, tact, endless attention to detail, a passion for hospitality—all the qualities that Ernest had shown since the hotel opened.
“It’s funny,” he said to Nicole. “When I woke up this evening, I finally admitted something to myself. I’m one of life’s guests. I’m a terrific guest. But I don’t think I’ll ever make much of a host.”
She squeezed his arm. “I know. But you tried.”
There was the sound of a knife tapping against glass, and conversation stopped. Ernest looked round the group and lifted his glass. “Before we expire from pleasure at the dinner dear Madame Pons has prepared for us, I’d like to propose a toast to our guest of honour.”
Uncle William composed his expression into what he hoped was a suitably modest smile and glanced down to make sure his fly was done up.
“Here’s to young Boone. Welcome back, safe and sound. We missed you.”
Boone ducked his head and shuffled his feet as the toast was drunk, and raised his beer can in silent thanks. Hampton Parker offered Madame Pons his arm, and they led the way, bodyguards three paces behind, up the stairs to dinner.
It was, as they all told Madame Pons in French or English or Texan, a masterpiece. The terrine of fresh vegetables, worthy of Troisgros, with its Technicolor mosaic of peas and carrots and artichokes and match-thin haricots bright against the pale farce of ham and egg white; the caviar of aubergines, wrapped in pink overcoats of smoked salmon and prickled with chives; a sorbet of rosemary to clear the palate for red wine and meat; the Sisteron lamb, rosy and aromatic with herbs and roast garlic, and Boone’s weakness, potato tart, to mop up the juice; a dozen cheeses, from goat to cow to sheep and back to goat; chilled white peaches with raspberry sauce and basil; coffee, the marc from Châteauneuf that warms without burning, and the grey-blue smoke of cigars curling above the candlelight.
Even Uncle William was sufficiently tranquillised into silence by the pleasure of the moment, forgetting his artistic career as he puffed contentedly at the last of Simon’s Havanas. The conversation, made lazy by full stomachs and good wine, was sporadic and quiet. The waiters came with more coffee; Boone and Françoise made their excuses and disappeared into the darkness; and Ernest and Madame Pons, her glass screwed firmly into her hand, went to close down the kitchen. Hampton Parker looked across the table at Uncle William, who had begun to snore, and smiled at Nicole and Simon.
“Think he’ll be safe with my boys while we take a stroll?”
They left the bodyguards and the reclining artist and walked through the garden to the pool house. Hampton Parker talked reflectively, with the confidence of a man who was used to being listened to. The shock of Boone’s kidnapping had made him think about his own life—most of it spent on planes and in offices, doing deals, making more money than he knew what to do with. He was diversifying, he said, nothing too big—a tiny island in the Caribbean, an old and famous restaurant in Paris, a few miles of salmon fishing in Scotland—the kind of self-indulgent investments he could enjoy—if he ever had the time. He stopped to look over the valley towards the mountains.
“Boone’s taken quite a shine to this place,” he said. “We were talking this afternoon. Talked a lot. You know something? He doesn’t want to come back to the States just yet. Says he’d like to work for Madame Pons and learn to be a real chef.”
“She likes him,” Simon said. “That wouldn’t be a problem.”
Parker gave a dry chuckle. “I think that little girl has something to do with it. Where’s she from?”
“Next door. She’s the café owner’s daughter.”
“Seems like a nice kid.” Parker sighed, and his tanned face looked serious. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m getting too old to be patient. I have a little proposition for you.”
They went to the pool house and sat in the deep rattan armchairs, looking out over the floodlit water. Parker was silent for a moment and then smiled at Simon. “You can always tell me to take a jump,” he said, “but this is what I have in mind.” He lit a cigarette with a battered silver Zippo and closed the cover with a snap. “I need to find more time in my life, see more of the family, have a few more evenings like this.” He took a pull at his cigarette and leaned forward. “I’ve been spreading myself too thin. I guess most guys who build up a business from scratch are the same. We all think we’re indispensable, and we all try to stay involved in everything. It’s dumb, but it’s human nature. You must have seen it a few times yourself.”
Simon thought of one or two of his old clients—brilliant, self-made men who couldn’t resist interfering in details—and nodded. “Dictators find it difficult to delegate,” he said.
“Right. That’s where they screw up.” Parker grinned. “Well, here’s a dictator who’s getting smart in his old age.” His voice became more businesslike. “Okay. One of my big problems is advertising. Like the guy said, half of the money I spend on advertising is probably wasted; trouble is, I don’t know which half.”
“Lord Leverhulme,” said Simon.
Parker nodded. “He hit it right on the button. Now, we’re looking at a budget next year of
close to half a billion dollars. That’s a pretty big piece of change, and I just don’t have the time to keep on top of it.”
“What about your marketing people?”
“Good, competent guys. But none of them has your background.” Parker ticked off the points on his fingers. “One: you know the agency business inside out. Two: you’ve been damn successful at it. Three: you have enough personal money so you’re not scared of being fired, and you can afford a truly independent opinion. And four … well, I have a feeling we’d get along.” Parker smiled. “Now you can tell me to take a jump.”
Simon looked across at Nicole, who was watching him with a half-smile on her face. He felt flattered and surprised and, he had to admit, intrigued. “I don’t know what to say, really. Just out of interest, where would I be based?”
“Wherever you tell the pilot to go. A plane comes with the job. And you’d report to me, nobody else.”
