‘I’m sorry if you were offended by my little prank,’ he said, sounding not at all contrite.
I drained the glass. The taste did not improve but the jangling in my head had given way to gliding moments of clarity and insight. ‘I’m not sure you are sorry. I think you’ve rather enjoyed making a fool of me.’
‘I need to get my amusement where I can,’ he admitted.
He settled back in his chair smugly and sipped his wine. The blankness in his gaze is unnerving and I could feel myself going over the edge of boldness into a place from which there would be no coming back.
‘I left my home and job to come here because —’ I stopped myself. I didn’t want to reveal anything he could use against me.
‘Yes?’ He wore the expression of a man who enjoys playing the upper hand.
‘Because I wanted to prove something.’
‘So what part do I play in this little experiment of yours, Miss Turner?’
‘— and now I feel like a complete fool.’
His evident amusement at my upset was making me furious. I tried to get up but the chair was somehow lower to the floor than when I sat down. Extricating myself was more difficult than anticipated. The room swayed gently.
‘Sit down, girl. You’re overreacting now. What are you talking about? No one takes you for a fool.’
I picked my way carefully to the door.
‘Come back. Sit down. You’re being ridiculous.’
There was a splinter of something in his voice but I was in no state to analyse it then. I was too deep in the realisation that my situation here was untenable. As I walked out into the blustering rain, I envisioned Monsieur Lapointe taking me to the train, my arrival back in Linnet Lane, Ruth amusing guests with the story of her hapless sister-in-law and, worst of all, the disappointment of my dearest friend, Colleen, who had urged me on this journey. It was more than I could bear and I was seized by a kind of blind terror.
Next thing I was stumbling through the orchard. Wind and rain whipped around me. Then I was on my knees, wine gushing up my throat, making its way back into the earth. Then strong, gentle hands lifted me up, helped me back to my room and out of my wet, muddy clothes, mopped my face with a wet cloth, held a glass of cold water to my lips and tucked a blanket tightly around me as though I were a child. And I slept.
I woke this morning feeling raw, angry, defiant – perhaps even a little fearless. Hardly the way I would have expected to feel, given my disgraceful behaviour last night. I can’t bear to think of it. That moment when I was so wretched, on my knees in every sense, rekindled a childhood memory. I was perhaps eight or nine and with my friend at the local baths. In a moment of spiteful fun she pushed me into the deep end, knowing full well I couldn’t swim. I vividly remember sinking to the bottom of the pool, the air dragged from my lungs. I was too surprised to react but when my knees felt the hard surface beneath me, I somehow found the strength to push myself up toward the light, thrashing my way to the surface where someone plucked me from the pool. Although technically it was Menna who saved me last night, I am reminded of my own strength to endure perhaps more than I imagine.
My first thought is to pack my suitcase, explain the situation to Vivian and go home. It sounds simple enough in theory but the prospect of finding my way home is extremely daunting. To arrive here, there had been a list of detailed instructions. The hotel in Paris was reserved, the train booked. To undertake that journey in reverse, alone and with so little of the language, is terrifying. The thought makes me feel queasy. Or perhaps that’s the aftermath of that ghastly wine.
A wonderful day – I hardly know where to start!
I didn’t realise when I woke this morning in such a gloomy frame of mind that overnight the world around me has inexplicably become more hospitable. Menna arrived at my door bearing a hot cup of tea and toast with strawberry jam – hooray! Her kindness made me teary. We exchanged shy smiles. She gestured vaguely downstairs and for the briefest moment her face assumed Vivian’s po-faced expression to an absolute tee which made me smile. She inclined her head and I understood that I was destined for the chair. I sense that this gift for mime is not a lack of common language but perhaps an inability to speak at all.
With nothing to lose now, I was possessed by a sense of reckless abandon and felt in no hurry to comply with Vivian’s wishes. Besides, it was Sunday. If I still had a job, this was my day off. I enjoyed my toast down to the last crumb, ran a bath and washed my hair. The day was already pleasantly warm. I dressed in a cotton frock and sandals and made my way down to Vivian’s office.
