Anything Considered (9 page)

She took off her sunglasses and looked at him, her head cocked to one side. “And you’re disgustingly brown. But it’s quite nice to see you after what I had to sit next to coming over.”

“It wasn’t the one in shorts, was it?” Bennett took her arm, and they walked over to the baggage claim area, Susie’s heels clicking on the floor.

She nodded. “He asked me if I liked hiking. Can you believe it? I mean, do I look like a hiker?”

“You look like a dream come true to me, Suze.”

“Wanker. There—that’s mine, the black one.” She pointed to a squat mass the size of a steamer trunk, and Bennett wrestled it off the carousel, marveling at the sartorial requirements of the modern woman.

“You’ve got some heavy swimsuits, Suze.”

“Funny you should say that. I need to get some. They’re always better in France. And a hat. The sun’s very bad for your hair.”

Bennett, risking rupture, heaved the suitcase onto a trolley. “Can you survive lunch without a hat? I thought we might go into Nice to eat. There’s a good little place in the flower market.”

Susie approved of the Mercedes and liked the simple fish restaurant in the Cours Saleya. It was one of her protein days, she told Bennett, so clams and a grilled
daurade
would suit her very well. She was into health, she said, lighting another cigarette and draining a glass of Muscadet, very strict about not mixing protein and carbs in the same meal. Bennett sat back and enjoyed her as she ate, drank, smoked, and chattered about her life over the past two years.

Work had gone well, and she had been promoted from production assistant to Producer—with a capital
P
, she emphasized—complete with all the trimmings: expense account, phone in the handbag, extensive wardrobe of black clothes, and membership in one of London’s most fashionable gyms, where she and others like her strove to achieve the sculptured perfection of bust and buttock while comparing notes on the shortcomings of the men in their lives. And here, Susie said, the news was disappointing. She allowed Bennett to pour her another glass of wine and pat her hand in sympathy.

“What’s the problem, Suze? Are all the good ones married?”

“Worse,” she said, and wrinkled her nose. “Divorced, and sorry for themselves. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to sit through dinner and listen to horror stories about ex-wives. And then they have the nerve to try to jump on you afterwards. Animals.”

“Outrageous,” said Bennett, admiring the sheen of a silken thigh as Susie leaned back and crossed her legs. “Never mind. The age of chivalry isn’t quite dead. Finish your wine, and we’ll go and buy you the most fetching hat in Nice.”

Susie looked at him over her glass. “I never asked,” she said. “You didn’t get married, did you?”

“Me?”

“Silly question.” She grinned. “No one would have you.”

——

They strolled arm in arm through the sunny streets behind the Promenade des Anglais, where the boutiques lie in wait for those lulled into extravagance by a good lunch. Bennett’s tolerance of shopping was normally limited to a brisk and decisive half hour, but today he made an exception, following Susie in and out and back again to Saint Laurent and Armani and Cacharel, acting as the guardian of her handbag when she disappeared into minuscule curtained alcoves, and as fashion critic and interpreter each time she emerged to face the shameless flattery of the salesgirls.

“
Mais c’est génial
,” one of them declared in rapture as Susie emerged in a microscopic shift that seemed to have been made from three gauze handkerchiefs.
“Moi, j’adore ça. C’est très, très cool.”

Susie turned to Bennett. “What do you think?”

Bennett blinked. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“I knew you’d like it.”

Two hours later, weighed down by their trophies, and with Susie feeling, as she said, shopped out for the day, they drove slowly through the traffic fighting to leave Nice, the slanting sun of early evening warm on their
shoulders, a whisper of breeze coming off the Mediterranean. Bennett’s suggestion of dinner on the terrace had been welcomed. Susie said she didn’t want to go public in Monaco anyway, not with all those bronzed bimbos, until she’d got some color. As the car rolled sedately up the hill to the Place du Casino, he thought how well things were turning out. So often, old flames were best left to simmer in the memory. This one was going to be different.

Bennett let Susie into the apartment and staggered in after her with the bags.

“Well,” he said, “will this do? A poor, modest place, but at least it’s home.” He slid open the terrace door. “Not a bad view, is it?”

Susie looked to the west, where the sun was beginning its spectacular dip into the sea. “Brilliant,” she said. She turned and smiled at him. “You
have
done well. Is this all yours?”

