Chapter Three #3
A large chest freezer at one end finished off the pantry, also crammed, this time with frozen meat which, peculiarly, on closer examination, turned out to be all steak, great slabs of the stuff.
The mammoth fridge back in the kitchen boasted pots of caviar and tins of Monegasque anchovies but, apart from a couple of tomatoes and a clutch of pensionable carrots, there seemed little or nothing in the way of fresh stuff.
It made me wonder whether Luc Mandeville was one of those men who live exclusively on steak and cake.
That might account for his relentless ill-temper.
That or drink, for alongside bottles of vodka, scotch and cognac on the dresser, there was a wine cellar, or cave as the French would say.
I’d earlier peeped in that too, through the door and down into its cool underground depths.
Leading off from the kitchen, the door to the cellar had been locked but, illogically, the key left hanging on a hook on the jamb.
Anyway, fresh vegetables and some meat other than frozen steak seemed to be what was principally needed.
Maybe whoever was responsible for getting in the shopping had, like the hapless Tom and the cars, been caught on the hop.
Whatever, I was clearly going to have buy quite a bit and then somehow cart it back.
Outside the front gate of the villa, however, where he’d told me to meet him when I was ready to go, it seemed the not-so-hapless Tom had come up with the answer.
Standing next to an ancient SUV, he was proudly clutching the handle of a deep wicker basket on wheels, a chic version of the ubiquitous old ladies’ shopping trolley.
‘Thought you might be able to use this,’ he said, with the nonchalance people affect when they’re proud of something they’ve done.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I don’t know why the boss hates this vehicle so much,’ he said confidingly, loading the wicker shopping trolley into the back of the SUV and opening the front passenger door for me.
‘Given the French are the worst drivers in the world, you’re much safer in something like this.
If some Frog prangs you, they just bounce off of you. ’
I made some sort of non-committal noise because what can you say?
French drivers are exactly the same as any drivers anywhere – some good, some certifiable.
However, off we set, very sedately, which was relieving, although in some peculiar way I could tell Tom was deliberately driving as if by the book; elaborate gear changing when it wasn’t really necessary and hands demonstratively on the wheel in the classic ten and two position.
Maybe he was simply endeavouring to prove his point or – and here I found myself suddenly feeling sorry for him again – attempting to restore his amour-propre after Luc Mandeville’s acid put-downs.
‘Do you mind if I open the window a little?’ I asked after we had been travelling for a couple of minutes in silence.
There was a funny smell in the car, that sort of stale smell you sometimes got in raddled old taxis in the pre-Uber days – unless it was him.
He waved an acquiescent hand at me: it was.
I sneaked a sideways glance at him. There was a general air of grubbiness about the man, not exactly unwashed but as though he had slept in his clothes.
The skin on his face looked dry and flaky and the shoulders of his ancient Barbour were snowed over with dandruff.
‘Be my guest,’ he said.
‘Have you lived in Nice long?’ I asked. He was, after all, kindly giving me a lift.
‘Twenty-odd years.’
‘Really? You must know it very well, then.’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s nice. Have you worked at the Villa Matisse all that time?
’ It struck me he was one of those people who never ask you anything.
You know the sort I mean. If you’re unlucky enough to end up sitting next to them at a dinner party, after ten minutes you want nothing so much as to drown yourself in the soup.
‘Have I worked at the Villa Matisse all that time?’ he repeated and then chuckled as if the question were a joke. ‘Oh, most certainly. I have long been Old Man Mandeville’s right-hand man. His prized car collection, you know?’
I didn’t but nodded obligingly. ‘Old Man Mandeville?’
‘The boss’s father.’
‘Oh.’ I hesitated a moment. ‘Is he coming to the Villa Matisse for Christmas?’
‘Hardly, dear lady.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Well, if you fancy a stiff hike up to the chateau, you’ll see why.’
The chateau? Was there a chateau in the Mandeville family as well as the luxurious Villa Matisse?
Tom chuckled again. ‘You don’t know, do you, my dear?
Le Chateau,’ he enunciated in his cod-French accent.
