Chapter Eighteen
It was a relief to find Billy in the kitchen the next morning when I got down, a lot later than usual and bug-eyed from oversleeping on account of reading well into the small hours.
He seemed so normal compared to the extraordinary individuals who had peopled my night.
Greeting me with warmth, he cocked his head at Nicole, who was energetically sweeping up yet another trail of pine needles, this time leading from the door to the hall.
‘Nic tells me the tree died sudden, like,’ said Billy. ‘But I could see that for myself. I’ve put it outside.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I looked after it properly.’
‘Oh no, it’s not your fault, Alix. They sometimes die of shock, you know. Trees are highly sensitive to changes in atmosphere.’
Well, there had been plenty of them round here, I reflected, helping myself to a cup of coffee from the machine.
‘No Madam Mop this morning?’ I asked, watching Nicole wielding dustpan and broom.
‘Nah. She’s gone on her holidays to Martinique with her family.’
‘Martinique? Very nice too. I must be in the wrong job.’
Billy looked gloomy. ‘You and me both.’
‘Where’s everyone else?’
Nicole straightened up from the dustpan. ‘M’sieur Luc and Emma have departed for to visit his father.’
‘Eh?’
‘She means they’ve gone to see Old Man Mandeville’s grave,’ corrected Billy.
Nicole threw Billy a furious look. ‘Yes, this is what I say.’
‘No, sorry, pet, but you didn’t.’
‘Billy…’ I began warningly, but Nicole had now assumed an expression of extreme indifference.
She turned to me. ‘Mr Luc says please to prepare a petty lunch for him and Emma. At twelve hundred hours.’
‘She means something light at noon.’
‘Billy! You’re not helping! And shit!’ I clutched my head. ‘What can I cook? There’s hardly any food left after Christmas and everything.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I was going to do a shop this morning but there’s not enough time now.’
‘I have taken from the freezer two steaks for to defrost,’ Nicole announced with dignity.
‘Oh, you’re a love! Thank you.’ I gave her – and the dustpan – a quick hug.
Now casting Billy a supremely self-satisfied look, Nicole exited through the swing door to the dining room. I turned to Billy.
‘You’re giving her a hard time this morning. Have you two fallen out or something?’
‘Nah. Though, boy, does she need to lighten up. I was only teasing her anyhow because I made the mistake of saying I had a hangover this morning and she then gave me a big lecture on, like, the evils of drink.’
‘Quite right too.’
We smiled at each other.
‘Anyway, I’ll get out of your way, then.’
‘No, wait a minute.’ I stopped him as he made to go.
‘I’ve got something for you.’ Quickly retrieving from the bottom cupboard of the dresser where I had hidden the bottle bag with the unusual liqueur I had bought in the market, I handed it to him.
‘There you go. Late Christmas present from me, or more evil drink. Take your pick.’
He withdrew the bottle and looked at the label. ‘Oh, Alix,’ he said, sounding overwhelmed.
‘God knows what it’s like. But the bottle’s pretty.’
‘No, this is, like, amazing. It’s my partner’s, well, my husband’s, favourite.’
So Billy was gay. It hadn’t occurred to me to consider Billy’s sexual orientation.
However, it did clear up a miniscule niggling doubt I’d harboured since that first morning at the Villa Matisse when Nicole had seemed uncomfortable with him, making me wonder whether he’d bothered her with unwanted attentions.
But not the case. The only thing that struck me now was how very young he was to be married.
But as if he knew precisely what I was thinking from my expression, he gave a resigned nod.
‘Yeah, I know,’ he sighed, ‘you’re thinking I look too young to be married.’
‘Well, you do a bit,’ I admitted.
‘Yeah, well, believe it or not I’m thirty. But it’s not your fault. Philippe, my husband, says the same thing. He says I’m like Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up – Pierre Pan as they call him here in France.’
I chuckled. ‘Make the most of it. You’ve found the secret of eternal youth.’
He puffed out his lips. ‘No chance. Anyhow,’ he gestured with the bottle, ‘this is Philippe’s fave.’
‘Really?’
‘Really and truly. I like it too,’ he added and, stepping forward, kissed me on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Alix, thanks a million. It’s so nice of you.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ In the slight embarrassment you feel after giving someone a present, I glanced round the kitchen. ‘No Tom this morning either?’ I asked.
‘He’s driving the boss and Emma up to the Chateau graveyard.’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Why? Have you got a pressie for him too?’
I mimed dismay. ‘Do you know, Billy, it must have somehow slipped my mind.’
‘I’ve got a spare can of weedkiller if you like.’
I laughed. ‘Good plan.’
