Harry boarded Levon’s Learjet in a state of shock, and feared he would have have a difficult flight down to Nice. But in fact the flight passed uneventfully. Anne sat with Shosanah, immediately behind the pilot, and the two women spent the trip making small talk. It was plain that Anne had mended, at least on the surface, and that each woman sought to impress the other. Names of smart stores, and couturier brands peppered their conversation, along with a great deal of name-dropping. Delia and her husband sat behind them, with the two boys taking turns to sit in the co-pilot’s seat. The small dark woman sat buried on her own in a lonely seat to one side, whilst Harry and Levon kept safely out of reach at the back. Levon smiled wryly when Harry told him about Delia’s ultimatum, because discovery can befall us all, but they did not discuss it. A nice American stewardess kept up a constant flow of coffee and champagne.
The Learjet swooped in to land at Nice airport, and men in white overalls crowded round the plane to help manhandle the baggage into Marcel Cauchois’ waiting minibus. Most of it seemed to belong to Shosanah. Anne tidied everyone into the minibus, and money changed hands in a small bundle of euro banknotes. Harry took care to avoid Anne’s eyes, because he knew that reproaches would carry sharp blades. Then they were free, out along the Autoroute du Soleil into the foothills of the Massif des Maures, heading for the Saint Adolphe intersection. Marcel swung off the autoroute, through a provencal country of rocks and pine scrub and thin grassland stained golden by a sun starting to set, until they could see houses ahead, guarded by the remains of a wall dating back to the Romans, and the minibus turned off the road along a dusty track. Shosanah looked supercilious, but Anne smiled. She always felt, when she left the main road, as though she was coming home. Harry had bought their house at a time when the franc was weak against sterling. It had been almost derelict, but she had spent several summers bringing it back to life and furnishing it with good provincial furniture from sales in Nice and Draguignan, Cannes and Aix. Teams of plumbers and plasterers had laboured mightily, and she could now swear like a trooper in French, with a good provencal accent. The house had grown into a comfortable stone family home, built along the crest of a ridge and shaded by umbrella pines, with a courtyard on the north side, originally for horses and carriages, a long shady verandah looking out across a lawn towards the hills to the south, and quite a few acres of dusty grassland and pine and oak woodland.
Shosanah’s sneer faded as the minibus halted. She was plainly impressed.
Anne smiles a cat’s smile of pleasure. She noted that Madame Cauchois was already waiting, with three young men dressed in the black waistcoats and tight black trousers of provencal folk costume standing to one side of her looking respectful, along with three pretty teenagers in peasant blouses and gaily embroidered pinafores, and knew in that moment that nothing could be nicer than to come home and find everything well organised. The thought caught at her, and she realised that she had already begun to think of moving out of the Manor House. She would be able to make a new home for herself in Saint-Adolphe, and take up painting as a pastime. It was an idea she had often found tempting in the past, but never fully explored. Now she could become a prosperous divorcee, with admiring men circling around her, and Harry would suffer, if he failed to keep his toygirl, because he would grow old on his own, and he would reap what he had sown.
Harry and Levon both noted the pretty teenagers as well. The respectful men were already busy helping unload the minibus, with Shosanah and her maid supervising them fussily. Madame Cauchois swept up both boys in a bear hug, before trotting them away into the house, with the pretty teenagers following. Delia stood looking a little lost. Harry made to follow the teenagers, but she blocked his way.
‘They’re not for you, father.’ Her frown stopped him dead in their tracks. ‘Take Levon out on the terrace for a drink. I want to have a serious talk with you after dinner.’
Harry hesitated, and yielded. There are times for war, and times for peace, and he wanted to survive the weekend in one piece.
They ate on the verandah. The three men were casual in the warm setting sun, in open-necked shirts, but Anne, Shosanah and Delia dressed for the occasion. Anne staked her claim to hostess position in a simple blue silk shading into green, and Delia played safe in a little black dress that Harry judged a touch tight at the seams. But Shosanah aimed way over the top in a flouncy creation that exposed a fair expanse of shoulderblades and a great deal of cleavage in shocking pink, and of course included her massive gold bracelet. Her maid ate somewhere else, perhaps in the kitchen.
