Dreaming of St-Tropez

by T A Williams

  ‘Why should there be a stain on my character?’

  The cold sensation in the pit of her stomach was turning to anger.

  ‘No reason.’

  Jess got the feeling Caroline was regretting her choice of vocabulary.

  ‘It’ll be a glowing reference, Jess, but he did ask me to make it clear to you that, in return, he expects you to leave quietly and without fuss. And without contacting any of your colleagues, or any of our clients, now or subsequently. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal clear, thank you, Caroline. I think the expression you’re looking for is gagging order.’

  The urge to throttle somebody rose up again and if Graham had been in the room, Jess felt pretty sure she would have been tempted to launch herself at his scrawny neck. She was dimly aware of Caroline standing up and offering her hand across the desk. She took it automatically and shook it, resisting the temptation to squeeze it until the bones cracked.

  ‘Goodbye, Jess, and thank you on behalf of the firm for all you’ve done.’

  ‘This is Drugoi’s doing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mr Drugoi? How could you possibly think that?’

  Chapter 2

  ‘So they’re kicking you out and buying your silence?’

  ‘It couldn’t have been made much clearer.’

  ‘And you think it’s all down to this Russian letch?’

  ‘I’d stake my life on it. Horrible, horrible man.’ Jess reached for her wine and took a big mouthful. ‘You should have seen him. The repulsive Mr Drugoi – or whatever his real name is – was like something you find floating in a septic tank.’

  ‘And so now this man has screwed you good and proper. Although not in the way he was planning.’

  Jess looked across at her best friend.

  ‘He has, and he hasn’t.’

  She saw interest in Hope’s eyes and decided to try to explain how she was feeling, now that the news had started to sink in. That afternoon she had followed Caroline’s instructions and cleared her desk, leaving without uttering a word to anybody, not even to Deanne at the front desk. She had taken the cardboard box containing her personal effects and the accumulated memories of five years and hailed a taxi to take her home. Only then, in the seclusion of the back seat of the taxi, had she finally succumbed to the tears she had been repressing ever since her conversation with Caroline. Nevertheless, by the time she got home, she had managed to dry her eyes and think rationally again.

  No sooner had she got back and dumped her things than she picked up the phone and called Hope, who had immediately invited her over. Now, here in her friend’s cosy kitchen, sipping red wine, she did her best to put into words just what she was thinking.

  ‘I’m not supposed to talk to anybody from work, but I know I’ll get to hear about it sooner or later. I’d lay money on it being Drugoi, behaving like the bully he is. He probably told Graham he’d give him the contract as long as he fired me. The whole “surplus to requirements” story was probably concocted by Caroline, just so I couldn’t take them to an employment tribunal and allege unfair dismissal.’

  ‘But surely you still could, if you want to?’

  ‘Maybe… I don’t know, but I don’t want to go through all that. Besides, the thing is, Hope, I’ll be quite honest, I’ve been feeling more and more uncomfortable working there of late. I’ve enjoyed the work and some of the projects have been a real architectural challenge, but there’s something about the filthy rich that sticks in my craw.’

  She caught Hope’s eye.

  ‘Yes, I know, they’re not all like Drugoi, or Rafael for that matter, and some of my clients have been genuine people – one or two really nice – but increasingly I’ve been given the big budget jobs and, almost without exception, the people I’ve been dealing recently with have been creeps.’

  ‘Surely money doesn’t automatically mean creeps?’

  ‘No, of course not, but I seem to have been getting more and more of the Drugois of this world.’

  ‘Drugoi sounds grim, but I wouldn’t mind a billionaire of my own, you know.’ Hope nodded towards the old poster on her wall. Jess had seen it hanging there for years. ‘I bet there are any number of them in a place like St-Tropez.’

  The photo on the poster was of the atmospheric little town on the Côte d’Azur, its quayside lined with luxury yachts. Happy people in summer clothes were strolling around, while others were sitting at harbour-side cafés, sipping cool refreshing drinks. The sun shone down from a clear blue, cloudless sky and the sea itself was a perfect, transparent aquamarine. It looked idyllic, but Jess knew that real life wasn’t like that. She returned her eyes towards her friend.

