The Destiny of Nathalie X (14 page)
Read The Destiny of Nathalie X Online
Authors: William Boyd
Astonished, the girls run with me, laughing and questioning. We run down back streets. Eventually we stop.
“What happened?” Anneliese asks.
“Steve attacked me,” I say. “Suddenly—tried to hit me. I don’t know why.”
Our feet crunch on the pebbles as we walk along Villefranche’s
plage publique
. I pass the Martini bottle to Ulricke, who stops to take a swig. We have discussed Steve and his neuroses for a pleasant hour. At the end of the bay’s curve a small green hut is set on the edge of the coast road. It juts out over the beach, where it is supported by thick wooden piles. We settle down here, sheltered by the overhang, spreading Steve’s Afghan coat on the pebbles. We huddle up for warmth, pass the bottle to and fro and decide to watch the dawn rise over Ventimiglia.
The three of us stretch out, me in the middle, on Steve’s convenient coat. Soon Ulricke falls asleep. Anneliese and I talk on quietly. I pass her the Martini. Carefully she brings it to her mouth. I notice how, like many women, she drinks awkwardly from the bottle. She fits her lips around the opening and tilts head and bottle simultaneously. When you drink from the bottle like this, some of the fluid in your mouth, as you lower your head after your gulp, runs back into the bottle.
“Ow. I think I’m drunk,” she says, handing it back.
I press my lips to the bottle’s warm snout, try to taste her lipstick, raise the bottle, try to hold that first mouthful in my throat, swilling it around my teeth and tongue …
Ulricke gives a little snore, hunches herself into my left side, pressing my right side against Anneliese. Despite what you may think I want nothing more from Anneliese than what I possess now. I look out over the Mediterranean, hear the plash and rattle of the tiny sluggish waves on the pebbles, sense an ephemeral lunar grayness—a lightening—in the air.
unch
D
ATE
: Monday
V
ENUE
: Le Truc Intéressant, Lexington Street, Soho
P
RESENT
: Me, Gerald Vere, Melanie Swartz, Peter (Somebody) from Svenska Bank, Barry Freeman, Diane Skinner (account exec from SLL&L), Eddie Kroll (left before pudding)
M
EAL
: Tabbouleh chinois, roulade de foie de veau farcie, mille-feuilles de fruits d’hiver
W
INE
: Two Moët & Chandon nonvintage, two Sancerres, an ’83 Pichon-Longueville, a big Provençal red called Mas Julienne. Port, brandy (eau de vie de prune for Diane S.).
B
ILL:
£678 (service not included)
E
XTRAS
: Romeo y Julietas for Vere and Freeman; T-shirt and souvenir condiments set for Melanie; a packet of Marlboro Lights for Diane S.
C
OMMENTS:
N
O
piped music. Tabbouleh chinois an orthodox tabbouleh with sliced lychees mixed in. Unusual.
Roulade de foie exquisite, served on a little purée of celeriac. Diane S. barely touched her food, “saving up for dessert.” Mille-feuilles—8 out of 10 for the pastry. Fruits bland. Diane S. picked up tab. Taxied me back too. Thank you Swabold, Lang, Laing & Longmuir. Thank you very much.
D
ATE
: Tuesday
V
ENUE
: Eurotel Palace, Heathrow Airport
P
RESENT
: Me, Diane S.
M
EAL
: Insalata tricolore, Dover sole, tarte aux pommes
W
INE
: G&T in bar, Merry Dale Chardonnay, house champagne with pud
B
ILL:
£96 (service included)
E
XTRAS
: Irish coffee served in our room. £5.50 each. 20 Marlboro Lights.
C
OMMENTS
. Almost inaudible classical Muzak. Rubbery mozzarella. When will the British stop serving “A selection of vegetables”? Tasteless carrots, watery broccoli, some kind of swede. Tarte aux pommes a simple apple pie, not flattered by translation. House champagne surprisingly good—small bubbles, buttery, cidery. Undrunk Irish coffee—waste.
D
ATE
: Wednesday
V
ENUE
: Chairman’s dining “set,” sixth floor. Pale oak paneling. Silver. Good paintings—a small perfect Sutherland, Alan Reynolds, two Craxtons.
