Bordeaux Housewives. Daisy Waugh

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СКАЧАТЬ He was a bit jealous. François Bourse is a very attractive man: tall, slim, cultivated, humorous, and immaculately dressed. Also, at that point, still a mayor: a big fish on that particular night, and in that particular pond. Maude had reason to feel pleased with herself.

      So while François and Maude were displaying their foreign language skills to one another, mixing that up with a few delicate innuendoes and accidentally allowing their thighs and knees to rub lightly one against another beneath the long trestle table, Lady Emma Rankin, seated at the far end of the same table and half-hidden in shadows, was working her magic on Horatio. The difference was that where Maude was only having fun, enjoying a harmless, merry, early summer thrill, Emma Rankin, as always, meant business.

      Dinner was finished. The tables had been cleared for dancing. Maude was still with François Bourse, waiting for the music to begin and jabbering happily to anyone who came over. With her easy laugh and brilliant French, she was doing excellent ambassadorial work for the expat community. Meanwhile, Emma and Horatio were sitting just where they’d been sitting all evening, apparently unaware that every other chair in the place had been cleared away, and even the table between them…

      ‘…You’re so clever,’ Emma was murmuring to him. ‘So intelligent and unusual and fascinating and alive. You must be so bored out here, living out your bloody Good Life…’

      ‘Must I?’ he laughed.

      She laughed too, a lovely soft laugh, barely audible. ‘Well of course you must, Horatio. I think we both know there’s a great deal more to life than growing potatoes.’

      ‘Actually, I’m not convinced there is,’ Horatio said mildly, feeling the moonlight on his back, the soft air on his skin, the cool pink wine washing through his veins…‘One should never underestimate the importance of potatoes, Emma. Ask the Irish. Passionate about potatoes, poor old sods. Or they used to be.’

      ‘Well of course,’ she replied, faintly confused.

      ‘But what about you, Emma, anyway? Don’t you get bored?’ Horatio smiled. ‘If I get bored growing potatoes, or whatever it is you seem to think I do –’

      ‘Isn’t that what you do, Horatio?…Tell me. I’m intrigued. I see you whizzing around in that car of yours. Like a man with a mission…and I just keep asking myself – what does he do all day, with that amazingly clever brain of his, always whizzing this way and that. What else does he do? What does he really, really do?’ At that point Horatio was hazily aware of three things: that she kept asking him the same question, that she seemed to fancy him almost as much as he fancied her, and that her breath smelt of freshly cut grass and spring roses.

      ‘I told you,’ he said dreamily. ‘We have the gîtes. Sort of…Or we would, if we could ever persuade any guests to come and stay with us. And I grow potatoes…among other things.’

      ‘“Other things.”’ She waved one of those tiny wrists, one of those long, thin, aristocratic arms, and wrinkled her nose disdainfully. ‘So you grow carrots, then, too?’

      Horatio smiled, a quiet smile. His and Maude’s aim had always been to make their lives seem as boring as possible to the outsider, so that nobody would be tempted to take a closer look. But Emma Rankin isn’t quite as simple as ‘nobody’. She has a way with her, a way of allowing her scorn to seep softly through the most innocuous of comments, and those two words, ‘carrots, then’, scented as they were by grass and roses, rattled Horatio more than he liked to admit. She doesn’t know, he thought. She thinks all I do is grow vegetables. She doesn’t know how much we risk, the number of people we save…And for once, just for once, he felt, not grateful, but a little bitter about it.

      Not that she would honestly have cared. Even if he’d told her. It’s been a very long time since anything has genuinely moved or impressed Emma Rankin – least of all something which involves computers, laminating machines, flat scanners, and a nameless mass of impoverished, dispossessed foreigners.

      ‘So what about you, Emma?’ Horatio asked her again. ‘Don’t you get bored, doing whatever it is you do all day. What do you do all day, anyway?’

      ‘Aaah,’ she said, breathing roses. ‘What do I do? Well, I have the children…’ she reminded him airily. It was true, there were the three of them back at the château; very pretty little girls they were, aged between six and ten. There was also a full-time English nanny and a live-in French au pair. Emma bumped into them all sometimes, splashing about beside the swimming pool, or on the gravel in front of the house, and she was always very soft and lovely to them. They adored her, all of them did, including the staff.

      She chortles wickedly, ‘…And when I have time, I like to investigate local rumours, Horatio. There are lots of rumours about you. Did you know? You can’t imagine what people say.’

      ‘No.’ He smiled at her. ‘Really?’

      ‘Really. A lot of rumours…’ She sat back, waiting for him to ask what. When he didn’t she gave an impatient little shrug. It made Horatio smile.

      She was wearing something orange and flowing; coarse Indian orange cotton it was, with embroidery at the neckline to show off her long, thin, light brown neck. Her beautiful wild hair was pulled up somehow, twisted into a haphazard mass of browns and golds at the back of her small round head. She had pencilled a single black line above the upper lashes of each light brown eye, arranged a string of fat Indian silver beads from neck to midriff, and everything, everything she wore, every move she made, perfectly emphasised her long, slim-limbed, aristocratic exquisiteness. ‘Well,’ Horatio said, gazing weakly at her, at her staggeringly pert, round, beautiful breasts…Her nipples, he noted, on this balmy night, were showing through the orange cotton. She wasn’t wearing a bra. ‘I imagine you’re a wonderful investigator, Emma,’ he sighed. ‘It would take a hard man to keep a secret from you.’

      ‘Hard men tend to be the easy ones, sweetie,’ she drawled. Bored by her innuendo before she’d even finished making it. ‘…And I imagine you’re a wonderful carrot grower, are you, Horatio? Or is Maude more the carrot grower?…Perhaps you do the paperwork? There’s always so much paperwork in this country.’

      That stung, unfortunately; pierced right through the befuddled haze of his adoration. ‘Actually, I don’t – simply “grow carrots”. OK, Emma?’

      ‘Oh!’

      ‘And I don’t do the carrot-growing paperwork, either.’

      ‘Oh!…So? So you change the bed linen? In the gîte? Must be fun.’

      ‘That’s right.’ He hesitated. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’

      A tiny beam of triumph in her doe-like eyes. ‘Of course, Horatio. I’m so sorry…It’s only that I’m intrigued. You understand that, don’t you? You’re so mysterious…’

      ‘Am I? I don’t mean to be.’

      She laughed. ‘Mathilde, my housekeeper, is convinced you’re running a high-class brothel up there at the Grande Forge…’ She looked at Horatio, again waited for him to respond. He didn’t. She gave another tiny impatient sigh, lit herself a cigarette, and he watched her thin fingers, her tiny wrists, her throat as she breathed in the smoke…‘Which actually makes perfect sense, if you think about it,’ she added. ‘After all, it’s certainly secluded enough.’

      Horatio СКАЧАТЬ