Up To No Good

by Victoria Corby

  ‘Because you insisted on going on about his good points, and George’s good points are enough to make anyone have a relapse.’

  Oscar ignored me. ‘I was thinking what a shame it was that you weren’t going to be with us, then Maggie’s sister dropped out. It seemed like serendipity and too good an opportunity to pass up - that’s all.’

  ‘Seren-you’re-quite-dipity, if you ask me,’ I said. ‘That’s all, indeed! And it never occurred to you while you were singing the praises of the cottage and the other people I was going to meet that it might just be sensible to point out who one of those nice people was?’

  He busied himself with a lot of unnecessary gear-changing. I laughed. ‘It was never going to work. You should have known what my reaction would be.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He sighed mournfully. ‘I’m beginning to think that George isn’t the man for you after all.’

  I turned to look at him in surprise. Never before have I known Oscar to voluntarily drop one of the bees in his particular bonnet. ‘I suppose he is a bit staid for you, really.’

  Pompous was the word I would have used, but George was Oscar’s friend so I didn’t. ‘Please don’t even think of finding me someone a little less staid,’ I said in genuine alarm. ‘You might not believe this, Oscar, but I’m having a really good time at the moment. I get to keep the duvet to myself, I watch the classic serial whenever I want to, I can have cornflakes for supper and there’s no one sighing impatiently when I’m on the phone to my friends. There’s a lot to be said for being a man-free zone and I’m in no hurry to change it.’

  ‘I enjoy it myself sometimes,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s nice to have someone to hold your hand at a scary movie.’

  ‘I can do that with you,’ I said, wilfully misunder­standing.

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  I grinned and changed the subject. Well, sort of. ‘Funny how well Sally and George got on, wasn’t it?’ I said in a casual voice. ‘They’re just perfect together, aren’t they?’

  ‘Which is a combination that would suit you perfectly,’ Oscar said slyly.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I spoilt my air of haughty nonchalance by saying, ‘I only had a couple of dances with Charlie. He’s amazingly good, isn’t he? I would never have believed he could be as uninhibited as that. He seemed like a completely different person last night.’

  ‘Mm, his moods do go up and down a bit, don’t they?’ Oscar murmured enigmatically, peering at a road sign. ‘Can you check the map? I don’t want to have to bother with the motorway the whole way and if we’re going cross-country I think we need to take the next turning.’

  For the next hour I was kept fully occupied with map reading. Oscar is one of those people who never willingly take the direct route from A to B, and as the vast expanse of pine forest we were traversing seemed to have masses of roads not even marked on the ruddy map my skills were stretched to their limits. And beyond. Luckily he doesn’t mind getting lost occasionally; he says it adds colour to the journey.

  Eventually we arrived at what Oscar had decided was to be our first port of call, a semi-mountain of sand which he informed me was the largest sand dune in Europe. Looking up at it I could well believe it. I admired it, bought a postcard to send to my mother and asked where we were going next. ‘Up there,’ said Oscar, pointing to the top where I could just see some ant-like figures walking around.

  When I protested that I still had a slight hangover and thought it would be wiser to sit in that nice cafe at the bottom and have a drink while I watched him climb for both of us, he told me a 400-foot climb up shifting sand was exactly what the doctor ordered for convalescents, to strengthen their poor wasted limbs.

  It’s probably best not to describe my feelings about that climb. There were several occasions when I felt that death would be preferable to struggling on with my aching legs and heaving chest. I seriously thought about mugging a six-year-old child for her Labrador which was bounding ahead of her on its lead as if it did this climb every day and offering a very useful tow. Whenever I had the breath I rained down curses on Oscar’s head; he merely took advantage of my weakened state to point out that if I kept myself fitter I wouldn’t be in such trouble now. I noticed that despite his regular workouts he wasn’t exactly leaping up the dune-side like a moun­tain goat either but I didn’t have the energy to say it. At long, long last we got to the top and I collapsed on the sand in an exhausted heap. Oscar patted my head indul­gently and promised to buy me an I climbed the Dune de Pyla T-shirt as a reward for my efforts. I growled at him.

