As she beadily eyed her employer now, she thought she could guess the reason why.
Douglas was back at the villa ahead of his wife and stepdaughter. He was surprised no one was home, before remembering that Diana had promised to take Stella to the funfair
after lunch. He sighed. He would have loved to have gone with them. He knew how serious and stuffy he must seem to his ‘girls’.
His oppressive, stifling upbringing had given him few examples of how to have fun. His subsequent career had been successful enough, but sometimes he felt he had been buried alive in paperwork
and ledgers and consultants’ reports. That was one of the reasons why he had been so keen to bring them all to the South of France. He’d hoped some of the glamour of the Côte
d’Azur might somehow rub off on him; banish his quintessential dullness; make him a little more exciting as a husband.
But if anything, Diana had withdrawn from him since they arrived. They didn’t make love nearly as often as he would have liked, and in recent weeks his wife had seemed locked into her own
private world. She spoke little, and often went to bed before him.
Then there was the business of this so-called ‘wine merchant’ she’d bumped into yesterday. Douglas didn’t like that one bit. He knew he’d been heavy-handed that
morning, ordering Diana not to see the man again, and he’d heard the resentment in her voice as she agreed not to, but what was he to do? Nice was full of scoundrels.
He wandered into the
salon
. An envelope glimmered on the mantelpiece and he walked across the room to inspect it.
Diana
was written neatly on the front in black ink, and the
reverse had been gummed closed. For a moment he contemplated opening it and reading the contents, but Douglas was an honourable man. He put the envelope back and drifted over to the drinks
table.
He’d just poured himself a scotch when he heard the front door open and Stella’s piping voice. ‘Douglas? Douglas, are you home?’
‘I’m in here,’ he called.
She rushed into the room and embraced him before hopping up and down before him.
‘You’ll never
guess
, Douglas! Mummy joined us at the funfair and actually came on the Crazy Cat with me, and she was sick as soon as we got off! She’s all right now
but she keeps saying: “I’ll never go near that dratted thing again!”’ Stella doubled over laughing.
Douglas smiled at her, waiting for her to calm down. Then he kissed her forehead and said, ‘I’m glad Mummy was able to join you at the fair. I wonder where she’d been before
that?’
‘Oh, having lunch with someone, Maxine said,’ replied Stella, reaching for the soda siphon that rested on the drinks tray. ‘Can I, Douglas?’
‘Of course, dear.’ He watched her as she squirted a jet of soda water into a glass. ‘Did Mummy mention who she was with?’
Stella shook her head. ‘She didn’t say. Maxine said she’d bumped into an old friend.’ Stella waggled her head and made a face. ‘An
ooo
ther one!’
Diana rose from the dining table and stamped her foot. ‘I
won’t
be questioned like this, Douglas! I simply won’t!’
Her husband looked anguished as he put his knife and fork to one side of his half-finished evening meal.
‘All I was asking you is—’
‘I
know
what you’re asking and I understand the implication behind the question perfectly well.’ She glared at him fiercely. Diana knew she was deliberately allowing
her temper full rein: it helped mask the guilt that had engulfed her the moment she’d walked into the room and caught sight of his miserable face.
‘Diana, please stop shouting. Stella will hear.’
She took a deep breath and forced herself to sit back down. ‘Yes. Of course. But this is the second time today you’ve challenged my independence. Now, it seems, I am not to go to La
Colombe d’Or for lunch with an old friend from Girton.’
‘I said nothing of the kind! I merely observed that it was odd that for the second day running, you happened upon an old friend here. I—’
‘Oh! Don’t you know how you sound, Douglas? This is the South of France! St Paul is a huge tourist destination! It’s odd that I
haven’t
bumped into someone from
England before now.’
He looked at her, defeated, before unwisely persisting: ‘And this really was a woman friend, Diana? Not the man from yesterday?’
She was on her feet again, hurling her napkin to the floor. ‘Oh, this is insufferable. Why don’t you phone the restaurant? Go on, do it now. Ask them for yourself.’
