by Bev Spicer
‘Better than any damned alarm clock!’ he mused, grinning widely.
He calculated that he had fifteen minutes to wash himself and get into his robe, put on his slippers and install himself in the lounge in front of the television to watch the financial news. He hoped that the coffee would not be too weak, nor too strong, and that she would remember the HP sauce and the black pepper. Then, he ducked under the water and flooded the bathroom floor.
When he had cleared up the mess, he went downstairs and found Lena painting her toenails, his breakfast on the sideboard going cold.
‘I called you,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders and dipping her brush.
‘I… did you make coffee?’
‘Yes. There!’ she indicated two cups on the table in front of her.
He brought in his plate and did not dare to ask the girl to change the channel. She liked to watch cartoons. Marcus sighed and examined the dried up egg, burnt toast and undercooked black pudding. She would have to go.
After breakfast, he put on his suit and tie, fastening on a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of pistols. He heard his lover slam the front door and thought good riddance! telling himself that next time he would not choose someone young enough to be his daughter, who insisted on leaving her toenail clippings on his lounge carpet. The thought of her naked athletics made him smirk, nevertheless.
Just before he left, having polished his shoes and taken a final look in the hall mirror, quietening his mind for the drive to his office, he remembered his ex-wife’s email. He had read it quickly – something about helping with some care home bills, most extraordinary, and, quite predictably, badly explained. Perhaps he should sort it out before he went in, otherwise it would play on his mind and annoy him.
He sat down again in the lounge, switched on his laptop and took an absent-minded gulp of the cold, unsweetened coffee he had left on the table. He opened up his email and found what he was looking for. She wanted him to tell her how her investments were doing and, ah yes, here it was: she wanted him to find out whether you could be forced to sell your home to pay for care in France. In France! It was typical of Martha. Why couldn’t she look on the Internet, or just ask a French solicitor? He knew why. She had always been the same. If she needed something she would ask Marcus, and he supposed that it was his own fault for having gone along with it. Oh well, at least she still needed him for something! He wrote that he would get back to her shortly, and hoped that she was well and happy. Then, looking at his watch and tutting, he went out and got into his car.
The thought of Martha brought back memories. Good ones for the most part. She had been solid, reliable, and she had loved him. He had been an idiot to lose her, but, if she came back, he would do the same thing again. Marcus Beaumont was a ladies’ man through and through, oozing charm, and adept at flattery, unable to resist a pretty face and a good pair of legs. Life was for living, after all, it was a pity that you couldn’t keep hold of a decent wife and indulge yourself in a little fun from time to time. Martha had been unreasonably upset by his brief infidelities; she had taken everything too much to heart.
When he had a free moment, after an extravagant lunch with an exceptionally wealthy client, Marcus contacted a friend of his about Martha’s query. It turned out that French law was rather ambiguous on the matter of care costs. He put together a summary, advising her friend to go to the local social security offices, where he could find out whether his father might be eligible for benefit payments. It seemed that family contributions were expected, based on ability to pay. He told her that he would be happy to answer any of her queries regarding this or any other subject, that he had flooded the bathroom again and would probably have to have the ceiling replaced, that he had managed to shoot next door’s cat in the arse with a pellet gun at last, and that her investments were doing remarkably well, rising to well over four hundred thousand pounds, with the prospect of further substantial profits likely. He added that, if she required funds over and above the regular dividend payments into her French bank account, she should use the electronic transfer system he had set up in her name, knowing that she would not, and, as his first client had arrived, the email was sent with love and best wishes, and, if he were entirely honest, a certain amount of regret.
Madeleine, the girl he had employed for a number of totally irrelevant reasons, brought in a grumpy woman in her fifties who had a large wart in the fold of her nose.
Thank God for Maddy’s magnificent breasts! thought Marcus, as he extended a hand to his next client.
Forty-eight
It was before eight when the telephone rang.
‘Good morning. May I speak with Monsieur Berger?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Ah, Monsieur Berger. It’s Monsieur Schwartz. I’m calling about the apartment. I’d like to make an offer. I hope it has not been sold.’
Clement turned off the gas under the kettle and thought quickly. ‘I have received an interesting offer, Monsieur Schwartz, which I am considering.’ He wondered whether it was obvious that he was lying about it being ‘interesting’.
‘Ah! Would it be convenient for me to call this evening, Monsieur Berger? At around seven?’
‘Yes. That would be fine.’ He hated the weakness in his voice.
‘Very well. Until seven, then. Goodbye.’
And, just like that, the day was lit up, putting a smile on Clement’s face and making him whistle as he re-lit the gas and made coffee.
At work, he sold more than ever, and winked at Sofia, who blushed to the roots of her baby-blonde hair, spending the rest of the morning trying to catch his eye. At twelve o’clock he took her to lunch at one of the cheaper restaurants in town and told her that she was too pretty to be stuck in an office all day long, doing a job she hated and was not very good at.
