Authors: Kate Beaufoy
LATER THAT EVENING
, back in the barn, when the toasts had finished and Hélène and Nana had done the washing-up and little Sophie had been taken home to bed, Raoul approached Lisa. The smile he gave her was at once singularly charming and entirely self-assured.
‘You’ve danced with my brother,’ he said, ‘and you’ve danced with Monsieur Dupois and young Homais and Rouault, who is the biggest womanizer in Antibes. Isn’t it about time you danced with me?’
‘I’d love to,’ Lisa said, breathlessly. She had just come off the floor after having been swung about by a gangly boy who could not have been more than fifteen. Now, with Raoul leading her into the centre of the room and sliding a hand around her waist, she felt a little more . . . womanly.
The band was playing waltz time, and as Raoul guided her across the floor, Lisa realized that this was what a real celebration should be. Here there was no Hollywood artifice, no evoking glamour. Instead there were balloons and bunting and babies and pretty girls prinking in party frocks and teenage boys ogling them, and old men tapping their feet to the music and some of them taking to the floor with their wives and showing off how they could dance still, and dance better by far than them youngsters! And as Lisa turned and spun in the circle of Raoul’s arms, it seemed to her that her senses were spinning too: she registered as in a dream the flushed faces, the victory rolls ruined in the heat, the bodies pressed close, the smell of soap that couldn’t disguise a more animal smell, the pressure of his hand on her back, and the merry-go-round madness of it all – the music, the drum beat, the rhythm that rose through the floor and thrummed up through the soles of her feet and made her feel . . .
Sexy.
Lisa stopped mid-spin. At the edge of the dance floor somebody was bursting balloons and braying with laughter, and a party horn was being blown non-stop, and the tobacco smoke from a meerschaum pipe made her want to shut her eyes.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Raoul said authoritatively ‘Do you have a coat?’
Lisa shook her head. She had left her pullover somewhere, she didn’t care where.
‘I’ll take you back to the villa.’
‘No. Please don’t concern yourself – I can manage.’
‘Come on.’
Outside in the yard, Raoul led her to where a motorbike was parked under a lean-to. ‘Have you ridden pillion before?’ he asked.
‘No. Don’t worry – I can walk. It’s not far.’
‘Don’t be stupid. It’s pitch dark out there.’
Raoul indicated the track that lay beyond the gate of the farmyard. The moon was hidden by cloud now, and a wind had got up. Lisa shivered. Slinging his leg easily over the machine, Raoul held out a hand to help her climb on behind him, and as she settled herself on the pillion, she felt like a small monkey clinging to the back of some sleek beast. There came a purr and then a roar as he kick-started the engine, and just as the motorbike leapt forward, the door to the farmhouse opened and Hélène came running out.
‘Raoul!’ she cried. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m taking Lisa back to the villa.’
‘Wait,’ said Hélène. ‘You must be freezing, Lisa. I’ll get your pullover – you left it in the kitchen.’
She disappeared through the door, and returned with Lisa’s cashmere sweater and the cardboard tube that contained the painting.
‘Nana said to give you this,’ she said, handing over the items. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll be driving into Antibes to pick Gervaise up from the train – can I bring you anything?’
‘No. Thank you so much for all your kindness. It really is not necessary, you know, for Raoul to drive me back. I’m sure I could manage perfectly well on my own.’
‘But my
beau-frère
loves to help. He’s a true chevalier. Drive safely, Raoul! Goodnight, Lisa! And make sure your shutters are closed tonight – there’s rain on the way.’
Raoul gunned the machine, and as the motorbike set off down the bumpy track, Hélène’s words sounded in Lisa’s head.
My
beau-frère
loves to help
. . .
My
beau-frère
is a true chevalier . . .
The phrase
beau-frère
, translated literally from the French as ‘beautiful brother’. But its real meaning, Lisa knew, was ‘brother-in-law’. Hélène Reverdy was married to Bruno, not Raoul.
During the short ride, she found herself concentrating very hard on staying on the back of the motorcycle without having to wrap her arms around Raoul. But the track was bumpy, and after a while she gave up trying.
Pulling up under the porte-cochère of the Villa Perdita Raoul killed the engine and helped her dismount. In the silence, the rustling song of the cicadas seemed amplified, the wash of the waves hypnotic.