Vivian is difficult to read at the best of times so it was impossible to discern whether she knew about last night. I am curious to know how much she and Mr Brooke actually communicate with each other. Clearly, just from the way they refer to each other, there is animosity between them. Do they even speak?
It is evident to me now that Vivian does nothing without careful consideration. She has the self-control to work toward an outcome unswayed by emotion, a quality that is admirable and intimidating in equal parts. I sat down opposite her, convinced this would be gloves off: full disclosure as to why I am here, what she wants from me and why Mr Brooke refuses to cooperate. Or I would simply be dismissed and probably never know. But it was neither. Amicable and charming, she reminded me it was Sunday and invited me to attend evening mass with herself and the guests. Although, she added apologetically, it was conducted entirely in French.
‘Thank you, but I’m not a Roman Catholic, actually.’ I was still not bold enough to admit I was raised as an atheist. I could see she was taken aback (was this a question Mr Hubert overlooked in the interview?) but forced a smile and made a quick recovery.
‘My apologies; it’s not a prerequisite of the job, obviously.’ She adopted a sincere expression. ‘But, of course, if you would ever like to join us you would be most welcome.’
I found myself nodding compliantly as if this were somehow likely. Honestly, this eager to please aspect of my personality disgusts me. I quite despise it in myself. It is nothing but a charming sort of cowardice.
‘As I’m sure you have noticed, the upper part of the house is not yet refurbished,’ continued Vivian. ‘Normally I would have put you in a renovated guest room, but when Mrs Somerville was so keen to come I didn’t have the heart to refuse her. When she leaves, you may have her room.’
Having seen signs that the place is running on a shoestring, it is understandable that she didn’t have the heart to refuse Mrs Somerville’s funds. I told her I was perfectly happy with my room. Her change of tack was most mysterious.
‘Really?’ We find each other equally perplexing. The English language is all we have in common. She’s from a different class, a different world, and her only purpose in engaging me is as an instrument to get this thing she wants – if only I knew what it was!
‘I really made no progress with Mr Brooke last week. I am not sure —’
‘On the contrary – you’re doing terribly well. But let’s not worry about that now, this is your day off. Is there something you’d like to do? Monsieur Lapointe could drive you?’
In that moment I knew exactly what I wanted to do. ‘I’d like to make a telephone call actually, just a local call.’ I rushed back to my room and fetched the number. Vivian could barely conceal her curiosity as she instructed the operator to place the call. Moments later I was speaking to Alexander, my travelling companion from the train, and before very long we were flying down the hill in his dear little blue Austin Healey while he bombarded me with questions.
He wanted to know where the Brookes were from and how long they had been in Grasse. Was the villa a family estate, or had they bought it? Who were their people? Where did they get their money?
I felt so excited and relaxed to be out of that house, even though I barely know Alexander, and I found myself babbling like a fool. We drove straight to the coast, to the little town of Juan-les-Pins and a small hotel on the waterfront called Bell
es Rives. And all the while I gabbed on and on about Vivian, Jonathan, Menna, the Farleys, the strange Mr Geraldson and the shoe incident, culminating with the wine incident of last night. As before, Alexander was a splendid audience; he crowed with laughter at my mortification, was fascinated by Vivian and Mr Brooke, and adored the eccentricities of the guests.
We were given a table overlooking the sea, today blue and still as a lake. Without consulting me, Alexander ordered for us both and the waiter returned shortly with two tall champagne glasses filled with a dusky pink liquid that I was informed was a Bellini. It smelled like sunshine and tasted really quite pleasant.
‘I’m perplexed that you haven’t asked more questions of them,’ he said. ‘Is it just your middle-class manners?’ He reached across the table and patted my hand. ‘Do you think it’s vulgar, dear?’
I laughed. ‘Probably. Yes, I do think it’s vulgar to ask personal questions, now you mention it. You obviously don’t share that view?’
‘Of course I do. However, gossip and mischief-making are a kind of drug for me,’ he replied delicately, easing a Black Russian out of its pack and lighting up with a slim gold lighter. ‘So I’m forced to be provocative.’
