‘Wrong?’ says Roger. ‘It’s only Monday.’

  ‘He’s missed three nights. Either he’s ill, which he obviously isn’t, or he’s got somebody else.’

  ‘You’re reading a lot into three days’ abstinence,’ says Roger. ‘I went a whole week once.’

  ‘Well, normally he’s like a rat up a drainpipe. He was in Tokyo last month lusting after some pubically-bald Jap. His sexual energy is mind-blowing. It took two women to service him in Miami, and when he was in Nairobi – ’

  ‘You’re telling me more than I want to know,’ says Roger. ‘Do you think Esme’s safe with him?’

  ‘He’s not a rapist,’ says Kimberley. ‘The ease with which he obtains consent makes rape unnecessary.’

  ‘What is he?’ asks Roger. ‘Irresistible?’

  ‘He has a certain je ne sais quoi,’ Kimberley admits.

  ‘What’s that French for? Big penis? I doubt that Esme will succumb to his charms. She’s a very discriminating lady.’

  ‘How is your sex life, by the way? Given my current availability.’

  ‘I see what you’re driving at,’ says Roger.

  ‘I’m sure we could find a Standard Vanguard somewhere, if that’s the fillip you need,’ says Kimberley. ‘It must be a classic car by now so it’ll be all the rage on the Riviera.’

  Roger sits up on his sunbed and looks round for the waiter. ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asks.

  ‘Lovely,’ says Kimberley. ‘I’ll have a Tom Collins.’

  When the waiter comes down the beach, Roger orders a Tom Collins and a shandy. He had felt himself drawn to Kimberley Neal but now that she has put it on a plate the prospect loses its appeal. He is also conscious at the back of his mind that Esme is working hard at this very moment to earn the money that will keep them in the hotel. His idleness is an offence, but sex would be a betrayal.

  When the drinks arrive, Kimberley reaches across to take hers and narrowly misses him with her left breast, which is almost as brown as her face. A man on the next sunbed can’t quite stop himself from watching her.

  ‘It’s fine, in answer to your question,’ says Roger. ‘I don’t seem to have the voracious appetite of Andrew Marner.’

  ‘No go, then?’ asks Kimberley. ‘You’re rejecting my generous offer?’ She sips her Tom Collins and looks at him over the rim of the glass.

  ‘It makes me feel quite saintly,’ says Roger. ‘I would love to, but there are other considerations.’

  ‘I don’t see any,’ says Kimberley.

  ‘But you’re not sitting where I’m sitting. The view from here is different.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to beg,’ says Kimberley, putting down her drink. She lies back on her sunbed and closes her eyes. ‘I just thought I was being friendly.’

  ‘You were,’ says Roger, feeling awkward. He seems to have managed to hurt her feelings and make himself appear a prig in one go.

  ‘After all,’ says Kimberley, ‘I did have your baby.’

  ‘You did what?’ asks Roger, certain that he has misheard.

  ‘Have your baby,’ says Kimberley. ‘He was a boy, by the way.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ says Roger.

  ‘Insofar as I had a kid,’ says Kimberley.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know where to find you. If you remember, our meeting was a one-off.’

  Roger looks at her to see whether this is a joke. The impression he receives is that it’s not. ‘You had a baby? A boy? Where is he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ says Kimberley, not opening her eyes. ‘They’re the rules of adoption.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ says Roger, but he does.

  ‘That’s not very chivalrous, Roger,’ says Kimberley.

  ‘Chivalry shrivels me,’ says Roger. ‘I’ve got a son?’

  ‘No,’ says Kimberley. ‘Somebody else has him.’

  Roger picks up his shandy and empties it in two gulps. The world is not quite the same place that it was a few moments ago. The distinction of fatherhood has alighted on his shoulders but the new status has a hollow feeling to it. He looks at Kimberley again, but she has abandoned the subject and is trying to sleep. He lies back himself and tries to absorb the information that has arrived from the past a decade late. After a long time he asks: ‘What’s his name?’ But Kimberley is asleep.