“How about hiring and firing? Agencies, I mean.”
“You call the shots.”
Simon looked out over the pool and scratched his head. It would almost be worth taking the job just to see Ziegler’s face when he met his new client. Half a billion dollars, buddy, and you’d better behave yourself. That was certainly tempting, and so was the thought of what could be done with such an enormous budget. If he couldn’t get some spectacular work out of the agencies with that …
A sudden sense of guilt made Simon look back at the lights of the hotel, where Ernest would be getting ready for another day. “God, I don’t know. I got Ernest to come out here. He loves it.”
“Good man, Ernest. I’ve been watching him work.” Parker studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “I’ve thought about him, too. Suppose I put together a deal, another little investment?”
“What do you mean?”
“Suppose I bought the hotel, and cut Ernest in? I’d take care of him. Be a fool not to.” Parker raised his eyebrows and grinned. “How about that?”
“It’s a very expensive way to hire someone.”
“I’m a very rich man, Simon.” Parker stood up and looked at Nicole. “You folks think it over. I hope we can work something out.”
They watched him walk away and saw the bodyguards get up from the table and fall in step beside him, leaving Uncle William asleep in his chair with moths fluttering round his head.
Nicole left her chair and came to sit on Simon’s lap. “You’re interested, aren’t you? Something new and big like that?”
Simon stroked the smooth skin of her arm. “How do you feel about it?”
She shook her head. “Do you think I’d let you go off all by yourself with a suitcase full of dirty shirts?” She got up and took his hand. “Let’s go and see Ernest.”
Half an hour later, the three of them were sitting in the kitchen, its floor still slick from being swabbed down, the steel and marble surfaces bare and gleaming, Madame Pons’s notes for the menus of the next day pinned to a board by the door.
Simon had told Ernest about Parker’s suggestion and had then found himself thinking out loud—admitting that the idea appealed to him, hedging his admission with protestations of concern about Ernest, about Nicole, about the hotel, about his own motives, finally ending up in a tangle that trailed off into silence.
“I think we should tidy up the last of the champagne,” Ernest said, getting up and going to the refrigerator. “It’s that sort of night.” He poured three glasses. “It’s a funny thing, but we always seem to be in kitchens when there’s a decision to be made.” He looked at Nicole. “This all started in a kitchen, you know, when I nagged him into taking a holiday.”
“Santé, Ern.” Simon raised his glass. “You’ve been a good friend.”
“Let’s hope there are a few more years to go, dear. Now, you’ll have to forgive me for being honest—the kiss of death to many a friendship, I know, but there we are.” Ernest sipped his champagne and frowned over his glass. “The truth is, running a hotel is mostly maintenance work, and you’re just not cut out for it. I know what a dreadful fidget you are. Once something’s done, you want to move on, and if you can’t, you get grumpy.” He looked at Simon beneath raised, accusing eyebrows. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“That bad, is it?”
“Absolutely frightful. How poor Nicole puts up with you when you start sighing and tossing your curls, I don’t know. And while we’re on the subject of Nicole—” he turned to her and smiled—“you’ll have to forgive my talking like this, but I’ve seen them come and go in my time, and he won’t find another one like you.” Ernest stopped for another sip. “And if he drives you away with his nonsense, he’s a very silly man.” He sniffed. “So if you ask me, dear, you should take Mr. P.’s offer.”
“What about you?”
Ernest studied the bubbles racing up from the bottom of his glass. “Well, this is everything I always wanted, I suppose. I’m just an old sergeant-major at heart. I love organising people and making things run properly. I’ll carry on here.” He poured some more champagne and winked at Nicole. “I can’t tell you what a relief it will be not to have him under my feet all day long.”
Simon reached across the table and took Nicole’s hand. “I think he’s kicking me out.”
She blinked and nodded and said nothing.
“And I very much hope,” said Ernest, “that you’ll take a few days off. You look like something the cat brought in.”
Simon rubbed his eyes. “We’ve been talking about a holiday. No kidnappers, no detectives, somewhere nice and quiet like New York. Nicole’s never been.”
Ernest nodded, smiled, and raised his glass. “You’ll be back, I dare say.”
“Yes, Ern. We’ll be back.”
The plane swung out over the Mediterranean before picking up the flight path that would take them to Paris. Simon had made reservations at L’Ami Louis for dinner, and one of those rooms at the Raphael with a bath the size of a young swimming pool. They’d catch the morning flight to New York.
He felt in his pocket for the envelope that Ernest had given him when they said goodbye, and passed it to Nicole.
“He said you should open it.”
She took out a key with a brass tag. “Hotel Pastis” was engraved on one side, the figure 1 on the other—the top room, with the best view of the Grand Lubéron. There was a card, and Ernest’s handwriting:
Yours whenever you want it.
Love,
The Management
A luscious novel that gives us the sensual
wonders of Provence while telling a
fascinating tale of the competitive
boutique-wine trade.
A GOOD YEAR
A NOVEL
BY PETER MAYLE
Available June 2004 in hardcover from Knopf
$24.00 (Canada: $34.00) • 0-375-40591-7
PLEASE VISIT www.aaknopf.com
A selection of titles available in Vintage paperbàck:
Anything Considered • 0-679-76268-X
Encore Provence • 0-679-76269-8
French Lessons • 0-375-70561-9
A Year in Provence • 0-679-73114-8