The holiday, p.12
The Holiday, page 12
She gets up late and goes to the bathroom. For the first time she senses not the loneliness that she had expected, but a delicious surge of freedom. Ignoring the cost, she rings room service and orders breakfast in her room, an extravagance that Bruce would never have condoned. By the time it appears on an elaborate trolley which, with raised flaps, converts in her room to a table, her thoughts have raced ahead and she finds, to her surprise, that pity and compassion are scarce and that anger is still in control.
It would be different, she tells herself, if he was wrongly accused, or had been hit by a car, or had suffered a heart attack, but the fact was that he had brought this absence on himself. She sits down and starts on a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and tomatoes and resolves to think about herself for a change. If Bruce is locked up for two or three years she may never see him again. People change, circumstances alter.
She pours herself a cup of tea and imagines life without Bruce, and the feeling wells up in her that she has been held back for too long. She has always been bright but has never had the opportunity to show it; she has always been ready for a lot more than her restricted life offered. ‘A woman’s place is in the home’ – she had almost believed it herself. But now she was beginning to realise that yesterday’s setback was today’s opportunity. Each thought spawned another. If every married woman was given a million pounds today, how many marriages would still be intact by tomorrow?
When she thinks back to the long wasted years that she has devoted to her marriage, Frances wonders whether she was in possession of all her faculties. She was letting her life slip by and doing nothing with it. They didn’t even have children, the conventional anchor, and their sex life wasn’t likely to inspire any poetry. Frances has always imagined that this is the way it is with most people. Sexual frustration is a central part of their lives. They daydream about partners and experiences that will never be available to them. They yearn and they sulk. They accept.
She gets up from her breakfast and smiles to herself. What had Bruce said? ‘This is a fresh start for me and I’m going to grab the chance.’
She pushes the breakfast trolley out into the corridor for collection and settles down at her table with the phone. She wonders whether she should break the news to such friends as Bruce has, but decides that she ought to consult him first. With his current capacity for fantasy, he is probably going to promote the story that he is on an extended world cruise.
Instead, after many linguistic and technical difficulties, she manages to make contact with the British Consulate, where a man listens to her story with languid boredom. He explains: ‘I hear this one three times a day.’
‘That’s little consolation to me,’ says Frances, who feels appreciably brisker this morning, ‘except that you presumably now know enough about the subject to give me some good advice.’
‘There’s not a lot I can give,’ says the man. ‘Get a lawyer. Be patient.’
‘He wanted bail,’ says Frances, ‘but he says the French don’t seem to understand it.’
‘They understand it,’ says the man, ‘but they won’t grant it to someone who doesn’t have an address in France.’
‘Does that mean he could be locked up for a year or more before he even gets to court?’
‘It could well do,’ agrees the man. ‘The wheels of French justice grind exceedingly slow.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Keep in touch, Mrs Kerwin. We maintain a record of such things.’
She replaces the phone and goes to the window. The sun, an occasional visitor in her own country, is a permanent resident here. It scorches down, bleaching whatever is in its path. In the street below, people are carrying parasols as the British would carry umbrellas.
Frances sits down and plans her day. A coffee on the rue d’Antibes with perhaps a little shopping would fill the morning nicely. Then a sandwich and an hour on the beach. And then, somewhere between the beach and dinner, she will have to visit Bruce and see how he has enjoyed his first night in a cell. This is the least attractive item on her itinerary.
As she considers it, the telephone rings in her room. A girl on the Carlton Hotel switchboard says: ‘A call from Nice for you.’
She waits, mystified, and then Andrew Marner’s voice says: ‘Frances?’
‘Hallo,’ she says. ‘What are you doing in Nice?’
‘A business meeting, I’m afraid,’ says Andrew. ‘Listen, have you heard of the Bateau Restaurant?’
‘I think I’ve missed that,’ says Frances.
‘It’s a boat you have dinner on. It sails up the coast. Excellent, I’m told. I wondered if you’d care to join me on it for dinner tonight?’
‘With Kimberley?’
‘No,’ says Andrew.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ says Frances. ‘I’m tempted.’