  He lies on his sunbed watching a plane trailing an advert in the sky. It is in French and he can’t decide what it is that they are plugging. With time to think he decides that Kimberley is lying but he can’t see what her motive is. Perhaps deep in her female psyche the story of a baby has materialised as a stratagem for luring him into her bed. But why this should prove an attraction defeats him. It is news that could cause a man to flee. Confused but curiously elated he waits for her to wake up.

  After a while she stirs and when he looks at her she opens her eyes. Her hands slide gently up her body and cup her breasts.

  ‘What was his name?’ Roger asks.

  ‘What?’ says Kimberley, waking up.

  ‘Our son. What was he called?’

  Kimberley pulls herself up to a sitting position and checks in the mirror for burns.

  ‘I called him William but I gathered that his adoptive parents were going to give him a new name.’

  The nature and delivery of this reply convince Roger more than anything else that she is telling the truth. William, he thinks. Bill. He wonders what name the boy has now, where he lives and what he is like. Is he good at sport?

  But Kimberley is getting up and assembling her clothes. ‘You have to be careful,’ she says. ‘Half an hour too much sun and your skin falls off. Coming for a swim to cool down?’

  ‘I’ll stay here for a minute,’ says Roger. ‘I think better lying down.’

  Kimberley slips a long T-shirt over her head, puts on her shoes and her sunglasses, and then picks up her bag, leaving him there with his dreams of what might have been.

  Frances Kerwin comes out of Cannes Central Police Station and hails a passing taxi. She tells the driver: ‘Nice.’ It is an expensive way to travel but she is following instructions. When she arrives in the Place Massena, Andrew Marner will meet her and pay the man.

  Duplicity is simple on this coast. A short journey removes you from knowing eyes. And so, as Andrew was already in Nice pursuing his Byzantine discussions with Alain Rocard, he has suggested that she join him there for dinner in one of the city’s many fine restaurants. The logistics of their return, when they must arrive separately but end up together, have yet to be arranged.

  As the taxi skirts the Baie des Anges and passes Nice Airport, Frances tries to shake off the fog of depression in which another visit to the police station has enveloped her. At the beginning of his incarceration Bruce had been merely angry. After two days he was depressed. Now, with the news of his impending move to Marseille, he seems to be in a state of mental collapse, not able to think coherently or talk rationally. His expectations are ludicrous, his demands absurd. Tonight he has suggested that he should be allowed to give an interview on British television. When Frances escapes from his claustrophobic world she is shaking.

  That afternoon she had finally summoned up the courage to visit a lawyer but he had warned her correctly that Bruce Kerwin would not be detained long in Cannes. ‘They will move him to Marseille or Avignon,’ he said. ‘You need a lawyer from there.’

  Now, as she sits in the taxi, she can see herself traipsing round France for the next few weeks, attempting to organise her husband’s defence and catering to his needs.

  The Place Massena stands at the bottom of Nice, a huge square of red buildings with a large fountain in the middle that has four bronze horses rising from its basin. Andrew is standing, as he had promised, by the fountain. He gives her a platonic kiss on the cheek, the businessman in public view, but when they have left the square and are walking between tubs of flowers in narrow lanes he takes her hand.

  ‘Frances,’ he says, ‘this makes me feel young again.’

  ‘Christ,’ says Frances, ‘don’t you start.’

  ‘How is he?’ asks Andrew.

  ‘Terrible,’ says Frances. ‘They’re moving him to the jail in Marseille.’

  Andrew shakes his head and presses his lips together, exuding dismay. The news delights him. He guides her into an exotic restaurant beside the flower market and they get a table against the wall.

  ‘It’s impossible for me to imagine the two of you making love,’ says Andrew. ‘And there are no children to encourage the picture.’

  ‘It didn’t happen,’ says Frances. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Having a child has always seemed to me a peculiarly selfish act,’ says Andrew, ‘but nature’s retribution is swift. Selfishness is the last indulgence that new parents can enjoy for years afterwards.’

  ‘But don’t you regret it now?’ asks Frances. ‘You could have a boy of twenty who could inherit the business.’