“Sort of. Well, for the next six months, at least. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over dinner.”

They went downstairs, and Susie immediately fell in love with the enormous bathroom, fingering the thick pile of monogrammed towels and the cut-glass bottles of bath essence from Grasse, inspecting three different views of herself in the mirrored walls, exclaiming with delight as Bennett pointed out the speakers set in each corner of the room.

“Heaven,” she said. “I think I’m going to have a musical bath while you do something manly and useful in the kitchen.”

Bennett had been hoping to do something manly in the
bathroom, but he put thoughts of a hygienic romp aside for the moment, telling himself there would be plenty of time later. He would be the perfect host, patient and considerate. “I’ll take care of the music,” he said, “and champagne will be served in five minutes. How about that?”

She blew him a kiss and bent over to turn on the bathwater. With a last appreciative glance at her shapely and indisputably well-exercised rear view, Bennett went upstairs, put a Brahms symphony on the stereo, and was on his way to the refrigerator and the champagne when he heard the buzzer sound at the front door.

Through the peephole, Bennett saw a man’s dark face above a rumpled shirt collar and a crooked tie, his eyes flicking from side to side. Bennett opened the door. Before he could say anything, the man thrust an attaché case at him.
“C’est pour Monsieur Poe, d’accord?”
He turned, and stabbed at the elevator button, anxious to be away. Bennett stood in the doorway with the case. He could smell the man’s sweat. Delivering packages for Julian Poe seemed to be a nerve-racking occupation.

Bennett shrugged and closed the door. He looked at the case, a slim rectangle of ribbed aluminum with a small combination lock set under the carrying handle. Probably Poe’s pocket money for the weekend. Bennett tried the clasps and wasn’t surprised to find them locked. It was none of his business, anyway. He put the case on the hall table, so he could give it to Shimo without inviting him in, and went back to the kitchen, where the sink had somehow filled up with dirty glasses. Next week, he thought, he
must do something about a housekeeper. Rich men don’t do dishes.

——

The two Italians in the travel-stained Fiat were becoming increasingly frustrated and irritable. There were no spaces near the apartment building, and every time they tried to double-park they were moved on by the same snotty Monaco cop, which forced them to keep circling the block. That’s why they’d missed him. It was only luck that they’d been passing the building when he came out, and saw him walking fast toward the underground parking garage on the far side of the Place du Casino.

The driver slammed on his brakes. “
Merda!
That’s him.”

The passenger, the younger and larger man of the two, with bulky shoulders that started at ear level, opened his door. “I’ll pick him up. No problem.”

The driver shook his head. “Forget it. What’s the point? He’s dropped it off.”

“Merda.”

“We’ll have to go and get it from the apartment.”

“Merda.”

——

Bennett had surpassed himself. He had found a small silver tray, and a bud vase, which now held a single rose
taken from the bouquet he had bought as a predinner surprise for Susie. He placed a glass of champagne next to the vase, made his way carefully down to the bathroom, and tapped on the door.

“Room service.”

There was a delighted squeal from the cloud of warm, scented steam that rose from the bath. Susie, in foam up to her shoulders, extended a hand to take the champagne. “Brilliant,” she said. “You are sweet. This is wonderful.”

“We aim to please, madam.” Bennett placed the vase on the marble slab at the end of the bath and looked down at her. “You seem to have mislaid the soap. May I be of assistance?”

“Bennett, actually there
is
something you could do for me.” She raised her eyebrows. “That is, if you’re still feeling lovable.”

“Try me.”

“I forgot to get any cigarettes at Heathrow, and I wondered if you’d be an absolute angel and pop out and get me some. I promise I’ll be partly dressed by the time you come back.” She sucked in her cheeks and batted her eyelashes energetically. “I might even find you a tip.”

Bennett smiled, scooped up a handful of foam, and dropped it on her head. “I’ll be back.”

The Place du Casino was clogged with the weekend crowds as Bennett strolled across to the Café de Paris, which seemed to have been taken over for the evening by a convention of businessmen, each wearing a prominent name tag in his lapel. The terrace was a sea of suits, and
the small kiosk that sold postcards, guidebooks, and cigarettes was three deep in customers waiting for the girl behind the counter to finish talking on the phone. Bennett decided to wait at the bar.