  When my legs stopped feeling like jelly and I could breathe again I had to agree with a smirking Oscar, who was looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, that yes, the view over an enormous sweeping bay, dotted with sandy islands and fringed by Atlantic rollers breaking and foaming over lines of sandbanks, was absolutely spectacular. I was even large-minded enough to admit that it probably was worth the climb, though I refused point blank to explore a tiny little seaweed-covered beach we could just see directly below us. It was obvious even from up here that there wasn’t a way around the bottom of the dune back to where the car was parked. Oscar gave in with surprisingly good grace; I suspected that he wasn’t too keen on a double climb himself.

  He’d been commenting in an ominous way on the bicycle paths that went, he said admiringly, for literally hundreds of kilometres through the forest all about here. Unfortunately every second sign seemed to be a large Location de vélos so the, ‘What a nice idea but shame we don’t have any bicycles, otherwise I would have loved to do it’ excuse was stymied before it even began. I was greatly relieved when he told me he’d heard there was a beach just up the road with two or three good fish restaurants, so how about a spot of lunch? We could think about hiring some bikes this afternoon.

  Luckily even Oscar found the allure of strenuous exercise palled after a leisurely swim in the surprisingly cold sea and a lengthy lunch eating local mussels and freshly cooked crabs, and we passed the bike hire shop without a second glance as we took a post-prandial walk along the sea front.

  ‘I wonder if Maggie’s calmed down yet,’ I said as I picked up a pretty ridged shell from the sand and jumped back as a larger than expected wave came rushing in towards me.

  ‘Doubt it,’ said Oscar. ‘She’s a girl of fixed opinions. I’d give it until tomorrow at least.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ I said. ‘Do you think we ought to have supper somewhere around here as well?’

  ‘Can’t. I’m meeting Hugh and George in Festras this evening to listen to some band who are brilliant, so Solange’s daily’s daughter says.’

  I noted the lack of an invitation for me and turned to him with deep reproach in my eyes. How could one of my best friends think of leaving me to face Maggie on my own?

  ‘You can always join us,’ he said after a pause. ‘I’d have asked you before except that I knew I’d get an earful about trying to push you and George back together, so I didn’t.’

  He knew perfectly well that in the circumstances I’d forgive him for sending me off with George in a boat down the Tunnel of Love if it meant I could get out of spending the evening with Maggie. I wondered if his declaration about George not being the perfect man for me was so much hogwash and this was the beginning of an infinitely more subtle campaign. Step one; get Nella to ask if she might be allowed to come out and spend an evening with her supposed Mr Right.

  ‘Can I sit between you and Hugh?’ I said after a few seconds and he laughed.

  At my insistence we went back to the cottage for a shower and a change of clothes, even though Oscar assured me that I looked perfectly nice and why waste time on changing. It was all right for him. He’s one of those infuriating people who suit a bit of dishevelment. After a brisk sea bathe his hair goes into a mass of fetchingly windswept curls; my non curls go into crusty hanks, a different matter altogether. Appearing in public looking like a barnacle-encrusted piece of rope is not one of my secret ambit
ions. I was feeling considerably stronger in the spirit area than I had been this morning, but all the same it was still a relief that when we got back the others were down the far end of the garden, pointedly ignoring our return. We sneaked in, washed and changed with mouse-like discretion, and were creeping out again when Charlie came in with a tray of empty glasses. Keeping my voice low, I explained that Oscar and I were going out for the evening.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ he said, grinning at me conspiratorially. Charlie’s smile was just as nice as his laugh, I thought, and wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before. ‘Going somewhere fun? You certainly look super,’ he added approvingly, eyes fixed on my legs. Funny how it didn’t annoy me like it did when Phil ogled me. He wagged a reproving finger. ‘But watch out. You and Oscar mustn’t even think of going anywhere else for the next few days. You’ve both been put on double kitchen duties to make up for skiving off today!’