‘I’ll come in with you. You’re probably not familiar with the layout,’ he said, aiming a booted foot at the kickstand.
The scent of jasmine mixed with petrol was strong in the air. Moving to the front door, Raoul opened it, holding it ajar for her to precede him. As she passed through into the atrium, he placed a hand lightly on the small of her back, making her horribly aware that she was wearing seersucker, not silk, and that she smelt of sweat, not Chanel. Once inside, he stepped back and threw a couple of switches on the wall. The light that sprang from the chandelier dazzled Lisa. Fearful that it was too harsh, she raised an automatic hand to coax into place the veil of hair she liked to hide behind when trying for an incognito look.
‘Will you come in for a nightcap?’ she asked, making for the double doors of the library.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Gervaise is due back tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Propping the painting in its cardboard tube against an ottoman, Lisa indicated the butler’s tray. ‘Help yourself. There seems to be just about every liquor under the sun.’
‘You must be tired after all your travelling. An Elixir Végétal might do you good.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a kind of Chartreuse.’ Lisa watched Raoul stroll over to the laden tray and select a bottle. ‘Carthusian monks attribute their longevity to it.’ He poured an inch of emerald liquid into a glass, handed it to her, then reached for a brandy balloon and helped himself to a measure of cognac.
Since there were no mellow jazz records she could play to cover the silence, Lisa resorted to small talk. ‘What a great party that was!’ she said, perching on the edge of the ottoman.
‘I dare say there’ll be another one before long. Bruno told me this evening that Hélène is expecting.’
‘Your mother will be thrilled.’
‘Yes, she will.’ Raoul swirled the brandy in his glass, then raised it. ‘
Santé
.’
‘
Santé
.’
She took a cautious sip of Chartreuse. It was a heady blend of liquor and herbs, simultaneously aromatic and piquant and honeyed.
Raoul nodded at the cardboard tube at Lisa’s feet. ‘What’s in there?’ he asked.
Lisa picked up the tube. ‘It’s a painting.’ A faded label pasted onto the side read:
Sennelier
. ‘Perhaps that’s the name of the artist.’
‘It’s an artists’ supply shop in Paris.’
‘Shame. I thought he might be somebody famous. Nana told me that she’d taken a peek at it, but it wasn’t to her taste.’
‘Have a look.’
Lisa eased the canvas carefully from the container. She unrolled it, laid it flat upon a table, and smoothed the surface while Raoul set a paperweight at each end. The painting depicted a pierrot embracing an infant.
‘It’s not one of Gervaise’s,’ she remarked, reaching for her drink.
‘No,’ said Raoul. ‘It’s one of Pablo’s.’
‘Never heard of him. It’s quite good, though, isn’t it? Is he a local painter?’
‘You could say that. He’s Spanish, but he has a house in Antibes.’
‘I wonder is it worth anything.’
Raoul narrowed his eyes and looked at the painting speculatively. ‘I should say it’s worth around thirty thousand,’ he said.
‘Francs?’
‘No. Dollars,’ said Raoul.
After they had cleared up the Chartreuse that Lisa had in her astonishment spilled, they repaired to the garden at her suggestion to listen for the nightingale. She knew that what she really wanted was fresh air: her mind had been spinning non-stop since Raoul had told her the painting was a Picasso.
‘Thirty thousand
dollars
! Golly gumdrops,’ she said, settling herself on the cushioned swing seat on the terrace.
‘What did you say?’ asked Raoul.
‘The painting. I can’t believe its value—’
‘No. You said ‘golly’ something.’
‘Golly gumdrops.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t really know. It’s an expression of surprise. What do you French say when you’re very surprised?’
‘We say mostly, “
merde
”. But if we were being polite, we might say “
saperlipopette
”.’
‘
Saperlipopette?
’
‘Yes.’
‘I like “
Saperlipopette
”.’
They sat looking each other for a long moment, smiling, the swing seat rocking gently beneath them, and then Raoul said, ‘What would you say if I kissed you?’
‘I won’t know until you try.’
He raised a hand and pushed a strand of Lisa’s hair back from her face. Then he traced the whorl of her ear and the line of her jaw and the dimple just above her chin. ‘You have a little touch of Chartreuse, just there,’ he said, rubbing the corner of her mouth. ‘May I taste it?’