Madame Cauchois excelled herself in her cooking. Anne had wanted a table capable of impressing a rich American, and she collected in style. The respectful men brought little dishes of mushrooms in puff pastry, Feuilletes de Cepes, and glasses of wine so dry that it might have been a fino. Then they progressed to mullet cooked in foil with fresh fig leaves, Muge en Papillotte de Feuilles de Figuier, served with a nice white burgundy, and lamb roasted in herbs with side dishes of mashed potatoes crusted with grilled cheese, Gigot d’Agneau Roti aux Herbes avec un Gratin Dauphinois, with a good Cotes du Rhone. The three couples talked inconsequentially, and were replete by the time they reach Madame Cauchois’ impressive cheese board and her blueberry tartlets or Tarte aux Myrtilles, with balloons of venerable armagnac.
‘Hot damn, but that was good.’ Shosanah belched expansively as she finished her last crumbs of pastry. It was not a very polite sound, but it came at the stage when wine tempered judgment with generosity, and only the respectful men glanced a little meaningfully at each other. She nudged Levon with her elbow. ‘Why can’t we eat like this?’
Levon sniffed. ‘Why don’t you come and live in Europe?’
‘I will, when they all speak American.’ Shosanah smiled brightly. She felt an irresistible urge to tear off all her clothes and disappear into the bushes with one of the respectful men who had tickled her neck, of course accidentally.
Suddenly they heard music. The Saint-Adolphe band came out of the house, marching a little unsteadily towards them, and stopped on the lawn with a rousing fanfare, to launch into a bright farandole. Madame Cauchois had refreshed them generously in preparation, because she believed firmly in music having inspiration. The three respectful men returned with the three pretty teenagers, and the group danced folkdances together, and Anne beamed. Madame Cauchois was more than a treasure, she was a beatitude. Then the girls led Levon and James and Harry out onto the grass, and Anne and Delia and Shosanah joined the respectful men, and they all danced together, and it was an evening of music and laughter, and also some self-restraint, because Shosanah was careful to behave herself, though at moments she felt sorely tempted, and all thoughts of marital infidelity, and divorce, and hatred, were momentarily forgotten.
Later, when the band had marched rather unsteadily away, and the pretty teenagers and the respectful men had left with many hugs and embraces, and a generous fistful of euro banknotes, they sat with glasses of Madame Cauchois’ ratafia, or fortified wine, in the gloaming.
Delia edged her chair up to Harry. ‘We need a chat, father.’
Harry got to his feet reluctantly, and they walked across the grass, away from the house, in silence.
Delia stopped when she judged them both safely out of her mother’s earshot. ‘Mum says you can sleep in the blue room. She’s thinking of leaving you and coming to live down here.’ She glowered at her father. The blue room was right at the end of the house, about as far away from her mother’s room as anyone could get, and it was a signal mark of shame. ‘You’ve got to get rid of that girl.’
Harry listened, and thought of tempting Doreen with the Manor House. He would have a new woman, and his new woman would have a new home, if Anne left him. He hardened his heart. ‘She’ll like it down here.’
‘You mean you’ll throw her out?’ Delia’s voice climbed in anger. She would not, she could not, bear the thought of having a girl younger than herself taking her mother’s place. She could not brook the thought of seeing all her plans swept away.
‘I told you she loves me.’
Delia was silent for a moment, and then tears began to stain her cheeks. ‘You’re a selfish old bastard.’ She coughed the words and turned away. ‘I hope she rots in hell.’
Doreen spent a good hour deciding what she should wear for her evening out on the town. She ate a light supper first, as a precaution, sampling a pork chop from Harry’s freezer, along with a can of broad beans, and decided that Tramps might be nice, for she had liked it with Harry; and deemed it a place filled with interesting young men.
She chose carefully, picking out a dress she had bought in Beauchamp Place, smart but casual, and took a taxi. She was a little edgy about going on her own, because she feared isolation. But it would be an adventure. She would go on her own, and conquer the world.
A doorman stared at her rather hard on her arrival, and she wondered for a moment whether she was about to be turned away. But suddenly she found herself caught up in a group speaking a babble of languages. A man touched her arm, a young man with curly black hair and sparkling black eyes. He was smiling at her, and she smiled in return, because she quite fancied the look of him.
