“You were just slightly drunk last night, darling,” this Grainne person said, with an intriguing sort of understatement. “But we all were. And you’re absolutely right,” she said, nodding at the tiny child strapped into the stroller. “Babies are soooo dull.”
“Did I say that?” Victory asked, aghast. “I’m sure I didn’t mean it. I had no idea you had one yourself . . .”
“You were hilarious, darling. Everybody loved you. And my husband says you shouldn’t worry about Pierre at all. He is an old fart. His mother is Swiss, you know, so he’s really terribly uptight . . .”
“Pierre . . .” she croaked.
“No matter what happens, you have to come and stay with us in Gstaad in February,” Grainne said pleasantly, patting her hand. “I’ll leave my mobile number with the concierge . . . Bye, darling! Call us,” she said over her shoulder, as she wheeled the child away at a fast clip.
Victory lunged forward determinedly. She must get some coffee. She had a terrible sinking feeling that something had happened with Pierre. And it wasn’t good.
A short flight of wooden stairs led to the alfresco area of the restaurant, and adjusting the scarf so that it covered the tops of her ears, she started up the steps, determined to appear as normal and carefree as possible. If something really bad had happened with Pierre last night, it was incumbent on her to behave naturally, as if everything were fine. It was still possible, she reasoned, that only a few people were acquainted with this bad incident. If, indeed, it had happened at all.
“Bon matin, Madame,” the maître d’ said, with a small bow. Victory nodded, and followed him across the restaurant to a small table by the railing. The restaurant, which was covered with a green-and-white-striped awning, was fairly crowded, she thought, and looking at her watch, she saw that it was nine in the morning.
That was early, especially as she hadn’t gone to bed until late. No wonder the world seemed to have a slightly unreal quality, as if she were still partially dreaming. Glancing up, she could have sworn she saw Lyne Bennett sitting at a table by the railing, reading the newspaper and holding a napkin with ice over his nose. As she came closer, she saw that it was, indeed, Lyne, and that he didn’t appear to be in a particularly good mood. What the hell was he doing here? she wondered, with a certain degree of annoyance. She really wasn’t prepared to run into him now, especially not in this state . . .
The maître d’ led her to the empty table next to Lyne’s. He pulled out the chair opposite his, so that she and Lyne would be sitting back to back. Lyne looked up briefly. “Good morning,” he said neutrally and went back to his paper.
Now that was a strange greeting for someone you had dated for six months. But Lyne was strange. Well, two could play at that game, she thought. In a nonch
alant tone of voice, she said “Good morning” back, and sat down.
She unfolded a pink cloth napkin, and put it on her lap. Behind her, she could hear Lyne turning the pages of the newspaper. There was a sharp crackling noise, followed by the irritating sound of Lyne smoothing down the pages.
She took a sip of water. “Do you really have to do that?” she asked.
“Do what?” he said.
“Smoothing down the pages of your newspaper. It’s like squeaky chalk on a blackboard.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, with faux politeness. “But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m slightly disabled this morning.”
“That’s not exactly my fault, is it?” she asked. She motioned to the waiter. “What happened to your nose, anyway?”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Your nose,” she said. “What did you do to it?”
“I didn’t do anything to it,” he said, with what she hoped was mock outrage. “As you probably recall, it was your friend, the French actor with the exceptionally large snout, who appeared to want to enlarge my nose to the size of his.”
This morning was getting worse and worse, she thought. Something bad had happened with Pierre Berteuil last night, and then Lyne had gotten his nose punched by the French actor. A hazy image of Lyne grappling with the Frenchman in the hallway suddenly came back to her. “So I did see you last night,” she said.
“Yes,” he said pointedly. “You did.”
“Mmmmm,” she nodded. “I see.” A waiter came to the table with a pot of coffee. “And you were at the hotel, as well?”
“I brought you back here. After the party. You insisted on a game of poker. The French actor tried to make off with your watch, and when I protested, he decided to hit me.”
“How . . . extraordinary,” Victory said.
“I arrived at the party late,” he said. “Just in time to hear you telling Pierre Berteuil that someday you’d have a yacht that was bigger than his.”
Victory dropped her spoon, which clattered to the floor under Lyne’s chair. How could she have said that to Pierre Berteuil? But it was exactly the kind of thing she would say. She bent down to pick up the spoon at the same time that Lyne did. He handed the spoon to her. “I’m sorry,” she said, with exaggerated politeness.
“No problem,” Lyne said. He really didn’t look too good himself, Victory thought, especially with that large red bump on the bridge of his nose. “I’m glad to see that you found my scarf and sunglasses,” he added.
“Oh! Are they yours?” she asked. “I found them in my room this morning.” This was looking really bad, she thought. And she suddenly recalled Lyne coming into her room, and finding the Frenchman there, and then dragging him out into the hallway. She cleared her throat. “Did you . . . uh . . . spend the night? In the hotel, I mean.”