A Clean Pair of Hands (9 page)

As their business generated more cash, Michel and Charlotte were able to buy a second home in the south of France, fifteen kilometres inland from the Cote d’Azur, close to a fashionable artistic village not far from Toulon. In 1997, they invited the Miltons to celebrate their eldest daughter’s 21st birthday there. The Miltons stayed at a hotel nearby and on the day of the party drove the few miles to the large Provençal-style estate where Michel and Charlotte had gathered a wide circle of family and friends totalling around a hundred. The party was an informal all-day picnic in the sun, where it was possible for guests to come and go as they pleased, to wander the lawns, splash in the swimming pool and stroll in the fields leading down to a stream lined with trees. It was a magnificent location, providing a perfect backdrop for opportunities to chat with family members and friends, some of whom had previously existed only as names and who were, after a few glasses of wine, willing to share their views on almost any subject.

The Miltons met Huguette and Thérèse’s brother François for the first time in over a year and found them to be as bright and enthusiastic as ever, though now in their late sixties. Huguette looked like a platinum blonde Hollywood
film star who had paid enough visits to her plastic surgeon to keep up appearances, yet without suffering from an overdose. François had a leathery skin cured naturally by exposure to the sun and probably topped up by fake tan, but it was his obviously dyed hair that made him look older and unreal. He could talk endlessly about what he had acquired and how much it cost and what he had achieved. He would never need a
Curriculum Vitae
, because his publicity had preceded him. Despite that, the Miltons enjoyed spending time with him and Huguette, and categorised them as colourful and enthusiastic characters that could be relied upon to fill any gaps in conversation.

George Milton was taking a walk towards the pool, intending to take a dip, when, on turning a corner of the house, he found himself among a bevy of at least ten topless women, some standing around chatting while others lounged in the sun. Practising his peripheral vision, he noticed among them Charlotte’s sisters, and a close friend Ayida Mendes, looking magnificent in her tanned nudity. George was relieved to note that, at least when she came to greet him, Charlotte was wearing the briefest bikini, an orange string revealing her buttocks completely, and with a top not much wider than an elastic band which she adjusted modestly as she walked towards him. At least it was a gesture.

In the middle of this scene from the harem sat Michel. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and dark glasses and as he leaned forward on the lounger to read, he showed a great expanse of full belly and folds of fat on his lower back. He had put on a lot of weight since his earlier days as a jogging and gym enthusiast. After politely but rather awkwardly greeting his hosts, George decided to take a swim later and glided back to the house.

Back with the group of older relatives on the cooler
side of the house George met Gigi, an English actor and published author who was resident in France. His real name was Gilbert Tilson, and he was, in addition to his professional capabilities, a great entertainer in company. He spoke fluent French without accent, but when it suited, especially when telling a story, he would imitate the archetypal Englishman abroad. He was, not surprisingly, adept with words, and being bilingual, could find humorous word plays for those who understood, leaving the rest of his audience bemused. His turn of phrase, wit and dryness kept his audience in suspense until the punch line.

One of Gigi’s friends was an aspiring Formula One racing driver with an apartment the size of a small hotel in Monte Carlo and another home in Switzerland. When told that his friend had won a motor race, Gilbert put his hands together as if in prayer and pronounced with an absolutely straight face, “Oh great, I always knew he was a
vainqueur
.” (With exaggerated substitution of a ‘w’ for the ‘v’)

Today, Gigi had donned a magnificent Chinese black and silver silk embroidered dressing gown, which hung casually open to reveal a narrow chest covered in dark hair, above minute black swimming briefs, and skinny legs. On his feet were heavy jogging sandals and socks; a bright pink towel hung over one shoulder to complete the style. He announced that he was on his way to the pool for a swim. The subject of the topless sunbathers came up. Gigi’s eyes widened.

“So, George what did you do?”

George admitted that he had sidled away at the earliest opportunity.

“Oh dear, this time you must come with me. I have a technique for that sort of thing.”

The two went towards the pool. On reaching the tanning
colony, Gigi scanned the exposition and shouted, “Darlings, what a fantastic display. Are you doing this just for me?” The women looked up. Some were smiling, others serious, mystified by this sexually ambivalent apparition. Gigi walked up to Ayida who, with her back to him and one foot on a sun-lounger, was languorously oiling her legs. He put his hands around her, cupping her breasts, pulled her upright and kissed her ear. Ayida didn’t resist.

