CHAPTER EIGHT
… on the spur she fled; and more
We know not, –
I would have walked straight on past Paul, had he not called to me. He was sitting where we’d sat last night, near the top of the steps leading down to the river, his body folded in unconscious imitation of the brooding statue behind him. Resting his book face down upon his outstretched leg, he called again and waved.
Even with the zebra-striped pedestrian crossing, it took some minutes for me to cross the busy street and join him.
‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said, in a brotherly tone.
‘Only a little wine with lunch.’ I raised one hand to touch my flushed cheek. ‘Is it really that obvious?’
‘’Fraid so. Your eyes are kind of glazed.’
‘Oh, well.’ I took the news in stride, not overly concerned. Stepping with care over his leg, I settled myself on the next step down and linked my hands around my knees. It was a lovely place to sit and watch the world go by, to watch the river coursing past and hear the ducks call out to one another as they paddled round the reeds that edged the sloping river wall. One could sit here all the afternoon, and never be disturbed.
I sighed, my worries sliding from me as I smiled up at Paul. ‘And how was your lunch?’ I asked.
‘Don’t ask.’ He grinned. ‘The Whitakers decided to go for Chinese food today as well.’
I laughed. ‘Oh, Paul, what rotten luck.’
‘You’re telling me. Martine and Garland spent the whole meal taking shots at one another – all terribly polite, you know, and smiling – and when Martine started scoring points Garland suddenly developed one of her headaches and made a big dramatic exit. You should have been there.’
‘Just as well I wasn’t,’ I replied. ‘Theatricals don’t impress me.’
Paul tucked one hand inside his jacket, searching for his cigarettes. ‘I don’t think they impress Jim much, either. He didn’t seem too upset when Garland left. He just ordered another drink.’
They were a most unlikely couple, Jim and Garland Whitaker. When I said as much to Paul, he smiled in agreement.
‘I like Jim, though,’ he said, placing a cigarette between his lips. ‘He’s a lot smarter than he lets on. And he really takes an interest in things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh … history, architecture, local food. He’s the one who wanted to tour the Loire Valley, you know – not Garland. Garland couldn’t care less. And this trip is definitely not her style.’
‘Oh?’ I looked up, interested. ‘In what way?’
‘Every way. Garland stays at the Ritz when she’s in Paris. Christmas in the Swiss Alps. Easter on the Italian Riviera. Chinon,’ he told me, ‘would not have been her first choice for a holiday.’
‘Are the Whitakers rich, then?’
‘Disgustingly rich.’ He nodded, blowing smoke. ‘Of course, they’ll never say as much directly, but Jim’s clothes aren’t off the rack, they’re tailor made. And he’s got one suit that’s worth at least a thousand dollars.’
My expression must have been questioning, because he laughed and, mimicking a New York Yiddish accent, said: ‘My family’s in the garment business, Mäusele. I know from menswear.’
‘What’s a Mäusele?’ I wanted to know.
‘Little Mouse.’
‘Oh.’ Is that what I reminded him of, I wondered? A little mouse, afraid to come out of her hole? But I didn’t ask him that. Instead, I asked: ‘What does Jim Whitaker do, anyway? Do you know?’
‘He says he works for a private engineering company, but Simon thinks that’s just a smokescreen, a cover story to hide Jim’s real occupation.’
‘Which is?’
‘CIA, of course.’ He winked. ‘Simon gets a little paranoid sometimes – he’s studied politics too long. He sees conspiracy in everything and everybody, and the worst part is that it’s contagious. I’ve spent so much time listening to Simon that even I look at Jim sometimes and think, yeah, he does look kind of secretive, you know? It catches.’
‘Maybe that’s my problem, then,’ I said, hugging my knees more tightly. ‘My own imagination’s been working overtime this afternoon. It must be Simon’s paranoia rubbing off.’
‘Why? What have you been imagining?’
‘I rather fancied I was being followed.’ Said like that, I thought, it sounded ridiculous. I smiled.
‘Who was following you?’
As I described the man, Paul’s eyebrows drew together in a frown of recognition. ‘What, the gypsy, you mean? The one with the little dog about that big?’ He held his hands a foot and a half apart, to simulate the size of the dog.
‘That’s the one. He’s a gypsy, really?’ I’d never seen an actual gypsy before – only fake ones in films.
Paul nodded. ‘There are a lot of gypsies around here. Some of them live in campers – caravans, I guess you’d call them – down by the beach. They’re not the cream of society, to be sure, but that guy you saw is pretty harmless. At least, he’s always been nice to Simon and me,’ he said, shifting his legs. ‘Simon always stops to pet the dog. So I wouldn’t worry about … oh, damn, there goes my book!’
I caught it for him as it came bouncing down the steps beside me. ‘There,’ I said, handing it back to him. ‘No damage done. But you’ve lost your place.’