Bordeaux Housewives. Daisy Waugh

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СКАЧАТЬ to make it sound airy and careless – as only Emma Rankin truly can – ‘don’t make a prat of yourself tonight, Heck, my darling. Try not to dribble when she talks to you.’

      ‘What’re you talking about?’ he asks indignantly, his nose in the cupboard. ‘Maudie, angel, please. We’ve talked about this so much…By the way, have you seen my aftershave?’

      ‘She’s got Semtex tits, you know,’ Maude reminds him.

      ‘Semtex?’

      ‘They’re not natural, if that’s what you think…Anyway, David’s going to be there. So you’d better behave yourself.’

      Horatio turns around, quite irritated. ‘Oh come on,’ he says, ‘this is pathetic. This is –’ He pauses, looks at her more closely. ‘You look lovely, Maudie. You look – Have you done something to your hair?’

      Maude smiles at him. ‘I washed it,’ she says. In fact she’s done a great deal more than that. She’s been sneaking off at intervals throughout the afternoon, surreptitiously beautifying herself – shaving her legs, plucking her eyebrows, ironing her hair. This afternoon, as soon as Horatio returned, she dashed off into St Clara under the pretext of going to the supermarket, and bought herself a pale grey silky skirt and a sheer grey T-shirt, which she’s wearing now, with a new pair of unusually high (for Maude) silver sandals. And she does look lovely – sun-kissed and lean and intelligent – and sexy, actually, in a preppy kind of a way. Maude, after two children, ten years of marriage, and all the worries associated with living a life of crime, doesn’t often think of herself as sexy.

      She glances at her reflection: at the slim figure, the freshly ironed, shoulder-length, sun-streaked hair, the even features, the clear, round blue eyes…But tonight she looks all right, she thinks. For once. More than all right, in fact. Horatio forgets the aftershave, sidles up behind her, runs his hands down her sides and drops a kiss at the base of her neck – and Maude feels a rush of something very close to tears. She knows that whatever she wears, whatever she does to her even-featured face and her sun-streaked hair, she can’t begin to compete with a woman whose entire life has been dedicated to fine-tuning her own personal delightfulness. Emma Rankin and her Semtex appendages will always be in a league of their own.

      Maude brushes his hands away, turns around to face him. ‘Heck. I’m quite frightened, you know. I mean – I think we both should be. Somehow or other, she’s worked out what we do.’

      ‘She’s guessing,’ he murmurs soothingly, edging towards her again.

      ‘She’s found something out. She’s going to try to pump us for more information. And she’s going to pump you especially.’

      ‘Pump me?’ Heck says, licking his lips, trying to make a joke of it. ‘Bloody hell. Are you sure?’

      Maude doesn’t smile. ‘Emma’s a lot of things, but she’s not stupid. And if she’s wheedled something out of Jean Baptiste and put two and two together…’

      ‘Jean Baptiste wouldn’t have told her. Why would he? Apart from anything else, what does he actually know? We told him we had a friend in England who’d been bankrupted by French taxes, who might want to help.’

      ‘You think he believed us?’

      ‘Probably not.’

      ‘And what about the bookshelf?’

      Horatio shrugs. ‘I trust him, Maudie. And so do you. If we hadn’t we would never have helped him in the first place…’

      ‘Well I hope so,’ she says slowly.

      ‘I know so. Besides which, what the hell’s going to happen to him if it gets out we’ve been providing him with fraudulent –’

      ‘Shhh! For God’s sake, Heck…’

      ‘I think Emma’s remark was a shot in the dark. I think it was a one-in-a-million fluke. There are always rumours flying around about us. You know that. Last time I saw her she insisted we were running a brothel up here. She’s fishing, Maude. It’s nothing. We’ll be fine.’

      ‘You’re quite sure about that?’

      ‘Absolutely. Absolutely convinced of it.’

      Maude flicks him a smile, asks in a small cold voice: ‘So why are we going to dinner with her tonight?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘If you’re so certain she knows nothing and that we’re absolutely fine – why are we going to dinner with her tonight?’

      ‘Well…Because…I don’t know…’ Horatio examines his fingernails. The fact is he’s not certain she knows nothing. How can he be? He’s trying to get Maude to relax. If she walks into Emma’s drawing room looking as uptight and terrified as she does right now, he thinks, they might just as well drive straight on to the police station and give themselves up. ‘Because it might be fun?’ he suggests.

      ‘You stupid sod,’ Maude snaps.

      ‘Well it might be. If you’d bloody well allow it to be. If you could stop being so bloody uptight.’

      Maude stares at him. There are times, even now, after all these years, when she feels she might be talking not to her closest ally, her lover, the father of her children, her best friend. But to a total out-and-out shit. ‘Don’t you get it? Heck, she doesn’t give a damn about you. Or me. Or anything. Or anyone, and if she –’

      ‘Oh, don’t preach at me, Maudie. For Christ’s sake. I’m aware of that. But she’s not the devil. Just because you’re a bit jealous –’

      ‘And I have BLOODY GOOD REASON to be jealous, Horatio Haunt. As you well know –’

      ‘OK. I didn’t say you didn’t. I mean you don’t. Oh, don’t be stupid, Maudie. What I meant was…’

       HORATIO, LADY EMMA AND THE ALMOST-KISS

      Every year, in early May, the village of Montmaur has a fête in the Place Marronnier, opposite the hotel. Everybody comes, rich and poor, old and young, French and English. The three large chestnut trees in the middle of the place are rigged with coloured electric bulbs, trestle tables are laid out for supper, and a sound system and music stage is built. It is the highlight of the expat social calendar. Apart from the fact that it is lovely to be drunk on local wine, and to dance under the balmy French stars to the music most of them danced to as teenagers, the annual Fête de Montmaur is the one time in the year when they can persuade themselves they are a bona fide part of the local French community. Which they aren’t, of course. Nor, secretly, would they ever really want to be.

      What happened at the last fête, just under a month ago, wasn’t all Horatio’s fault. Maude, too, had enjoyed a certain amount to drink, and was very happily occupied most of the night, jiving her slimmish, thirty-something hips to French pop with the flirtatious divorcé and outgoing mayor of Montmaur, François Bourse.

      Emma Rankin’s husband David was in London that evening, not entirely surprisingly, since that’s where СКАЧАТЬ