‘Come in with me, I will look after you.’ She realised that he was holding her hand, and let herself be drawn towards the dance floor, and felt like a feather in his arms. She learned that his name was Oscar, and that he came from Italy.
‘I am here on business.’ He pressed a little closer, and she clasped her arms around his neck. There are times when a girl knows when a man is the right one, and Doreen felt that she had been swept up into heaven. ‘I have a Ferrari, I will take you for a drive in the moonlight.’
Doreen pressed herself against him. The thought of a moonlit drive was quite irresistible.
The music stops, and she found herself at a table with a group of five more Italians, with a couple of English girls. One of the girls eyed her dress, and asked where she had bought it. Doreen shrugged. It had come from Beauuchamp Place, but she was not interested in creating impressions, leastways not on English girls. A couple of Oscar’s companions made eyes at her, but she merely smiled demurely. She had found herself a nice young man, and she asked for no more.
She danced with Oscar into the early hours, and then he swept her out through West London onto the M4 motorway, gunning the Ferrari up past a hundred and forty, so that the sleek low car left everything else standing, until they were past Heathrow, and then raced back into London, to cross the Thames at Kew Bridge. He parked the car, and they walked across Kew Common hand-in-hand, and he stopped at the entrance to Kew Gardens, to fold her in his arms again.
‘Doreen, you are lovely.’ He kissed her tenderly, a mere touch of his lips.
Doreen felt her heart melting within her. She pulled his mouth down onto hers, seeking only to be part of him.
‘I must take you home.’ He paused. ‘Where do you live?’
Doreen hesitated. ‘The other side of London.’
‘You have a flat?’
It was a question she had been fearing. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I share with somebody.’
‘Are you happy there?’
She shook her head again. Suddenly she knew that she did not care if she never saw Harry again. She had spent two weeks of her with an old man, who had wanted her only for her body, and the pleasure she could give him. He had freed her from Marje and Len, and everything to do with Tithing St. Mary, but then he had closed her up again in a golden cage, and now he bored her.
‘Will you come with me?’
She put her face up to be kissed again.
‘I will take you with me, back to Italy.’ Oscar hesitated. ‘Do you have a passport?’
Doreen’s heart fell.
‘No matter.’ He brushed the problem away. ‘I am in London for maybe two weeks. I have people here who will organise everything for you. I will take you to Italy, and you will see how you like it, and then, if you are not happy, you can come back.’
Doreen kissed him again. She knew in that moment that if she liked Italy, and Italy liked her, she would not return.
Harry woke early on Saturday morning, wondering what the day would bring. He knew Anne had booked dinner in the Chantecler at the Negresco, but a day from breakfast to dinner might conceal many hazards. He shaved and dressed carefully, because he had a bit of a thick head, and tried to look jaunty as he strolled towards the door out to the verandah. He would put on his best face, and take the day as it came.
The verandah was empty, though Marcel Cauchois had already laid the table for breakfast. Harry decided to explore his estate: staying out of the way seemed the safest way to maintain a low profile. He walked for perhaps an hour, climbing small hills, and fending his way through enclosing bushes, and once he glimpsed a family of wild pigs, strung out in a line with a large boar in the lead, followed by a sow, and a string of tubby little striped shoats. He felt depressed as he watched them fade into the pine brush. Anne wanted to live like a queen on his money, and make him feel guilty into the bargain. He wished he were back at Canary Wharf, surrounded by life’s certainties.
He found Levon and Shosanah breakfasting when he retured. Shosanah had swapped shocking pink for something much more respectable in dark green, though she was still jangling her massive gold bracelet. She looked up and waved.
‘Come and have some canteloupe, it’s real good.’ She chopped off a large chunk and popped it into her mouth to prove her point.
Harry took a chair and reached for the coffeepot, then helped himself to a croissant. He dunked it carefully in his coffee, and chewed moodily.
Shosanah watched him sympathetically. She could be a good woman at times, though not very often. She nudged Levon with her elbow. ‘He ain’t happy.’
Levon shrugged.
She tried again. ‘You want to tell me?’
Harry shook his head.
Anne joined them, and they were all silent. Then Delia’s boys came bounding across the grass. Tom was excited. ‘Marcel took us for a walk, and we’ve just seen some rabbits, grandpa.’