She laughed at his jokes and went to the ladies to re-apply her lipstick after each course. It was the type of lipstick that made your lips look permanently wet, and one she generally reserved for evenings out with the girls. Her eyes were green and her skin was clear. She wore a tight top and a short skirt. Sofia was a breath of fresh air and just what he needed to celebrate the prospect of an improved offer on his father’s apartment.
He knew that she would like to see him again. And perhaps he would call her. There was no reason why he shouldn’t.
The apartment was tidy and clean when Monsieur Schwartz knocked. The heating was on and the cushions plumped. Clement switched off the television and opened the door.
‘Good evening, Monsieur Berger.’
‘Good evening, Monsieur Schwartz.’
The prospective buyer stepped into the room and went through to the lounge, looking about him for a place he would like to sit down. He was dressed in a heavy coat, which he removed and handed to Clement, and carried a large briefcase, which he set down on the floor beside a large armchair.
‘Would you like to look around again?’ Clement asked, reasonably.
‘No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.’
‘Then, can I offer you something to drink? Pineau, a glass of Bordeaux?’
‘No, thank you.’
The men sat, ready to get to the point, but neither wanting to make the first move.
‘How is your father?’
‘He is well, thank you. How is your mother?’
‘Not so good. That is why I am here.’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘Yes. Well, Monsieur Berger. I have come to make you an offer on the apartment,’ he said, suddenly. ‘I believe that the price you are asking is too high, and I presume you are ready to compromise.’
Clement shifted uneasily in his chair.
‘I have studied the area, and have made a shortlist. Your apartment has certain advantages, but I will not pay a premium, when I have alternatives that would suit my mother almost as well.’
Clement could feel his disappointment turning to indignation. He was being held to ransom.
‘Therefore
, I consider a price of one hundred and twenty-five thousand euros to be fair. I realise that this is not a pleasing figure for you, but I must insist that it is my final offer.’
Schwartz stood up and slid his hand into his briefcase, holding out a card to Clement. ‘If you are interested in my offer please call me before the end of next week.’
‘I… Very well, Monsieur Schwartz. I will discuss it with my father,’ said Clement, following him to the door, wishing suddenly to kick him down the stairs.
‘I hope to hear from you soon, Monsieur Berger,’ said the visitor. ‘It would, of course, be a cash sale.’
And, as he watched Schwartz descend the stairs, Clement had the impression that something was not quite right. That perhaps this man had no sick mother. That he was more likely to be a property developer who was hoping to make a quick profit.
It was disconcerting to be in a position of such weakness. It looked as though the apartment would be sold to Madame Dautriche, after all. The higher offer began to seem more attractive in the light of Schwartz’s derisory suggestion, and the ‘cash sale’ a dubious advantage. Clement poured himself a large Pineau and started to laugh. The man had not even bothered to look around again, or ask any questions. The whole thing had been absurd. He ran through the conversation, thinking it slick, practised. What a smooth operator Monsieur Schwartz had been!
Clement was still grinning to himself when he checked his phone for messages. There were three. Felix Dumas wanted to know whether he had considered Madame Dautriche’s offer, as she had two other properties in mind, Sofia wanted to thank him for lunch, and Martha wanted to meet him the following evening for a reason she would not state over the telephone.
Clement looked out at the sea, feeling that a conclusion to his present predicament would bring a welcome stability to his life. If there was no other solution, then he should go ahead and sell the apartment.
In the distance, the sea swelled and its currents flowed into each other, following a very different imperative.
Forty-nine
Estelle was a very determined person once she had decided to do something. And, now she had properly met Clement Berger, her resolve to prevent Dumas from manipulating his client had hardened.
There were no contact details for Madame Dautriche, as she had suspected, but she had found a telephone number in Dumas’ personal diary and had noted it down. She had also found the details of a property she was sure had been sold to the same woman just over a year ago, noting that the sale price had been significantly lower than the asking price. It was most peculiar. Either the woman was buying up lots of properties, or… Estelle could not finish her thought for now, but she was sure that she was onto something. There was a telephone number for the property in question, too, that was different from the one she had found in the diary. She would try that one first.
There was a long wait, which made her panic a little and wonder what she would say if someone did answer. She should have thought it through first. Perhaps she should hang up and try again later, when she had made a better plan. Just then, a man answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah! Good evening, sir. I am telephoning to…’ She had not even thought this far.
‘Is that the water company? Just a minute, I’ll get my wife.’
Estelle’s thoughts raced.
‘Hello? Is that the water company?’
‘Oh, good evening. I am just checking we have the right address, madame,’ said Estelle. ‘Could you confirm that this is number 17 Avenue des Lézards?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And could you confirm your name, please?’
‘Madame Renard. You have our details. When is your plumber coming to fix the leak?’
‘There will be an engineer with you shortly, Madame Renard. May I confirm that you are the homeowner so that we may bill you correctly?’
‘Homeowner? No! We rent the property. If you can call it that! You can send the bill to Dumas. He is our so-called landlord!’
‘Ah, yes. I have it here. Thank you. I shall mark your problem urgent. Good evening.’