  The bar where we were meeting Hugh and George was the same one where Janey and I had had our coffee, but there was an entirely different clientele tonight from the housewives with shopping baskets and beret-clad farmers who had packed it on market day - had it really only been yesterday morning? This evening it was crowded with young music lovers, and not quite so young music lovers; a couple of leather-clad ex-rockers who might well have seen the Beatles in concert were just settling down with a carafe of red. Hugh and George were standing at the bar talking to two young neighbours of Napier’s and looking as if they were trying hard not to stand out as tourists and to meld into the local scene. Bit difficult really, what with Hugh’s near-Scandinavian fair­ness and height and George’s penetratingly English accent.

  Hugh was too deep in conversation with the pretty Virginie to take much notice of our arrival, but George looked up when he saw me, kissed my cheek and said, ‘I’ve just got to discuss something with Oscar then I’ll be able to concentrate on you,’ as if he was giving me the answer to every maiden’s prayer. I began to wonder if I shouldn’t have stayed to face Maggie after all. But Virginie’s husband Etienne, who had blue eyes, a ready smile and an advanced line in flirting which entirely made up for his English being only marginally better than my French, was an excellent antidote for the sort of high blood pressure caused by your ex’s delusions that you’re in hot pursuit. I was distinctly sorry when he and Virginie had to rejoin their own friends, especially as George had finished whatever he had to ‘discuss’ with Oscar. Judging from Oscar’s round eyes and attentive stance the topic hadn’t been global warming or even the current state of the stock exchange.

  Then Oscar, who has the knack of talking to everyone, fell into conversation with the man next to him and within seconds it seemed we’d been drawn into a group of Australian winemakers and their girlfriends who had come from Bordeaux for the music and were ready to have a thoroughly good time. As far as they were con­cerned, the more the merrier so I doubt we could have avoided spending the evening with them even if we’d wanted to. One of them managed to grab a table outside in the square from under the noses of all the other punters who had been hovering around like vultures waiting for the moment it became empty, and before I knew it I was squashed between a large rugby player from Queensland visiting his brother and a perpetual student from Perth dossing his way around the world for the second time.

  George, looking as if he wasn’t at all sure about our new friends, had vainly tried to get alongside me and had to be satisfied with a seat opposite where he could keep a watchful eye on my companions. Hugh had been led firmly down to the far end of the table by a female winemaker with a predatory expres­sion called Kerry. He didn’t look absolutely certain whether he should be prepared to defend his honour or lie back and enjoy what was coming, but after a few minutes or so seemed to have decided the latter was the better option.

  Solange’s daily’s daughter had been right about the music. The band, three men and a dark gypsyish-looking girl with an astonishingly throaty contralto, was very good indeed. According to the resident know-it-all who always seems to pop up amongst groups of more than eight, the band was on the verge of signing a major record contract and would soon be much too grand to play at small venues like this one. The bar’s proprietor looked a happy man as he dashed around filling orders, while in the square, people on first- and second-floor balconies leaned on wrought-iron rails and listened to the music. They didn’t have much choice. The glass doors at the front of the bar had been thrown open to allow in the evening air and the amplification was so loud you could probably hear the music on the ramparts.

  The band wound down and took a much-needed break while the tables began to heave with those making a dash to the bar to replenish drinks. Carlton, one of the winemakers and the rugby player’s brother, was taking an extensive order when he froze. ‘Jeez, will you take a look at that!’ he exclaimed, looking over my head at the far side of the square. ‘Is that a great-looking girl, or what? Nah, not the one with the bandy legs, you great pom,’ he said to Oscar, who had twisted around and was looking in the wrong direction. ‘The leggy one with all the ginger hair and the great tits,’ he went on loudly, accompanying his words with expressive gestures just in case we hadn’t understood what he’d meant.

  Needless to say every male head swivelled as if on a single stalk. Somehow I wasn’t surprised to see Venetia, wearing a short dress that indeed showed off her legs, and her tits, admirably, on the far side of all the tables. She and Robert had searching-for-somewhere-to-sit expressions on their faces and Venetia’s bottom lip was starting to poke out sulkily as it began to dawn on her that they might have to stand.