He stood next to a solitary conventioneer, identified by his label as “Hi! I’m Rick Hoffman,” and ordered a Scotch. He paid with a hundred-franc note, and Hoffman shook his head. “Can you believe this place?” he said to Bennett. “They just stiffed me six bucks for a beer. Plus they expect a tip. Plus they look down their noses and treat you like you’re some kind of retard.” He shook his head again, then looked at Bennett more closely. “You’re not with International Digits, are you?”

Bennett thanked his lucky stars. “Afraid not,” he said. “I’m a local.”

Hoffman brightened up. “You are? Tell me something.” He leaned closer. “Where’s the action?”

“The casino’s just across the street.”

“Nah. You know,
action
. Babes.”

“Ask the doorman at your hotel.” Bennett felt obliged to add a warning. “But it won’t be cheap.”

Hoffman nodded, then leaned closer still. “These French chicks. Do they …” He stopped to take a swig of his beer.

Bennett prepared himself for what he was sure would be an intimate question about some cherished sexual fantasy. “Do they what?”

“Take American Express? I’ve got a gold card.”

Bennett’s expression became serious as he whispered
in Hoffman’s ear. “Those girls can do things with an American Express card you wouldn’t believe.” He finished his Scotch. “I’ve got to go. Good luck.”

He bought a carton of cigarettes at the kiosk and went back across the
place
, hoping that Hoffman’s search for sexual bliss on a credit card would end well, and thinking pleasurably of his own evening. It was good to have a girl around again. If the week went well, perhaps Susie could come out for another visit later in the summer. He’d show her Cannes and Saint-Tropez. As the elevator took him up to the apartment, he was thinking where he could take her tomorrow for a serious French Sunday lunch. Life was good.

Brahms had been replaced on the stereo by the new Alain Souchon CD that Susie had bought in Nice, and she came swaying out of the sitting room, champagne in hand, to welcome Bennett.

“Buona sera, signore.”
She giggled and spun around. “Well, do you still like it?”

If anything, the scraps of gauze she was wearing looked even more transparent and vestigial than they had in the boutique, and Bennett had to swallow hard before commenting. “I’m so glad you decided on something sensible, Suze. I’m sure your mother would approve.”

She pouted. “That’s so
English
. You should have seen those nice Italians—kissing their fingers, rolling their eyes, shouting
‘Bellissima’ all
over the place. It did a girl’s heart good, I can tell you.”

Bennett frowned. “When was this? What Italians?”

“Now don’t get all prickly, or I’ll start to think you’re jealous. There was a knock at the door, and I thought you’d forgotten your key, and there they were. They just came to pick up that little case in the hall, and they were
very
sweet. They could teach Englishmen a thing or two. I mean, can you imagine old Henry from Chelsea saying
Ciao, bella
without sounding like a complete pronk?”

“Wait a minute, Suze. Shimo was supposed to be picking up that case. He never said anything about two randy Italians.”

“There you go again. Charming, I’d say, not randy. Charming. Who’s Shimo, anyway?”

Bennett felt a knot of foreboding tighten in his stomach. “Someone I think I’d better call.”

But Shimo wasn’t there. He was on his way to Monaco. Would monsieur like the remote number? Bennett put down the phone. “Oh, shit.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I have a nasty feeling something’s just gone wrong.”

“BENNETT, you look as though you’re going to throw up. What’s the matter? What’s going on?” Susie had reloaded her glass, and she came to stand next to him as he stared out across the terrace into the Mediterranean night.

“I’m not sure yet, Suze, but I don’t think it’s good news.” He sighed. “Come and sit down. It’s probably time for an explanation.”

Susie’s eyes widened as Bennett came to the instructions about the attaché case. “Oh my God,” she said. “I should never have let those men take it, should I?”

“How were you to know? I’d probably have given it to them if I’d been here. I’d have assumed that Shimo had sent them.”

They looked at each other in silence, Susie puzzled, Bennett feeling a growing sense of gloom and job anxiety. His budding career as a millionaire was almost certainly over if this bloody case turned into a problem. Shimo’s words came back to him.
It is important. I will come over myself to pick it up. Do you understand?
Nothing could be
simpler than that, and he’d blown it. He got up, and was heading toward the whisky, when the buzzer sounded.