‘I don’t suppose you like being cross-examined, though.’
Relaxing back in his chair, he breathed smoke into the blue sky. ‘On the contrary, I adore anyone taking the slightest interest – try me.’
‘All right. How do you afford to live in the South of France, drive a luxury car and smoke expensive cigarettes?’
He laughed. ‘Ah, straight to the heart of the matter – how clever of you. Good to know you do possess some questionable manners.’ He beckoned the waiter over and spoke to him briefly before continuing, ‘My parents pay me to live here. I may do whatever I please, provided I don’t set foot in Britain.’
As I pondered this riddle, a bottle of white wine and a dozen oysters on ice, grey and glistening in their sinister shells, arrived at the table. Alexander must have sensed I was quietly mounting a protest. ‘If you want to be a mermaid, start with the cuisine, I always say.’ He picked up a shell, pried a rather odious looking creature loose and slid it into his mouth.
Although outwardly resistant, the Bellini had gone straight to my head and unleashed a dissolute recklessness within me. Without pausing to reconsider, I followed Alexander’s example. Although the texture was rather suspect, it tasted like a morsel of ocean: bright and pure. I had a sip of the pale, cold wine and suddenly felt terribly grown up and sophisticated. If only the naysayers in the department could have seen me!
‘Did you commit some sort of crime?’ I asked half-jokingly.
‘Many. I’m considered to be a dangerous criminal in Britain.’
‘But not here?’
‘Oh no, queers have been welcome here since the French Revolution,’ he replied, quaffing his wine. ‘Vive la révolution.’ Avoiding my eye, he gazed vaguely around the restaurant. ‘Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald lived here, you know.’ He looked at me then, not able to put the moment off any longer. ‘For “welcome”, read “tolerated”.’ There was an endearing uncertainty in his eyes.
As it turns out, the civil service has prepared me for more things in life than most people would imagine. We had a couple of chaps in the department who were almost certainly homosexual, although it was never acknowledged or discussed and neither were as obvious or flamboyant as Alexander. I knew them quite well; they were both very decent men and over the years I gained a sense of how difficult life is for men of their ilk.
‘Vive la révolution!’ I said, raising my glass. He touched his glass to mine and smiled a crinkly smile.
As the afternoon wore on, dish after dish arrived seemingly unbidden: fresh fish, salty butter-fried potatoes, peppered tomatoes with white cheese, followed by a slice of sweet lemon tart. All surprisingly edible. But finally my old enemy, the nasty black stuff, turned up. My attitude has always been that if you do not like something, then avoid it! But Alexander insisted this was the worst kind of English closed-mindedness toward all things foreign: culinary xenophobia. There was barely an inch of tar in the tiny cup and, doused liberally with sugar, it was almost bearable.
We left the hotel and motored around to nearby Antibes where we parked and wandered aimlessly around the quaint old town, through the narrow lanes now deep in late afternoon shadow. The town culminates in the rocky shoreline of the Mediterranean with views of Nice curved around a crescent bay and framed in the distance by the Italian Alps. It all seems so exotic to someone for whom the seaside has been the windswept beaches of the North Sea. No wonder people talk of the Mediterranean with an almost poetic reverence – there is a languor in the gentle swell of blue beckoning one over the horizon to North Africa.
Over the course of the afternoon, I tried to impress upon Alexander the predicament I was in, to convey the oppressive atmosphere of the house and why I felt so uncomfortable there. The way guests had to be tiptoed around as though they were live grenades. Vivian’s ability to steer the conversation in any direction that suited her, which exacerbated the problem of Mr Brooke’s adversarial and contrary behaviour. ‘If I ask him a question, he simply ignores it and changes the subject.’ It was a relief to share it with someone but Alexander remained unfazed, brushing off my concerns.
‘It sounds overwhelmingly entertaining. I miss the theatre more than anything.’ He sighed. ‘It’s all deeply Shakespearian: the blind brother held prisoner by his sister with a Machiavellian plan – perhaps there’ll be a murder? If only I could take shorthand, I would take over when you leave.’
