Hotel Pastis (21 page)

She shrugged and lit a cigarette. There was no point in trying to guess about the future of their relationship, no sense in trying to push it. Things were good at the moment, and that would have to do. Meanwhile, there was the exercise in village diplomacy to deal with. Nicole brought the phone directory and a notepad to the kitchen table and started to make a guest list.

The mayor and the year-round inhabitants, Blanc and some of his senior workmen, one or two of the local real estate agents—all of these, for their own reasons, could be expected to welcome the hotel. But then there were the part-time residents, many of whom would be coming down to Brassière for the Christmas holidays. Harmless and pleasant, most of them, they tended to shuttle between each other’s houses for drinks and dinner and limit their contact with villagers to a few minutes each day in the
boulangerie
or the butcher’s shop. Their reactions would be mixed. Nicole remembered the outcry that had been raised by a small group of Parisians when the
gendarmerie
had first been sold for development. They would complain like last time, she was sure. And like last time, the mayor would nod politely and wait for them to go back home and leave him in peace.

But the shrillest squeals of protest would come not from any Parisian, nor indeed from any Frenchman. After a moment’s hesitation, Nicole added a final name to the list: Ambrose Crouch, the village’s longest-serving Englishman, who existed on the retainer paid to him by a London newspaper for his weekly Sunday column on Provence. He was a contentious, self-appointed guardian of the purity of peasant life (for peasants, it should be said, rather than for himself), a snob and a scrounger. Nicole detested him for his malice and his clammy, undisciplined hands. The people of Brassière tolerated
him. The summer residents gave him food and drink in return for gossip. When sufficiently drunk, which was quite often, he would deliver a tirade on the vulgarity of modern times and the horrors of what he called “human interference” with the fabric of rural society. He could be counted on to be violently and loudly opposed to the hotel. Nicole put a question mark next to his name. She would call Simon tomorrow and warn him about Ambrose Crouch.

The weather had settled into its winter pattern of bright days and clear, hard nights, and when the General went out to his car there was frost on the windscreen. Not the best weather for cycling, he thought; the air would be bitter on the face and like ice in the lungs. He left the car running while he went back for a bottle of
marc
. The boys would need some encouragement today.

They were waiting for him when he arrived at the barn, and he was pleased to see that they were beginning to look like authentic cyclists in their black tights and close-fitting wool hats.
“Salut, l’équipe!”
He held up the bottle of marc. “This is for later. Today will be short and steep, up to Murs, along to Gordes and back. And then I have some good news for you.
Allez!
”

They mounted up, flinching at the coldness of the saddles, and rode off while the General locked the barn. He checked them one by one as he overtook. Not bad. They were all using their toe clips, riding straight, looking comfortable. Not bad at all.

After fifteen minutes of fairly flat, easy riding, the road began to curl upwards into the hills. The General stopped and got out of the car. As the cyclists passed him, he cupped his hands round his mouth. “Don’t stop.
Go as slow as you like, use the width of the road to zigzag, but don’t stop.
Courage, mes enfants, courage!
”

Rather you than me, he thought as he got back in the car. The Murs hill was seven steep, twisting kilometres—nothing like the Ventoux climb, of course, but more than enough to make a man sweat even in this weather. If none of them threw up today, it would be a miracle. He gave them a five-minute start and then followed them up the hill.

They were strung out over fifty yards, some bent over with their noses almost touching the handlebars, others standing on their pedals, faces livid with effort. Those with breath to spare spat. The General passed them slowly, shouting encouragement, and drove on until he reached the halfway mark, where he pulled into the verge and got out.

“Only three kilometres to go,” he shouted at them as they crept past him. “Downhill all the way from Murs. France salutes you!”

Bachir had just enough breath to respond. “Up your ass with France.”

“Anything you like,” said the General, “but don’t stop.
Courage, toujours courage!
” He lit a cigarette and leant back against the car, enjoying the sun. Nobody had stopped. They were all taking it seriously.

The road down from Murs came as a visible, audible relief to the seven men. Freewheeling after the climb, they unkinked their backs, caught their breath, felt the fluttering subside in their thigh muscles, cursed and grinned at each other with a sense of shared achievement, shouted obscenities at the General as he drove past, and swept through Gordes feeling like pros. It made a change from feeling sick, and they loved it.

