Майкл Ридпат - Fatal Error

‘Davo?’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Well? You’ll like it. He’s got this great place on the cliffs overlooking Cap Ferrat. I haven’t been there myself yet, but I’ve heard it’s amazing. He asked me to bring some friends along with me. Mel’s going, and Ingrid Da Cunha. Why don’t you come?’

Why not? He meant it. I didn’t know where I would get the cash to get there, but I knew I had to go.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I’ll come.’

I raised the champagne flute to my lips and looked down at the ancient volcanoes of the Massif Central twenty thousand feet below. It turned out I hadn’t needed to find the cash for the plane fare. We had all met at Biggin Hill, an airfield to the south of London, and boarded Guy’s father’s jet. Within minutes we were in the air, heading for Nice.

Mel Dean and Ingrid Da Cunha were in the seats behind me, with Guy opposite them. Mel was wearing tight jeans, a white T-shirt, a denim jacket and a quantity of make-up. A streak of yellow ran through her long dark hair, which wound around the back of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder towards her chest. And what a chest. Her friend Ingrid was wearing baggy trousers and a sweatshirt. I barely knew either of them; Mel had been at the school for five years, but we had never been in the same class and I had scarcely spoken to her in all that time. Ingrid had arrived at Broadhill only the previous autumn, half way through the sixth form.

I said hello. Mel’s lips betrayed the tiniest of twitches in acknowledgement, but Ingrid gave me a wide friendly smile. I left Guy to do the chatting up: judging by the peals of raucous laughter from Ingrid, he was doing it well. I leaned back into my deep blue leather seat. It was the first time I had ever flown. This was the life.

Guy moved up to the seat next to me. ‘You haven’t met my dad before, have you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen him. Apart from in the papers, of course.’ Tony Jourdan had been a wunderkind of the London property market. My father knew all about him, although by the time I had begun to read the newspapers he was less often in them. I had seen a couple of articles in Private Eye accusing him of bribing a local council over the planning application for a shopping centre, and of ruthlessly ousting his former business partner. But mostly he rated a mention in the gossip columns, not the business pages.

‘He’s only been to Broadhill a couple of times. I haven’t seen much of him myself in the last few years. But you’ll like him. He’s a good guy. He knows how to have a good time.’

‘Excellent. Has he married again?’

‘Yeah, a few years ago. A French bimbo called Dominique. I’ve never met her. But forget her. Prepare to have some fun.’

‘I will.’ I hesitated. I was looking forward to visiting the bars and restaurants. Now I was eighteen I wanted to exercise my legal right to drink to the full. But there was one problem. ‘Guy?’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t actually have that much cash on me. I mean, I might have to duck out of one or two things. You’ll understand, won’t you?’

Guy smiled broadly. ‘No I won’t. Dad will pay. Believe me, he’ll want to. He’s always been generous, especially when it comes to having a good time. And if you do get caught short, just ask me. Really.’

‘Thanks.’ I was relieved. For five years I had managed to survive on a fraction of the allowance of some of my contemporaries at Broadhill, but I was worried that it would be much more difficult in the outside world. And the joys of a student overdraft still lay several months in front of me.

The jet skimmed over the tight green folds of the Riviera’s hinterland, passing above a town dominated by two extraordinarily shaped apartment complexes that looked as if they were built of Lego. Once over the deep blue of the Mediterranean, it turned eastwards towards Nice airport, an incongruous rectangle of unnaturally flat reclaimed land jutting out into the sea.

Tony Jourdan met us in the terminal. He must have been forty-five at the very least, but he looked younger. I was struck by the resemblance to Guy, not just in the way he looked, but also in the way he moved. He welcomed us with Guy’s winning smile, and threw us all into the open back of his yellow Jeep.

He drove us through Nice, along the Promenade des Anglais lined with hotels, apartment buildings and flags on one side, and palm trees, beach, sun-worshippers and sea on the other. We turned inland, battling through the heavy traffic to the Corniche, the famous coast road that wound its way towards Monte Carlo. We climbed ever higher, the Mediterranean beneath us and the coastal mountains above us, drove through a tunnel and then swung on to a narrow winding road. We continued climbing until Tony stopped outside a ten-foot-high iron gate. ‘Les Sarrasins’ was inscribed on one of the gateposts. He pressed a remote control, the gate swung open, and the Jeep pulled up beneath a pink-washed house.

He leapt out of the vehicle. ‘Come and meet Dominique.’

We made our way up some stone steps that led around the side of the house and were struck by the most spectacular view. On three sides was the powerful deep blue of the Mediterranean, stretching towards an indistinct horizon where it merged with the paler blue of the sky. We seemed to be floating high in the air, suspended a thousand feet above the sea, which we could just hear breaking on to the beach below. I felt disoriented, dizzy, as if I was about to lose my balance. I took a step back towards the house.

Guy’s father noticed and smiled. ‘The vertigo often gets people, especially when they’re not expecting it. Come and look.’ We edged towards a low white marble railing. ‘Below us is Beaulieu, and that’s Cap Ferrat over there,’ he said, pointing down to a crowded little town and a lush green peninsula beyond it. ‘Behind that is Nice. And over there,’ he pointed to the east, ‘is Monte Carlo. On a clear day, when the mistral has blown all the muck out of the air, you can see Corsica. But not in July, I’m afraid.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Guy, pointing to a crumbling wall of thin grey brick perching on a rock at the end of the garden, next to a lone olive tree.

‘That was a watchtower. They say it’s Roman. For centuries the locals used this place to look out for Saracen raiders. Hence the name Les Sarrasins.’ Tony smiled at his son. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘Nice, Dad. Very nice,’ Guy said. ‘Not so handy for the beach, though, is it?’

‘Oh yes it is. Just hop over these railings and you’ll be down there in ten seconds.’

We leaned over and looked down. Far below we could just see a strip of sand, next to the coast road, the Basse Corniche.

‘Allo!’

We turned. A few feet back from the railings was a pool, and by the pool was a woman lying on a sun chair. Topless. I stared. I was eighteen: I couldn’t help it. She waved and slowly sat up, reached for her bikini top and slipped it on. She stood and walked over to us, hips swaying. Long blonde hair, dark glasses, swinging figure. I still stared.

‘Dominique, this is my son, Guy. You finally meet!’

‘Hello, Guy,’ Dominique said, extending her hand. She pronounced it the French way, to rhyme with ‘key’.

‘Hello, Mum,’ said Guy with his best smile, and she laughed. Guy’s father introduced her to Mel, Ingrid and me. I couldn’t say anything apart from a pathetic ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Jourdan,’ which also seemed to amuse her.

‘While you’re staying here, I’m Tony and this is Dominique,’ said Guy’s father, smiling. ‘Call me sir, and I’ll toss you over the cliff.’