‘I distinctly heard you say last night that you’ve got to grab your pleasures where you find them.’
‘I did say that, didn’t I?’ She smiles. ‘What time?’
‘Eight o’clock in the lobby,’ says Andrew.
‘I’ll be the one not carrying a copy of Le Figaro,’ says Frances.
She puts down the phone and goes into the bathroom to look in the mirror. It tells her that a useful addition to her day’s programme would be an hour in a hair salon, and a day that was full of gaps is now beginning to feel somewhat crowded. The long walk to the police station has to be fitted in somewhere but, her residual loyalty eroded by the present attractions, it is difficult to see where.
Esme Rutherford returns from a visit to the Musée de la Castre where she has inspected an Egyptian mummy’s hand, a Japanese warrior’s costume and a South Pacific hut pole, and wonders whether she is devoting too much time on this holiday to culture. She seems to be missing out on the conventional pleasures that are satisfying everyone else, and she is seeing less and less of Roger.
But as she comes into the hotel’s lobby she notices Andrew Marner standing alone and remembers that there are more artistic duties in store. She goes up to him.
‘I want to talk business with you, Andrew,’ she says blunty.
He looks round. He is obviously waiting for someone. ‘Business?’ he says. ‘That’s my language.’
He is wearing a smart suit that is almost silver and a deep brown shirt. The tie is pale blue. He looks round again but nobody is approaching.
‘It’s about a portrait,’ says Esme, ‘of you. If you were serious the other day, I’d like to do it. To be frank, we need the money.’
‘Fine,’ says Andrew. ‘How about a first sitting on Monday afternoon? I’m out in the morning.’
‘Shall we do it in your room?’
‘If that suits you,’ says Andrew. ‘Are you expensive?’
Esme pauses, afraid that a price at this stage might put him off. Rich men are notoriously cautious with their money: that’s why they’re rich. ‘Let’s discuss that when you’ve seen the painting,’ she says.
‘Such confidence is rare,’ says Andrew. He looks round again. Frances Kerwin is beside him in a flowery pink dress. She seems slightly embarrassed.
‘Hallo,’ she says to them both.
Andrew takes her arm. ‘We’re off,’ he says. ‘Monday afternoon, then?’
Esme watches the two of them walk out of the hotel and wonders what is going on. She heads for the lift and ascends with two fat Arabs who appraise her frankly and then discuss her and laugh. In her room is a note from Roger. ‘I’m in the swimming pool in the Health Club. Seventh floor.’ She puts on her white swimming costume, covers herself with a bathrobe and goes up.
Roger and Kimberley Neal are frolicking in the pool. She is trying to push his head under the water, and when she succeeds he grabs her legs.
‘Well, hallo,’ says Esme, wondering again what is going on. ‘Is it warm?’
The pool is small, the size of a small room, and is obviously a late addition to an old hotel. Beyond it is the Health Club with exercise machines, saunas, floating relaxation tanks and massage facilities.
‘I thought I’d have a swim while you were culture vulturing,’ says Roger. ‘Kimberley was honing her limbs in the Health Club.’
‘You don’t have to explain, Roger,’ says Esme, dropping her bathrobe and slipping into the water. ‘Do either of you know where Bruce Kerwin is?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ says Kimberley. ‘He’s been arrested. He’s locked up. They found him with cannabis in his pocket.’
‘Cannabis? Bruce Kerwin? He doesn’t look the type. Where is he?’
‘He’s in Cannes police station at the moment, poor sod. Some holiday!’
Esme swims across the pool and back. It does not take long.
‘What’s Frances going to do,’ asks Roger, ‘left on her own like that?’
‘I expect she’ll be all right,’ says Esme. ‘Where’s Andrew, Kimberley?’
‘Working,’ sighs Kimberley. ‘He’s always working.’
