‘Dominique, this is my son, Guy. You finally meet!’
‘Hello, Guy,’ Dominique said, extending her hand. She pronounced it the French way, to rhyme with ‘key’.
‘Hello, Mum,’ said Guy with his best smile, and she laughed. Guy’s father introduced her to Mel, Ingrid and me. I couldn’t say anything apart from a pathetic ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Jourdan,’ which also seemed to amuse her.
‘While you’re staying here, I’m Tony and this is Dominique,’ said Guy’s father, smiling. ‘Call me sir, and I’ll toss you over the cliff.’
‘OK, Tony.’
‘Now, you and Guy are in the guest cottage over there,’ he pointed to a small building tucked behind a bed of tall lavender on the other side of the pool. ‘The girls are in the house. Why don’t you go and take your things in and then come out here for a drink?’
We gathered around the pool an hour later. A tiny grey-haired man in a crisp white jacket served us all with Pimm’s from a pitcher stuffed with lemon, cucumber and mint. The girls had changed into light summer dresses, Dominique had wrapped something around herself, Guy and Tony were wearing white slacks and I wore my scruffy jeans, preferring them to my only alternative of an old pair of black cords.
The sun was hanging low over Cap Ferrat and the air was still. I could hear the hum of bees in the lavender, and of course the sea below.
‘Gorgeous,’ whispered Ingrid next to me.
‘Yes it is,’ I agreed.
‘Not it. Him.’
I realized that she was referring to a gardener carrying some tools back towards the house. He was young, Arab-looking, probably North African, and the muscles of his bare smooth chest were perfectly defined by the late-afternoon sunlight. He caught Guy’s eye, and smiled at him.
‘You’re in there, Guy,’ Ingrid said as the gardener disappeared round the corner of the house.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Guy. ‘He was smiling at all of us.’
‘I wish that were true, Guy, but it wasn’t. He was all eyes for you.’
Guy scowled. He had the kind of looks that attracted admiring glances from men as well as women and I knew he hated it. There was nothing he could do about it, though. ‘What are you grinning at?’ he growled at me.
‘Nothing,’ I said, exchanging a glance with Ingrid. ‘Let’s get a drink.’
The Pimm’s slipped down very easily. Despite our pretended sophistication none of us was used to spirits, and the drink soon had its effect. I didn’t say much, but watched the others, a pleasant buzzing caressing the edges of my brain. It was clear that Guy didn’t know his father well, but equally clear that they were both doing their best to be nice to each other. Tony soon had the girls giggling, especially Mel, who seemed quite taken with him.
Just then Guy’s brother Owen shambled into view. For a fifteen-year-old he was big. His muscles were unnaturally well developed, and his large head appeared to belong to someone much older. But he seemed uncomfortable with his overgrown body. His walk was hesitant and stooped, as if he was trying to reduce his size. Of course it didn’t work. His mousy brown hair lay in greasy coils on his scalp, and he had pretty bad acne. He was wearing an Apple Computer T-shirt and black rugby shorts. Everyone ignored him.
‘Hi, Owen,’ I said out of politeness.
‘Hi.’
‘Been here long?’
‘Couple of days.’
‘This is a fantastic place, isn’t it?’
‘It’s OK,’ he said, and wandered off. End of conversation with Owen.
Tony appeared, bearing a pitcher full of Pimm’s. ‘Want some more?’
‘Yes please, sir.’
‘David. I warned you about that. One more time, and it’s over the cliff.’
‘Sorry. Tony.’
He refilled my glass. ‘Good stuff, isn’t it?’
‘It goes down very easily.’
‘Yes. It’s the one English thing I find that translates well to France. Even Dominique likes it.’ He looked over to where Owen was pouring himself a Coke. ‘You’re in Guy and Owen’s house at school, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Guy and I share a room.’
‘How’s Owen getting on?’
‘Hard to say, really. I think he’s OK. He doesn’t have many friends, apart from some computer types. But he seems happy enough. He spends most of his time in the computer room. He reads a lot. He keeps himself to himself. But no one messes with him, Guy makes sure of that.’
‘Yes. Guy has always looked after him,’ Tony said. ‘Owen took the divorce quite badly. I don’t think his mother has much interest in him, apart from making sure he stays away from me. And I’m on record as the world’s lousiest father. Guy’s really been all he’s had. What about that rugby incident? Did you hear about that?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Did he do it?’
I tensed. This was difficult ground. ‘I don’t know, sir. I mean, Tony.’
‘Sorry. That’s an unfair question. But what do people say? Do they think he did it?’
Owen was a good rugby player, a prop-forward for the Junior Colts. But there had been trouble on the pitch earlier that year. A boy from another school had lost part of his ear in a ruck. There were teeth marks. Owen had been suspected, and for a few days his future at the school had been in doubt, but they were not sure enough of their ground to expel him. He had been dropped from the team, though.
‘Nobody knows.’
‘That’s the thing with Owen, isn’t it?’ Tony said. ‘You never know.’
‘That’s true.’ Owen was a mystery but, unlike his father, I was quite happy to leave him that way. Most people were.
‘Any girlfriends?’
‘Owen?’ I said, unable to suppress a smile.
‘Fair point. What about Guy?’
‘Now that’s a different story. And a constantly changing one.’
Tony laughed, a thousand crinkles appearing around his bright blue eyes. He glanced appreciatively towards Mel, who was listening to Guy with rapt attention as he told some tall story about a mishap on the Cresta Run in Saint Moritz. ‘Is she his current girl?’
‘No.’ I paused. ‘At least, not yet.’ But watching her, I was pretty sure Mel was hooked. So, I thought, was Tony.
‘Well, I’m glad to see my son has good taste.’ He smiled. ‘This house was built to impress women. I hope it works for Guy.’
‘Somehow I suspect it will.’
‘What about you? How do you like Broadhill?’
To my surprise, I found myself answering Tony at some length. He wasn’t at all bothered by my relatively humble background and he had a genuine interest in the school and how it worked. It was certainly not like talking to my own parents, but it wasn’t quite like talking to a contemporary. The questions were less superficial, and there was none of the probing for image or status that goes on when two eighteen-year-old strangers talk. It was quite refreshing. I was charmed.
As the sun set red over the hills towards Nice, lighting up the calm sea in a blaze of gold, we climbed some steps to a terrace above the pool for dinner. A goat’s cheese salad and fish cooked in a delectable sauce, washed down with the best white wine I had ever tasted, it overwhelmed my senses. I was intensely conscious of the presence of Dominique beside me, so conscious I could barely turn my head towards her for fear of staring.
Eventually, she spoke to my shoulder. ‘You are very quiet this evening.’
‘Am I? I’m sorry.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, turning my head reluctantly towards her. ‘This is all so... I don’t know, lovely.’
For the first time I was able to look at her properly. She had an angular face and I noticed lines around the side of her mouth. She was probably in her late thirties. But still a stunner. Definitely a stunner. Although the sun had almost disappeared, she continued to wear sunglasses, so I had no idea what her eyes looked like. But her full lips were smiling. The body I had first stared at was now safely hidden under a yellow wrap.