him away, his pockets empty. The gypsy went back to his more plaintive pluckings.
‘Bill said,’ she lowered her voice into a gruff whisky-soaked Orpen impersonation, ‘I expect you are going to live in some cold garrett with that damn’ chauffeur and starve.’
Williams smirked at the accuracy. In a way he missed the old soak. ‘And are you?’
‘Not quite.’ She reached down to the valise, unzipped it, and brought out a wad of large denomination notes with a gummed band around it and threw it at Williams. He caught it just before it hit his chest, but he missed the second and the third and the fourth. He tried to catch his Aquavit, but it fell, rolled over and smashed on to the pavement.
‘Not quite,’ she repeated, standing and upending the valise on the tables, scores of packets, millions of francs cascading over the table, laughing at the way Williams’ eyes bulged in his sockets.
Aware of a mournful gaze a few yards down the street, Eve picked up a thin bundle and tossed it to the guitarist who deftly plucked it from the air and burst into rapid fire chords of explosive joy.
‘Dinner at Maxim’s?’ she asked.
‘On you?’
‘On us.’ She leaned across the mound of cash and kissed him.
Eve could not sleep. The supposedly furtive noises she heard from outside were as loud as claps of thunder, the detonation of guns, the fireworks on Bastille Day. The men outside had promised to be as silent as ghosts, but they were the clumsiest spirits she had ever encountered. Still Williams slept on. Since the day on the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, several months ago now, Eve had pulled together several strands of her life plan. She had bought a converted watermill on the River Vie in the Pays d’Auge, Normandy, complete with kennels for her Scottish terriers, an apartment in Paris and enough money in the bank to see them through for the foreseeable future.
But Williams, she hadn’t forgotten Williams in her master plan. He deserved something from all the money that came her way after the split with Orpen, a split she now began to suspect Orpen had somehow engineered. He had certainly picked up a new mistress with indecent, and suspicious, haste. And had showered embarrassing riches on Eve with a guilty fervour, as if it was him that had been found in bed with the chauffeur.
Williams had worked hard. He had fixed the place up, pruned the neglected apple trees in the orchard with the intention of making his own cider and calvados one day, built the kennels, helped choose the dogs—they settled on specialising in black Scottish terriers and white West Highland terriers—with an enthusiasm that surprised her, and ingratiated himself with the local village cafés and bars—scrupulously rotating his custom—and the marie , important conquests for newcomers to any rural area. Especially unmarried ones.
Winter’s thin dawn chorus had come and gone by the time Williams opened his eyes and rolled over, a sleepy smile on his face. Light headed and exhausted from her long vigil, she kissed him on the cheek, enjoying the rough feel of stubble. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ Williams kissed her back. ‘I know I should get the breakfast, but would you mind getting the coffee?’
Williams got up, stretched, and wrapped a robe round himself. He threw open the window and looked over the valley floor, to the pastures and orchards of the fertile land, glistening with winter frost, and wondered why the view didn’t make his heart sing quite as much as it should. Possibly the thought of the long months to spring, till the scene blossomed and plumped with fresh greenery. But no, he had to admit even now it had an austere, diamond-hard beauty.
Maybe it was another birthday. Thirty was coming over the horizon fast. By which time he wanted to have made his mark at something other than having a rich lover, no matter how beautiful. Maybe Eve had been partly right. Not that he’d grown tired of fucking her, but somehow it
‘Bill said,’ she lowered her voice into a gruff whisky-soaked Orpen impersonation, ‘I expect you are going to live in some cold garrett with that damn’ chauffeur and starve.’
Williams smirked at the accuracy. In a way he missed the old soak. ‘And are you?’
‘Not quite.’ She reached down to the valise, unzipped it, and brought out a wad of large denomination notes with a gummed band around it and threw it at Williams. He caught it just before it hit his chest, but he missed the second and the third and the fourth. He tried to catch his Aquavit, but it fell, rolled over and smashed on to the pavement.
‘Not quite,’ she repeated, standing and upending the valise on the tables, scores of packets, millions of francs cascading over the table, laughing at the way Williams’ eyes bulged in his sockets.
Aware of a mournful gaze a few yards down the street, Eve picked up a thin bundle and tossed it to the guitarist who deftly plucked it from the air and burst into rapid fire chords of explosive joy.
‘Dinner at Maxim’s?’ she asked.
‘On you?’
‘On us.’ She leaned across the mound of cash and kissed him.
Eve could not sleep. The supposedly furtive noises she heard from outside were as loud as claps of thunder, the detonation of guns, the fireworks on Bastille Day. The men outside had promised to be as silent as ghosts, but they were the clumsiest spirits she had ever encountered. Still Williams slept on. Since the day on the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, several months ago now, Eve had pulled together several strands of her life plan. She had bought a converted watermill on the River Vie in the Pays d’Auge, Normandy, complete with kennels for her Scottish terriers, an apartment in Paris and enough money in the bank to see them through for the foreseeable future.
But Williams, she hadn’t forgotten Williams in her master plan. He deserved something from all the money that came her way after the split with Orpen, a split she now began to suspect Orpen had somehow engineered. He had certainly picked up a new mistress with indecent, and suspicious, haste. And had showered embarrassing riches on Eve with a guilty fervour, as if it was him that had been found in bed with the chauffeur.
Williams had worked hard. He had fixed the place up, pruned the neglected apple trees in the orchard with the intention of making his own cider and calvados one day, built the kennels, helped choose the dogs—they settled on specialising in black Scottish terriers and white West Highland terriers—with an enthusiasm that surprised her, and ingratiated himself with the local village cafés and bars—scrupulously rotating his custom—and the marie , important conquests for newcomers to any rural area. Especially unmarried ones.
Winter’s thin dawn chorus had come and gone by the time Williams opened his eyes and rolled over, a sleepy smile on his face. Light headed and exhausted from her long vigil, she kissed him on the cheek, enjoying the rough feel of stubble. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ Williams kissed her back. ‘I know I should get the breakfast, but would you mind getting the coffee?’
Williams got up, stretched, and wrapped a robe round himself. He threw open the window and looked over the valley floor, to the pastures and orchards of the fertile land, glistening with winter frost, and wondered why the view didn’t make his heart sing quite as much as it should. Possibly the thought of the long months to spring, till the scene blossomed and plumped with fresh greenery. But no, he had to admit even now it had an austere, diamond-hard beauty.
Maybe it was another birthday. Thirty was coming over the horizon fast. By which time he wanted to have made his mark at something other than having a rich lover, no matter how beautiful. Maybe Eve had been partly right. Not that he’d grown tired of fucking her, but somehow it
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