Stone Cold (5 page)

“Certainly,” she said, and handed it to me.

I read for a while, munching my sandwich, then put down the paper and said to her, in English now, “I miss the Guardian when I’m away.”

She looked at me curiously and asked, “You’re American?”

“Yes, but I live in England. And I miss a lot of things about England.”

“Like?”

“English manners, which are still better than most people’s. Radio Four. British television. Kippers. The things people talk about.”

“How long have you been away?”

“Since yesterday.”

She laughed, a soft appreciative laugh, and I found I wanted to make her laugh again. Encouraged, I introduced myself. “David Root.”

“Maggie Pringle.” We shook hands as the waiter arrived with her cup of coffee and pastry.

“Do you live here?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “I work here. Just down the road. I’ve taken a day off. And you?” She had clear diction with a touch of the north country in her vowels.

“I’m here on business. Just a short visit. What are you doing with your day off?”

“What I often do when work is getting hectic. I take a long walk in the mountains to clear my head and get back to myself.”

“The scenery looks beautiful. I think I may take a walk in the mountains also.”

“I like to walk alone.” Bang, the sound of a door slammed shut. This was clearly a lady who knew her own mind. Or maybe she was thinking safety first, that it may not be a good idea to go off into empty country with a man she had just met. Then she added: “But I come back here at the end of my walk.” The door was opened again just a little.

“It seems like a pleasant place for a drink,” I said. “Six o’clock?”

“Make it six-thirty.”

*

She arrived in her car, a small Fiat. She had been home and changed from her walking clothes into a smart suit, brown check of some soft material, she was lipsticked, and her dark brown hair slid down over one shoulder. She swung her legs out of the car and strode across with an athletic stride and greeted me with a bright smile.

We drank Pernod and told each other about ourselves. I told her that I had worked in Morocco and had been in the American army and was working temporarily for a security firm. She was born in Leeds but her parents had moved to Brighton when she was a child, although, she said, her father remained a quintessential northerner. Then she asked whether I knew enough about England to know what that implied.

“I think so,” I said. “Brass tacks. Down to earth. None of your southern toffee-nosed snobs.”

She smiled. “That sort of thing, yes.” She had worked abroad for several years after graduating, briefly at the UN in New York and then at the European Commission in Brussels. The conversation was relaxed, interesting, and we clicked. I felt confident about suggesting dinner at the Bellevue, and she gestured me towards her car. I looked forward to dinner table conversation. And if the evening did go that way, my room was only one floor up.

She knew the Bellevue and she knew the menu. When we were seated and had ordered, I asked her what had taken her here in the first place. “I want to live abroad for a while, and I’m doing it while I can,” she said. “I’ll have to go back and live in England at some time.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, I’ve got a brother who has special needs. He has to have somebody around to help him through the day. He lives with our parents now, but they’re getting old.” I liked the matter-of-fact way she said this, and accepted the responsibility. There was something solid and down to earth about her. Perhaps she had inherited it from her north country father.

I told her a little about my father living in England and my French mother, and about looking for a job and the pain of breaking up with Tamsin; I wanted her to know that I had feelings. Then I said, “I suppose you’re going to be working hard a few weeks from now.”

“Why do you say that?

“When the skiing season starts.”

“What’s that got to do with my working harder?”

“Don’t you work in the ski chalets? Running them?”

“No. What gave you that idea?”

“I thought you said you did. At the café you said you work close by.”

“I work for an international property owner who lives nearby. As his PA I’ve got a flat on the premises.”

“Who’s that?” I had an idea of what the answer might be. How many international property dealers lived nearby?

“A man called Stavros Stakis.”

The only thing to do was to come clean. I put down my knife and fork and wiped my mouth with my napkin before speaking. “I’m so glad,” I said slowly, “that you didn’t tell me that before I asked you out to dinner.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ve come to Switzerland because of Stakis. I wouldn’t want you think that that was why I asked you out.”

“You’re trying to get him to finance something?”

“No, not that. It’s to do with a diamond he has. His wife has. A special diamond.”

“What about it?”

“I want to know where it comes from.”

“Well, I’ve no idea where it comes from, but in any case I work for Stavros on a confidential basis. I can’t discuss his affairs.”

“Of course, I understand that. That’s why I told you what I’m doing here in Villars. I didn’t want you to think I was being underhanded.” I liked the fact that she would not betray a trust.

“We won’t talk about Stakis, we’ll talk about you,” I went on. “How did you come to work for him? I presume you can tell me that without breaking a confidence.”

“We were introduced by someone in the European Commission. The work there was boring and the life was boring, and he made me an attractive offer.”

“What’s he like to work for?”

“He’s always been fair and very considerate with me. If I travel with him I always go business class. And because a lot of his dealing is international I’m sometimes up half the night with e-mails and telephone calls, and he makes allowances for that. But enough about me and Stakis. What was your life like in the American army? Frankly, you don’t look like the military type.”

She leaned forward now, her eyes sparkling with interest. She did not want to talk any more about her job. She knew how to handle a man. Get him to talk about himself and look interested; it always works.

“I’m not. A lot of the people in the army aren’t. What’s the life like? It’s quite comfortable if you’re an officer. You have some purpose besides making money, you’re serving your country. But a lot of people are very careerist. With military ranks, the steps on the ladder are lit up in neon.” I told her a little more about me and the army and I’d like to think she was interested.

