Chapter Seven
Seven
What’s your film called, Francesca?” Kaitlyn asked.
Several of the guests had retreated to the shady side of the villa to play pétanque. Sylvie had gone for a lie down. “All that sun,” she had explained.
All those Negronis, Baxter had thought as he put a chilled bottle of water and two headache pills on her nightstand.
Carter was nowhere to be seen.
Francesca’s ball rolled along the gravel pitch, stopping a mere ten centimeters from the silver target. “It’s called The Glass Veil.”
“Good title!” Jade said. “It’s a thriller, right? I read an amazing review of it. They reckon it’s Oscar nomination–worthy.”
Francesca reddened with pride. “I’m not sure about that.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Damian was preparing for his throw. “Our director of photography was second to none, and Lizzie Jacoby—she played Francesca’s daughter—is exceptional.” His ball slammed into his wife’s, knocking it out of first place. “Ha!”
Francesca’s flush intensified. “I think I’ll go and lie down,” she said. “Sylvie’s right: all this sun.”
Damian didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve had a part specifically for Lizzie written into my next project.” He looked at Alec. “I sent you the script.”
“Ah yes. I haven’t had a chance to look at it, I’m afraid.”
“Incredible writer.”
“I saw you have Francesca down as the love interest.” Alec’s ball rolled sedately along the fine gravel, stopping a meter short of the target. “She’s a little old, don’t you think? Who would she be playing opposite?”
“Jasper Harding.”
“I love Jasper Harding!” Kaitlyn exclaimed. “Such a silver fox.”
“He must be, what, fifty?” Jade said.
Damian waved a dismissive hand. “Fifty-four, but he’s still got it.”
“Right!” Alec said. “And paired with a younger actress, say, Lena Voss, or Tara Monroe …” He let the suggestion hang.
“Tara Monroe?” Jade grimaced. “She must be thirty years younger than Harding.”
“We could age her up a bit,” Damian said. “Although—”
“—not too much,” Alec and Damian spoke at the same time. They clinked glasses, toasting their synergy.
“Tara Monroe’s a shit actress,” Jade said. “She was wooden as fuck in that thing about the missing kid.”
“She’s smoking though.” Damian took a sip of his Negroni and contemplated the view of Cannes. He turned to Alec thoughtfully. “So if I were to cast someone like Tara, rather than Francesca, you’d stump up the cash?”
Baxter lingered as he filled his tray with empty glasses. Anya would definitely want to know if Alec planned to invest in another movie.
“Let’s just say I’d consider it more favorably.” Alec snorted. “No one goes to the cinema to see high-
definition wrinkles, after all.”
As Baxter walked inside, he was momentarily startled by a figure standing in the cool shade of the hallway.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.” It was Francesca, one hand on the doorway leading out to the terrace. “I left my hat by the pool. I don’t want it to blow in the water if the breeze picks up.” Her smile was polite but fleeting.
“I’ll attend to it as soon as I rid myself of these glasses, madam.”
“You’re very kind.” She turned swiftly and walked toward her bedroom. Baxter waited for a few moments, confirming what he had suspected from Francesca’s demeanor: Alec’s and Damian’s strident tones could be heard in the hallway with devastating clarity.
Baxter was just considering what he might take to Francesca’s room along with her hat—she might appreciate a soothing tea, he thought—when he heard shouting coming from the kitchen. He hurried along the corridor and through the swinging double doors.
There was (thankfully) no naked man dancing on the table this time, but Baxter was dismayed to discover Thierry banging pots on the counter with such force the windows were rattling, while Miriam desperately tried to calm him down.
“Je n’aurais pas d? te le dire!” she was saying.
Baxter reached for a glass decanter a split second before Thierry’s elbow would have sent it crashing to the floor. “Shouldn’t have told him what?” he asked Miriam.
“About Mr. Prescott getting—how you say?—over friendly.”
“There’s nothing friendly about that espèce de merde!” Thierry spat the insult dangerously close to the sea bass he was preparing for that evening’s meal. “He pinched her arse!”
“It is not a big deal.” Miriam shrugged. “I can handle it.”
“It most certainly is a big deal!” Thierry said. His English was coming on remarkably well. Baxter used Polylingo to brush up on his Italian, Spanish, and French, and he wondered if Thierry had been using the same app.
“It really is a big deal,” Baxter said gently to Miriam. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” He set down the decanter. “Would you like me to speak to Mr. Prescott? Are you comfortable continuing with the job?”
“I need this job. We need this job.” Miriam shot a glance to Thierry, and Baxter wondered once again if Thierry’s gambling habit had become a problem. “If he does it again, you can speak to him.”
“If he does it again,” Thierry said darkly, “I’ll cut his balls off.”
Hmm, Baxter thought. Probably not Polylingo, then.
Thierry had at least stopped shouting and banging pots, and once Baxter had reassured himself that Miriam really was all right, he risked leaving the kitchen to go and fetch Francesca’s hat.
As he did so, he thought about the ultimatum Alec had given Carter at lunch, and Jade’s horrified look of recognition when she’d been introduced to him.
And now Alec had made adversaries of Miriam and Thierry.
Baxter made a peppermint tea for Francesca, adding it to the tray on which he had placed her sunhat. It was, he thought, quite a feat to make so many enemies in such a short time. He was beginning to wonder if there was anyone at all at Villa Sérénité who actually liked Alec Prescott.