‘Thank you. That’s kind of you. Can you give me ten minutes?’
Sitting down at the old-fashioned dressing table and examining myself in the mirror, I saw my face looked washed-out and strained, my hair greasy at the roots and in need of a wash, but I hadn’t time for that now. I hate my hair, actually. It’s the bane of my life, being not only extremely thick, which I agree is good, but also extremely curly, which is not. Unkind people would call it frizzy – which indeed it now was. I’ve tried having it professionally straightened but that simply turned it into a wodge, whichwas far, far worse, believe me. One boyfriend once went into raptures over it, telling me my hair – and I – were Pre-Raphaelite, which sounded terribly pretty and dainty. I wasn’t well acquainted at the time with the women in Pre-Raphaelite art. When I looked them up later online, however, I saw the women nearly all looked distinctly on the side of grim, a couple even like men in drag, and others as though they were about to drown themselves, which, in the case of the famous painting of Ophelia, one already had. Not therefore the greatest compliment. Now, with a sigh, I brushed my rebellious locks out from their ponytail, quickly twisting them all up into a high, thick plait, which was an improvement, or at least less alarming. Slapping on a bit of confidence-boosting make-up, I then stood up to get out of the wardrobe the lovely chunky, cropped, cream, wool jacket that Giancarlo had given me for Christmas. (I told you he was nice.) Beyond the window – and the hedge – the sky was blue and the sun shining as encouragingly as only a December sun on the French Riviera can. However, the centrally heated warmth inside the Villa Matisse probably belied the actual temperature. It could well be chilly, especially if there was snow on the Alpes-Maritimes.
I sat back down on the bed and thought for a minute or two about what I would cook. Earlier that morning, when nobody was about but with a wary eye open for anybody else who felt like leaping out at me, I’d done my little investigation of the Villa Matisse, downstairs that is. The enormous well-equipped kitchen boasted an adjoining, equally vast, walk-in larder or pantry, its shelves crammed with a stock of tins. Sardines – the gorgeous Frenchvariety where even the can is a work of art – tomato purée, capers and the tiny green delicious Niçoise olives in glass jars as well as packets of rice and pasta and an impressive selection of dried herbs and spices. Plaited strings of pink Roscoff onions, huge white garlic bulbs and scarlet chilli peppers hung alongside saucisson, salami and a cured ham on a rack suspended from the ceiling. It was a chef’s heaven, frankly, even if it did make me wonder, given what I’d experienced so far, who was responsible for securing such a treasure trove and for whom. The Villa Matisse did not strike me as a place devoted to hospitality.
A large chest freezer at one end finished off the pantry, also crammed, this time with frozen meat which, peculiarly, on closer examination, turned out to be all steak, great slabs of the stuff. The mammoth fridge back in the kitchen boasted pots of caviar and tins of Monegasque anchovies but, apart from a couple of tomatoes and a clutch of pensionable carrots, there seemed little or nothing in the way of fresh stuff. It made me wonder whether Luc Mandeville was one of those men who live exclusively on steak and cake. That might account for his relentless ill-temper. That or drink, for alongside bottles of vodka, scotch and cognac on the dresser, there was a wine cellar, orcaveas the French would say. I’d earlier peeped in that too, through the door and down into its cool underground depths. Leading off from the kitchen, the door to the cellar had been locked but, illogically, the key left hanging on a hook on the jamb. Anyway, fresh vegetables and some meat other than frozen steak seemed to be what was principally needed. Maybe whoever was responsible for getting inthe shopping had, like the hapless Tom and the cars, been caught on the hop. Whatever, I was clearly going to have buy quite a bit and then somehow cart it back.
Outside the front gate of the villa, however, where he’d told me to meet him when I was ready to go, it seemed the not-so-hapless Tom had come up with the answer. Standing next to an ancient SUV, he was proudly clutching the handle of a deep wicker basket on wheels, a chic version of the ubiquitous old ladies’ shopping trolley.
‘Thought you might be able to use this,’ he said, with the nonchalance people affect when they’re proud of something they’ve done.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I don’t know why the boss hates this vehicle so much,’ he said confidingly, loading the wicker shopping trolley into the back of the SUV and opening the front passenger door for me. ‘Given the French are the worst drivers in the world, you’re much safer in something like this. If some Frog prangs you, they just bounce off of you.’
I made some sort of non-committal noise because what can you say? French drivers are exactly the same as any drivers anywhere – some good, some certifiable. However, off we set, very sedately, which was relieving, although in some peculiar way I could tell Tom was deliberately driving as if by the book; elaborate gear changing when it wasn’t really necessary and hands demonstratively on the wheel in the classic ten and two position. Maybe he was simply endeavouring to prove his point or – and here I found myself suddenly feeling sorry for him again – attempting to restore hisamour-propreafter Luc Mandeville’s acid put-downs.
‘Do you mind if I open the window a little?’ I asked after we had been travelling for a couple of minutes in silence. There was a funny smell in the car, that sort of stale smell you sometimes got in raddled old taxis in the pre-Uber days – unless it was him. He waved an acquiescent hand at me: it was. I sneaked a sideways glance at him. There was a general air of grubbiness about the man, not exactly unwashed but as though he had slept in his clothes. The skin on his face looked dry and flaky and the shoulders of his ancient Barbour were snowed over with dandruff.
‘Be my guest,’ he said.
‘Have you lived in Nice long?’ I asked. He was, after all, kindly giving me a lift.
‘Twenty-odd years.’
‘Really? You must know it very well, then.’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s nice. Have you worked at the Villa Matisse all that time?’ It struck me he was one of those people who never ask you anything. You know the sort I mean. If you’re unlucky enough to end up sitting next to them at a dinner party, after ten minutes you want nothing so much as to drown yourself in the soup.
‘Have I worked at the Villa Matisse all that time?’ he repeated and then chuckled as if the question were a joke. ‘Oh, most certainly. I have long been Old Man Mandeville’s right-hand man. His prized car collection, you know?’
I didn’t but nodded obligingly. ‘Old Man Mandeville?’
‘The boss’s father.’
‘Oh.’ I hesitated a moment. ‘Is he coming to the Villa Matisse for Christmas?’
‘Hardly, dear lady.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Well, if you fancy a stiff hike up to the château, you’ll see why.’
The château? Was there a château in the Mandeville family as well as the luxurious Villa Matisse?
Tom chuckled again. ‘You don’t know, do you, my dear?Le Château,’ he enunciated in his cod-French accent. ‘It’s at the top of Château Hill, appropriately, and is a famous cemetery. That’s where you’ll find out why poor Old Man Mandeville will not be coming for Christmas. He’s there pushing up daisies.’
There was a pause while I digested this. ‘I see. When did he die?’
‘Oh, can’t remember exactly.’ He shrugged. ‘Passed away the end of February just gone, if you force my hand. Garibaldi’s buried up there, too,’ he added inconsequentially.
I struggled to know how to respond to all this. ‘Does that mean your work with the cars is going? That’s tough.’
‘Not in the least.’ Tom affected pride. ‘I have far more important clients who depend on me,dependon me, you understand.’
‘Really?’ Boy, sorry as I felt for him, was he a bit of a plonker.