We finished our fish and drank the wine as I talked and the waiter came with the menu. I said I would pass on dessert but she ordered one. She had a healthy appetite, which I always find attractive in a woman.

Then she said, “Actually, I heard a story today. Not about Stakis, but a member of his family so I suppose I can tell you. Do you want to hear a bit of gossip?”

“Sure.”

“It’s about his daughter, Sylvie. She’s the apple of his eye although so far as I’m concerned she’s a spoiled little bitch. Well, and a member of the Stakis household got this from someone who works in a restaurant, she was driving and she scratched another car as she parked. She wouldn’t listen to the other driver. It’s typical of her, not caring about other people’s things.

“Anyway, the other driver approached her in the restaurant and the man she was with threatened him. Apparently, he was someone who works in a garage nearby. Maybe she likes a bit of rough, I don’t know. But then some other man stepped in. He shoved her escort out of the way and gave her a lecture on manners. He said if she behaved this way again he would put her over his knee and spank her on the bottom. Sylvie was mortified and burst into tears. I’m glad someone took her down a peg.”

“A nice story,” I said, grinning. “Do you know Sylvie?”

“I know the whole family.”

“Have you ever seen Helena Stakis wearing this diamond?”

“She’s got several pieces of jewellery. But there’s one zonking great blue thing she wears around her neck on a pendant. Yes, he’s asked me to be in attendance at dinner parties a couple of times, and I couldn’t miss it.”

Then she clapped her hand to her head. “Oh, God, what an idiot! What a fool! Maggie Pringle, you are a fool. You are a prize chump. And you, David Root, are very clever. You just happened to be sitting in that café. And you just happened to get into conversation with me. You didn’t know that I was working for Stavros Stakis. And I fell for it.”

I wished now that I had not mentioned the diamond. In fact, I wished the floor would turn to liquid so I could sink into it. “I swear I didn’t know,” I said. “It
was
just a coincidence.”

“Sure, David.”

“Please believe me. Please don’t walk out on me now.”

“I’m not going to walk out. I’m looking forward to those profiteroles.”

I waited until they were served and she started eating, and then went on. “Look, Maggie, you’re very attractive. Does it really not seem likely that if a man found himself sitting near you in a café he would want to start a conversation with you with no ulterior motive? Apart from the obvious one?”

She smiled and her eyes narrowed under those heavy eyebrows. “Flattery too. You really are very clever, David.”

Just then Max Duquesne came over to our table. “Ah, the tamer of the shrew. The hero of the dining room. You’ve enjoyed your meal, I hope.”

I assured him that we had, and I introduced him to Maggie. “I’ve seen you in here before,” he told her. “You always add some sparkle to the place.” She acknowledged the compliment with a smile.

When he had left, Maggie asked, “What was that about the tamer of the shrew et cetera?”

“Well you see, that episode with Sylvie Stakis happened right here. She was sitting at that table over there. And I was the one who intervened. Except that it didn’t happen quite the way you were told. That was a highly coloured version.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She didn’t burst into tears. And I didn’t threaten to spank her bottom, that was somebody’s libidinous imagination.”

“So you took Sylvie down a peg. Good for you.”

“Maggie, look, I didn’t tell you about that episode. But what I did with Sylvia hardly ingratiated me with the Stakis family. If I’m really a cunning rogue, I’m not very good at it.”

She considered this, staring into her plate. “Did you know who she was?”

“No. I had no idea.”

She was silent for a while, and then she changed the subject. “Tell me, why did you decide to live in England?”

All thought of the evening ending in my bedroom had now gone out of the window, but I was glad we could talk normally, and, by the time we had finished our coffee, we were more relaxed, and exchanging stories about our undergraduate days.

I signed for the bill – let it go on expenses – and we walked down to the car park at the back of the hotel. It was chilly in the night-time, and she pulled her coat around her shoulders. I pointed out that the snow on the mountain peaks reflected the crescent moon and glistened. “It’s lovely,” she agreed, and we stopped to enjoy the sight for a few moments.

When we got to the car I started to help her in when she turned and suddenly kissed me firmly on the lips, lingering for a while. “That’s in case I was wrong about you,” she said. “Call me again if you stay in the neighbourhood.” She pressed a business card into my hand, got into the car quickly and drove away,

It was a nice end to the evening, and I stood there for a moment after she drove away, enjoying the feeling, remembering the kiss, hearing her car fade away into the distance, looking at the moon again.

As I turned to go back to the hotel, a voice came from the shadows behind me. “Very touching,” it jeered.

I turned and Mario, Sylvie’s escort of the evening before, stepped out into the moonlight. He was not dressed as he had been the evening before but in jeans and a t-shirt. After a moment two other figures stepped out of the darkness, both young men with muscular arms and nasty looks, the looks of bullies expecting some enjoyment.

“You tried to teach me a lesson in manners last night,” Mario said. “Now I think it’s time I taught you one.” He and the man next to him both stepped forward with fists clenched.

I sized them up. I was about to be beaten badly. A withdrawal under fire is one of the most difficult military manoeuvres – the British Army Infantry Manual again. It is best to break off contact and pull back as fast as possible,

I feinted in the direction of the one on the left so that he stepped back and threw up his fists, which probably gained me a second, then turned and ran into the hotel’s grounds, and then out across a road. I could hear them running after me. I ran across a field into some trees and jumped over a ditch, and they followed. They stopped and gave up the chase.

“Yankee coward!” one of them called out.

“Look at him, running like a frightened rabbit,” another yelled.