Harry thought morosely of his wild boar trailing an obedient and submissive sow.
James arrived. ‘Delia’s sleeping in late.’ He wore the self-satisfied and lubricious smile of a man who had toasted a good many oats in a short space of time.
Anne scowled. She could do without sex at breakfast. She nibbled at a bowl of muesli, and stared at her husband. ‘I need a word with you.’
Harry rose to his feet reluctantly, and followed her back into the house. Shosanah drew a deep breath.
‘Jeez, those two’ve got a problem.’
Levon smiled thinly.
Anne came straight to the point the moment they were inside. ‘I’m thinking of moving down here.’
Harry nodded glumly. One croissant barely blunted the edge of an appetite.
‘I’ll get the Bates’ to pack everything I want, and you can find someone to ship it.’ She paused. ‘I expect Delia’s told you to get rid of the girl.’
He nodded again.
‘You’ve got a week to make up your mind.’ Anne’s voice was clipped and hard. ‘If you stay in London after that, I’ll want this house and a generous settlement. I’ll get Emma Carnes to work out the details. You can fly down and grovel, if you come to your senses, but I’m staying here the rest of the summer.’
Harry did not look at her. He had gone to ground in his shell, whilst rival forces fought a pitched battle within him, youth against age, hope against achievement. A siren voice, in Doreen’s tones, painted a picture of a new future, and children to continue his name. But Delia’s words echoed ominously through his head. He pictured Doreen, tucked up comfortably on his Canary Wharf sofa, watching romantic videos. But he also wondered whether his daughter had judged more correctly.
He realised that Anne was speaking again. ‘How was the blue room?’
He shrugged. She could think again, if she was transmitting a coded invitation.
She was silent for a moment, as though expecting a reply, and then sniffed. ‘James and Marcel are going to look after the boys, Marcel knows a man with a couple of ponies. I’m taking Delia into Cannes, I’ll ask Levon and Shosanah whether they want to come as well.’ Another pause. ‘What do you want to do?’
Harry took a deep breath. The idea of playing grandfather was tempting, but he would be odd man out, and he was sure the three women would gossip about him behind his back.
‘I’ll come to Cannes.’
‘Right, you can drive, and drop us off by the harbour, and find somewhere to park. We’ll come back here for a late lunch.’
He nodded. He would be safe enough playing chauffeur.
Fortunately the morning passed well. Shosanah liked Cannes, and they explord the market, and smart little boutiques tucked away in narrow alleys, and drank coffee overlooking the yachts in the harbour. Harry was little broody at first, but then decided to tidy his problems away for the day, whilst Anne played hostess, albeit with a slightly brittle edge, and Delia was bright. Shosanah eyed Harry inquisitively from time to time, but Levon kept her nicely under control.
They lunched on salade nicoise when they returned to the house, with a light Cotes de Provence, and the wine made them all drowsy. Tom and Joe talked excitedly of pony rides, and rushed off again after lunch, whilst the adults dozed in the shade of the verandah, before retreating to their rooms for siestas. This time James stayed at the house, and Harry realises dourly that he would be the only man unrequited. He thought of Doreen again, watching her videos, and felt wholly empty. He decided to take himself for another walk, and explore. It would pass the time, and the pine woods would be cool in their shadows.
He returned to the house to find Delia chasing her boys in mock pursuit. She stopped, to stare at him. ‘Have you made up your mind yet?’
Harry looked away. He refused to be pressured.
‘Mum says we should all be ready in an hour’s time. She thinks we should pop over to Monte after dinner.’ Delia smiled thinly. ‘Maybe you’ll lose your shirt as well your tart.’
The Hotel Negresco is one of the gems of Nice, a palace of art nouveau, built by a Romanian entrepreneur before the first World War to attract the crowned and coroneted heads of Europe, classified by the French government as a national monument, and now a favourite with the brightest stars in the international jet set. The lobby alone, with its domed glass roof and marble floors and pillars, made five star hotels in other major resorts look quite tawdry.
Shosanah stood looking up at the dome with the eyes of a woman filled with desire. ‘Levon, do you think these people would sell that?’
