Tremor (10 page)

Like Laura, she had been driven out of Paris by the over-zealous attentions of the police. Laura had known with a sense of foreboding, when votes were given to women, that they would exert pressure on their menfolk to close the high-class
maisons de passe
, where you could put on a show of elegance and it was not just bang, bang, bang all day long. Girls were expected to
talk
to their men in such superior places, if the men so wished. Great elegance and the strictest cleanliness prevailed. No girls ever went outside touting for custom. And when he left, a man must agree that he had been satisfied before he was expected to pay.

Both the younger women had worked at Laura's house in the early days, when times were still good. Françoise, having had a child, which died, had been down on her luck, and Laura had taken pity on her, invited her to come for a trial period to see if she could adjust to their more cultured ways. In those days Françoise had a rural charm and prettiness, looked like a Dutch milkmaid, Laura always said; and there were men who fancied that type – even liked her to dress up in clogs and the rest, though minus some normally essential garments. So Françoise had adapted her style, though without ever quite losing the bad habits learned in the Rue de Courcey. But when she had another child, which lived this time, she had said she wanted to return and work in Dijon, and Laura had not tried to stop her.

Vicky was a different sort altogether. Though brought up by a drunken mother and a succession of noisy extrovert stepfathers, she had wanted to be the lady right from the start. She had a splendid figure: wasp waist, long slim legs, perfect bust, could have been the Number One in the Maison Laura. But her choosiness had just been too much; she sometimes quarrelled with clients for not agreeing to their sexual whims; and often there was contention because she would not let her customers kiss her. ‘Kissing is too intimate,' she would protest as she opened her legs. There had never been any doubt in her mind as to the profession she wanted to follow, but her schoolgirl reading had always been about the great kept ladies of the world, and it was her ambition to go private as soon as she could.

So Laura was not surprised when she had said she was going to marry a doctor from Bordeaux and had left the house. (Not that she ever did marry him in the end, but she stayed in Bordeaux and worked up a small clientele of her own.)

They had kept in touch over the last few years, chiefly by telephone on a Sunday morning since neither of them was really a letter writer; but their amiable friendship had been maintained. Both the younger women fancied themselves a bit in love with Laura, and their little amorous pranks made a refreshing change from normal professional work.

Françoise stirred and coughed but did not wake up. What a podge she was getting, Laura thought; she needed to go on a diet, a strict regime. Little chance there was on a holiday: she'd be into the ice cream and the chocolate cakes as soon as she stirred. Nor would she take advice. She must have put on three kilos this last year. If she became a great porker she'd lose her livelihood.

Not that any of them was exactly a Vénus de Milo these days, Laura thought. Even Vicky was thickening and losing her complexion. Not so surprising with herself: fifty-five next birthday, and it had been a hard life after being turned out of Paris, but these two should still be in their prime. The total profit from the sale of the shop was still not completely assessed, but with luck they might not
have
to work again, or at least could take it more easily. Laura wanted to go back to Paris with her share. One did not need to go crashing back into the big time, with all the hazards and hassles of police raids and paying protection; there were a few lucrative little sidelines she thought she could build up. It would be a relief not to be on the go all hours God sent.

While she had been helping her cousin Étienne in Marseilles – where she had gone after being driven out of Paris – it really had been that: open from eleven in the morning till two the following morning. A lot of housework thrown in, cooking and cleaning; no proper wages, only so much a customer and relying on tips. And in Marseilles particularly there had been the business of ‘foreigners'. Sometimes Algerians would flood in, and some of the girls, not fancying them, would lock themselves in the lavatory. Then the men would turn nasty and threaten to break the place up. It was best not to call the police, even in Marseilles, because that way you drew attention to your calling. Not that the police were above dropping in for a quick one when they felt like it.

