Elena was packing. Sam had learned over the years and on many occasions that this was a sensitive ritual, never to be disturbed. Elena didn’t like to be watched when she was packing. She didn’t like to be helped. Most of all, she didn’t like to be talked to. Her relationship with her suitcase and its contents was one of mystical communion, and woe betide anyone who broke the spell. So Sam had decided to make himself scarce with a book in the living room.
Elena was off to Paris for two or three days, the result of a long and deeply apologetic phone call from her boss, Frank Knox. The Paris office was having a problem with its most important client, the CEO of a group of luxury hotels. He felt neglected, above all by the Knox head office. He felt he needed reassurance about the quality of service he was getting. He felt, in a word, unloved. Would it be possible, Frank had asked, for Elena to go up to Paris and smooth his ruffled feathers? If it seemed as though she had come all the way from Los Angeles just to have a chat with him over dinner, so much the better. In return, Frank had said, he would insist on Elena extending her vacation by an extra week. On hearing the news, Sam had been very understanding. He was going to be busy over the next few days anyway, and her return would be a good excuse to celebrate.
He got up and went over to put his ear against the bedroom door. He was just able to make out the sound of the shower coming from Elena’s bathroom, always a sure sign that the challenges of packing had been successfully overcome. He went through to the kitchen and opened a bottle of the Domaine Ott rose that Reboul had left for them. Carrying two glasses, he arrived back in the living room just as Elena, wet-haired and wrapped in a towel, came through the opposite door.
“All done?” Sam asked.
“All done.” Elena took a sip of her wine and put down her glass. “You know you said we could celebrate when I got back? Well …” She unwrapped the towel and let it drop to the floor. “How about a rehearsal?”
Eleven
“Will you miss me?”
Elena, dressed for the city in business black, was waiting for the early-evening flight to Paris to be called, and she and Sam were having a cup of coffee at the airport bar.
“How am I going to survive?” Sam’s hand, under the table, stroked her silken knee. “Seriously, I’d love to be coming with you, but there’s all kinds of stuff to get ready before the presentation. You know me-a slave to my work. I can’t resist a cozy evening with my laptop.”
Elena smiled. “Mimi taught me this great word the other day. Blagueur. Describes you perfectly.”
“It doesn’t sound good. What does it mean?”
“Joker. Kidder. Someone who’s full of it.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Sam looked up at the departures board. “You’d better get going. Give my love to Paris.”
A kiss, a wave, and she was gone.
Philippe took a final look at the piece he’d just finished, pressed the key that would send it through to the copy desk, and leaned back in his chair. This, for him, was one of the most satisfying moments of his job. Tomorrow, the words he had written would be history, but tonight, they still looked fresh-clear, incisive, well argued, with one or two touches of humor. He allowed himself a mental pat on the back. He had a couple of calls to make, and then he would be done for the day.
It was late, almost nine o’clock, by the time he went downstairs to pick up his scooter from the parking garage.
Reboul answered his phone on the third ring.
“Francis? Sam-I hope I’m not calling at a bad time?”
“Not at all, Sam, not at all. I’m all alone with a pile of papers from my accountant.” A gusty sigh came down the phone. “Business! One of these days I’m going to give it up, move to one of those shacks on the beach, find a brown-skinned girl, and become a fisherman.”
“Sure you will. And I’m going to enter a monastery. Meanwhile, I have a bit of good news: Philippe just called. He’s done what sounds like a useful piece about our presentation: ‘A Tent on the Anse des Pecheurs’ is the headline. It’s going to be in the paper later this week.”
“Good. That should make Patrimonio’s day. Has he fixed the date for the presentation yet?”
“End of next week, so Gaston has plenty of time to set everything up.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Gaston? A total rogue.”
Reboul chuckled. “You’re right. But don’t forget, my dear Sam, he’s our rogue. Let me know if you have any problems, d’accord? Oh, and Sam? I thought it would be amusing to celebrate the presentation with a little dinner-very quiet, just the four of us. I’d like you to meet my new friend.”
Let’s hope we have something to celebrate, Sam thought as he put the phone down. Both Reboul and Philippe seemed to think the result was a foregone conclusion, but Sam wasn’t so sure. Wapping was a tough opponent, and Patrimonio was no fool. They weren’t about to give up quickly.
Restless and already missing Elena, Sam tried her number. Her phone was switched off. By now, she was probably sitting in some pompous restaurant with her client, doing her best to appear fascinated by his description of the problems of running a chain of hotels. Not for the first time, Sam thought how lucky he was to have a life that offered so much variety and so little routine. Consoled by this, he poured himself a glass of wine and went back to his presentation.
The atmosphere in the master’s cabin of The Floating Pound was not as convivial as usual. Lord Wapping was somewhat on edge. His spies had been picking up altogether too many favorable comments made by the committee about Sam’s proposal. And so Patrimonio had been summoned for a council of war.
“I don’t like what I’m hearing, Jerome. All this rubbish about a breath of fresh air, something for the people of Marseille-well, you’ve heard it all, I’m sure. It’s got to stop. Can’t you tell those blokes on the committee to put a cork in it?”
Wapping’s vocabulary often puzzled Patrimonio, but this time the sense was clear. His Lordship wanted his hand held. Patrimonio shot his cuffs, smoothed back his hair, and put on his most reassuring smile. “Oh, I don’t think we need to worry. I know these men, and they know I’ll take care of them. Let them have their say. In the end they will come to their senses. In any case, it’s votes that count, not a few remarks made for the benefit of the public. And votes, we must remember, are cast in secret.”
Wapping was sufficiently encouraged to pour two glasses of Krug from the bottle that stood in a crystal bucket at his elbow. Patrimonio took a first sip, raised his eyebrows in approval, and leaned forward, a frown on his face. It was his turn to be reassured. “There is a small concern.” He shrugged, as if to show how small it was. “That little salaud of a journalist. I hope we can be sure he won’t be writing any more of his nonsense, and I remember you said he would be taken care of.”
Wapping looked at him in silence for a moment. “As I said to you the other day, I don’t think you want to hear any details.”
Patrimonio sat back in his chair and fluttered a manicured hand. “No, no. It’s just …” His voice tailed off, and he dived back into his champagne.
“Good.” Wapping raised his glass. “Well then. Here’s to a well-deserved success.”
Five minutes later, Patrimonio was in a boat taxi heading back to Marseille.
Ray Prendergast, although not a gourmet by nature, had recently begun to look forward to his meals with increased interest. France was all very well for some people, he thought, but not for him. Quite apart from the irritating babble of the language, he had a problem with French food. It was always mucked about with-all those sauces and bits and pieces, a man didn’t know what he was eating. And then, a few days ago, someone had told him about Geoffrey’s of Antibes. It had come as a truly life-changing revelation.