Fatal Error

by Michael Ridpath

  The result was an eclectic mix of boys and girls, from the super-rich to the quite modest, from geniuses to the almost illiterate, from international swimmers to concert pianists. There was also a fair quota of slobs, yobs, idlers and rule-breakers. Alcohol and tobacco were widespread. Other even more forbidden stimulants occasionally circulated. But for some reason, despite the presence of adolescent boys and girls together in one boarding school, there was very little sex.

  I could never work out why. I made a few attempts to change this situation myself with very little success. There were, of course, school rules banning it, but it seemed to be the pupils themselves who enforced this celibacy. Eventually I developed a theory that might explain it, a sort of extension of Groucho Marx’s dictum that he didn’t want to belong to any club that would accept him as a member. There was a rigid and well-defined hierarchy of boys and girls in the school. It was beneath the dignity of an individual pupil to be seen with a member of the opposite sex at or below his or her level in the hierarchy. We all had to strive for higher. This meant a great deal of frustration for ninety-nine per cent of the school, and an embarrassment of choice for the lucky one per cent.

  And who was at the top of this hierarchy? Well, Torsten was close, but right at the top of this totem pole was, of course, Guy.

  He and I shared a room that year. Valentine’s Day is an embarrassment at any school, but it had been particularly humiliating for me that February. I had received one card, from a sad girl with glasses in my maths class who went on to become a top equities analyst at an investment bank. Guy received seventy-three. Most of them were probably from thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds he didn’t know, but even so. He had played the lead in an unofficial production of Grease the previous summer, and had made an impression on the female half of the school that had endured until the following February. Tall, dark and unremarkable, I knew I was no competition for Guy, but my ego, not for the first time, was crushed. What really annoyed me was that he didn’t even seem pleased. He took it as his due.

  Although I shared a room with Guy, he was very discreet about his love life. I assumed that he had ‘gone all the way’, but he didn’t brag about it. His relationships did seem to form a pattern, though. He would be seen charming a gorgeous girl of sixteen or seventeen, chatting her up, making her laugh for a period of weeks, or even months, and then he would suddenly drop her. Within a couple of days he’d be chasing someone else.

  His current interest lay with a girl called Mel Dean, who was also in her last year at school. She wasn’t as classically beautiful as some of his conquests, but I could see what drove him on. She wore tight clothes and a permanent soft pout that suggested availability, yet she had a reputation for chastity. ‘Fit but frigid’ as the schoolboy parlance would have it. For Guy, an irresistible combination.

  I stayed up late that night, trying to fight my way through a few more pages of War and Peace. I now wonder at how foolish I was to try to read that book in the same term I was taking my A levels, but I had a self-image as an intellectual to protect.

  Guy clattered into the room and got himself ready for bed. ‘Come on, Davo, I’m knackered. It’s past eleven. Can I turn the light out?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ I said, in mock irritation. But in truth I had been reading the same page for ten minutes, and it was time to put it out of its misery. The book fell with a thud to the floor by my bed and I lay back on my pillow. Guy turned out the light and flopped on to his.

  ‘Davo?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you want to come to my dad’s place this summer?’

  At first I didn’t think I had heard right. The idea of Guy inviting me to stay with him and his father in the South of France came as a total surprise, a shock in fact. We liked each other, even respected each other, but I had never counted myself as one of Guy’s friends. Or not that kind of friend. Guy hung around with the likes of Torsten, or Faisal, a Kuwaiti prince, or Troy Barton, son of Jeff Barton, the film star. The kind of people whose families had millions of pounds and several homes scattered around the world. Who met each other in Paris or Marbella. Not the kind who went to Devon in a caravan.

  ‘Davo?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Well? You’ll like it. He’s got this great place on the cliffs overlooking Cap Ferrat. I haven’t been there myself yet, but I’ve heard it’s amazing. He asked me to bring some friends along with me. Mel’s going, and Ingrid Da Cunha. Why don’t you come?’

  Why not? He meant it. I didn’t know where I would get the cash to get there, but I knew I had to go.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I’ll come.’

  4

  I raised the champagne flute to my lips and looked down at the ancient volcanoes of the Massif Central twenty thousand feet below. It turned out I hadn’t needed to find the cash for the plane fare. We had all met at Biggin Hill, an airfield to the south of London, and boarded Guy’s father’s jet. Within minutes we were in the air, heading for Nice.

  Mel Dean and Ingrid Da Cunha were in the seats behind me, with Guy opposite them. Mel was wearing tight jeans, a white T-shirt, a denim jacket and a quantity of make-up. A streak of yellow ran through her long dark hair, which wound around the back of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder towards her chest. And what a chest. Her friend Ingrid was wearing baggy trousers and a sweatshirt. I barely knew either of them; Mel had been at the school for five years, but we had never been in the same class and I had scarcely spoken to her in all that time. Ingrid had arrived at Broadhill only the previous autumn, half way through the sixth form.

