to pay for their bloody children to go through Eton.”
They stared at each other in silence. Caroline’s face was tight with animosity. Later on, if Simon allowed the conversation to continue, animosity would dissolve into sobbing, and if that didn’t work there would be abuse.
He glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a meeting going on.”
Caroline mimicked him. “I’ve got a meeting.” She pushed back her hair as if it exasperated her. “God, you’ve always got a meeting. Our marriage was fitted in between meetings. I wasn’t married to you; I was married to an advertising agency.” She sniffed. “If you could call it a marriage. Too busy to take a holiday, too tired to go out, too tired to—”
“Caroline, we’ve been through all this before.”
“And now, when all I want is a home, you resent it.”
“I resent thirty-five thousand pounds being thrown away on bloody cushions.”
Caroline stood up. With quick, angry movements she put her cigarettes into her bag and smoothed her skirt. “Well, I tried. I’m not staying here to be shouted at. Go back to your precious meeting.” She walked over to the door and opened it so that Liz could hear her exit line. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”
Simon thought about going back to the wake being conducted in the conference room, but decided against it. What was the point? Either they’d get the business or they wouldn’t, and the way he was feeling he didn’t particularly care. He put on his jacket, said goodnight to Liz, and walked through the early evening bustle of the streets to the flat in Rutland Gate.
Ernest came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated surprise. “Fancy seeing you before eight o’clock. What happened? Has the factory burned down, or did those little rubber people have a puncture and not turn up?”
“No, Ern. They came and went. So did Caroline.”
“Oh dear. I thought you looked a tiny bit ruffled. I expect you’d like a drink.” He continued talking as he put ice and whisky in a tumbler. “What was it this time? Danger money for living in Belgravia? Say what one may about that young lady, she’s never short of ideas.”
Simon slumped in a chair and Ernest passed him his drink, then bent down to undo the button of Simon’s jacket. “If we sit like that with our jacket done up, we’re going to look like a concertina.”
“Yes, Ern. Cheers.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot. There was a message from foreign parts, a French person who says she has some good news.” Ernest sucked in his cheeks and looked down his nose at Simon. “She wasn’t prepared to tell me, so I assume it’s frightfully personal.” He hovered above Simon, a human question mark.
Simon laughed for the first time that day. It must be Nicole. “I expect it’s about my exhaust pipe.”
“Well, far be it for me to pry, dear. You call it what you like. Anyway, she left a number for you.” Ernest disappeared into the kitchen and, with a sniff and an ostentatious display of tact, closed the door behind him.
Simon lit a cigar and thought about his few days in Provence—the warmth, the light, the perfectly tanned cleavage—and went over to the phone.
“Oui?”
“Nicole, it’s Simon. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. And so is your car. At last the little monster has repaired it. Let’s hope he hasn’t stolen the radio.” She laughed, husky and intimate, and Simon wished he could see her.
“I’d love to come down and get it, but I don’t think it’s possible. There’s too much going on at the office. I’ll have to send someone down to pick it up.”
“Your gentleman’s gentleman?”
“Who?”
“The one who answered your phone. He sounds very correct.”
“Ah, that’s Ernest. Yes, I’ll send him. You’ll like him.”
There was a pause, and Simon could hear the scratch of a match as Nicole lit a cigarette.
“I have a better idea,” she
They stared at each other in silence. Caroline’s face was tight with animosity. Later on, if Simon allowed the conversation to continue, animosity would dissolve into sobbing, and if that didn’t work there would be abuse.
He glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a meeting going on.”
Caroline mimicked him. “I’ve got a meeting.” She pushed back her hair as if it exasperated her. “God, you’ve always got a meeting. Our marriage was fitted in between meetings. I wasn’t married to you; I was married to an advertising agency.” She sniffed. “If you could call it a marriage. Too busy to take a holiday, too tired to go out, too tired to—”
“Caroline, we’ve been through all this before.”
“And now, when all I want is a home, you resent it.”
“I resent thirty-five thousand pounds being thrown away on bloody cushions.”
Caroline stood up. With quick, angry movements she put her cigarettes into her bag and smoothed her skirt. “Well, I tried. I’m not staying here to be shouted at. Go back to your precious meeting.” She walked over to the door and opened it so that Liz could hear her exit line. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”
Simon thought about going back to the wake being conducted in the conference room, but decided against it. What was the point? Either they’d get the business or they wouldn’t, and the way he was feeling he didn’t particularly care. He put on his jacket, said goodnight to Liz, and walked through the early evening bustle of the streets to the flat in Rutland Gate.
Ernest came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated surprise. “Fancy seeing you before eight o’clock. What happened? Has the factory burned down, or did those little rubber people have a puncture and not turn up?”
“No, Ern. They came and went. So did Caroline.”
“Oh dear. I thought you looked a tiny bit ruffled. I expect you’d like a drink.” He continued talking as he put ice and whisky in a tumbler. “What was it this time? Danger money for living in Belgravia? Say what one may about that young lady, she’s never short of ideas.”
Simon slumped in a chair and Ernest passed him his drink, then bent down to undo the button of Simon’s jacket. “If we sit like that with our jacket done up, we’re going to look like a concertina.”
“Yes, Ern. Cheers.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot. There was a message from foreign parts, a French person who says she has some good news.” Ernest sucked in his cheeks and looked down his nose at Simon. “She wasn’t prepared to tell me, so I assume it’s frightfully personal.” He hovered above Simon, a human question mark.
Simon laughed for the first time that day. It must be Nicole. “I expect it’s about my exhaust pipe.”
“Well, far be it for me to pry, dear. You call it what you like. Anyway, she left a number for you.” Ernest disappeared into the kitchen and, with a sniff and an ostentatious display of tact, closed the door behind him.
Simon lit a cigar and thought about his few days in Provence—the warmth, the light, the perfectly tanned cleavage—and went over to the phone.
“Oui?”
“Nicole, it’s Simon. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. And so is your car. At last the little monster has repaired it. Let’s hope he hasn’t stolen the radio.” She laughed, husky and intimate, and Simon wished he could see her.
“I’d love to come down and get it, but I don’t think it’s possible. There’s too much going on at the office. I’ll have to send someone down to pick it up.”
“Your gentleman’s gentleman?”
“Who?”
“The one who answered your phone. He sounds very correct.”
“Ah, that’s Ernest. Yes, I’ll send him. You’ll like him.”
There was a pause, and Simon could hear the scratch of a match as Nicole lit a cigarette.
“I have a better idea,” she
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