P
RESENT
: Me, Sir Torquil, Gerald Vere, Barry Freeman, Blake Ginsberg (new CEO), some senior suit from Finance (introduced as “You know Lucy”—can’t be his first name, surely? Very foreign-looking)
M
EAL
: Vegetable terrine, lamb chops with new potatoes, raspberries with crème fraîche. Stilton.
W
INE
: Hip flask in loo downstairs, then Vodkatini (could have been colder), a perfectly good Chablis, followed by a ’78 Domaine de Chevalier (stunning). Port (Taylor’s, missed date).
B
ILL
: A heavy price to pay
E
XTRAS
: At least I saw the Sutherland.
C
OMMENTS
: Apart from the vegetable terrine (always a total waste of time) this was superior corporate catering. Sensible. Lamb nicely pink. Superb wine. They had the grace to wait until the cheese. The condemned man had eaten a hearty meal. Fucking heartless cold fucking swine.
D
ATE
: Thursday
V
ENUE
: La Casa del’ Luigi, Fulham Road
P
RESENT
: Me, Diane, (later) Jennifer
M
EAL
: Minestrone, spaghetti bolognese, tiramisù
W
INE:
G&Ts, Valpolicella, replaced by a Chianti Classico when spilled. Large grappa after Jennifer’s arrival and departure.
B
ILL:
£63 rounded up to £80. Scant gratitude.
E
XTRAS:
20 Marlboro Lights. Three glasses, two plates. Dry cleaning to be notified.
C
OMMENTS
: Minestrone was tinned, I’d swear. Alfredo’s spag. bol. amazingly authentic as ever (why can’t one ever achieve this at home?). He refuses to divulge his secret but I’m convinced it’s the chicken livers in the ragu. Which must simmer for days, also. Watery, ancient tiramisù. Big mistake to eat so close to home. HUGE mistake. Jennifer could have walked right past. What bastard waiter called her in?
D
ATE
: Friday
V
ENUE
: Montrose Dining Club, Lincoln’s Inn. Basement, large overlit room, long central table. Staffed by very old ex-college porters and very young monoglot girls who appear to be from Eastern Europe.
P
RESENT
: Me, Alisdair Lockhart
M
EAL
: Potted shrimps and toast, duck à l’orange, treacle tart (!)
W
INE
: G&Ts, club claret, club brandy
B
ILL:
£18. (I paid. Astonishing value. Alisdair said he could add it to his bill but I insisted.)
E
XTRAS
: About £5000 if I know Alisdair
C
OMMENTS
: Time travel. Back to school. This was English cuisine until quite recently; we have forgotten that this was how we all used to eat. Potted shrimps like consuming cold butter, limp toast. Duck cooked to extinction, repulsive cloying sauce. I ordered treacle tart for nostalgia’s sake. (Alisdair has appalling dandruff for a comparatively young man.) I said Jennifer was being difficult, thus far. He was not sanguine. Asked if this had happened before
so I told him of Jennifer’s ultimatum. Spoke briefly about custody of Toby. He left early as he had to get to court. Depressing. Drank whiskey in an Irish pub.
D
ATE
: Saturday
P
LACE
: My kitchen, Rostrevor Road, Fulham
P
RESENT
: Me and (intermittently) Birgitte, the au pair
M
EAL
: Raided fridge—cottage cheese and crispbread, remains of Thursday’s shepherd’s pie, some of Toby’s little yogurt things, cheese triangles. Birgitte sent out for a pizza but I couldn’t be bothered waiting.
W
INE
: “Three goes of gin, a lemon slice and a ten-ounce tonic …” Who said that? Then two glasses of Pinot Grigio, before I went down to the basement and rooted out the Ducru-Beaucaillou. Fuck it. I gave some to Birgitte, who made a face. She preferred to drink her own beer. She gave me a can when I’d finished the Beaucaillou. Strong stuff. Slept in the afternoon.
B
ILL
: The Human Condition
E
XTRAS
: I miss Toby and Jennifer. I miss our usual Saturday lunch. Best lunch of the week.
C
OMMENTS
: Music—Brahms horn trio initially but it made me want to weep. Birgitte played something rhythmic, ethnic. She gave me a tape of ocean waves breaking on a shore. “For calming,” she said. Big, bighearted girl. Why would anybody eat cottage cheese? What, in terms of taste and texture, could possibly recommend it? Jennifer and her silly, perpetual diets. Perfectly slim, perfectly …
The cheese triangles were unbelievably tasty, ate a whole wheel’s worth as I drank the Beaucaillou.