‘It’s at the top of Chateau Hill, appropriately, and is a famous cemetery.
That’s where you’ll find out why poor Old Man Mandeville will not be coming for Christmas. He’s there pushing up daisies.’
There was a pause while I digested this. ‘I see. When did he die?’
‘Oh, can’t remember exactly.’ He shrugged. ‘Passed away the end of February just gone, if you force my hand. Garibaldi’s buried up there, too,’ he added inconsequentially.
I struggled to know how to respond to all this. ‘Does that mean your work with the cars is going? That’s tough.’
‘Not in the least.’ Tom affected pride. ‘I have far more important clients who depend on me, depend on me, you understand.’
‘Really?’ Boy, sorry as I felt for him, was he a bit of a plonker.
‘Really indeed. Major Tom they call me round these parts.’ He gave yet another, this time self-satisfied, little chortle.
‘Oh, were you in the army, then?’
‘Royal Engineers,’ he said importantly.
I opened my mouth to say my father was retired from the army and then, closing it again sharply, sneaked another covert glance at him.
There was something odd about this man, not merely that he was a bit of prat with his posing and archaic slang, but something unstable or false, as if he were acting a part.
The cavalry twills, the battered waxed jacket, the tweed cap.
It was as if he’d adopted the sort of clothes he believed an ex-officer from His Majesty’s Armed Forces would wear.
Well, he was way off beam. Hidebound by tradition as the British Army still is, its members have moved with the times.
My dad spends his life in baggy jeans and even baggier sweatshirts – it drives my mother to distraction.
Whatever, I instinctively didn’t quite trust this Tom, which meant I felt reluctant to tell him anything personal.
It was doubtful he’d be interested anyway.
All I wanted to do was get away from him – and the pong.
By this time we’d reached the bottom of the hill on the outskirts of the main town, so I asked him to pull over and drop me off.
‘I’d like to walk from here if you don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I need to stretch my legs. But thanks for the lift.’
Bringing the car to a halt, he jumped down, hurried round to theatrically open my door and then, with another lot of unnecessary palaver, retrieved the shopping trolley from the back. I thanked him again.
‘By the way,’ he said as we stood on the pavement. ‘Don’t let that little girl bother you.’
‘What little girl?’
‘Nicole, Nic – whatever she calls herself – the negro girl.’
I stared at him.
‘Jealous of you, you see, a hefty dose of the pure green eye.’ He winked at me. ‘She fancies herself as the Villa Matisse chief cook, so, yep, you’ve really put her little black nose out of joint.’
‘I don’t think I want to hear this,’ I snapped, suddenly so revolted I couldn’t be bothered to be polite.
He seemed unmoved. ‘Ah, you may say that, but then you don’t know the boss, do you?
You don’t know the set-up. A law unto himself, is our Monsieur Luc Mandeville, a law unto himself,’ he repeated.
‘But I’m only warning you, that’s all, warning you out of the goodness of my heart.
Good day to you, ma’am.’ And with a final flourish of his flat cap, he treated me to another of his daft little salutes, jumped back into the car and sped off.
I stood where he’d left me on the pavement.
Even if I discounted his blatant racism, I could not fathom out what the hell the man had been getting at.
Whatever it was, it certainly did not sound pleasant.
Tom seemed to be suggesting Luc Mandeville was up to something nefarious.
However, I don’t know quite why but, even given his rudeness, I could not believe there was anything weird or suspicious about Mandeville.
Maybe I’m a poor judge of character and of course I was only going on first impressions, but Luc Mandeville struck me as nothing more than an arrogant, upper-middle-class prat, aggravating but never sinister.
It was Tom who creeped me out. But I’ve come across this sort of stuff the few times I’ve cooked for households with domestic staff.
The gossip below stairs is positively scurrilous.
They thrive on it. And even if you try to ignore what’s being said, you can’t always help hearing it.
Was this going to be the set-up at the Villa Matisse?
With a deep sigh, I looked about me. The sun was shining, the sky cloudless and, in between the roofs of Old Nice below me, the Mediterranean a serene blue. It was much warmer than I’d anticipated.
Yet all of a sudden I shivered.