The holiday, p.7
The Holiday, page 7
‘Never despise the amateur, darling,’ Kimberley says. ‘Amateurs built the Ark, professionals built the Titanic.’
‘Who says amateurs built the Ark?’ asks Andrew irritably. ‘I bet they were all on time and a half.’ He heads for the bathroom, frustration engraved on his face.
Kimberley sees what she must do. Her mission here is to soothe, placate, comfort and seduce. She takes off her clothes and examines herself in a full-length mirror. The thong that she has worn on the beach has given her a complete tan with none of those unsightly white bits to mar the picture. She brushes her hair, pops a peppermint in her mouth and waits.
Andrew returns to the room so involved with the problem of Alain Rocard that at first he doesn’t see that Kimberley has shed her clothes. She poses before him, a picture from a magazine.
‘Get your trousers and your rocks off, Andrew,’ she says. ‘It’ll do you good.’
‘You have a taste for syllepsis, Kimberley,’ says Andrew, but his concentration has started to waver and he walks across to her.
‘Don’t let Monsieur Rocard spoil things,’ she says. ‘You must make up your mind to enjoy this holiday.’
‘You’re certainly stiffening my resolve,’ says Andrew, undoing his trousers.
She stands before him, carefully unbuttoning his Turnbull & Asser shirt which she slips on to a hanger and then hangs from a chair. Lady Marner. Her busy mind and her concupiscent heart thrill to the sound of the words. She can see the place in the country and the green acres sprawled around it. Mullioned windows, mulled wine, multiple orgasms … It’s a pity she can’t work phrases like that into her column.
Andrew Marner falls back naked on the bed and pulls Kimberley on top of him. Their lips meet briefly and then her mouth embarks on a downward tour, kissing his chest and his stomach and eventually his penis, which is growing enthusiastically.
‘There are two things you don’t get at home,’ says Andrew Marner, smiling. ‘And one of them is Lobster Thermidor.’
Kimberley removes her mouth and smiles back. ‘That depends on who you have at home, darling,’ she tells him.
Andrew Marner is too agitated now to consider the significance of this remark, and he pulls Kimberley up the bed and assaults her breasts with his mouth. She lies back, smiling at the concealed lights in the ceiling, and wonders what Bertha does when she is in bed with him.
She has never seen Bertha but the name suggests something large and formidable. She can’t imagine that someone who is petite and sexy would have a name like that. She tries to remember where she has heard it before, and decides that it is the name of a gun.
No action seems to be called for from her on the bed. Andrew Marner is busy enough for both of them. He seems to have two pairs of hands, neither of which can stay still. Kimberley murmurs noises that she judges appropriate but, beyond a certain breathlessness, Andrew Marner pursues his goal in silence.
Eventually he rolls on top of her. A straightforward missionary position job, thinks Kimberley. I must introduce him to something else sometime.
It does not last long. Andrew Marner subsides on to her and she lies there hugging him and then waiting for him to get off. But he doesn’t. He is asleep.
‘Can you move?’ asks Kimberley. ‘You’re hurting me.’
6
Cocktails at the Carlton are served at a bar which adjoins the large open-air terrace overlooking the Croisette. Guests take their drinks out into the evening sun to contemplate menus and watch the less fortunate strolling along the seafront; and the strollers look back, hoping to spot a celebrity among the well-dressed crowd sitting complacently with their exotic drinks. Prosperity and satisfaction exude from these people: there is no better place for them to be seen. The menus that they study are packed with the inventive cuisine of Provence. The yachts that bob on the sea across the road are probably theirs. The men are in dinner jackets now; their women, who have prepared laboriously for this relaxation, wear colourful dresses that make some of them look like Australian fruitbats.
The exception among this sophisticated clientéle sits alone at the bar inside wearing Calvin Klein jeans, tasselled loafers and a new yellow T-shirt which says across the chest: life. be in it. He is drinking beer and has been for some time, although having only recently discovered its price his consumption has slowed. Bruce Kerwin is not planning to join the diners in the hotel and has no need to dress up, but he is determined to mix with the other guests over a drink. After all, he is paying to stay at the Carlton Hotel, too.