  ‘Have you met any people of twenty?’ asks Andrew. ‘They stumble round with their six-word vocabularies. First it was “really”, as in “really nice”. Now it’s “basically”. They test the words to destruction, having no others.’

  ‘Sometimes you sound a mite reactionary,’ says Frances.

  ‘I met one the other day who had actually got a degree. Do you know what in? Three-dimensional packaging!’ He laughs and shakes his head at the folly of it.

  The restaurant, they realise, is Italian and they both order seafood cocktails and lasagne. When the wine appears, Andrew fills their glasses then produces a small, gift-wrapped package from his pocket.

  ‘I wanted to buy you something,’ he says, placing it on the table in front of her.

  ‘Andrew!’ says Frances, genuinely surprised. It is a long time since a man bought her a present; Bruce is so careful with money that he even re-uses the dental floss. She opens the packet and discovers a small, gold Patek Philippe watch.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, wondering how she can wear it without alarming her husband. It could stand out in the tenebrous innards of Marseille prison.

  ‘Put it on,’ says Andrew, and she does. It feels like a thousand pounds’ worth on her wrist and she looks at it with pride.

  ‘I want you to have it,’ says Andrew, ‘and I would also like to talk about our future.’

  ‘Our future?’ she repeats. ‘I haven’t got that far, Andrew. I seem to have a rather crowded present at the moment.’

  ‘But what are you going to do in England without a husband? What are you going to do about money?’

  ‘I shall probably enjoy my independence,’ says Frances doubtfully. ‘As far as money is concerned, I shall get a job.’

  Andrew leans across the table. ‘I want to help, Frances. And I want to see you.’

  ‘I see,’ says Frances. The implication is clear. She asks: ‘How many mistresses have you got, dotted round London?’

  Andrew laughs and holds up both hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘Mistresses? I don’t have time for mistresses. But I’d make time to see you.’

  ‘It would be nice to see you,’ says Frances, ‘but let’s leave money out of it.’

  Andrew shrugs. ‘Whatever you say. But if you need anything or have any problems, promise me you will ask.’

  ‘It’s kind of you,’ says Frances, picking up her wine. ‘But I’m not the sort to collapse in a tearful heap.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I admire you,’ says Andrew soothingly. ‘Are you going to have any pudding?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I thought I might eat a little ice cream back in your room.’

  13

  Not much comes free in the Carlton Hotel, but every morning at breakfast the day’s newspapers are laid out on a table for the guests. And every morning Andrew Marner picks up a copy of the International Herald Tribune and reads it over his cornflakes. He is a man accustomed to rising early and moving quickly, and is invariably halfway through his meal before he is joined by Kimberley Neal, whose early-morning preparations are a slow and methodical event that cannot be rushed.

  He glances at the main headline this morning and feels a tremor of alarm, war costs and high living erode the saudi dream, it says. He ignores the cornflakes for a moment and reads four paragraphs.

  washington – Saudi Arabia, long seen as one of the world’s wealthiest countries, has undermined its financial stability with a decade of unrestrained spending, huge military purchases and irregular banking practices.

  The $121 billion in financial reserves amassed by Saudi Arabia less than a decade ago have almost vanished, drained by expenditures for weapons, social programmes, foreign aid and the Gulf War.

  The spending has far outstripped the tens of billions of dollars earned annually from the largest oil fields in the world, which the State owns.

  Saudi Arabia began to feel the pinch in the mid-1980s when oil prices sharply fell. Since 1983 the Saudis have racked up 10 consecutive years of budget deficits.

  Andrew Marner does not like to read stories like this; they undermine his confidence in himself. If Saudi Arabia, with its limitless billions, is feeling the pinch, what hope is there for people like him? He reads on.

  As the Saudis have forged ahead with ambitious plans to build a well-armed modern state, they have spent their national savings, and are now beginning to buy on credit.

  ‘The Saudis have been drawing down reserves for 10 years,’ a US official said. ‘They’re a mere shadow of their former selves.’

  There seems to be something ominous about this story. Andrew Marner’s political philosophy demands wealth and largesse for as many people as possible. The more money there is around, the better it is for everybody, including him. The envy of the Left, rejoicing in the financial misfortunes of other people, is a mindless reaction which would create a wasteland in which no one would thrive. He puts the newspaper down and returns to his cornflakes. If wealth is ebbing away at the top, the effects will trickle down and one day hit him.