‘Be my guest.’
Several minutes later they broke the kiss. The nightingale was singing beyond the sea wall. Or maybe it was a skylark. Or a thrush, or a chaffinch, or a cormorant or something. Lisa hadn’t a clue. She gave Raoul a look of mock surprise.
‘
Saperlipopette
,’ she said.
Lisa was lying on a bed, wearing nothing but a mass of white petticoats. She was aware of a man’s voice urging her to stretch, to spread herself, and she found herself thinking that this was too much: she was displaying too much flesh. Her petticoats had been pulled up over her naked ass, her hair was dishevelled, she had lost an earring; her mascara was smudged, her mouth swollen, there was sweat trickling down her ribcage. And then her limbs became entangled in the yards of lace-trimmed linen which – she realized abstractedly – were sheets, not petticoats after all.
A voice was in her ear, telling her how soft she was, how succulent, how good she tasted; how he had wanted to have her from the moment he had led her on to the dance floor. Lisa sighed and laughed and lost herself, arching her back and snaking her arms around him, imploring him to ravish her. She was entirely in character as Emma Bovary, the shameless woman, the fallen wanton. And then zsomeone told her that the scene was over, that the cameras had stopped rolling, but she paid no heed because she was coming, and as she emerged from the dream she knew that if that had been a performance, she would have been up for an Oscar.
‘Oh, beautiful, beautiful woman,’ Raoul said, looking down at her with amused eyes.
Lisa tried to conjure up one of the glib remarks that she had used to make on the rare occasions when she spent a night with one of her leading men. But instead she just smiled stupidly. Raoul kissed her and rolled out of bed and said, as he buttoned himself into his trousers: ‘Breakfast. My place. Fifteen minutes.’
‘Where is your place?’ Lisa asked drowsily, raising herself on an elbow.
‘Do you remember the boathouse where we used to hang out when we were kids?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s my place,’ he said. And then he was gone.
Outside, the rain that had fallen overnight had washed the landscape clean. All was blue; so blue she thought that if she could touch it, it would feel like paint. If she could smell it, it would smell of lavender and beeswax. If she could taste it, it would have the subtle sweetness of parma violets sprinkled with a little salt.
Along the track that led to the beach, wild garlic grew. Trumpet-shaped flowers the colour of burnt orange proliferated. A riot of honeysuckle tumbled over a low stone wall. The smell of bacon wafted to her on the wind . . . Bacon? She wasn’t expecting that. Jasmine, yes, or pine or seaweed – but bacon?
Taking the fork in the path that she knew would lead to the boathouse, she wondered how it might have weathered the storms since she had seen it last. If Raoul was living there now, she expected that it might have undergone some changes. But nothing prepared her for the structure that confronted her.
A long, low building had risen where the boathouse once stood. It was elegant, streamlined, pleasingly proportioned; it boasted a south-facing glass wall and a terrace of polished white concrete. It was not what one would expect to see at the foot of a cliff a stone’s throw away from a secluded beach, yet there was nothing discordant or incongruous about it: it seemed part of the landscape.
A dog barked suddenly somewhere to her left, and then Buster came bounding up the path. As the animal approached, Lisa wasn’t sure whether to turn tail or stand her ground. Instead, she barked back.
‘Bravo!’ said Raoul, emerging through one of the French windows and calling the dog to heel. ‘Breakfast is ready. Come in.’
As he led her across the terrace, Lisa noticed that pebbles had been set into the smooth concrete to form the outline of a salamander. A wooden recliner painted in shades of sienna and yellow ochre afforded an uninterrupted view of the Mediterranean, and Lisa pictured herself lying there, contemplating sea and sky, happy as a sandboy. Some day she would do it, she decided. Some day she would be carefree and footloose, at liberty to bask in the sun and thumb her nose at Hollywood.
The glass doors led into an airy space – a sitting and dining room combined. The furnishings were minimal: a couch constructed from pale oak and upholstered in sage-green linen, a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs, two or three seagrass rugs, a refectory table. Sunlight flooded through the glass walls, and bounced off the sea beyond. Through a rectangular hatch in the far wall she could see a kitchen.
‘I think the bacon’s burning,’ she remarked.