The Bâteau Restaurant is a smart, low-slung craft, 36 metres long, with a restaurant, dance floor and discothèque inside, and tables and chairs in the open air above for drinks before the meal. Andrew Marner and Frances Kerwin are sitting at one of them in the company of a bottle of Dom Perignon and Frances, amazed at her audacity, is listening to a cacophony of hooters as some boats try to edge their way into the port and others try to get out. As their own begins its journey she looks round at some of the other customers. A Middle Eastern gentleman, with a woman who has very heavy legs, is enjoying a cigar as if it is his last; a black couple in expensive clothes are drinking wine; a German family are trying to appease their small boy whose pale face scowls at a waiter who is attempting to serve him with a drink.
Andrew Marner is trying to obliterate all thoughts of libel from his mind and enjoy the company that he has so cleverly provided for himself. He enjoys women and understands them. Their eyes tell him all he needs to know long before they open their mouths, and Frances Kerwin’s eyes are an invitation.
She looks at him now and asks: ‘Does Kimberley know we’re here?’
‘I don’t have to answer to Kimberley,’ says Andrew. ‘I employ her.’ He refills their glasses and then fills them again as the bubbles subside.
‘How do you mean, employ her?’ Frances asks. She imagines Kimberley Neal’s tall frame splayed naked across a bed.
‘She writes a column in one of my magazines,’ Andrew explains. ‘She’s a very ambitious girl.’
‘I sort of got that impression,’ says Frances. ‘She’s going to the top.’
‘Well, it’s the age of the woman,’ says Andrew. ‘What did Mrs Thatcher say? “The cock crows, but the hen lays the eggs”.’
‘In her case the hen crowed as well,’ says Frances, drinking her champagne.
‘How’s Bruce bearing up?’ asks Andrew, who is not keen to discuss Kimberley Neal’s role in his life. ‘Have you seen him today?’
Frances nods silently.
Her excursion that afternoon to the crepuscular entrails of Cannes Central Police Station has not been a success and she knows that she is to blame. In the mistaken belief that it would help to cheer him up, she had arrived all smiles, in the manner of a neighbour visiting a sick friend. To Bruce Kerwin, who had now established a snarling relationship with his guards and an even less friendly one with many much smaller creatures who had spent much of the night biting lumps out of his backside, her demeanour was inappropriate. He was dirty, knackered and frayed, and his grinning wife, fresh from a hair salon and wearing what looked suspiciously like a new pair of black suede boots, didn’t seem to be on the right wavelength at all.
‘What have you done?’ he had asked when they were seated face to face again at the same small table.
‘Done?’ asked Frances. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Have you found a lawyer for a start?’
‘Not yet, Bruce,’ said Frances. ‘Lawyers cost money. What I have done is phone the British Consulate.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They said they’d heard it all before. About three times a day, I think the man said.’
‘Well, for Christ’s sake,’ exploded Bruce, ‘what was their advice?’
‘Patience, Bruce.’
‘Patience,!’ he shouted. ‘Am I going to sit in that godforsaken cell for ever?’
‘Not for ever, Bruce. Not for ever. Have they charged you yet?’
‘Yes, they have. Possession of a forbidden drug.’
‘And you’ll have to plead guilty. What can a lawyer do?’
‘Jesus, Frances, he can plead my case. If there’s a prison sentence, he can make it smaller. If there’s a chance of acquittal, he’ll fight for it. Apart from anything else, I need someone in court on my side who can speak French.’
‘The Consulate seems to think that it could be a year before your case comes up. Do you really need a lawyer until then? He’ll probably charge us for a year’s work when there’s nothing for him to do.’
Bruce leaned across the table and gripped his wife’s arm. ‘Get with it, Frances. I need to be represented. There are dozens of things a lawyer could be doing for me now. My conditions, for a start. I’m covered with bites.’
‘Bites?’ said Frances. ‘Bites from mites?’
‘Are you finding this amusing?’ Bruce asked coldly. ‘I really enjoy being a source of entertainment.’
Frances was full of contrition. She found it difficult to put herself in her husband’s position. She placed her hands on his hands which were clenched tightly together on the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m still a little bowled over by the novelty of having a husband in prison. I’ll find a lawyer tomorrow. How do I pay him?’
‘The redundancy money will have gone into the account. Use the Eurocheque card at a bank. You can draw out what you need. I think there’s a daily limit, but you can go to the bank each day.’