The Englishman who arrived with Esme comes into the bar and approaches the counter. He is a lean man with a good-looking face that has been burnt by today’s sun. He is wearing jeans, too, but has put on a more conventional white shirt.
Bruce looks up and nods as the man comes alongside him. ‘Settled in?’ he asks.
Roger Blake looks at him. In this decorous setting the man’s appearance is so incongruous that he can’t suppress a certain curiosity. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And you?’
‘I should say,’ says Bruce Kerwin. ‘What a palace! I never thought I’d stay in a place like this but then the redundancy money came along and I thought what the hell – spoil yourself! I’m Bruce Kerwin, by the way.’
The man evidently requires company. It is a need that Roger Blake has seldom felt.
‘Roger Blake,’ he says, beckoning the barman. ‘I like your shirt.’ When the barman comes over he orders whisky. He really wants a draught lager but all the beer here is bottled.
‘It’s my new image,’ says Bruce Kerwin. ‘I used to be grey suits and ties. I used to be a wage slave. But I’ve given all that up. The way I see it, you can start again. Become a different person, find a new perspective.’
‘By buying a T-shirt?’ asks Roger. The man has clearly been at the elixir for some time.
Bruce Kerwin smiles as if he is dealing with a child. ‘Well, there’s more to it than that, of course. You’re probably too young to understand. But wait until you hit forty. You’re in the second half now and you can’t count on extra time. The feeling is you’re trapped. Worse than that, there’s nothing else to do. You’ve achieved what you’re going to achieve. There’s nothing to look forward to. Another thirty years of the same and then death, probably a painful one. Is that what we’re supposed to accept?’
‘What do you want to do?’ asks Roger, picking up his whisky. ‘Sail round the world?’ Bruce Kerwin, it seems, has an uncontrollable desire to talk about himself.
‘Nothing as adventurous as that.’ After the drinks that he has had, ‘adventurous’ is a difficult word but he meets the challenge bravely. ‘I ran into your wife this afternoon, by the way.’
‘Really?’ says Roger. ‘What did she look like?’
‘You don’t know what your wife looks like?’ asks Bruce.
‘I haven’t got a wife. I thought you’d found one for me.’
‘Esme,’ says Bruce, remembering.
‘My friend, my partner, my lover,’ says Roger. ‘But we never mention marriage I didn’t realise people still did.’
‘She’s a stunning girl,’ says Bruce. ‘Is she an artist?’
‘That’s her game,’ says Roger.
‘My wife’s a shopper. There are many hobbies that a wife might have but the most disastrous from a husband’s point of view is shopping. Would you like a drink?’
‘I would,’ says Roger, emptying his glass. ‘Is there anything else you feel obliged to impart?’
‘I’m talking too much,’ says Bruce. ‘I’m not used to a lot of beer.’
Esme and Frances arrive at the same moment although they are not together. Esme has discarded her jeans and put on a white dress that shows her shoulders and knees. Frances is dressed more discreetly – a dark blue two-piece with a white blouse. A pianist has started to play in a corner of the room.
‘This is my wife,’ says Bruce Kerwin, getting off his stool. ‘Frances.’
‘And this is Esme,’ says Roger.
‘I’ve met Esme,’ says Bruce.
‘But your wife hasn’t,’ says Roger.
When everybody has been introduced to everybody else, Esme looks round at the immaculate guests and says: ‘This is some place, but I’m not going to let them make me feel inferior.’
‘You’re not inferior,’ says Bruce Kerwin, with a sudden flash of anger. ‘That’s the whole point. You’re a creative artist. You add to the world’s pleasure and enjoyment. These people here – ’ and he waves his hand at the other customers ‘– they’re … nothing.’
This ringing endorsement embarrasses Esme, who smiles politely and says: ‘Thank you, Mr Kerwin.’
‘Bruce,’ says Bruce. ‘Don’t be intimidated by these robots, Esme. They’re not proper people.’ He sits down again, rather heavily.
Roger Blake orders drinks for the two women and another beer for Bruce Kerwin. ‘Your husband seems to be going through a mid-life thing,’ he says to Frances.