She had switched from shocking pink into sunshine silk, a bright golden dress that must have cost her a small fortune. Anne looked expensively understated in a blue nicely chosen to match her eyes, whilst Delia was now more colourful in pale cerise. The three men had also dressed for the occasion – Harry in a sand-coloured seersucker suit, pale blue shirt, and salmon silk tie, James more formally in light grey. Levon had chosen a blazer with buttons that shone like gold, and immaculate white trousers. He had the air of a rich shipowner, or possibly a pirate.
The service in the Chantecler restaurant was deft almost to the point of invisibility, though Anne judged the food no better than that cooked by Madame Cauchois the previous evening, and winced as she glanced at the wine menu.
Levon took it magisterially. ‘We must drink champagne,’ he beamed. ‘Laurent Perrier Rose, a couple of magnums. It will be my way to say thankyou.’
They drank champagne, and ate sea urchins and oysters, and then seared fresh tuna steaks, and Harry began to feel quite cheerful, though he noticed Delia glowering at him from time to time. It was a pity that she had inherited her mother’s temper. But Anne was polite, and he spent most of the time talking French real estate with Shosanah, who seemed suddenly to have taken a shine to Europe.
They ended the meal with delicate orange souffles, and Levon paid with a flourish, and then they collected outside the hotel on the Promenade des Anglais.
Marcel was parked waiting for them, but Shosanah could see the sea. ‘Let’s go walk a minute.’ She patted her golden silk midriff. ‘Wow, I’ve got a tight feeling.’ She put her hand in front of her mouth to stifle a belch, and only a small sound escaped. ‘The food’s too good in this country.’
Levon smiled. He was working hard on persuading Shosanah to cross the Atlantic more often, and he thought he might be winning.
They crossed the road to the seafront, and then curved back to stroll along a walk lined with palm trees. Harry noticed that some of the shadowy spaces between the palm trees seem populated with silent figures in tight skirts and revealing blouses. Some were smoking, showing their presence by the glowing tips of their cigarettes. Occasionally a passer-by approached one, and they exchanged a few words. Sometimes a silent figure detached itself from its shadows, and both walked off.
He noted that Shosanah also eyed them from time to time, and she lagged back to talk to him. ‘Harry, I don’t know how to say this. But some of those creatures there don’t seem to be women.’
He shrugged. ‘It takes all sorts.’
‘And nobody does anything?’
‘This is France.’
Shosanah snorted. But she also seemed fascinated, and began to drift closer and closer to the palms. She stared at a couple of silent figures, and clutched at his arm. ‘How much do guys pay them?’
Now it was Harry’s turn to snort. ‘I’ve never asked.’
Suddenly there was a flurry of movement. Shosanah had drifted too close to a tight-skirted figure exchanging words with a passer-by, and the tight-skirted figure began to swear angrily in a very masculine voice. It lunged from its shadows, seizing the hem of her golden dress with one hand to force it upwards, mauling at her with his other hand.
Shosanah screamed. Harry moved instantly to protect her, but both the tight-skirted figure and the passer-by had vanished. Shosanah bent forward, clutching her dress with both hands, and now she was weeping almost hysterically.
Levon made to put his arms around her, but she pushed him away. ‘I’ve been violated!’ Her voice was a howl of disjointed agony, hiccoughing in staccato bursts. ‘Some goddam fairy, I’m unclean, this dress cost two thousand bucks, I want to go home, I want to go back to New York, right now.’
People began to gather. Some seemed sympathetic. Others stared at Shosanah as though they felt she had been dealt the hand she deserved.
Anne and Delia began to steer her back towards the waiting minibus, and Levon looked at Harry as the two women manoeuvred Shosanah into a seat. She was still weeping hysterically. ‘Can we call a cop?’ He did not seem very certain.
Harry shook his head slowly. ‘I think they would judge her to have been pretty foolish.’
‘Does that mean no?’
He nodded. ‘You better take her home.’
Levon swore under his breath. ‘You mean I got to sit eight hours with her yowling?’
Harry smiled slightly. He had women problems of his own with which to contend, and the rest of the world could go and screw itself. ‘Try Valium.’
Levon muttered something under his breath, and Harry thought he heard the words ‘or rat poison’. But he was too generous to think such a wickedness.