‘Don’t be absurd. You know I’m not going to do anything like that. Of course I accept what you say. I’m sorry. It’s just that recently things between us have been,
well . . . different. Difficult.’ He looked at his plate. ‘Sometimes I worry that perhaps you feel you have made a mistake. In agreeing to marry me, I mean.’
The guilt that she had forced down with her extravagant anger threatened to rise again and overwhelm her.
‘Now
you’re
being absurd,’ she told him as she walked quickly to the door. ‘I can’t stand this; I’m going to bed. Don’t worry, I’ll sleep
in one of the spare rooms tonight. Goodnight, Douglas.’
He started to say something, but she closed the door behind her and almost ran to the stairs. This was dreadful,
dreadful
. She was turning into the kind of person she despised.
But Diana had only one thought as she collected her things from her bedside and moved them into a smaller room at the end of the passage.
She simply
must
talk to James.
Well,
that
was an awkward conversation, James Blackwell thought to himself as he replaced the receiver and went to his drinks tray, where he poured himself an
extremely generous scotch.
Bloody
awkward, actually.
He scooped ice from the silver bowl next to the bottle and dropped it into the glass.
Thank God he’d asked Diana for as much as he had. It had barely been enough. As soon as he returned to his apartment from the bank, he’d bagged up the cash and summoned his most
trusted courier to deliver it to an address in one of Nice’s wealthiest districts.
Then he sat back and waited for the phone call. It came just after midnight, and surprised him not at all.
‘
Where’s the rest?
’
‘I’m still collecting it. I sent you that ahead of the deadline to show good faith. I thought you’d be . . . encouraged.’
‘
By a third of what you owe us? I’m not encouraged, I’m worried. And so should you be,
monsieur
. Some of us here are beginning to wonder if you really have the
balls to operate at this level. Perhaps we should just take you over. If you’re lucky, maybe someone will find you a job
.’
‘You gave me until the end of the month. I think giving you thirty-three per cent ahead of that is fucking impressive, actually.’
‘
Watch your language. The boss is listening in
.’
‘Good. Then he can hear me tell you that you’ll have the remaining amount, in full, on time. And that’s just the entry fee. You guys know I can deliver, week-on-week.
You’ve seen my accounts. You know how I work. Even if you did take me over, you’d never run my business as profitably as I do. And I’ll bring fresh ideas with me. So just show a
little faith, OK?’
‘Don’t hang up
.’
There had been a loud click as the line went dead and he knew they were discussing him. He chewed his bottom lip. Then the earpiece crackled again and the voice was back.
‘
OK. The boss feels maybe I’m being a little hard on you. But nowhere near as hard as he says
he’ll
be if you don’t come through by the end of the month. Are
we clear?
’
‘Perfectly.’
Now he sat on his balcony, staring moodily out into the night. He couldn’t see the Mediterranean from his apartment, but he could hear it, especially when it was late and the traffic
quietened. Then the sound of waves crashing onto the pebbled beach filtered into the streets behind the Promenade des Anglais. Usually it soothed him, but not tonight.
He was in a cleft stick. When the Mafia had come sniffing around his business a few weeks ago, he wasn’t surprised. He’d been expecting some kind of contact from them for a while;
his operation was getting too big not to be noticed, and anyway, they were hand-in-glove with the police and had probably started picking up bits of information about him from them.
The Italians had been sticking their fingers in Nice’s affairs for years, he knew that, of course, but it was the war that had given them their big break. With France out for the count and
Italy Germany’s new best friend, the Mafia had launched their own invasion across the border and ruthlessly driven out Nice’s home-grown mob. Since then, their grip had tightened
remorselessly on the city. They had a piece of everything, and now they wanted a piece of him.
As soon as he realised he was in their sights, he’d taken the initiative. He’d gone to the old don himself and made his pitch – fifty-fifty on his profits if he was allowed to
keep running the business, a seat at the big table which would give him incredible access to new markets, and the organisation to take over his financial arrangements with the police.
He had reckoned it was a mutually beneficial arrangement, but two days after shaking hands on it, the other side had come back to him with their belated demand for a sweetener to seal the deal.