When she put the phone down, Estelle needed a glass of water. She was perspiring and felt rather faint. It had been difficult to keep up the pretence, and she hoped that the water company would indeed arrive soon to sort out the couple’s problem.
The information she had gathered did not surprise her, but she wanted to know how a property which had been sold to Madame Dautriche had ended up in Felix Dumas’ name. Her boss had acquired the property cheaply, certainly, and was now renting it out. She wondered how many other properties he owned in the area, and how many other people he had swindled. There had been a fair number of sales since she arrived at the practice but, as far as she could remember, no other instance involving Madame Dautriche. Unless the meetings had taken place after she had gone home! She picked up the piece of paper on which she had written the woman’s number and thought hard about what was to be gained by calling it. Supposing she did answer? Might she recognise Estelle’s voice? Might she call her back and find out that Maitre Dumas’ secretary was up to something? It was too risky.
Estelle would wait until she had a clear motive, apart from sheer curiosity. It would be foolish to rush in, when, for the moment at least, she was holding all the cards.
The next morning, Felix Dumas would not be in until ten o’clock. She would look through his desk once more and perhaps make a list of the people he had sold houses to over the past couple of years; those that were official sales. That should be fairly simple to do, although what it would achieve had not quite come to her as yet. But that was the way things worked sometimes, you didn’t always know how you would solve a problem, you just knew that you would in the end.
Before it got much later, Estelle went down into the street and telephoned the emergency number for the water company and asked them to be sure to visit 17 Avenue des Lézards as a matter of urgency. That made her feel better. She was not the same kind of person as Felix Dumas, not by a long chalk!
The building always felt cold in the mornings, and the electric light did not quite manage to chase away all the shadows. Estelle preferred to lock the door once she was inside and, on this particular occasion, she had an added incentive to do so. She climbed the stairs and went into the large office, opening up the blinds and looking out onto the street. Turning, she took in the scene before her and, wondering where she would hide something that she didn’t want anyone to find, commenced her search. It would have been easier had she known what it was she was looking for, but she was confident that she would know what it was when she found it. There were letters from the bank containing various statements on Dumas’ accounts, but nothing out of the ordinary for a wealthy notaire. There were a few photographs of Patrice Dumas, one of him as a boy with his mother on a beach, both of them smiling. There was a small bundle of twenty-euro notes and a company chequebook – she read the stubs but found nothing suspicious. On the desk, there was little of interest and she was about to give up and turn her attention to his personal computer, when she noticed something protruding from the leather writing block which covered the central part of the desk.
Carefully, she lifted up the block and pulled out the sheets that had been hidden there. It was the Compromis de Vente for Monsieur Berger’s apartment. The first page bore the name of the buyer. Felix Dumas’ details were displayed clearly.
She flicked through the pages of the document, wondering who had prepared it and how it would be possible that the client would not notice the name instantly, as he signed. Surely it would be a huge risk? One that might scupper such a ruse terribly easily. She looked at her watch. She still had time to make copies for herself and return the papers, before Felix Dumas arrived. She went quickly down the stairs and switched on the machine, reading through the pages once more, as she waited for it to warm up. She was unaware that Patrice was standing behind her so that, when he spoke to say good morning, she let out a small scre
am and scattered the papers on the floor.
‘Oh! I am sorry, mademoiselle,’ said the boy, genuinely aggrieved to have given her such a fright, and stooping to pick up the papers for her.
‘No! That’s all right. Thank you. I can manage,’ she cried, knowing that by being so dramatic she was only making things worse than they already were.
‘I let myself in. I didn’t mean to scare you,’ continued Patrice, his face scarlet.
‘That’s all right. You just surprised me, that’s all. No harm done.’ Estelle took the papers and hurriedly sorted them out, slipping back to photocopy them when Patrice had gone upstairs. Now she would have to get the originals back onto Felix Dumas’ desk with his son watching her! And it was almost ten minutes to ten!
Upstairs, Patrice stood at the window, consumed with embarrassment, watching a stray dog weave in and out of the traffic, willing it to cross safely. The dog was unconcerned, its tongue hanging out to one side, trotting in between the honking cars. He saw a tramp, who looked as though he might be asleep on the pavement outside the boulangerie opposite, and wondered whether it might be his dog. The boy felt a surge in his chest as he imagined the love between the man and the dog.
Estelle came up the stairs just as he came running down, three at a time, almost making her drop the papers again.
‘Sorry! The dog!’ he shouted, continuing across the hall and out of the door.
She went up to the office and slipped the papers back. Going over to the window, she saw Patrice Dumas stooping to cross the road, holding the collar of a rather mangy looking animal, stopping the traffic and going up to a man who was asleep on the pavement opposite. The boy crouched down and gently woke him, taking the lead from his hand and re-attaching it to the dog’s collar. Estelle watched them exchange a few words and then saw Patrice go into the boulangerie and bring out a bag of cakes and a cup of coffee, sitting down on the pavement next to the man and petting the dog.