  Amid a rumble of appreciative remarks, all of which were extremely politically incorrect not to say obscene, I said, ‘Do you want to meet her?’

  ‘You know her?’ Carlton exclaimed, looking as if all his Sundays had come at once. ‘Call her over, I’ve gotta see if she’s as good close up.’

  The next time Venetia’s eyes strayed over our part of the crowd I waved vigorously. Seeing who it was, her face lightened and she began to push her way towards us, Robert following, still limping noticeably.

  By the time he reached us, Venetia had already been appropriated by Carlton who with typical Aussie resourcefulness had found another two chairs from somewhere, squeezing them in at the far end of the table in such a snug spot that when they sat down Venetia was virtually in his lap. She didn’t appear to object unduly, probably because Carlton was very good-looking in a blond, blue-eyed Australian way though Robert didn’t seem too thrilled about his girlfriend being appropriated. He looked even less thrilled when he saw that the only spare chair was between George and Carlton’s cousin who had little conversation but a startling ability to down prodigious quantities of lager without apparently turning a hair.

  ‘Hello, Nella.’ He glanced at me, then at George, in a maddeningly meaningful way, and said, ‘I didn’t think you were a fan of live music.’

  ‘Just because I didn’t like those terrible jazz bands you used to be so keen on,’ I said, refusing to rise to the bait.

  He laughed. ‘They were an acquired taste, weren’t they? One which I seem to have lost, I have to admit.’ He looked up with thanks as a bottle of beer was thrust at him and then said, ‘I hear you had an adventurous walk back to the cottage last night. Jed was telling us all about it.’

  Oh bloody hell, I’d forgotten about Jed. So much for my fanciful ideas of being able to keep such a red-hot piece of scandal away from everyone at the château. But instead of smirking knowingly Robert said, 'Phil was really out of order last night. I could see what he was doing - I even got my leg stroked a couple of times. I’m sure it was an accident,’ he added hastily, ‘but it was bloody awkward to know what to do about it with Maggie sitting opposite. She’d have been even more furious if she thought Phil was after me, than she was about you! Jed says she’s being pretty unpleasant.’ Jed must believe in understatements. ‘If she gets too bad, I’m sure Janey could manage to put you up at the château.’
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  ‘I doubt it’ll come to that, but thanks for the thought,’ I said, feeling rather touched. Just then, George leaned forward, demanding to know in a proprietorial manner what all this was about. It took the whole time until the next set started, and part of the following interval to inform him I didn’t need him to do a Tarzan act and ‘deal’ with Phil. I was quite capable of doing it for myself. To my annoyance neither of the males looked convinced by this.

  I was in danger of becoming what George calls ‘strident’ when luckily the attention was taken off me by Venetia, who came bustling up. Leaning over my shoulder, she said with great excitement, ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve just heard, Robbie! It seems that Solange—’

  ‘Venetia, do you really think Hugh wants everyone knowing about his family business?’ George interrupted.

  ‘If it was such a secret why would Hugh have told me?’ she asked reasonably. ‘And anyway, you’ve already told Oscar, I heard him saying so!’

  George suddenly found something interesting in his glass of beer.

  ‘Anyway,’ Venetia went on, glancing at Robert and me to make sure we were attending properly, ‘Hugh was saying he and George were having lunch at the Auberge de Vieux Chêne today - it’s a lovely old place, all kitsch rococo decorations with lots of swags and mirrors and a good cook, we should go sometime - and when they went into the dining room, who should they see sitting on one of the secluded banquettes in the corner but Solange and a companion!’

  She waited expectantly. ‘Surely she’s allowed to go out to lunch with people, isn’t she?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Sweetie, you don’t lunch on one of those banquettes!’ said Venetia pityingly. ‘They’re the sort where you can draw the curtains around the table to hide you from view if you want to be very à deux - if you know what I mean. Hugh said, from what he could see, the waiters were going to have to do that at any minute to spare the blushes of the other diners.’