Read Online The Diamond Caper by Peter Mayle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Mayle
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morning, they were in the highest of spirits.
To add to the pleasures of the day, they were meeting Philippe, their journalist friend, for lunch. He had called to say he had something to celebrate, and had asked them to meet him in his favorite haunt, Le Bistrot d’Edouard, a restaurant dedicated to
tapas
in all their delightful variety.
On their way into Marseille, Elena was trying to predict the cause of the celebration. “He’s finally going to marry Mimi,” she said, “or he’s been made editor of the paper. Or he’s got a book contract.”
“What makes you say that?”
“That’s what journalists do. They see all these stories coming into the newsroom. A lot of them, the juicy ones, are impossible to use in the paper for legal reasons—and they see a best seller. Keep the story, change the names, and call it fiction. Simple.”
Sam remained silent, digesting this literary revelation while he concentrated on his maneuvers with the tangled traffic. By the time he’d found a parking spot and beaten off an indignant challenge from a Renault with its blaring horn in overdrive, he was ready for a drink.
They found Philippe at a table on the terrace of the restaurant, an ice bucket already loaded. He stood up, spreading his arms in welcome before hugging them both. With his fashionably distressed jeans, black shirt, sunglasses, three-day stubble, and white jacket, he could have been taken for a hip refugee from the Cannes Film Festival.
Sam fingered the lapel of the white jacket. “This is all pretty dapper, Philippe. What happened to the suit?”
“I’ve changed my look,” said Philippe. “It’s a career move.” He filled their glasses, and raised his own. “Let’s drink to my new job.” In between
pata negra
ham, artichokes of the palest violet with parmesan, and an extended procession of
tapas,
Philippe brought them up to date.
He had left the local newspaper to work for
Salut!
, a magazine covering the antics and social life of celebrity France, and his assigned beat was Provence and the Riviera. “From Marseille to Monaco,” Philippe said, “I shall hunt down
les people,
the rich and famous, and bring their news to all our readers. The magazine has given me a car, so I can get rid of the scooter, and the expenses are”—he paused to kiss his fingertips—“prodigious. Last week I was in Saint-Paul de Vence for the spring exhibition at the Fondation Maeght, tomorrow there’s a twenty-first-birthday party here in Marseille for one of the Cartier girls, and next week I’m off to Menton for a wedding. Oh, I almost forgot—if I come up with ideas for special events, there’s a budget for them as well. How about that?” He sat back in his chair, the picture of a man who has just achieved a dream.
Elena was smiling at his enthusiasm as she offered her congratulations. “Just one thing,” she said. “What does Mimi think about all this gallivanting around?”
Philippe leaned forward, tapping his nose with an index finger. “She’s my photographer, so she comes with me. Not bad, eh?”
Lunch almost drifted into dinner as the three of them discussed possible projects for Philippe: a visit with the minister of tourism at the Fort de Brégançon, the president’s old summer vacation retreat; a piece on members of the floating summer population and their three-hundred-foot yachts; topless waterskiing in Saint-Tropez; an evening at the Casino of Monte Carlo; a
Salut!
celebrity fashion show in the Palais des Festivals in Cannes; Philippe was furiously making notes.
“What you have to remember,” he said, “are two things. First, people get bored with lying on the beach, and so by the evening they’re ready for anything that moves. And second, they all love seeing their photographs in a glossy magazine. It makes them feel like stars.” He shrugged. “So I have human nature working for me.”
“Philippe’s right,” said Sam, as they were driving back to Le Pharo. “People’s
To add to the pleasures of the day, they were meeting Philippe, their journalist friend, for lunch. He had called to say he had something to celebrate, and had asked them to meet him in his favorite haunt, Le Bistrot d’Edouard, a restaurant dedicated to
tapas
in all their delightful variety.
On their way into Marseille, Elena was trying to predict the cause of the celebration. “He’s finally going to marry Mimi,” she said, “or he’s been made editor of the paper. Or he’s got a book contract.”
“What makes you say that?”
“That’s what journalists do. They see all these stories coming into the newsroom. A lot of them, the juicy ones, are impossible to use in the paper for legal reasons—and they see a best seller. Keep the story, change the names, and call it fiction. Simple.”
Sam remained silent, digesting this literary revelation while he concentrated on his maneuvers with the tangled traffic. By the time he’d found a parking spot and beaten off an indignant challenge from a Renault with its blaring horn in overdrive, he was ready for a drink.
They found Philippe at a table on the terrace of the restaurant, an ice bucket already loaded. He stood up, spreading his arms in welcome before hugging them both. With his fashionably distressed jeans, black shirt, sunglasses, three-day stubble, and white jacket, he could have been taken for a hip refugee from the Cannes Film Festival.
Sam fingered the lapel of the white jacket. “This is all pretty dapper, Philippe. What happened to the suit?”
“I’ve changed my look,” said Philippe. “It’s a career move.” He filled their glasses, and raised his own. “Let’s drink to my new job.” In between
pata negra
ham, artichokes of the palest violet with parmesan, and an extended procession of
tapas,
Philippe brought them up to date.
He had left the local newspaper to work for
Salut!
, a magazine covering the antics and social life of celebrity France, and his assigned beat was Provence and the Riviera. “From Marseille to Monaco,” Philippe said, “I shall hunt down
les people,
the rich and famous, and bring their news to all our readers. The magazine has given me a car, so I can get rid of the scooter, and the expenses are”—he paused to kiss his fingertips—“prodigious. Last week I was in Saint-Paul de Vence for the spring exhibition at the Fondation Maeght, tomorrow there’s a twenty-first-birthday party here in Marseille for one of the Cartier girls, and next week I’m off to Menton for a wedding. Oh, I almost forgot—if I come up with ideas for special events, there’s a budget for them as well. How about that?” He sat back in his chair, the picture of a man who has just achieved a dream.
Elena was smiling at his enthusiasm as she offered her congratulations. “Just one thing,” she said. “What does Mimi think about all this gallivanting around?”
Philippe leaned forward, tapping his nose with an index finger. “She’s my photographer, so she comes with me. Not bad, eh?”
Lunch almost drifted into dinner as the three of them discussed possible projects for Philippe: a visit with the minister of tourism at the Fort de Brégançon, the president’s old summer vacation retreat; a piece on members of the floating summer population and their three-hundred-foot yachts; topless waterskiing in Saint-Tropez; an evening at the Casino of Monte Carlo; a
Salut!
celebrity fashion show in the Palais des Festivals in Cannes; Philippe was furiously making notes.
“What you have to remember,” he said, “are two things. First, people get bored with lying on the beach, and so by the evening they’re ready for anything that moves. And second, they all love seeing their photographs in a glossy magazine. It makes them feel like stars.” He shrugged. “So I have human nature working for me.”
“Philippe’s right,” said Sam, as they were driving back to Le Pharo. “People’s
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