he said.
There was something about seriously rich people, Anthony thought as he dressed for dinner, that always made him want to dig at them a little. Perhaps it was the inbuilt certainty of men who were rarely contradicted; the pomposity of those whose most prosaic views everyone took so damned seriously.
At first he had found Laurence Stirling less offensive than he had expected; the man had been courteous, his answers considered, his views on his workers pretty enlightened. But as the day had worn on, Anthony saw he was the kind of man to whom control was paramount. He spoke at people, rather than soliciting information from them. He had little interest in anything outside his own circle. He was a bore, rich and successful enough not to try to be anything else.
Anthony brushed down his jacket, wondering why he had agreed to go to the dinner. Stirling had invited him at the end of the interview and, caught off guard, he had been forced to admit that he didn’t know anyone in Antibes and had no plans, other than for a quick bite at the hotel. He suspected afterwards that Stirling had invited him to make it more likely that he would write something flattering. Even as he accepted reluctantly, Stirling was instructing his driver to pick him up from the Hôtel Cap at seven thirty. ‘You won’t find the house,’ he said. ‘It’s quite well hidden from the road.’
I’ll bet, Anthony had thought. Stirling didn’t seem the kind of man who would welcome casual human interaction.
The concierge woke up visibly when he saw the limousine waiting outside. Suddenly he was rushing to open the doors, the smile that had been absent on his arrival now plastered across his face.
Anthony ignored him. He greeted the driver and climbed into the front passenger seat – a little, he realised afterwards, to the driver’s discomfort, but in the rear he would have felt like an impostor. He wound down his window to let the warm Mediterranean breeze stroke his skin as the long, low vehicle negotiated its way along coastal roads scented with rosemary and thyme. His gaze travelled up to the purple hills beyond. He had become accustomed to the more exotic landscape of Africa and had forgotten how beautiful parts of Europe were.
He made casual conversation – asked the driver about the area, who else he had driven for, what life was like for an ordinary man in this part of the country. He couldn’t help it: knowledge was everything. Some of his best leads had come from the drivers and other servants of powerful men.
‘Is Mr Stirling a good boss?’ he asked.
The driver’s eyes darted towards him, his demeanour less relaxed. ‘He is,’ he said, in a way that suggested the conversation was closed.
‘Glad to hear it,’ Anthony replied, and made sure to tip the man generously when they arrived at the vast white house. As he watched the car disappear to the back and what must have been the garage, he felt vaguely wistful. Taciturn as he was, he would have preferred to share a sandwich and a game of cards with the driver than make polite conversation with the bored rich of the Riviera.
The eighteenth-century house was like that of any wealthy man, oversized and immaculate, its façade suggesting the endless attention of several staff. The gravelled driveway was wide and manicured, flanked by raised flagstone paths from which no weed would dare to emerge. Its elegant windows gleamed between painted shutters. A sweeping stone staircase led visitors into a huge hallway, which already echoed with the conversation of the other diners and was dotted with pedestals containing huge arrangements of flowers. He walked up the steps slowly, feeling the stone still warm from the fierce heat of the day’s sun.
There were seven other guests at dinner: the Moncrieffs, friends of the Stirlings from London – the wife’s gaze was frankly assessing; the local mayor, Monsieur Lafayette, with his wife and their daughter, a lithe brunette with heavily
There was something about seriously rich people, Anthony thought as he dressed for dinner, that always made him want to dig at them a little. Perhaps it was the inbuilt certainty of men who were rarely contradicted; the pomposity of those whose most prosaic views everyone took so damned seriously.
At first he had found Laurence Stirling less offensive than he had expected; the man had been courteous, his answers considered, his views on his workers pretty enlightened. But as the day had worn on, Anthony saw he was the kind of man to whom control was paramount. He spoke at people, rather than soliciting information from them. He had little interest in anything outside his own circle. He was a bore, rich and successful enough not to try to be anything else.
Anthony brushed down his jacket, wondering why he had agreed to go to the dinner. Stirling had invited him at the end of the interview and, caught off guard, he had been forced to admit that he didn’t know anyone in Antibes and had no plans, other than for a quick bite at the hotel. He suspected afterwards that Stirling had invited him to make it more likely that he would write something flattering. Even as he accepted reluctantly, Stirling was instructing his driver to pick him up from the Hôtel Cap at seven thirty. ‘You won’t find the house,’ he said. ‘It’s quite well hidden from the road.’
I’ll bet, Anthony had thought. Stirling didn’t seem the kind of man who would welcome casual human interaction.
The concierge woke up visibly when he saw the limousine waiting outside. Suddenly he was rushing to open the doors, the smile that had been absent on his arrival now plastered across his face.
Anthony ignored him. He greeted the driver and climbed into the front passenger seat – a little, he realised afterwards, to the driver’s discomfort, but in the rear he would have felt like an impostor. He wound down his window to let the warm Mediterranean breeze stroke his skin as the long, low vehicle negotiated its way along coastal roads scented with rosemary and thyme. His gaze travelled up to the purple hills beyond. He had become accustomed to the more exotic landscape of Africa and had forgotten how beautiful parts of Europe were.
He made casual conversation – asked the driver about the area, who else he had driven for, what life was like for an ordinary man in this part of the country. He couldn’t help it: knowledge was everything. Some of his best leads had come from the drivers and other servants of powerful men.
‘Is Mr Stirling a good boss?’ he asked.
The driver’s eyes darted towards him, his demeanour less relaxed. ‘He is,’ he said, in a way that suggested the conversation was closed.
‘Glad to hear it,’ Anthony replied, and made sure to tip the man generously when they arrived at the vast white house. As he watched the car disappear to the back and what must have been the garage, he felt vaguely wistful. Taciturn as he was, he would have preferred to share a sandwich and a game of cards with the driver than make polite conversation with the bored rich of the Riviera.
The eighteenth-century house was like that of any wealthy man, oversized and immaculate, its façade suggesting the endless attention of several staff. The gravelled driveway was wide and manicured, flanked by raised flagstone paths from which no weed would dare to emerge. Its elegant windows gleamed between painted shutters. A sweeping stone staircase led visitors into a huge hallway, which already echoed with the conversation of the other diners and was dotted with pedestals containing huge arrangements of flowers. He walked up the steps slowly, feeling the stone still warm from the fierce heat of the day’s sun.
There were seven other guests at dinner: the Moncrieffs, friends of the Stirlings from London – the wife’s gaze was frankly assessing; the local mayor, Monsieur Lafayette, with his wife and their daughter, a lithe brunette with heavily
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