Back at the barn, still glowing with the elation that
often follows extraordinarily hard physical effort, they compared souvenirs of bursting lungs and tortured legs as they passed the bottle of
marc
around.

“You rode like champions, all of you.” The General took a swig from the bottle and wiped his moustache. “And I promise you, next time will be easier.”

Fernand coughed over his cigarette. “That’s the good news, is it?”

“No. The good news is that I paid a little visit to the Caisse d’Epargne, rented a strongbox, had a look around.” He looked at their faces and smiled at the sight of the bottle of
marc
frozen just below big Claude’s open mouth. “
C’est normal, non?
I wouldn’t want you to find any nasty surprises.”

“That’s right,” said Jojo, as though he’d known about it all along.
“C’est normal. Tout à fait.”

The General took out the sketches and notes he’d made. “Now then …”

Half an hour later, when they locked up the barn and went their different ways, they hardly noticed the beginnings of stiffness in their legs. It had been a good morning for morale. Sunday lunch would go down well.

London was sinking deeper into the festive spirit. Pre-Christmas traffic clogged the streets, and taxi drivers performed their monologues of complaint. Responding to the large numbers of shoppers coming in from the suburbs by train, British Rail cut their services. A shoplifter was stopped as he tried to walk out of Harrods wearing two suits, and a man was arrested for assault while trying to prevent his car from getting the boot. The season of goodwill had got off to a promising start.

In the headquarters of the Shaw Group, executives
fought manfully against indigestion as they worked their way through the list of mandatory Christmas lunches with their clients. It had been an excellent year for the agency, and thoughts of substantial salary increases and larger cars brought an atmosphere of cheerful expectancy to the offices. Jordan, more expectant than most after the hint dropped by Simon about future developments, had decided to test the water, and sauntered along the corridor towards Simon’s office, holding details of what he hoped would be his Christmas bonus.

“Got a minute, old boy?”

Simon beckoned him in. “Let me just get rid of these and I’ll be with you.” He signed half a dozen letters and pushed them aside. “Right.” He sat back and tried not to wince at the broad chalk stripes that seemed to vibrate against the dark blue of Jordan’s suit.

“Bumped into a chap the other day,” Jordan said, “who put me onto rather a good thing.” He tossed a brochure onto the table and went through the selection process with his cigarettes while Simon turned the glossy pages.

Jordan tapped the end of the winning cigarette before lighting it. “Magnificent beast, isn’t it? Bentley Mulsanne Turbo, with all the bells and whistles.”

“Nice car, Nigel.” Simon nodded. “Very practical for the country. What do these go for?”

“About the same as a decent little flat in Fulham—that’s if you can get hold of one. The waiting list on that model is as long as your arm. Seriously good investment. They appreciate, you know.” He blew a smoke ring into the air conditioning.

Simon smiled. How straightforward it was keeping people like Jordan happy. “Do I take it we’re thinking of investing?”

“Well, I was coming to that. This chap I bumped
into has just been let down. Customer ordered the car eighteen months ago—one of the names at Lloyds, actually—and now he’s feeling the pinch.”

“And he can’t pay for the car?”

“Poor bugger will be lucky to keep his cufflinks.” Jordan paused and looked solemn. “Dicey business, unlimited liability.” The moment of grief passed. “Anyway, my chap’s prepared to knock ten thousand off the price for a quick sale.”

Simon turned to the back page of the brochure, found the dealer’s number, and picked up the phone. “Good morning. You have a Bentley Mulsanne in the showroom, I think.” He smiled at Jordan. “Yes, that’s the one. Mr. Jordan will be round with a cheque this afternoon. Put some petrol in it for him, would you? Thanks.”

Jordan’s face was still recovering from the surprise. “Well, old boy, I must say this is—”

Simon waved him to silence. “What’s the point of having a good year if we don’t allow ourselves a few simple pleasures?” He stood up and looked at his watch as Jordan retrieved the brochure. “I meant to ask you—what are you doing over Christmas?”

“Tour of duty, I’m afraid. The in-laws are descending on Wiltshire. He’ll bang on about the stock market and his gout, and she’ll want to play bridge all day. If I’m lucky, I might fit in a bit of shooting.”

“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?”