  Kimberley Neal comes in looking ravishing but, exhausted by the sexual depredations of a few hours earlier, he is not physically equipped to appreciate her. She is wearing white jeans, a black cashmere polo neck sweater and is carrying a Chanel handbag.

  ‘I thought I’d do some shopping this morning,’ she says, sitting down. ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘I wish I could,’ says Andrew. ‘I’m meeting Rocard.’

  ‘You keep meeting Rocard but nothing seems to happen,’ says Kimberley, who has her eye on a dress that she’d thought Andrew might buy.

  ‘It’s a poker game,’ he says airily. ‘The watchword is patience.’

  ‘You’re sure he really exists?’ asks Kimberley. ‘You haven’t got some tart banged up in the Negresco?’

  ‘What a disgusting suggestion, Kimberley,’ says Andrew, wishing it were true. ‘Alain Rocard not only exists, he’s one of the most powerful men on this coast. I don’t know whether it’s the Camorra or the Cosa Nostra, but he is used to getting his own way. You get the impression that if he wanted to knock down the Carlton Hotel and replace it with a supermarket, you wouldn’t be able to move round here next week for shopping trolleys. When one of his accountants was arrested and charged with fraud, Rocard had him out and cleared in four hours.’

  ‘Really?’ says Kimberley. ‘He could get Bruce Kerwin out then.’

  ‘What?’ Andrew is momentarily confused. ‘Yes, I expect he could.’

  ‘Well, ask him then,’ says Kimberley. ‘Get the poor sod out.’

  After the pleasures of the previous evening, this is not a suggestion that Andrew Marner welcomes. The last person he wants to see trotting into the Carlton’s lobby is Bruce Kerwin, but this is not something he can explain to Kimberley.

  ‘I suppose I could,’ he says doubtfully.

  ‘You must then,’ Kimberley tells him.

  Her persistence aggravates him and he sees that he must quash this proposal before it gains momentum. ‘The delicate balance of my relationship with Monsieur Rocard would be grievously damaged if I started asking him for favours,’ he says. ‘I’m not approaching him as a supplicant.’

  They are interrupted by the waiter, who asks whether Kimberley wants coffee or tea. When he has gone Andrew tries to change the subject. ‘Saudi Arabia’s going bust. Is no one safe?’

  But the world of high finance is not to Kimberley’s taste at any time, least of all over breakfast, and she picks a brioche from the basket on the table and starts to eat.

  When Andrew stands to leave, a wave of guilt – about yet another absence, or the frolics of last night, or Bruce Kerwin – prompts him to pull his wallet from his pocket and lay some notes on the table.

  ‘Buy yourself something nice,’ he says.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Andrew,’ says Kimberley. ‘I will.’

  And an hour later, with an agility born of greed, she is nipping in and out of shops with names like Fabri, Kenzo, Garella and Malibu, trying on clothes and shoes that cost more than she can afford herself. Coming out of a shop called Chacok she bumps into Roger Blake.

  ‘Hallo,’ he says, touching her elbow. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Kimberley. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Are you on some sort of spending spree?’ he asks, looking at the elegant bags that she has already accumulated.

  ‘It’s conscience money,’ says Kimberley. ‘Andrew gave it to me. It’s been four nights now.’

  ‘Four nights?’ Roger queries, not remembering.

  They find a coffee bar and go in.

  ‘You don’t think he’s impotent, do you?’ asks Kimberley. ‘Perhaps I’ve worn him out.’

  ‘Oh, sex,’ says Roger, finding a table. ‘You obviously need more than one man.’

  ‘I do,’ says Kimberley. ‘Where’s Esme?’

  ‘The Picasso Museum in Antibes. A rich collection, she tells me.’

  ‘And you didn’t fancy it?’

  ‘I wanted to see you while she’s away.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Kimberley. ‘Things are looking up.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ says Roger. ‘I wanted to talk to you about our son.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24