‘How can I possibly leave?’ I asked crossly, his trivialisation of my situation starting to get on my nerves.
‘Come on now, don’t be annoyed with me. Something will come up.’
‘What is likely to come up?’
‘A handsome Frenchman who will sweep you off your feet and sire a brood of little frogs for you to fuss over.’
‘He’d better be quick,’ I said. ‘I’m almost over that particular hill.’
He stopped and gazed into my face, his expression a caricature of sadness that was hard to take seriously. ‘Do you know what we need?’
‘What?’
‘A drink!’
‘Oh no, I’ve had far too much already; I’m becoming a lush,’ I protested but soon we were back in the car heading around the bay. He pulled into a driveway where he parked with a dozen other motor cars in front of an imposing cream-coloured mansion. The front door was opened by a man Alexander introduced as Robertson, who led us down the hallway toward the hum of a party and sounds of a violin being played rather savagely.
‘Where are we? I’m not dressed for an occasion. I thought we were just calling on a friend,’ I whispered.
‘It’s not an occasion, just a never-ending knees up.’ He ran his eyes appraisingly over my cotton frock. ‘You look fetchingly wholesome, like Dorothy minus the red shoes which would, in any case, be unbearably twee.’
Robertson rapped at the door. The violin stopped with a screech and the door was flung open to reveal a large, high-ceilinged room. Dizzying light reflected off a swimming pool beyond which were views to the sea. Several dozen people sat around on white settees and cushions; some men, some women, and a few seemingly undecided.
Alexander was greeted enthusiastically with a robust kiss on the mouth by our host, Freddy, an impish American dressed in tight, gold brocade matador trousers with a red cape flung across his bare chest – although there were no other indications this was a costume party. He had a violin in one hand, which he now mercifully put aside. Alexander introduced us but Freddy ignored my extended hand and proceeded to zealously kiss my cheeks. Once would have been awkward enough but three times was simply absurd. The French are terribly into kissing everyone they meet and quite undiscerning. Some British expats seem to have adopted this affectation as well. I don’t care for it at all. The feel of a stranger’s lips on my blushing cheeks makes me shudder.
&nbs
p; ‘Look who’s here, darlings! Now the party starts!’ Freddy shrilled to no one in particular as he darted off to get us drinks and put a jazz record on the turntable. Alexander seemed positively subdued by comparison.
Two androgynous-looking women were entangled on the settee, joined at the lips. Both wore funereal black, making it difficult to see where one ended and the other began. A couple of men, who may have been wearing a little tastefully applied make-up, got up and danced together. A few people reclined on large cushions around a giant hookah pipe which was most likely responsible for the strange, sweet odour of burned apples that filled the room. I made an effort to be open-minded and resisted the desire to stare at people but it was hard to know where to rest one’s gaze. On the surface, these people might have seemed troubled but my nose detected something quite joyous about this gathering. A distinct lack of the friction so evident at the villa.
When Freddy returned with two glasses of champagne, Alexander asked him, ‘Is it indiscreet to enquire into the whereabouts of the owner of that —’ he paused to select a suitably withering description – ‘get up?’
Freddy took this as an invitation to kick up his heels and prance about, flourishing his cape at an imaginary bull. Tellingly, no one in the room bothered to turn and watch this embarrassing spectacle.
‘In other words, is your toreador still on the premises?’ Alexander insisted.
Freddy stopped his antics to point out, ‘He’s not a toreador – what do you take me for? He’s a mat ador.’
‘I realise I don’t know the difference,’ said Alexander.
‘The toreador enrages the bull, the matador actually kills it,’ I told him. ‘It’s more prestigious as it requires more skill.’
‘Thank God,’ said Freddy. ‘You’ve finally befriended an intelligent woman.’
Not averse to the occasional compliment, I began to warm to Freddy as a result of this one. I had already begun to develop a sense of compassion for him and the state he was in. Frantic for attention, his every pore exuded a reckless desperation.
The French Perfumer Page 5