Frances smiles. ‘He’s certainly going through something. He’s become more animated on this holiday for some reason. Usually I expect to find dust on him.’
The barman is disappointed at another order for beer. He has more interesting skills to display but the stimulating components of his many cocktails are being ignored. He pushes the beer towards Bruce Kerwin disapprovingly and looks round in search of a guest with more extravagant tastes.
One appears. Andrew Marner approaches the bar with Kimberley Neal on his arm. He is not wearing a dinner jacket but is dressed instead in a six-button double-breasted Cerruti suit. ‘Top schmutter,’ Kimberley has assured him. ‘Trendy but not too trendy.’ She is wearing a purple off-the-shoulder dress that attracts glances from both sexes.
‘This pianist reminds me of the Beau Rivage,’ says Andrew. ‘It’s what you don’t get nowadays.’ He orders himself a planter’s punch; Kimberley asks for a Bloody Mary. While she is waiting for it to appear she looks round and notices Roger Blake a few feet away.
‘Hi,’ she says.
He smiles and nods, synchronised gestures which he feels have wrapped up this exchange. But Kimberley comes over to him.
‘Are you dining here?’ she asks.
Roger shakes his head. ‘We’re going out to find somewhere cheaper. Wombat and pickle crisps is about our mark.’
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ says Kimberley. ‘To get this far and not try the menu.’
‘We’ve read the menu,’ says Esme. ‘The cost of one dinner would feed an Ethiopian village.’
‘This is politics and not poverty?’ Kimberley asks, genuinely puzzled. She has had the idea these English guests should all dine together. She is ready for some company. When Andrew turns from the counter with her Bloody Mary she goes over and says: ‘Why don’t we invite those people to dinner?’
‘Why would we want to do that?’ Andrew asks.
‘They’re English,’ says Kimberley.
‘I meet the English,’ says Andrew, ‘in England.’
‘I’m a journalist,’ says Kimberley. ‘I like to meet people. It’s where my material comes from.’
‘If you like,’ says Andrew. ‘I really don’t mind.’ After his absence with Monsieur Rocard he feels that he should try to please Kimberley, and he would quite like some company himself.
‘You’ll have to pay,’ she warns him.
‘It’s happened,’ says Andrew.
It proves to be surprisingly easy to arrange because although the men are less than enthusiastic, both Esme and Frances are keen to pay at least one visit to the hotel’s gourmet restaurant. Twenty minutes later the six of them are comfortably established at a large table in the corner of La Côte, the hotel’s poshest eaterie. To the surprise of some of them, the sartorial shortcomings of Bruce Kerwin and Roger Blake are politely ignored by the staff.
Introductions are made, much wine is ordered and served, and Andrew Marner is soon exercising his privilege as host by dominating the conversation with an amusing account of the character defects of the famous people he knows. He has, with the help of the wine, a pungent way with words. The literary and the ribald collide in lively conjunction. One Cabinet Minister is a patronising turd, another a pusillanimous shit. A man whose appearances on television suggest that he would be the conscience of the nation is a sanctimonious Welsh arsehole, and the Archbishop of Canterbury is left for dead beneath a pile of abuse which makes Frances blush. Approval is rare, praise non-existent.
‘This is fun,’ says Esme. ‘What are these magazines that you publish?’
‘There are one or two downmarket publications for people who can’t cut up their own food,’ says Andrew, ‘but the jewel in the crown is World Review.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ says Esme. ‘It’s very good.’
Andrew’s pleasure at this verdict shines across the table. ‘And what do you do, my dear?’ he asks.
‘I’m an artist,’ says Esme. ‘If you want your portrait painted, give me a ring.’
‘I might take you up on that,’ says Andrew. ‘There’s a gap on the boardroom wall.’
A waiter appears, shuffling menus.
‘What’s French for coq-au-vin?’ asks Roger.
Frances Kerwin is both embarrassed and delighted to be here. The setting is exciting and the company interesting. She had feared that the holiday would pass without her visiting this gastronomic heaven. The embarrassment is caused by her unresponsive husband who has a glassy-eyed appearance which suggests brain death. The message on his T-shirt now seems ludicrously inapt. His wife’s reproving gaze prompts him to attempt speech.
