William Boyd - The Destiny of Nathalie X

“Come on , for God’s sake.”

“Bit tricky in the dark.”

Roughly, Steve attempts to wrest my arm from the handrail. He swears. I stop dead, lock my elbows and brace myself against his shoving.

“You English fuck!” He punches me quite hard in the back. I run down the steps to a narrow landing where they make a turn. I face Steve. He is lean and slightly taller than me, but I’m not interested in physical prowess, only delay. Farther down the flights of steps the sound of footfalls grows ever fainter. I hold the bridge. Steve is panting.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he says. “Who do you think you are? Her father? You don’t own these girls, you know.”

He takes a swing at me. I duck my head and his knuckles jar painfully on my skull. Steve lets out a yip of pain. Through photomatic violet light I lunge at him as he massages blood into his numbed fist. With surprising ease I manage to throw him heavily to the ground. At once I turn and spring down the steps. I take them five at a time, my fingertips brushing the handrails like outriggers.

Ulricke and Anneliese are waiting at the bottom. The others have gone on to the harbor front. I seize their hands.

“Quickly,” I say. “This way!”

Astonished, the girls run with me, laughing and questioning. We run down back streets. Eventually we stop.

“What happened?” Anneliese asks.

“Steve attacked me,” I say. “Suddenly — tried to hit me. I don’t know why.”

Our feet crunch on the pebbles as we walk along Villefranche’s plage publique . I pass the Martini bottle to Ulricke, who stops to take a swig. We have discussed Steve and his neuroses for a pleasant hour. At the end of the bay’s curve a small green hut is set on the edge of the coast road. It juts out over the beach, where it is supported by thick wooden piles. We settle down here, sheltered by the overhang, spreading Steve’s Afghan coat on the pebbles. We huddle up for warmth, pass the bottle to and fro and decide to watch the dawn rise over Ventimiglia.

The three of us stretch out, me in the middle, on Steve’s convenient coat. Soon Ulricke falls asleep. Anneliese and I talk on quietly. I pass her the Martini. Carefully she brings it to her mouth. I notice how, like many women, she drinks awkwardly from the bottle. She fits her lips around the opening and tilts head and bottle simultaneously. When you drink from the bottle like this, some of the fluid in your mouth, as you lower your head after your gulp, runs back into the bottle.

“Ow. I think I’m drunk,” she says, handing it back.

I press my lips to the bottle’s warm snout, try to taste her lipstick, raise the bottle, try to hold that first mouthful in my throat, swilling it around my teeth and tongue …

Ulricke gives a little snore, hunches herself into my left side, pressing my right side against Anneliese. Despite what you may think I want nothing more from Anneliese than what I possess now. I look out over the Mediterranean, hear the plash and rattle of the tiny sluggish waves on the pebbles, sense an ephemeral lunar grayness — a lightening — in the air.

DATE: Monday

VENUE: Le Truc Intéressant, Lexington Street, Soho

PRESENT: Me, Gerald Vere, Melanie Swartz, Peter (Somebody) from Svenska Bank, Barry Freeman, Diane Skinner (account exec from SLL&L), Eddie Kroll (left before pudding)

MEAL: Tabbouleh chinois, roulade de foie de veau farcie, mille-feuilles de fruits d’hiver

WINE: Two Moët & Chandon nonvintage, two Sancerres, an ’83 Pichon-Longueville, a big Provençal red called Mas Julienne. Port, brandy (eau de vie de prune for Diane S.).

BILL: £678 (service not included)

EXTRAS: Romeo y Julietas for Vere and Freeman; T-shirt and souvenir condiments set for Melanie; a packet of Marlboro Lights for Diane S.

COMMENTS: NO piped music. Tabbouleh chinois an orthodox tabbouleh with sliced lychees mixed in. Unusual. Roulade de foie exquisite, served on a little purée of celeriac. Diane S. barely touched her food, “saving up for dessert.” Mille-feuilles—8 out of 10 for the pastry. Fruits bland. Diane S. picked up tab. Taxied me back too. Thank you Swabold, Lang, Laing & Longmuir. Thank you very much.

DATE: Tuesday

VENUE: Eurotel Palace, Heathrow Airport

PRESENT: Me, Diane S.

MEAL: Insalata tricolore, Dover sole, tarte aux pommes

WINE: G&T in bar, Merry Dale Chardonnay, house champagne with pud

BILL: £96 (service included)

EXTRAS: Irish coffee served in our room. £5.50 each. 20 Marlboro Lights.

COMMENTS. Almost inaudible classical Muzak. Rubbery mozzarella. When will the British stop serving “A selection of vegetables”? Tasteless carrots, watery broccoli, some kind of swede. Tarte aux pommes a simple apple pie, not flattered by translation. House champagne surprisingly good — small bubbles, buttery, cidery. Undrunk Irish coffee — waste.

DATE: Wednesday

VENUE: Chairman’s dining “set,” sixth floor. Pale oak paneling. Silver. Good paintings — a small perfect Sutherland, Alan Reynolds, two Craxtons.

PRESENT: Me, Sir Torquil, Gerald Vere, Barry Freeman, Blake Ginsberg (new CEO), some senior suit from Finance (introduced as “You know Lucy”—can’t be his first name, surely? Very foreign-looking)

MEAL: Vegetable terrine, lamb chops with new potatoes, raspberries with crème fraîche. Stilton.

WINE: Hip flask in loo downstairs, then Vodkatini (could have been colder), a perfectly good Chablis, followed by a ’78 Domaine de Chevalier (stunning). Port (Taylor’s, missed date).

BILL: A heavy price to pay

EXTRAS: At least I saw the Sutherland.

COMMENTS: Apart from the vegetable terrine (always a total waste of time) this was superior corporate catering. Sensible. Lamb nicely pink. Superb wine. They had the grace to wait until the cheese. The condemned man had eaten a hearty meal. Fucking heartless cold fucking swine.

DATE: Thursday

VENUE: La Casa del’ Luigi, Fulham Road

PRESENT: Me, Diane, (later) Jennifer

MEAL: Minestrone, spaghetti bolognese, tiramisù

WINE: G&Ts, Valpolicella, replaced by a Chianti Classico when spilled. Large grappa after Jennifer’s arrival and departure.

BILL: £63 rounded up to £80. Scant gratitude.

EXTRAS: 20 Marlboro Lights. Three glasses, two plates. Dry cleaning to be notified.

COMMENTS: Minestrone was tinned, I’d swear. Alfredo’s spag. bol. amazingly authentic as ever (why can’t one ever achieve this at home?). He refuses to divulge his secret but I’m convinced it’s the chicken livers in the ragu. Which must simmer for days, also. Watery, ancient tiramisù. Big mistake to eat so close to home. HUGE mistake. Jennifer could have walked right past. What bastard waiter called her in?

DATE: Friday

VENUE: Montrose Dining Club, Lincoln’s Inn. Basement, large overlit room, long central table. Staffed by very old ex-college porters and very young monoglot girls who appear to be from Eastern Europe.

PRESENT: Me, Alisdair Lockhart

MEAL: Potted shrimps and toast, duck à l’orange, treacle tart (!)

WINE: G&Ts, club claret, club brandy

BILL: £18. (I paid. Astonishing value. Alisdair said he could add it to his bill but I insisted.)