Anyway, good riddance to all that. It was a sunny morning and they were on their holidays – real holidays this time – staying in a posh hotel; none of them had had anything like it before. Laura eased herself out of bed, stared disgustedly at her bloated face in the mirror;
mon Dieu
, that needed attention before any other inhabitant of the hotel saw it. Particularly that tall thin man whose knee joints cracked, the one she had sat next to on the plane. He'd looked a bit oncoming, that fellow. Not that she wanted any action of that sort, but vanity told her that she preferred to reject him, not be rejected by his indifference.

She went to the telephone and ordered breakfast for three. What luxury! This really was a smart hotel, and a white-coated waiter would come in with an overflowing tray. Then they could all sit out on the latticed balcony on canvas chairs and sip coffee and bite croissants and chatter together and view the scene and make plans for the day.

She waddled over to the bed and pulled the thin sheet back, exposing the fact that Françoise had been sleeping naked. Laura gave the big round bottom a hearty smack, and went across to wake Vicky. Then she pulled up the blinds with a vigorous rattle.

The sun streamed out of a cloudless but hot and sultry sky, the swimming-pool glimmered among the palms and the ferns; beyond was the sea, well out at the moment, glassy and colourless like a giant jellyfish with a white lip. A few people already sat by the pool under striped umbrellas. The beach was dotted too, and near the sea a football match was in progress.

The hotel Saada was six storeys high, square but elegant, with white stone balconies and red-striped sunblinds to every window. It was the design of one of the new young architects who were springing up in Morocco and putting up fine, elegant buildings, as aesthetically pleasing as any in the world. It had been open only five years and at this stage was full.

Matthew Morris was among the first up. Always an early, optimistic riser, even though his industry had never quite matched his enterprise.

In a blue linen shirt and white shorts he breakfasted off orange juice and apricot jam with croissants and lovely strong coffee. Then he strolled out into the sun. It was pretty hot – hotter than he had ever expected in February. The temperature on the thermometer by the pool registered 30 C in the shade. That must be about 86 F by his reckoning. One would have to look out for sunburn on the first day.

But the sun was hazy and the sea looked only moderately inviting. A howling dog had disturbed him in the night.

He wasn't fond of pools so he strolled down to the beach with bathing trunks and a towel. Here a few umbrellas sprouted, centred round a kiosk that served drinks and snacks. He chose an umbrella as far away from the rest as possible, and threw his book down. While he was changing he stared back the way he had come, looked out at the growing ring of hotels, realized the potential of such a scene. The beach was enormous, not only in breadth but in depth. Two full-size football games were being played, yet they were dwarfed in the expanse of fine sand. With the aeroplane opening up every likely sunspot, Agadir was set for a blossoming future. There were great areas of land adjoining the beach as yet undeveloped. With a little money to invest, who knew what the profit might be?

Unfortunately he had no money. (Couldn't really afford this holiday.) The idea of making a big profit by investing in something at the right moment and selling at the right moment strongly appealed to him. Writing novels, whatever the ignorant might think, was grinding hard work. If it paid off, maybe that was an acceptable position. When it didn't pay off, or paid so poorly relative to the amount of work put in, it was hardly a tolerable way of life.

He walked and walked, first over soft sand, then over firm sand, and stepped through the little lip of white into the sea. It was not as warm as he had expected. This after all was the Atlantic. But it was the contrast with the exceptional temperature of the air. He swam along towards some rocks, then lay floating for a time just enjoying himself. It was worth coming, just for this.

He wondered when he should ring Edouard de Blaye. Without any particular effort on his part, he had come to know a number of influential people. A Wykehamist, single, in his twenties, good-mannered, with a keen sense of humour and enjoyment, able to play the piano and the guitar, fluent in three languages, fond of the arts, he was a natural for the invitation to dinner or a weekend. This had been even more so in Paris than in London; and among his acquaintances, or friends, was a slim blond Norman Frenchman whose father was the very rich Baron de Blaye.

