Philip Kerr - Research

It had been a long day and all I wanted was to eat a quiet meal and to read, but leaving the Capitole I’d mistakenly brought one of Houston’s books instead of the one I’d been hoping to finish. Not one I’d written, but even so, I had no interest in reading it. So I found a copy of Monaco-Matin — the Monaco edition of the Nice morning newspaper — and settled down on the roof terrace, which enjoys a fine view of the Princess Grace Rose Garden, to try and improve my French, leaving Houston’s latest book unread on the table, where it ended up catching Colette’s eye. As did I.

There were one or two more women around the bar at the Columbus than was usual, but then it was early summer and the fishing fleet of hookers had arrived in port. Whatever naïve ideas John Houston may have entertained about Colette’s profession it was obvious to me the first time I saw her that it could only have been the oldest one. Perhaps the Columbus was her first call on an evening that would have taken in Zelo’s, Jimmy’z, the Buddha Bar, the Crystal Bar at the Hermitage, the Black Legend, the seventh-floor bar at the Fairmont Hotel, and, if things were desperate, the Novotel.

‘Are you a fan of Houston’s work?’ she asked, speaking English.

‘Yes, you could say that.’ I stood up, politely.

‘Which one is your favourite?’

‘That’s quite a hard question. You see, I help Houston write them. As a matter of fact I’ve been helping him to write them for twenty years. I’m a sort of ghost.’

‘That’s where I’ve seen you before,’ she said. ‘You were in the Odéon today, weren’t you?’

‘You’re not supposed to see a ghost,’ I said. ‘That’s rather the point. But yes, I was. Only I don’t remember seeing you.’

‘Colette Laurent.’

‘Don Irvine. Pleased to meet you.’

She sat down and arranged her legs neatly under the table. They were certainly worth a little bit of care and attention; her short black business skirt revealed a pair of bare knees that were as shapely as they were tanned: with legs like that she could have modelled an elasticated bandage and made it look sexy.

‘I got out of the elevator as you and John got in,’ she said. ‘Are you staying here?’

‘No. Are you a neighbour of John’s?’

‘In a way, yes. For now. I’m just looking after the apartment for a friend, until I can find something of my own. I couldn’t possibly afford something like that on my own.’

‘Me neither. Like I said, I’m just the ghost. One of several. There’s a whole haunted house of us.’

‘Yes, he mentioned that. The studio. No, what is it he calls it?’

‘The atelier .’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re friends then, you and he?’

She shrugged. ‘We see each other in the gymnasium almost every day. And now and again we have a drink afterward. Anywhere other than Monaco that would count as an acquaintance. But here, that’s almost a close friend.’

She glanced over her shoulder as if mentioning a drink had prompted her to look for a waiter.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Yes. Thank you. That’s very kind of you. I would.’

I waved a waiter over and she ordered a Badoit, which impressed me, since Cristal seems to be the only drink that most women in Monaco have ever heard of.

‘Your name is Don, you said?’

I nodded.

‘How do you end up being a ghost?’

‘First it’s necessary that you should die,’ I said. ‘As a real writer, I mean.’

It was a joke that everyone in the atelier had made at one time or another, and while it contained an element of truth, I didn’t really expect her to get it; her English was good but I didn’t expect it was equal to my sarcasm. I certainly didn’t expect her to smile and then to say what she said:

‘Yes, that’s what John says about all of you guys.’

‘He does? Oh. I see.’

‘No, I meant, how did you become a ghost for John?’

‘Years ago, we both worked as copywriters for the same advertising agency. In London.’ I shrugged. ‘I’ve known John for a very long time indeed.’

‘Since the very beginning, then.’

I nodded. ‘Since the very beginning. As a matter of fact it was me who gave him the idea of setting up the atelier . For the mass production of bestselling novels.’

‘Very successfully, too.’

‘It was good while it lasted. At one stage we were producing five or six books a year. And selling millions. John is the Henry Ford of publishing.’

The waiter came back with our drinks, shot her and then me a look as if to say ‘You lucky bastard’, and then left us alone. He was right, of course. She was worth a look. Since Colette had sat down I hadn’t once looked at the Princess Grace Rose Garden.

‘It was an excellent arrangement, too. I was never much good at plots. And John never had much patience with nailing himself to a PC and knocking out 3,000 words a day. He always enjoyed the research much more than the writing.’

‘Yes, but you speak about it as if this is over. Are you leaving John’s atelier ?’

‘We all are. The atelier is over.’

‘But why? Why, when you’re doing so well?’

‘He wants to go back to basics, apparently, and write something a bit more worthy. Something for posterity. Something that will win him the Nobel Prize for Literature.’

‘And do you think he could?’

‘Win the Nobel Prize?’ I laughed. ‘No. I was joking.’

‘You think he couldn’t?’

‘I know he couldn’t. For one thing he’s not Swedish. The prize committee seems to award the Nobel to a disproportionate number of Swedes you’ve never heard of. And for another — commercial literature makes money, not merit. I’ve got more chance of winning the Euro Millions jackpot than John Houston has of winning a Nobel Prize for Literature. Not that John is about to become poor any time soon. Even if he does start paying lots of income tax.’

Colette shook her head. ‘But I don’t understand. There isn’t any income tax in Monaco.’

‘No, but there is in England.’

‘It can’t be true.’

‘I’m afraid it is. And I should know. I’ve been paying tax there for more years than I care to remember.’

‘No, I meant ... are you saying that John’s going back to live in London?’

‘Yes. At least, that’s what he told me when he said he was closing down the atelier . Misses the football apparently. And the cricket. Not to mention the Garrick Club. He longs for the greenness of his native land, he pines for the Gothic cottages of Surrey; already in his imagination he catches trout and enjoys all the activities of the English gentleman.’

By now I was quoting from the final scene of Lawrence of Arabia ; and doing rather a good job of it, too.

Colette smiled faintly. ‘And he misses his children, I suppose.’

‘Them rather less, I think. John has always had a difficult relationship with his kids.’ I laughed. ‘That’s why he had a vasectomy. So he couldn’t have any more. At least, that’s what he told me.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’ve known John for more than twenty years. There’s not much he doesn’t tell me, eventually.’

‘Oh,’ said Colette, as if she’d felt a sharp pain or a heart palpitation. She closed her eyes and looked away for a moment. It was clear from her expression that John’s plan to leave Monaco was a blow to her. Her Colgate smile had quite disappeared, her already noticeable chest had become quite agitated and her neck was turning as rosy as the blooms in the Princess Grace Garden. Without meaning to, I’d said too much. Without intending it, I’d also discovered that John and Colette Laurent had enjoyed or were still enjoying a relationship that went way beyond an innocent chat in the Odéon’s gymnasium of a morning. Looking at her now, I couldn’t find it in myself to blame him for this: the Archbishop of Canterbury would have jumped on the bones of a girl like that and people would have understood.