Then all at once Billy frowned. ‘You know, Alix, joking apart, I really don’t like that guy. I know I said you should feel sorry for him but somehow just lately there’s something dead creepy about him.’
I agreed with him. ‘But I think he’s harmless.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ He brooded on this a moment before giving himself a little shake. ‘Anyways, must get on. I gotta dead tree to shift and you gotta magic up food from fresh air.’
‘See you later, then.’
‘Well, actually, you won’t, I’m afraid.’ He hastened on, ‘I’m tidying up here and then I’m off until the week after the New Year, by which time you’ll be gone, won’t you? The boss owes me some leave so I’m taking it from tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Billy!’ I felt a pang of genuine dismay. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘Yeah, well, me too, but it is what it is.’ He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot for a moment. Then, his head on one side, he considered me. ‘Tell you what, though, I got this weird feeling we haven’t seen the last of Miss Alix, you know?’
I looked away. ‘I think you have. Everything will change anyway, now Mr Mandeville is getting married.’
He stared at me. ‘The boss is getting wed? Who told you that?’
‘Oh, no-one you’d know.’
‘Who’s he marrying?’
‘Caroline de what’s-it, of course.’
Still he stared at me. Then he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nah, pardon me, but you got that wrong somehow. I mean, I don’t, like, know the guy so well, I just work for him, but I know Luc Mandeville well enough to say he’d never hitch his star to a snooty madam like her.’
I shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll see.’ Forcing a cheerful smile, I changed the subject. ‘But are you going somewhere nice for your holidays? Martinique, for example?’
He chuckled. ‘That’ll be the day. To tell you the truth, me and Philippe are going up country looking for a bit of land with a cottage we can do up and start a small business, growing veggies and stuff.’
‘That sounds terrific,’ I said warmly. ‘Hope you find somewhere.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ Leaning forward, he gave me another light kiss on the cheek. ‘All the best, Alix, and thanks again.’ He held up the bottle bag. ‘For this and everything.’
Emma and her father arrived back around eleven o’clock, just as I was checking a dish of pommes de terre boulangères in the Bocuse.
With no deep fat fryer at the Villa Matisse, the classic steak frites was out.
That and a jar of French petit pois, which if not fresh are always hugely reliable as a fallback, would have to do.
Once they’d heated, I’d perk them up with spring onion, crème fraiche and the remains of a slightly sad lettuce.
There was nothing I could make a pudding from but still a few brownies remaining from Christmas, although they’d be past their best. An overripe camembert and what was left of the grapes would have to do.
To pad things out, I’d also prepared a plate of thinly sliced charcuterie from some of the dried saucissons hanging in the pantry along with a bowl of cornichons and green Nicoise olives.
They could have that as a starter or with drinks. Whatever suited them.
‘Oh, that was so lovely!’ cried Emma, bouncing into the kitchen and flopping down in a chair.
‘You should have come with us, Alix. It was beautiful up there on Chateau hill this morning. All sunshine and sublime views over Nice and the sea. No wonder they called it the Bay of Angels. It’s like seeing heaven – just the place for Grandpa Johnny. ’
‘That’s good,’ I said, turning to her. ‘Emma, what time are you and your father leaving for the airport?’
‘About one-thirty. We’re picking up Gran en route.’ She giggled. ‘She’s indulging herself with mega treatments in the hotel beauty salon this morning, so we might not recognise her.’
I suppressed a smile as Luc hurried in with Tom hard on his heels. ‘Emma, go and get your suitcase so Tom can carry it down to the car.’
‘There’s no point, Dad. It’s empty – ready for all Gran’s stuff, remember? So I can manage it myself.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten that.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Okay, Tom, can you bring the car round to the front no later than half past one, please? Emma and I will need to leave then.’
Jumping to attention, Tom performed his daft salute, clicking his heels together for good measure.
‘Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.’ He turned smartly to me. ‘And how is our magnificent lady chef this morning?’ he said with the sort of exaggerated reverence that sounds more like insolence.
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Half past one, Tom?’ Luc repeated pointedly.
‘Yes, sir!’ And treating us all to another salute, he was gone.
Luc headed for the vodka. ‘God, I know I should feel sorry for him, but does that man get up my nose.’
‘He’s just a fuckwit, Dad.’
Saying he agreed with Emma’s sentiments if not the language, Luc poured himself vast vodka, downed a little neat and winced but looked relieved.
‘Would you like a drink, Em?’ he asked, turning round. ‘And, er… Alix, how about you?’
‘I’ll have a beer,’ Emma said, leaping up and grabbing one from the fridge. I said I was fine as she levered the cap off, sat down again and took a swig straight from the bottle.