‘God is what teetotallers have instead of alcohol,’ he announces. He is a little behind with the conversation, as drinkers often are, and is still thinking about the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘We all need props.’
‘God doesn’t give you cirrhosis of the liver,’ replies Frances, and to the others she says: ‘He hardly drank until he got here. I don’t know what’s got into him.’
‘You sound like your mother,’ says Bruce. He turns to the others. ‘Frances has got this mother.’
‘Your mother-in-law,’ suggests Roger.
‘By marriage,’ agrees Bruce. ‘I’ve found her upside down in the garden twice.’
‘How do you mean?’ asks Esme.
‘Tipped over in a chair. Feet pointing towards the stars. Couldn’t get up.’
People aren’t sure how to react to this story. They glance at Frances who is not amused, but Bruce is laughing at the memory of his upside-down mother-in-law.
Kimberley Neal is listening to the conversation, reluctant to intervene. Sooner or later something will drift across the table which will give her an idea for a piece in her column. Kimberley’s law states: You don’t learn anything when you’re talking.
Frances looks at her and wonders who she is. The introductions did not announce her as Mrs Marner and she looks too young. She sits there, cool and beautiful, watching everybody with an enigmatic smile.
Roger looks at her too, waiting for some word or gesture to spark the flash of recognition that will enable him to place her in his past.
When the food arrives – a variety of starters that range from sushi to smoked salmon – Andrew Marner resumes his role of host and seeks to entertain the guests round his table as he does several times a month in the course of his work. More wine arrives. His audience is receptive: a rich man’s jokes, he knows, are always funny.
He beams round the table and his smile finally settles on Frances Kerwin. He is taken by her eyes which not only sparkle but also radiate intelligence. Tired of his wife and wearied by bimbos, he wonders whether the time has come to get himself a mature and beautiful woman like Mrs Kerwin, saddled, as she quite obviously is, with a disintegrating partner.
‘I shouldn’t be in business at all,’ he tells her. ‘Basically I’m a romantic – unpractical, quixotic, dreamy.’
‘That’s not the image you project,’ says Frances. ‘You don’t sound like a man who is going to throw his teddy in the corner if he doesn’t get his own way.’
He leans towards her and she sees that he is handsome. His eyes, set far apart, are surrounded by friendly wrinkles. ‘I’m a romantic in every sense of the word, Frances. I never got over Edmund Purdom not marrying Ann Blyth in The Student Prince.’
Roger Blake is watching him with fascination. The man is presumably a tycoon, a person untouched by failure. Roger suspects that most people are dissatisfied with their lives but are sustained by an irrational optimism or a mad pride. Andrew Marner seems to have got it all and be thoroughly enjoying it. He has Kimberley Neal. He can buy four people to brighten his dinner table. He is a driven man.
‘How did you do it, Andrew?’ asks Esme in the new relaxed atmosphere created by the wine. ‘How did you make all this money? It’s a trick most people miss.’
‘There’s no trick, dear,’ says Andrew, smiling benignly. ‘First you borrow, then you work twenty-four hours a day. The borrowing is quite important because the bank then makes sure that you work twenty-four hours a day. A lot of people who start businesses with their own money lose it because they haven’t got the bank behind them waving a big stick. They don’t work hard enough.’
Roger Blake finishes his shrimp cocktail and dabs his mouth with a napkin. ‘When I was young,’ he says, ‘I used to think that money and power would bring happiness.’
‘Young man, you were right,’ says Andrew, glancing round the table. ‘What’s the matter with Bruce? His body language looks very negative.’
‘That’s a polite way of putting it,’ says Frances. ‘He’s actually unconscious.’
When she eventually gets him to their room, Frances has had a few drinks herself.
‘Let’s make it, man,’ she says, snapping her fingers. But her ageing hippie, who has stirred enough to walk to the room, has lost his impetus. He lies fully dressed on a bed that seems to be lurching in a rough sea. His mouth finds sentences difficult.
