Towards 3 p.m. Mrs D’Abernon began to look restless.
‘Had enough?’ asked Buttery.
‘Yes. It was wonderfully exciting and I enjoyed every minute of it, but I have to be going. I really must get back to my hotel and wash my hair. It must be reeking of cigar smoke and I made an appointment for a massage and manicure at five.’
‘I’ll give you a massage,’ Buttery informed her with a no-nonsense statement of intention that pleased him as he said it. It more than made up for the previous day’s ineptness.
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ responded Mrs D’Abernon, matching him in firmness. ‘She’s a qualified masseuse and beautician. I shall probably have a facial as well.’
He gaped at her. ‘How long will that take?’
‘I’m in no hurry. That’s the joy of a holiday, isn’t it?’
Buttery might have said that it was not the joy he had in mind, but he was too disconcerted to answer.
‘We could meet again tomorrow for lunch, if you like,’ offered Mrs D’Abernon.
He said, letting his resentment show, ‘Do you really want to?’
She smiled benignly. ‘Darling, I can think of nothing I would rather do.’
That, Buttery increasingly understood, was his problem. Mrs D’Abernon liked being treated to lunch, but there was nothing she would rather do. Each day that week she made some excuse to leave him as soon as possible afterwards: a hair appointment, a toothache, uncomfortable shoes. She declined all invitations to dinner and all suggestions of night-clubbing or theatre-visiting.
Buttery considered his position. He was going through his traveller’s cheques at an alarming rate. He was staying at a modest hotel near the station, but he would have to pay the bill some time, and it was mounting up, because he spent each evening drinking alone in the bar. The lunches were costing him more than he had budgeted and there was nearly always a taxi-fare to settle.
In the circumstances, most men planning what Buttery had come to France to achieve would have got discouraged, cut their losses, and given up, but Buttery was unlike most other men. He still nursed the hope that his luck would change. He spent many lonely hours trying to work out a more successful strategy. Finally, desperation and his dwindling funds drove him to formulate an all-or-nothing plan.
It was a Friday, and they had lunch at the best fish restaurant in Orleans, lobster scooped wriggling from a tank in the centre of the dining room and cooked to perfection, accompanied by a vintage champagne. Then lemon sorbet and black coffee. Before Mrs D’Abernon had a chance to make her latest unconvincing excuse, Buttery said, ‘I’d better get you back to your hotel.’
She blinked in surprise.
‘I’m moving on tomorrow,’ Buttery explained. ‘Must get my travel arrangements sorted out before the end of the afternoon.’ He beckoned to the waiter.
‘Where do you plan to visit next?’ asked Mrs D’Abernon.
‘Haven’t really decided,’ he said as he settled the bill. ‘Nothing to keep me in Orleans.’
‘I was thinking of driving to Tours,’ Mrs D’Abernon quickly mentioned. ‘The food is said to be outstanding there. I could offer you a lift in my car if you wish.’
‘The food isn’t so important to me,’ said Buttery.
‘It’s also very convenient for the châteaux of the Loire.’
‘I’ll think it over,’ he told her, as they left the restaurant. He hailed a taxi and one drew up immediately. He opened the door and she got in. ‘Hotel Charlemagne,’ he told the driver as he closed the door on Mrs D’Abernon. He noticed her head turn at the name of the hotel. It hadn’t been difficult to trace. There weren’t many that offered a massage and beauty service.
She wound down the window. ‘But how will I know...?’ Her words were lost as the taxi pulled away.
Buttery gave a satisfied smile as he watched it go.
He went to the florist’s and came out with a large bouquet of red roses. Then he returned to his hotel and took a shower.
About seven, he phoned the Hotel Charlemagne and asked to speak to Mrs D’Abernon.
Her voice came through. ‘Yes?’
In a passable imitation of a Frenchman, Buttery said, ‘You are English? There is some mistake. Which room is this, please?’
‘Six-five-seven.’
He replaced the phone, went downstairs to the bar and ordered his first vodka and tonic.
Two hours later, carrying the roses, he crossed the foyer of the Charlemagne and took the lift to the sixth floor. The corridor was deserted. He found 657 and knocked, pressing the bouquet against the spy-hole.
There was a delay, during which he could hear sounds inside. The door opened a fraction. Buttery pushed it firmly and went in.
Mrs D’Abernon gave a squeak of alarm. She was dressed in one of the white bathrobes that the best hotels provide for their guests. She had her hair wrapped in a towel and her face was liberally coated in a white cream.
‘These are for you,’ said Buttery in a slightly slurred yet, he confidently believed, sexy voice.
She took the roses and looked at them as if a summons had been served on her. ‘Mr Buttery! I was getting ready for bed.’
‘Good,’ said Buttery, closing the door. He crossed to the fridge and took out a half-bottle of champagne. ‘Let’s have a nightcap.’
‘No! I think you’d better leave my room at once.’
Buttery moved closer to her, smiling. ‘I don’t object to a little cream on your face. It’s all right with me.’ He snatched the towel from her head. The colour of her hair surprised him. It was brown, and grey in places, like his own. She must have been wearing a blonde wig all the times he had taken her to lunch.
Mrs D’Abernon reacted badly. She flung the roses back at him and said, ‘Get out of here!’
He was not discouraged. ‘You don’t mean that, my dear,’ he told her. ‘You really want me to stay.’
She shook her head emphatically.
Buttery went on, ‘We’ve had good times together, you and I. Expensive lunches.’
‘I enjoyed the lunches,’ conceded Mrs D’Abernon, in a more conciliatory vein. ‘Didn’t I always express my appreciation?’
‘You said you felt romantic.’
‘I did, and I meant it!’
‘Well, then.’ He reached to embrace her, but she backed away. ‘What’s the matter with you? Or is something the matter with me?’
‘No. Don’t think me unappreciative, but that’s enough for me, to have an escort during the day. I like to spend my evenings alone.’
‘Come on, I’ve treated you well. I’ve spent a small fortune on you.’
‘I’m not to be bought,’ said Mrs D’Abernon, edging away from the bed.
‘It’s not like that at all,’ Buttery insisted. ‘I fancy you, and I reckon you fancy me.’
She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘For pity’s sake, Mr Buttery, I’m a married woman. I’m used to being fancied, as you put it. I’m sick of it, if you want to know. All evening he ignores me, then he gets into bed and thinks he can switch me on like the electric blanket. Coupling, that’s all it is, and I want a break from it. I don’t want more of it. I just crave a little innocent romance, someone to pay me some attention over lunch.’ Then Mrs D’Abernon made her fatal mistake. She said, ‘Don’t spoil it now. This isn’t in your nature. I picked you out because you’re safe. Any woman could tell you’re safe to be with.’
Safe to be with? He winced, as if she had struck him, but the effect was worse than that. She had just robbed him of his dream, his virility, his future. He would never have the confidence now to approach a woman again. He was finished before he had ever begun. He hated her for it. He hated her for going through his money, cynically eating and spending her way through the money he had got for his Corder figure.