  ‘Still dreaming of St-Tropez?’ As Jess knew only too well, the one fixed point in Hope’s firmament over the past few years had been her dreams of this iconic holiday resort. ‘I can’t think of anything worse. Imagine a place full of millionaires and their yachts, the over-privileged few living in villas that cost the earth, and all of them doing nothing but lounging around all day long. Are you really sure you’d like to go there?’

  Hope nodded. ‘Definitely. And you’re just biased. You’ve had a few bad experiences and you’ve convinced yourself they’re all like Rafael or your Russian. There are some lovely people in this world, with or without money, and I’m sure St-Tropez has got just as many good folk as anywhere else.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that, Hope. We all need our dreams.’

  Hope shook her head. ‘Well, I’m sticking to my dreams, and I’m going to go and see for myself sometime soon, I guarantee it. Anyway, leaving St-Tropez out of it, are you saying you’re glad they fired you?’

  Jess grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m glad. It’s been one hell of a shock. But, when all’s said and done, I now find myself with a whole heap of redundancy pay, and the knowledge that I’ll still get a glowing reference to wave in the faces of future employers.’

  ‘You sure your boss’ll keep his side of the bargain?’

  ‘Graham’s a cowardly little wretch, but he’ll keep his word. I’m sure of that. And if he doesn’t, I’ll be going in there with a meat cleaver – and he knows it!’

  ‘So you think he’s maybe done you a favour?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d go that far, but at least it means I can take my time and look round for a new job that appeals to me more, while still being able to pay the mortgage.’

  ‘So, are you planning to go off on a long holiday, or might you be interested in a little stopgap job for now?’

  ‘Working with you? Why not?’

  Hope had been working for a dog-walking agency for some weeks now, since losing her job at a big insurance company. The dog-walking was just to tide her over while she considered her options, and she claimed to be enjoying it. She loved animals and had always taken a lot of exercise, so it suited her fine. She nodded at Jess.

  ‘It’s only minimum wage, but it’ll get you out and about – and it’ll pay for a few bottles of wine. Maureen’s hurt her ankle and she’ll be off for a few weeks, and I’m up to my eyes with so many dogs I’m in danger of being dragged under a bus one of these days.’ She grinned. ‘If two bull mastiffs decide they want to cross the road at the same time, you cross the road – bus or no bus.’

  ‘When do you need a hand?’

  ‘What’re you doing at eight o’clock tomorrow morning?’

  * * *

  April that year was the coldest and wettest in England since records began. The rainfall in the first week alone was in excess of the normal figure for the whole month, and it just didn’t stop. The rivers were overflowing, towns were being flooded, the ground everywhere was sodden and muddy. Every morning, Jess and Hope drove round southwest London in the van, collecting a motley assortment of dogs from owners too busy, too lazy, or too infirm to walk them themselves. They drove up to Richmond Park and exercised them, rain, shine or thunder – and there was precious little shine.

  Then, in the afternoons, Jess took another hal
f dozen dogs on leads for a walk in the local park, doing her best to prevent them from either fighting or humping each other as they walked through the rainy streets to the park.

  Ironically, one day she spotted something familiar.

  Just before the turnoff for the park, there was an empty shop on a corner. It had obviously been a travel agency once, but now it was a pathetic shell, the windows boarded up – all but one corner. Through this, Jess was surprised to spot a poster that rang a bell. On closer inspection, with her nose pressed to the glass, she saw that it was none other than St-Tropez, and not dissimilar to the poster on Hope’s wall. Its corners were curling up and the ink was fading, but the brilliant sunshine, the blue sea and the luxury yachts were unmistakable. Fat cats or no fat cats, Jess had to admit that it looked appealing.

  Every day, as the English skies continued to pour rain down on her and her collection of dogs, she glanced ever more enviously at this little slice of paradise. Maybe Hope wasn’t so wrong after all.