  I said hello. Mel’s lips betrayed the tiniest of twitches in acknowledgement, but Ingrid gave me a wide friendly smile. I left Guy to do the chatting up: judging by the peals of raucous laughter from Ingrid, he was doing it well. I leaned back into my deep blue leather seat. It was the first time I had ever flown. This was the life.

  Guy moved up to the seat next to me. ‘You haven’t met my dad before, have you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen him. Apart from in the papers, of course.’ Tony Jourdan had been a wunderkind of the London property market. My father knew all about him, although by the time I had begun to read the newspapers he was less often in them. I had seen a couple of articles in Private Eye accusing him of bribing a local council over the planning application for a shopping centre, and of ruthlessly ousting his former business partner. But mostly he rated a mention in the gossip columns, not the business pages.

  ‘He’s only been to Broadhill a couple of times. I haven’t seen much of him myself in the last few years. But you’ll like him. He’s a good guy. He knows how to have a good time.’

  ‘Excellent. Has he married again?’

  ‘Yeah, a few years ago. A French bimbo called Dominique. I’ve never met her. But forget her. Prepare to have some fun.’

  ‘I will.’ I hesitated. I was looking forward to visiting the bars and restaurants. Now I was eighteen I wanted to exercise my legal right to drink to the full. But there was one problem. ‘Guy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t actually have that much cash on me. I mean, I might have to duck out of one or two things. You’ll understand, won’t you?’

  Guy smiled broadly. ‘No I won’t. Dad will pay. Believe me, he’ll want to. He’s always been generous, especially when it comes to having a good time. And if you do get caught short, just ask me. Really.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was relieved. For five years I had managed to survive on a fraction of the allowance of some of my contemporaries at Broadhill, but I was worried that it would be much more difficult in the outside world. And the joys of a student overdraft still lay several months in front of me.

  The jet skimmed over the tight green folds of the Riviera’s hinterland, passing above a town dominated by two extraordinarily shaped apartment complexes that looked as if they were built of Lego
. Once over the deep blue of the Mediterranean, it turned eastwards towards Nice airport, an incongruous rectangle of unnaturally flat reclaimed land jutting out into the sea.

  Tony Jourdan met us in the terminal. He must have been forty-five at the very least, but he looked younger. I was struck by the resemblance to Guy, not just in the way he looked, but also in the way he moved. He welcomed us with Guy’s winning smile, and threw us all into the open back of his yellow Jeep.

  He drove us through Nice, along the Promenade des Anglais lined with hotels, apartment buildings and flags on one side, and palm trees, beach, sun-worshippers and sea on the other. We turned inland, battling through the heavy traffic to the Corniche, the famous coast road that wound its way towards Monte Carlo. We climbed ever higher, the Mediterranean beneath us and the coastal mountains above us, drove through a tunnel and then swung on to a narrow winding road. We continued climbing until Tony stopped outside a ten-foot-high iron gate. ‘Les Sarrasins’ was inscribed on one of the gateposts. He pressed a remote control, the gate swung open, and the Jeep pulled up beneath a pink-washed house.

  He leapt out of the vehicle. ‘Come and meet Dominique.’

  We made our way up some stone steps that led around the side of the house and were struck by the most spectacular view. On three sides was the powerful deep blue of the Mediterranean, stretching towards an indistinct horizon where it merged with the paler blue of the sky. We seemed to be floating high in the air, suspended a thousand feet above the sea, which we could just hear breaking on to the beach below. I felt disoriented, dizzy, as if I was about to lose my balance. I took a step back towards the house.

  Guy’s father noticed and smiled. ‘The vertigo often gets people, especially when they’re not expecting it. Come and look.’ We edged towards a low white marble railing. ‘Below us is Beaulieu, and that’s Cap Ferrat over there,’ he said, pointing down to a crowded little town and a lush green peninsula beyond it. ‘Behind that is Nice. And over there,’ he pointed to the east, ‘is Monte Carlo. On a clear day, when the mistral has blown all the muck out of the air, you can see Corsica. But not in July, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Guy, pointing to a crumbling wall of thin grey brick perching on a rock at the end of the garden, next to a lone olive tree.

  ‘That was a watchtower. They say it’s Roman. For centuries the locals used this place to look out for Saracen raiders. Hence the name Les Sarrasins.’ Tony smiled at his son. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘Nice, Dad. Very nice,’ Guy said. ‘Not so handy for the beach, though, is it?’

  ‘Oh yes it is. Just hop over these railings and you’ll be down there in ten seconds.’

  We leaned over and looked down. Far below we could just see a strip of sand, next to the coast road, the Basse Corniche.

  ‘Allo!’

  We turned. A few feet back from the railings was a pool, and by the pool was a woman lying on a sun chair. Topless. I stared. I was eighteen: I couldn’t help it. She waved and slowly sat up, reached for her bikini top and slipped it on. She stood and walked over to us, hips swaying. Long blonde hair, dark glasses, swinging figure. I still stared.

  ‘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.’

&
nbsp; ‘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.