called David Pritchard? American about thirty-five? Dark hair. Wife called Janice, blondish?”
“No-o.”
“Could you ask Ed Banbury the same thing? Ed’s reachable?”
“Yes, but he moved not long ago. I’ll ask him. I don’t know his address by heart.”
“Well, look—these Americans have rented a house in my village, and they claim to have met Cynthia Gradnor recently—in London. They’re making very snide remarks, the Pritchards. Nothing about—Bernard, however.” Tom gulped at the name. He could hear Jeff’s brain ticking, almost. “How could he have met Cynthia? Does she ever come to the gallery?” Tom meant the Buckmaster Gallery in Old Bond Street.
“No.” Jeff was firm on that.
“I’m not even sure he has met Cynthia. But even that he’s heard of her—“
“In connection with the Derwatts?”
“I don’t know. You don’t suppose Cynthia would play the bitch, do you, drop—” Tom stopped, horribly aware that Pritchard or the Pritchards had been boning up on him, and as far back as Dickie Greenleaf.
“Cynthia’s not a bitch,” Jeff said, deep and earnest, as the maniacal din in the background continued. “Look, I’ll sound out Ed and—”
“Tonight, if you can. Ring me back, doesn’t matter—well, up to midnight your time. Then I’m home tomorrow, too.”
“What’s this Pritchard up to, do you think?”
“Good question. It’s some kind of malice, don’t ask me just what kind. Can’t tell yet.”
“You mean he might know more than he’s saying?”
“Yes. And—I don’t have to tell you Cynthia hates me.” Tom spoke as softly as he could and still be heard.
“She doesn’t like any of us! You’ll hear from me or Ed, Tom.”
They hung up.
Then dinner, served by Mme Annette, a most delicious clear soup which tasted as if it had fifty ingredients, followed by ecrevisses with mayonnaise and lemon, accompanied by a cool white wine. The evening was still warm, and the French windows stood open. The women talked of North Africa, as Noelle Hassler had been there at least once, it seemed.
“… no meters on the taxis, you just have to pay what the driver says … And a lovely climate!” Noelle lifted her hands in near ecstasy, then picked up her white napkin and wiped her fingertips. “The breeze! It is not hot, because of the wonderful steady breeze all day … Oh, yes! French! Who can speak Arabic?” She laughed. “You will do fine with French—everywhere.”
Then some tips. Drink the mineral water, the kind called Sidi something, in plastic bottles. And in case of intestinal difficulties, pills called Imodium.
“Buy some antibiotics to take home. No prescription,” said Noelle cheerfully. “Rubitracine, for example. Cheap! And it has a shelf life of five years! I know, because …”
Heloise was drinking it all in. She did love new places. Amazing that her family had never taken her to the former French protectorate, Tom thought, but the Plissots had always preferred Europe, it seemed, for holidays.
“And the Prickerts, Tom! How were they?” Heloise asked.
“The Pritchards, dear. David and—Janice. Well—” Tom glanced at Noelle, who was listening with only polite interest. “Very American,” Tom went on. “He is studying marketing at the Fontainebleau insead . I don’t know what she does to pass the time. Awful furniture.”
Noelle laughed. “How so?”
“Style rustique. From the supermarket. Truly heavy.” Tom winced. “And I don’t much care for the Pritchards either,” he finished gently, and smiled.
“Any children?” asked Heloise .
“No. Not the kind of people we like, I think, my dear Heloise . So I’m glad I went and you didn’t have to endure it.” Now Tom laughed, and reached for the wine bottle to add a bit of cheer to their glasses.
After dinner, they played Scrabble in French. It was just what Tom needed to relax. He was becoming obsessed with the mediocre David Pritchard, with wondering what he was up to,
“No-o.”
“Could you ask Ed Banbury the same thing? Ed’s reachable?”
“Yes, but he moved not long ago. I’ll ask him. I don’t know his address by heart.”
“Well, look—these Americans have rented a house in my village, and they claim to have met Cynthia Gradnor recently—in London. They’re making very snide remarks, the Pritchards. Nothing about—Bernard, however.” Tom gulped at the name. He could hear Jeff’s brain ticking, almost. “How could he have met Cynthia? Does she ever come to the gallery?” Tom meant the Buckmaster Gallery in Old Bond Street.
“No.” Jeff was firm on that.
“I’m not even sure he has met Cynthia. But even that he’s heard of her—“
“In connection with the Derwatts?”
“I don’t know. You don’t suppose Cynthia would play the bitch, do you, drop—” Tom stopped, horribly aware that Pritchard or the Pritchards had been boning up on him, and as far back as Dickie Greenleaf.
“Cynthia’s not a bitch,” Jeff said, deep and earnest, as the maniacal din in the background continued. “Look, I’ll sound out Ed and—”
“Tonight, if you can. Ring me back, doesn’t matter—well, up to midnight your time. Then I’m home tomorrow, too.”
“What’s this Pritchard up to, do you think?”
“Good question. It’s some kind of malice, don’t ask me just what kind. Can’t tell yet.”
“You mean he might know more than he’s saying?”
“Yes. And—I don’t have to tell you Cynthia hates me.” Tom spoke as softly as he could and still be heard.
“She doesn’t like any of us! You’ll hear from me or Ed, Tom.”
They hung up.
Then dinner, served by Mme Annette, a most delicious clear soup which tasted as if it had fifty ingredients, followed by ecrevisses with mayonnaise and lemon, accompanied by a cool white wine. The evening was still warm, and the French windows stood open. The women talked of North Africa, as Noelle Hassler had been there at least once, it seemed.
“… no meters on the taxis, you just have to pay what the driver says … And a lovely climate!” Noelle lifted her hands in near ecstasy, then picked up her white napkin and wiped her fingertips. “The breeze! It is not hot, because of the wonderful steady breeze all day … Oh, yes! French! Who can speak Arabic?” She laughed. “You will do fine with French—everywhere.”
Then some tips. Drink the mineral water, the kind called Sidi something, in plastic bottles. And in case of intestinal difficulties, pills called Imodium.
“Buy some antibiotics to take home. No prescription,” said Noelle cheerfully. “Rubitracine, for example. Cheap! And it has a shelf life of five years! I know, because …”
Heloise was drinking it all in. She did love new places. Amazing that her family had never taken her to the former French protectorate, Tom thought, but the Plissots had always preferred Europe, it seemed, for holidays.
“And the Prickerts, Tom! How were they?” Heloise asked.
“The Pritchards, dear. David and—Janice. Well—” Tom glanced at Noelle, who was listening with only polite interest. “Very American,” Tom went on. “He is studying marketing at the Fontainebleau insead . I don’t know what she does to pass the time. Awful furniture.”
Noelle laughed. “How so?”
“Style rustique. From the supermarket. Truly heavy.” Tom winced. “And I don’t much care for the Pritchards either,” he finished gently, and smiled.
“Any children?” asked Heloise .
“No. Not the kind of people we like, I think, my dear Heloise . So I’m glad I went and you didn’t have to endure it.” Now Tom laughed, and reached for the wine bottle to add a bit of cheer to their glasses.
After dinner, they played Scrabble in French. It was just what Tom needed to relax. He was becoming obsessed with the mediocre David Pritchard, with wondering what he was up to,
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