  She started trawling though the Situations Vacant on specialist architecture websites, without finding anything that immediately leapt out at her, but she wasn’t worried yet. With the financial cushion provided by the payoff from Graham, she was able to take her time, confident that, sooner or later, the right thing would come up. She even started to consider taking a holiday somewhere warm and sunny. That had a distinct appeal. Anything to get away from the impenetrable gloom of England.

  Then one day, as she was standing in the limited shelter provided by the branches of a massive oak tree, her phone started ringing. She was in the middle of wiping herself down after separating a German shepherd called Klaus from a golden retriever called Betty – she hadn’t been able to ascertain whether Klaus’s intentions had been amorous or aggressive, but Betty hadn’t appreciated them one bit. Jess, still smarting from the Drugoi incident, felt a considerable bond of sympathy with her. However, in the process of wrestling with them, she had slipped on the grass and now had a soggy bottom and muddy hands to show for it. Still muttering to herself, she wiped one hand on her jeans, pulled the phone out, and answered it.

  ‘Yes, hello.’

  ‘Hello, Jess?’

  She immediately recognised his voice and wondered what he wanted.

  ‘Graham, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.’

  ‘Well, yes, Jess… I know.’ He sounded apologetic, and for a moment Jess wondered if he was calling to offer her her old job back.

  ‘So, is there a reason for this call? I’m working at the moment.’ She kept her voice cold.

  ‘Working?’ He sounded surprised, but not half as surprised as he would have been if he could see her now, covered in mud. ‘It’s sort of about work that I’m calling.’

  He hesitated, but Jess wasn’t doing him any favours. She remained silent until he started up again.

  ‘You remember old Mrs Dupont? The single floor extension in Highgate.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs Dupont had been one of Jess’s favourite clients. Although no doubt worth quite a few million, she was pleasant, friendly, and totally unpretentious. ‘What about her? The job was finished three, four months ago and it’s all been signed off.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just that she wants you to contact her.’

  ‘I thought I was expressly forbidden from contacting any former clients.’

  ‘Yes… yes indeed, but she tells me this is something personal. Nothing to do with work.’

  ‘Something personal?’

  ‘Yes, personal. That’s what she said. Anyway, have you still got her number?’

  ‘No, I deleted it, along with all the other work-related numbers. I assumed that’s what you would have wanted.’

  ‘Yes, of course, good. But, if I give it to you again, please could you call her?’ Graham sounded almost pleading.

  ‘Yes, of course, but what’s this all about, Graham?’

  ‘I really don’t know, but she’s an important client and the customer’s always right.’

  Jess couldn’t resist a jab. ‘Even when the customer insists you fire one of your employees?’

  An awkward silence ensued. Jess waited until he broke it, and was unsurprised to hear him ignore her question.

  ‘Erm, thank you, Jess. I’ll text you the number.’

  ‘So, did Drugoi give you the contract?’

  ‘Erm, yes. Thank you again, Jess. Goodbye.’ She could hear the haste in his voice.

  As she returned the phone to her pocket, she heard it whistle to signify the arrival of Graham’s text, but the call to Mrs Dupont could wait. She would make it later on, once she was somewhere dry and warm.

  ‘Right, come on, Betty, let’s carry on with our walk. And as for you, Klaus, just leave her alone. All right?’

  As the golden retriever stood up, the German shepherd’s nose headed unerringly for her backside once more, but Jess was ready this time. She gave his lead a hefty tug and addressed him in her sternest pack-leader voice.

  ‘I said leave her alone, Klaus. Who do you think you are? A bloody oligarch?’

  * * *

  The upshot of the call to Mrs Dupont was an invitation to tea on Saturday afternoon. In the course of the brief telephone conversation, Jess hadn’t been able to glean any further information about just what the personal matter to be discussed might be, and she was feeling quite curious as she walked up the fine, tree-lined road to see her.