They hadn't seen each other for more than a year, but Edouard had told Matthew that his father had built a luxury winter house in Morocco – at Taroudant, only fifty miles from Agadir – and Edouard had issued a vague but warmly meant invitation to come and see them if he were in the vicinity and would like to spend a few days there. It had been one of the reasons why Matthew had chosen Agadir over other possibilities; it would be agreeable to accept the invitation at the end of his holiday, or earlier if it suited. He had only booked for one week at the Saada. It would be agreeable to spend a few days in luxury – and free luxury – before returning to England and life entirely on his own again, in genteel poverty.

Matthew had never been one of these angry young men – he was too easygoing – but once, when a schoolboy of fifteen, he had run away from home. He got on quite well with his stepfather, who was a successful stockbroker, but he felt he had nothing much in common with him – nor really with his mother either – and did not want to go to Scotland with them. When he was eventually found and brought back he was decidedly unpopular as his disappearance had wrecked their holiday.

He had called himself Matthew Arkell, which was a name he picked out of the obituaries in
The Times
, and had wandered cheerfully with his guitar almost as far west as he could go. Working a day here and there, playing in a pub at nights, he had finished up at a farm at St Just in Penwith, where they had eventually found him. He had good-temperedly explained his case, his reasons for going, his experiences on the road, clearly and without rancour or regret. All very simple, yet all very complex. John Morris had taken him to a psychiatrist, who had told them not to worry, the boy was passing through an identity crisis. ‘What rot,' Matthew said when his mother incautiously told him the verdict. ‘It isn't that at all. I know damn well who I am, but I also know that who I am is not who I want to be!'

In the end he had written it up in a humorous way after his return to school; and putting it on paper had helped him to sort out his feelings. He won a prize for this effort and it was printed in the school magazine – presumably being thought acceptable because it was home he had run away from, not school.

It was time to go inshore, but his body had grown accustomed to the water, and it no longer felt cold. Rona, he knew, would have loved this, and he felt briefly a heel for not having told her where he was going and invited her to come, possibly, just possibly, with the idea …

But it couldn't ever be. She had made her feelings explicit, and she wasn't one to change her mind like a weathercock. There
had
been a girl like that once in Venice, but not Rona. Her mind was too logical; too cool; it had command of her feelings. And to tell the truth, if he could make enough to live on without her, he would be quite content.

If he faced up to the facts, looked at himself in the mirror, weighed life up, he was quite relieved to be out of the married state for a while. He was gregarious, didn't like to be alone, but it was good to have no ties. After all he was not leaving a little wife who depended upon him for support – the very reverse! Rona might miss his lively company, but she would enjoy not having to spend half her salary on him.

He wondered what sort of a temperament Mlle Deschamps possessed. (A glance at the register had told him her name. Nadine Deschamps – some address in Paris.) She was very beautiful. He thought it likely she was connected with the stage or high-class modelling. But alone? She surely had no need to be. Between engagements? Between lovers? Would she have any feelings to spare for him? Perhaps today or tomorrow some dark-chinned young Frenchman would turn up and claim her.

His feet touched sand, and he ploughed out of the water, shaking his head like a dog to rid himself of surplus moisture.

The current and his own energy had taken him well north towards the port. Some Moroccan boys were heading and dribbling a ball. It came towards him and he dribbled it back, tricking a couple of the boys before falling in a heap just short of their improvised goalposts. They giggled and he had another go, forcing it past the grinning lad in goal. Dusting sand as he got up, he waved to them and went on. Some older lads, fishing, eyed him speculatively but clearly concluded that in his bathing trunks he would not have a cigarette to give them. The old town clustered in the shelter of the hill with the Kasbah like a fort on the summit. A dark cloud haze obscured the sky behind; it might have been smog except that there was no industry to create it.

A yellow dog was rolling in the sand, perhaps to rid itself of fleas. When it saw Matthew it stood up and came towards him, tail wagging. He had seen two other dogs of similar size and colour playing around in the sand. They seemed to have no owners but they looked neither ill-fed nor ill-treated. Being welcomed and patted, this one decided to follow Matthew for about half a mile before finding some other interest and trotting off towards the sea.