Some sweetener. Where the hell was he going to find that kind of cash in the time left to him?
In truth, he’d thought Diana’s money would buy him more time, not ratchet up the bloody pressure. Greedy bastards. He’d completely underestimated them. They were probably bent
on taking him over anyway, and they’d deliberately set the bar almost impossibly high.
If he somehow came up with the goods, they’d let him in, he was certain of that. All part of their warped code of honour. But if he didn’t, they’d walk all over him. He just
might be allowed to get out of Nice on condition he never returned. If he was lucky.
Jesus, what a mess. And after ten years of slog and graft, too. Maybe he should just cash in his chips and clear out. But the prospect of starting again was unthinkable. Where, anyway? Four
hundred miles south, bordering the same stagnant sea, lay Naples. Naples was even more corrupt than Nice but the place was sewn up tight. He’d never find an opening there. He would probably
be killed for even trying.
He tossed back his drink and was about to go to bed when his phone rang again. Probably one of his enforcers with a problem. He could do without it right now, but picked up anyway.
‘
Oui?
’
‘Darling?’
Christ, it was her. He looked at his watch. Past one. ‘Diana! Where are you calling from? Is something wrong?’
The silence at the other end lasted so long he thought they’d been cut off. Then she spoke again.
‘I have to see you. Tomorrow. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Where are you speaking from?’
‘I’m in the kitchen. Douglas is upstairs asleep. We had a row. I have to see you? Can I?’
‘Of course. Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow morning in La Petite Maison. It’s at the edge of the Old Town. Eleven o’clock. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, I know it . . . James?’
‘Yes, Diana?’
‘You do love me, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I promise. You yourself said today how complicated this all is, but that we’d work it out – and we will. Now get some sleep. Everything will look much better in the
morning. It always does.’
‘Yes – I know that. I— damn, I think I can hear Douglas on the stairs.’ Her voice became a whisper. ‘I’ll have to pretend I’ve come down to make myself
a drink or something. Goodnight, James.’
‘Goodnight, Diana. Sleep well.’ He replaced the receiver, thoughtfully.
Douglas.
The generous, and doubtless besotted, husband.
James Blackwell went to bed, the ghost of a fresh idea beginning to form.
Breakfast at the villa was a subdued affair. Stella looked from her mother to her stepfather and, with a child’s bluntness, asked if they’d had a row.
‘Just a silly one, darling,’ Diana replied. ‘And it was all my fault.’ For the first time that morning, she looked directly at her husband opposite. ‘I’m
sorry, Douglas. I probably had a glass of wine too many at lunch yesterday and I should never have got on that stupid rollercoaster. I felt dreadful when I got home and I was in a foul temper. I
was very unfair on you.’
Douglas looked relieved. ‘I was pompous and irritating. No wonder you were cross.’ He got up and came round to where Diana was sitting, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m
sorry too.’
‘
Yeuch!
’ Stella stuck her tongue out. ‘Soppy!’
Douglas leaned over and rubbed the end of her nose with his forefinger. ‘There’s never anything wrong with saying you’re sorry, young lady. Nothing at all.’ He turned to
his wife. ‘There’s something I keep meaning to tell you – there’s a letter for you on the mantelpiece in the
salon
. I noticed it last night, but with everything
that happened, I forgot to mention it.’
He picked up his briefcase from beside his chair and walked to the kitchen door. ‘Marseilles for me. I’ll be back tomorrow evening. You’ll both be all right?’
‘More than all right,’ Stella told him. ‘I’m going riding for the whole day near Vence, remember? Mummy’s dropping me off straight after breakfast. There’ll
be a picnic by a waterfall and everything.’
Diana’s heart sank. She’d completely forgotten the arrangement, made the previous month with a riding school in the hills above the nearby market town. Stella, an accomplished rider,
desperately missed her riding lessons back in England and had been looking forward for weeks to a day in the saddle. All the other girls – they were mostly girls – would be French, but
Stella didn’t seem to mind going on her own.
‘I’ll probably meet some of the people I’ll be at school with when I start next term,’ she had said airily. Diana and Douglas had marvelled at her casual confidence.