Frances, who had resigned herself to the use of credit cards with their circumscriptions and swiftly approaching upper limits, was cheered by this news which opened up a fresh source of money. She wasn’t as poor as she had thought.
‘Okay, kid,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you a lawyer.’
‘Did you bring any soap?’
‘Oh God, I forgot. Sorry, Bruce.’
Now, sitting on the boat, she is stricken by guilt at the memory, but her guilt does not extend to her acceptance of Andrew Marner’s invitation to dinner. When they have finished the champagne they make their way downstairs and are shown to a table next to a window through which they can watch the coast recede. When they have left the port they can see the seafront at Cannes, the Carlton Hotel, and the traffic moving along the Croisette. The food that they have ordered over drinks upstairs arrives immediately and Andrew pours them wine.
‘What was your husband?’ he asks, when he has completed these formalities.
‘Before he became a time-warp hippie, do you mean?’ asks Frances. ‘I suppose “a neurotic android” describes him best.’
‘You’ve got a sharp tongue,’ says Andrew appreciatively. ‘But I meant his job.’
‘He was manager in an insurance office, I’m afraid,’ says Frances. ‘He spent twenty years sitting at a desk and the memory of it seems to have turned his head. Let’s talk about you, Andrew. Bruce seems to depress me for some reason.’
‘Me?’ says Andrew. ‘What is there to say about me?’
‘Are you married?’ asks Frances. ‘Is there a wife somewhere?’
‘There is indeed,’ says Andrew. ‘Bertha is at home.’
‘Is she beautiful?’
‘All women are beautiful once,’ says Andrew evasively. ‘Nature fixes it.’
‘Is that true?’ asks Francis, wondering.
‘In your case nature made an exceptional job of it. You’re a very beautiful woman, Frances.’
‘It’s kind of you to say that,’ says Frances. ‘I don’t get many compliments.’
Andrew leans forward to drop his voice. ‘I should very much like to make love to you, as a matter of fact.’
‘Is that a compliment as well?’ asks Frances, disconcerted. She has read about how very successful men go directly for what they want, having neither the time nor the inclination to prevaricate, but his forthright approach has still surprised her.
‘Whether it’s a compliment or not is a matter for you,’ says Andrew, ‘but I meant what I said and there’s no point in disguising it. More wine?’
‘I think I’d better,’ says Frances, holding up her glass. ‘I don’t get propositions like this every day.’
The boat has moved away from the coast now and is circling islands in the bay. They see pine and eucalyptus woods and, rising from them, a monastery used by Cistercian monks.
‘A group of people I have never envied,’ says Andrew when Frances points it out. ‘Missing this world in the forlorn hope that there’s going to be another.’
‘Well, I gathered that the monk-like virtues weren’t up your alley,’ says Frances. ‘Putting you in a cowl would be like putting a g-string on a nun.’
‘I’m a healthy man, Frances,’ says Andrew seriously, ‘with healthy appetites.’
‘You’re lucky,’ says Frances.
‘I’m hoping to get luckier,’ he says softly.
The boat crosses Golfe Juan and heads for Cap d’Antibes and Eden-Roc. Plates are moved, coffee is served, and music breaks out at one end of the room where there is a small dance floor. Soon several couples are on their feet.
Frances watches from the window as the lights of Juan-les-Pins come into view.
‘Jolly Pan,’ says Andrew.
‘Jolly Pan?’ says Frances.
‘That’s how you pronounce it. I’m a bit of a linguist.’
‘Not a cunning linguist?’ asks Frances, buoyed by the drink.
‘Whatever turns your motor, Mrs Kerwin.’
It is a long time since Frances has danced but she needs to now. She feels an exhilaration that has to be released. She stands up and leans across the table to take Andrew Marner’s hands. They walk between the tables to the dance floor and launch into a waltz. The feeling is strange. Andrew Marner is taller, harder and stronger than Bruce; she yields to his lead and senses surrender. The pleasant smell of an expensive aftershave fills her nostrils. When the music changes they stay on the floor for two more dances.
