For the rest of the meal she did her best to shield Hans from his unpleasant wife, drawing him out about Goethe and the German Romantics, comparing them with the English Romantics of the same period. Marc joined in, widening the discussion to include French poetry too, keeping the conversation going.
Celine seemed to be in a foul mood—though whether that was because she was clearly being cut out of a conversation she was incapable of contributing to, or whether it was just because her husband had arrived, Tara wasn’t sure and didn’t care.
What was clear, though, was that Celine was not about to let her husband’s presence get in the way of her determined pursuit of Marc Derenz, and she was still focusing her attention solely on him.
She continued to do so, quite blatantly, the following day. She dragged them all out for yet more house-viewings, then insisted on heading to Cannes, so she could trawl through the luxury brand-name boutiques strung out along the Croisette.
‘She really is,’ Tara heard herself say sotto voce to Marc, as Celine preened in front of a mirror, ‘the most tiresome woman ever! Poor Hans can’t possibly want to stay married to her!’
‘She’s like a leech,’ he snapped shortly. ‘And Hans is too damn soft-hearted for his own good!’
‘Can he really not see her true character?’ Tara mused disbelievingly.
Marc’s face hardened. ‘Men can be fools over women,’ he said.
She glanced at him curiously. He couldn’t possibly be referring to himself—she knew that. A man like Marc Derenz was made of granite. No woman could make an impact on him.
‘Marc, cherie!’ Celine’s piercing call sought to summon his attention. ‘Your taste is impeccable! Should I buy this?’
‘That is for Hans to say, not me,’ came his tight reply.
‘Oh, Hans knows nothing about fashion at all!’ was Celine’s rudely dismissive retort.
Tara stepped forward, seizing a handbag from a stand. ‘This would go perfectly with that outfit,’ she said. And it was not for Celine’s sake, but for the sake of her hapless spouse, hovering by her side.
Celine was hesitating between outright rejection of anything that Tara suggested and lust for the shiny gold bag. The latter triumphed, and she snatched it from her.
‘Magpie, as well as leech,’ Tara murmured, her head dipped towards Marc.
Did she hear a crack that might just be laughter break from him, before it was abruptly cut off? She stole a look at him, but the moment was gone.
At least, though, the handbag had clinched it and Celine was ready to depart.
It still took for ever, it seemed to Tara—and probably to Marc and Hans as well, she thought cynically—before they could finally return to the villa. Another grim evening loomed ahead of them, with Celine openly discontented because Marc had flatly vetoed her repeated suggestion that they head for the casino at Monte Carlo.
But her petulant mood improved markedly when, after dinner, she took a phone call that made her announce, ‘That was the Astaris. They’re on their yacht in Cannes. They’re giving a party tomorrow.’ A frown crossed her brow. ‘I haven’t got a thing to wear for it!’ She turned towards Marc. ‘Do run me into Monte, tomorrow, cherie! I’m sure Tara can stay here and discuss poetry with Hans,’ she added pettishly.
Not surprisingly, Celine’s blatant ploy to get Marc to herself for yet another shopping expedition failed, and the following morning all four of them set out for Monaco.
This time, thankfully, Celine availed herself of a personal shopper, who read her client perfectly so that she could emerge triumphantly with a gown that would cost her husband an outrageous sum of money. Full of herself, Celine then demanded that they lunch at the principality’s premier hotel, overlooking the marina packed with luxury yachts, and proceeded to plague her husband to buy something similar.
&nbs
p; It was obvious to Tara that this was the last thing Hans wanted to do, and she took pity on him by deliberately interrupting the flow of his wife’s importuning.
‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘what else is in Monte Carlo besides the casino, luxury shops and yachts?’
Hans’s face brightened. ‘The Botanic Gardens are world-famous,’ he said.
‘Have we time to visit?’ Tara asked. It would be nice, after all, she thought, sighing inwardly, while she was here, actually to see something of the Côte d’Azur other than expensive villas, expensive shops and expensive restaurants.
‘What a good idea!’ Celine put in immediately. ‘Hans, you take Tara to the gardens and Marc and I can—’
‘I thought you wanted to talk to a yacht broker?’ Marc cut across her brutally, pre-empting whatever scheme Celine was about to dream up to get him on his own.
Celine sulked visibly, then ordered Hans off to find out who the best yacht broker in the principality was. Dutifully the poor man went off to ask the hotel’s concierge. Perking up at her husband’s absence—however temporary—Celine leant across to Marc, resting her hand on his sleeve in her possessive fashion, stroking it seductively.
‘A yacht is so essential these days—you must agree!’ she oozed. ‘Do help me persuade Hans, cherie!’