with young ladies.
‘I’m sorry.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘But Lila is my friend. I didn’t want her embarrassed.’
‘Ha! You didn’t want her embarrassed. Doesn’t matter, I suppose, how embarrassed I am?’
‘Oh, come on. Just sticks and stones, you know. You really don’t look the least little bit dissipated to me.’ Bowman stared at her suspiciously, but there was no malicious amusement in her eyes: she was pursing her lips in mock but friendly seriousness. ‘Mind you, I can see that not everyone would like to be called a layabout. By the way, what do you do? Just in case I have to defend you to the Dulce – verbally, that is.’
‘Hell with the Duke.’
‘That’s not an answer to my question.’
‘And a very good question it is too.’ Bowman paused reflectively, took off his glasses and polished them. ‘Fact is, I don’t do anything.’
They were now at the farther end of the pool. Cecile took her hand away from his arm and looked at him without any marked enthusiasm.
‘DO you mean to tell me, Mr Bowman –’
‘Call me Neil. All my friends do.’
‘You make friends very easily, don’t you?’ she asked with inconsequential illogic.
‘I’m like that,’ Bowman said simply.
She wasn’t listening or, if she was, she ignored him. ‘Do you mean to tell me you never work? You never do anything!’
‘Never.’
‘You’ve no job?’ You’ve been trained for nothing? You can’t do anything?’
‘Why should I spin and toil?’ Bowman said reasonably. ‘My old man’s made millions. Still making them, come to that. Every other generation should take it easy, don’t you think – a sort of recharging of the family batteries. Besides, I don’t need a job. Far be it from me,’ he finished piously, ‘to deprive some poor fellow who really needs it.’
‘Of all the specious arguments … How could I have misjudged a man like that?’
‘People are always misjudging me,’ Bowman said sadly.
‘Not you. The Duke. His perception.’ She shook her head, but in a way that looked curiously more like an exasperated affection than cold condemnation. ‘You really are an idle layabout, Mr Bowman.’
‘Neil.’
‘Oh, you’re incorrigible.’ For the first time, irritation.
‘And envious.’ Bowman took her arm as they approached the patio again and because he wasn’t smiling she made no attempt to remove it. ‘Envious of you. Your spirit, I mean. Your yearlong economy and thrift. For you two English girls to be able to struggle by here at £200 a week each on your typists’ salaries or whatever –’
‘Lila Delafont and I are down here to gather material for a book.’ She tried to be stiff but it didn’t become her.
‘On what?’ Bowman asked politely. ‘Provençal cookery? Publishers don’t pay that kind of speculative advance money. So who picks up the tab? Unesco? The British Council?’ Bowman peered at her closely through his horn-rimmed glasses but clearly she wasn’t the lip-biting kind. ‘Let’s all pay a silent tribute to good old Daddy, shall we? A truce, my dear. This is too good to spoil. Beautiful night, beautiful food, beautiful girl.’ Bowman adjusted his spectacles and surveyed the patio. ‘Your girl-friend’s not bad either. Who’s the slim Jim with her?’
She didn’t answer at once, probably because she was momentarily hypnotized by the spectacle of Le Grand Duc holding an enormous balloon glass of rosé in one hand while with the other he directed the activities of a waiter who appeared to be transferring the contents of the dessert trolley on to the plate before him. Lila Delafont’s mouth had fallen slightly open.
‘I don’t know. He says he’s a friend of her father.’ She looked away with some difficulty, saw and beckoned the passing restaurant manager. ‘Who’s the gentleman with my friend?’
The Duc de Croytor, madam. A very famous winegrower.’
‘A very famous wine-drinker, more like.’ Bowman ignored Cecile’s disapproving look. ‘Does he come here often?’
‘For the past three years at this time.’
‘The food is especially good at this time!’
‘The food, sir, is superb here at any time.’ The Baumaniere’s manager wasn’t amused. ‘Monsieur le Duc comes for the annual gypsy festival at Saintes-Maries.’
Bowman peered at the Duc de Croytor again. He was spooning down his dessert with a relish matched only by his speed of operation.
‘You can see why he has to have an ice-bucket,’ Bowman observed. ‘To cool down his cutlery. Don’t see any signs of gypsy blood there.’
‘Monsieur le Duc is one of the foremost folklorists in Europe,’ the manager said severely, adding with a suave side-swipe: ‘The study of ancient customs, Mr Bowman. For centuries, now, the gypsies have come from all over Europe, at the end of May, to worship and venerate the relics of Sara, their patron saint. Monsieur le Duc is writing a book about it.’
‘This place,’ Bowman said, ‘is hotching with the most unlikely authors you ever saw.’
‘I do not understand, sir.’
I understand all right.’ The green eyes, Bowman observed, could also be very cool. ‘There’s no need – what on earth is that?’
The at first faint then gradually swelling sound of many engines in low gear sounded like a tank regiment on the move. They glanced down towards the forecourt as the first of many gypsy caravans came grinding up the steeply winding slope towards the hotel. Once in the forecourt the leading caravans began arranging themselves in neat rows round the perimeter while others passed through the archway in the hedge towards the parking lot beyond. The racket, and the stench of diesel and petrol fumes, while not exactly indescribable or unsupportable, were in marked contrast to the peaceful luxury of the hotel and disconcerting to a degree, this borne out by the fact that Le Grand Duc had momentarily stopped eating. Bowman looked at the restaurant manager, who was gazing up at the stars and obviously communing with himself.
‘Monsieur le Duc’s raw material?’Bowman asked.
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘And now? Entertainment? Gypsy violin music? Street roulette? Shooting galleries? Candy stalls? Palm reading?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘My God!’
Cecile said distinctly: ‘Snob!’
‘I fear, madam,’ the restaurant manager said distantly, ‘that my sympathies lie with Mr Bowman. But it is an ancient custom and we have no wish to offend either the gypsies or the local people.’ He looked down at the forecourt again and frowned. ‘Excuse me, please.’
He hurried down the steps and made his way across the forecourt to where a group of gypsies appeared to be arguing heatedly. The main protagonists appeared to be a powerfully built hawk-faced gypsy in his middle forties and a clearly distraught and very voluble gypsy woman of the same age who seemed to be very close to tears.
‘Coming?’ Bowman asked Cecile.
‘What! Down there?’
‘Snob!’
‘But you said –’
‘Idle layabout I may be but I’m a profound student of human nature.’
‘You mean you’re nosey?’
‘Yes.’
Bowman took