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“Lunch.” I repeated the word rather stupidly, and he brought his smiling eyes back to mine.
“Yes. Most days my lunch hours are reserved for Lucie. My work, it keeps me very busy, so I try to keep this hour for her, our private time. You understand?” Convinced I did, he carried on. “But on Wednesdays, François takes Lucie for half the day, and they eat lunch together, so I am left with no one.”
No one? On the contrary, I thought, the women must be queuing up.
“You don’t believe me?” His eyes were warm behind the coal-black lashes. “It is true. I am a rich man, Mademoiselle, but the price one pays for influence is isolation.”
It was a blatant attempt to play upon my sympathies, and while it didn’t work, I must confess I couldn’t see the harm in having lunch. Besides, I thought, Armand Valcourt had also known Didier Muret. Perhaps I could ask him the questions I had meant to ask Martine.
“All right, then,” I said, on impulse, “I’d be happy to have lunch with you.”
“Good.” He flashed a smile briefly, raised his eyes, then dropped them to his watch. “Good, then I shall pick you up at your hotel at noon, if you like?”
My own watch read nine forty-five. “All right.”
“Good,” he said again, pushing away from the counter. “In that case I will leave you for the moment, to enjoy the paintings. I have business still to do before we eat. You will excuse me?” His smile was very charming, but it wasn’t serious. It didn’t mean anything.
He showed the same smile to the rumpled young man who bumped shoulders with him in the doorway. “Morning,” Simon said cheerfully, as Armand slipped past him into the shaded street. Whistling an aimless happy tune, Simon stepped into the gallery and stopped short at the sight of me. “There you are!” From his tone, one would have thought I was some errant schoolgirl, late for lessons. “Paul’s been looking everywhere for you, you know. You
missed breakfast.”
“Yes, well—”
“He’s back at the hotel now, waiting for you to turn up.”
Martine emerged from the back room, having dealt with her telephone caller. Her dark eyes, dancing, traveled from Simon’s face to mine. “You are much in demand, I think, this morning. All these men come looking for you.”
Simon, bless his heart, said: “I’m looking for Christian, actually. Thought you might know where he is.”
She arched a curious eyebrow. “Christian?”
“Yeah. I wanted to borrow… something.”
“If he is not at home…”
“He isn’t.”
“Then you might try in the next street,” she advised him, “around this corner. He talked last night about making a drawing there.”
Simon, to my surprise, showed no desire to hang about chatting to Martine. Thanking her, he turned to me. “You should probably come with me,” he decided, “so we don’t lose you again.”
There was little point in staying, I thought glumly, as heavy footsteps sounded on the front step and an elderly couple entered the gallery, calling out a greeting to Martine. She saw us graciously to the door, her eyes faintly puzzled as they met mine over our handshake. “Was there something else, Mademoiselle, that you were wanting to ask?”
“No.” The lie fell heavy as a lump of lead.
“It’s only that…” She stopped, and shook her head, and the bemused expression cleared. “No matter, it is nothing. Enjoy your day, the both of you.”
The day, I found, had swiftly changed its character. The sun now hung, suppressed, behind a screen of dull gray cloud, and the air smelled faintly of motor oil and coming rain.
Simon took the lead and I followed him, head down and deep in thought. So deep in thought, in fact, that at the next corner I nearly ploughed straight into Christian Rand without seeing him. Not that it would have mattered to Christian—he probably wouldn’t have noticed. The young artist was lost in contemplation of a different kind, staring with half-seeing eyes at the bakery across the road.
Neil Grantham was something of a recurring theme this morning. He was standing next to Christian now, head back and hands on hips, his calm gaze focused on the same building. I looked, saw nothing too remarkable, and offered my apologies to Christian for so nearly tripping over him.
At first I thought he hadn’t heard, but then the roughly cropped blond head dipped forward slightly, in a silent nod of acknowledgement.
“Working, eh?” asked Simon, and again the artist nodded, not moving his eyes.
“I must tear down this building,” he said, slowly, “it spoils my composition. But how… how…?”