  The house itself, while not in the Drugoi league, was a very desirable old property in Highgate and was, no doubt, worth a lot of money. Jess had been responsible for the addition of a single-storey extension to the rear – part conservatory, part lounge. It had gone in very well and both she and Mrs Dupont were very pleased with the result. During the build, she had often visited the house to check on progress, and every time the old lady had invited her to stay for tea and a chat. Jess felt she knew her really quite well as a result, coming round to thinking of her as a nice old grandma, and she looked forward to seeing her again.

  She pushed the iron gate open and went up the overgrown path to the front door. Here, in the midst of the trees and bushes, it almost felt like she was in the countryside, and she always enjoyed coming here. The thick foliage cut the noise of the traffic on the road behind and it felt really tranquil. As usual, this sense of tranquillity only lasted until she rang the doorbell. This resulted in a tumult of barking from within. It would be a brave burglar who would risk breaking in here.

  She had a good long wait until she heard footsteps and a hand at the lock. Then the door opened a few inches, held by the chain. Mrs Dupont’s old face appeared, level with Jess’s shoulder, while a black nose and a handsome set of gleaming white teeth appeared at knee level. As Mrs Dupont recognised her visitor, her face cracked into a broad smile, and as the dog realised who it was, the barking suddenly stopped, to be replaced by a plaintive whine.

  ‘Jess, my dear. How kind of you to come and see me. Just a moment now. Get out of the way, Brutus.’

  The dog’s head was yanked out of the way and the door closed. The chain rattled and then the door opened once more and Jess stepped into the hall.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Dupont. And hello, Brutus.’

  The black Labrador came waddling towards her and Jess saw that he hadn’t lost any weight since the last time she had seen him. She reflected that he would definitely benefit from joining Hope and herself with their pack of privileged pooches, getting some much-needed exercise. He wagged his tail amiably and nuzzled her hand before she straightened up and greeted his mistress. Mrs Dupont grasped Jess’s hand with both of hers and gave her another smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, my dear. How lovely to see you again. Do come in. Shall we go and sit in the new garden room? I call it Jess’s room, you know.’

  ‘No Mrs Forsythe today?’ Normally the door was opened by the housekeeper – a kindly lady in her sixties, or even early seventies.

  ‘Glenda’s in the kitchen. She’s been baking, and she
told me she couldn’t leave the cake in case it burned.’

  As they walked through to the back of the house, Jess studied her former client covertly. Mrs Dupont was probably in her late seventies, maybe even older. In spite of her advanced years, however, she still looked pretty sprightly. As usual, she was immaculately turned out – even wearing earrings today that glittered the way only real diamonds glitter.

  ‘Come and sit down beside me, my dear. That way we can both look out over the garden.’

  Jess and Mrs Dupont sat down side by side on the fine old ottoman. As they did so, the dog pottered over and slumped down heavily at her feet. Jess scratched his ears as she listened to what Mrs Dupont had to say.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Jess. I was very sorry to hear that you lost your job.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Jess sat up. She had been under the impression that her departure from the firm remained a closely-guarded secret, but it would appear that the news had already got out.

  ‘Glenda met Mr Jenkins the builder in the supermarket a few days ago and he told her. Apparently you took a swing at a Russian oligarch who pinched your bottom.’

  Jess couldn’t help laughing at how well embroidered the story had already become. She wondered how Robbie Jenkins had heard about her dismissal, but she knew him of old. They had worked together on a number of projects over the years. He always seemed to know everything about everybody and there was nothing he loved more than a bit of gossip. Under the circumstances, she decided she had nothing to lose by giving Mrs Dupont the true story.

  ‘I didn’t really hit anybody, although I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted to. The man in question propositioned me as if I was a hooker. I refused his offer in no uncertain terms, and he bullied my boss into firing me.’

  ‘How disgusting.’ Mrs Dupont shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t. And you’re such a good architect, too. What did your husband, or boyfriend, think about that?’

  ‘No serious boyfriend, Mrs Dupont. I had one of those and it didn’t work out. And I’ve been really busy over the past few months, so I haven’t really had the time, energy or the desire to go out and find myself another one.’ She grinned. ‘To be honest, there aren’t many good ones around.’