Reflecting on this exchange the next morning as I stood in the cold outside watching Billy energetically wielding a fork to lever the Christmas tree out of the ground, I felt twitchy all over again, distinctly embarrassed in fact. I don’t as a rule interrogate clients about their guests, although of course it is mildly helpful to know how many people you are cooking for. But with Luc, I seemed to have got a great deal more than I bargained for.
‘When did Mr Mandeville’s wife die?’ I asked Billy without thinking. Nicole had beetled off somewhere tofind a pot for the tree.
He straightened up, looking surprised. ‘Mr Luc’s missus?’ He leant on the fork. ‘Dunno. She was, like, passed away long before I came to work here.’
He glanced at Nicole, who had arrived back, staggering under the weight of an earthenware flower pot so gigantic it could have housed the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. He asked her the same question, but she shrugged her shoulders. She did not know either.
‘But he’s got this bird now,’ said Billy, adding, ‘that pot’s a bit too big, pet,’ to Nicole, who looked put out. ‘Madame Caroline de something – can’t remember her fancy name exactly. She was down here in the summer, all days lying by the pool in a bikini, or rather half a one,’ he amended, at which Nicole looked disapproving.
‘She is not nice, that lady,’ she sniffed.
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked her curiously. After all, during my single brief encounter with Caroline de whatever-her-name-was, the woman had been nothing but perfectly civil to me.
The French girl blushed. ‘She command me to wash her… her private clothes.’
Billy laughed. ‘There you go, Miss Alix,’ he said to me. ‘Wash your own undies round here, if you know what’s good for you.’
I couldn’t help chuckling but nevertheless felt the conversation was getting a bit indiscrete. ‘Come on,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Let’s get this blessed tree on the road.’
Once it was out of the ground, however, it looked smaller than ever, which was disconcerting givenMandeville had asked for a huge Christmas tree.
‘It’s not very big, is it?’ I remarked, at which Billy’s face fell. ‘No, no, it’s fine!’ I hastily reassured him. ‘It’s fine, it’slovely. Thanks a million.’
Billy looked relieved. For my part, I was suddenly remembering some chronic old joke – I think it was American – that had made us all go off into fits of giggles when I was at school. We used to chant, ‘If you want bread, go fuck a baker.’ Well, if Susan Mandeville wanted a big Christmas tree, she could go fuck a lumberjack.
Leaving them to it, I said I would go and check out the best place in the salon to put the tree. But then, just as I was crossing the hall to the rhythmic accompaniment of Madame Dustpan bashing the hell out of the sofa cushions, the front door burst open and in charged Luc Mandeville. We both stopped in our tracks.
‘I thought you’d gone,’ I gasped.
‘I had, but I forgot something.’
Without further ado, he bounded across the hall and up the staircase three steps at a time. Back in seconds clutching a small document case, he nodded a brief ‘Bonjour, Madame’ at the cleaner, who was also standing arrested, clutching her next cushion victim to her bosom. Incredibly, she bobbed what very much looked like a curtsey before resuming even more violent bashing. Luc glanced sideways at her, his mouth twitching.
‘She must be shit-hot on a punchbag,’ he murmured to me.
Encouraged, I took a deep breath. ‘Um, could I possibly have a word with you?’ I said.
‘Not really.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m in a frantichurry. In fact, I might still miss my flight even though it’s been delayed by an hour.’
‘I only wanted to apologise,’ I said quickly.
‘Apologise?’ He frowned. ‘Apologise for what?’
‘Yesterday evening. I think I may have been rather… impertinent. I’d had a bit too much to drink.’
Staring at me for a second, he suddenly smiled. ‘You weren’t impertinent, and as for having too much to drink, you were in good company.’ Then he glanced at his watch again. ‘Sorry, but I’ve really got to go.’
A powerful longing to ask him where he was going swept over me. But that was impertinent, aside from the fact that, unbidden, a ghostly wraith of Caroline was once again filling my head – in half a bikini.
‘I’ll be back Thursday. See you then.’
And with that, he was gone, slamming the front door behind him with such force the intercom emitted a shocked shriek rather than its usual polite little French child beep.
Back in the kitchen, Tom waylaid me. He was still sitting morosely at the table.
‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘The boss – he just came back.’
‘Briefly. He’d forgotten something.’ I went to go back outside when he spoke again. ‘I’m for the chop, aren’t I?’ he said, fixing me with an accusing eye.