“Now darling, this is all so fantastic, so stimulating. I want a private séance this evening in your boudoir.” Ayida turned her head casually and spoke inaudibly.

“And can I bring a friend?” added Gigi. “Oh great. George, you’re on for tonight. Bye, darlings.” Gigi let go of Ayida after whispering something in her ear and, after a further loud kiss to all, led George away.

“We Brits are so inhibited when it comes to sex and nudity. You just have to confront it. Otherwise you get a huge build-up of repressed feelings that can burst out in the most anti-social ways, don’t you think?”

In the pool, George asked Gigi what Ayida had said and whether there was a real assignation scheduled for him. He was embarrassed because although he admired Ayida physically, he didn’t know her enough to relax and fool around with her as Gigi was able to do, or put her off diplomatically if necessary.

“Well, you will be relieved to hear that you are off the hook unless you decide to make a move. Do you really want to know what she said to me?”

“Yes. I do. I want to know what you are letting me in for. I need to know whether I am dealing with a woman you have just procured for me or whether she is a respectable guest.”

Gigi took a breath and slid underwater. When he
emerged he wiped his eyes as if he were crying with laughter.

“My darling George, you are not under any obligation that will embarrass you or your dear lady wife. What Ayida said, politely translated, was, ‘I love what you are doing, but I would rather be ridden by a pig than a camp poof like you.’”

“You took it calmly. What did you say to her?”

“I assured her she could rely on me to find her an ideal partner at the first opportunity.” Gigi tilted his head sideways and exaggerated his grin. “Oink, oink,” and disappeared underwater again.

When he popped up for air, George grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the side of the pool where they stood together laughing like a couple of ten year olds. “You seem to be a very happy person Gigi, but is there a moment in your life that isn’t funny?” asked George.

“Conceptually, no,” replied Gigi, leaning back against the pool side, rocking in the water, looking up and feeling the warm sun on his face. “I do try to see the funny side of everything, but that’s just me. More generally, happiness is not about falling over with laughter. You can’t put right the fact that most people have unrealistic expectations of life these days. However, I take the view that depression is not a good place from which to write a book.”

He sank slowly back into the water, rolled over and swam away.

Although Thérèse had met Roger Timmonier before, at this party George met him for the first time. This was the man to whom Michel had previously referred as his role model. Michel’s uncle on his mother’s side of the family, Roger Timmonier, had served time in prison for an armed
robbery in a Paris suburb in which a security man had been killed. Since leaving prison, Timmonier had lived a life of comfortable idleness, his only exertion being the maintenance of relations with three mistresses and a tolerant wife who brought up their son mostly on her own. His financial and personal needs were fully taken care of by the women in his life and he moved from one home to another as the fancy took him.

George was introduced to Roger without comment and the two chatted amiably about non-controversial matters in the afternoon sunshine. Roger, who must have been around seventy at this time, was dressed in faded jeans and a washed out pale yellow tee shirt which hung loosely in folds around his thin arms. He rolled a cigarette with yellow tobacco-stained fingers and lit it. As he spoke and smiled, he revealed teeth the same colour as his shirt, though mainly black around the gums. He had not bothered to shave for this event, emphasising the contrast in appearance with his sister, Huguette Bodin, who had turned up in a fantastic black sequined dress and heavy gold jewellery, having the poise and impact of a diva.

This being the role model that Michel had said he looked up to, George had one day much later asked him when they were having drinks on the terrace in Paris, what he saw to emulate in Roger Timmonier. Michel had been eating pistachios. He paused and replied by sticking his chin forward, pushing his face close to George, presenting a set of teeth loaded with pistachio fragments, bulging eyes, and three-day stubble under a shaved head.

“Roger lives life exactly the way he wants, free from any constraints and with all his needs catered for. He doesn’t give a fuck what other people think.” As he said this, Michel rocked his head from side to side in an oriental way as if giving a lesson to an idiot and getting very exasperated.
George did not pursue the discussion, believing that Michel was probably drunk and potentially dangerous. Instead he leaned back in his chair, took another sip of wine and wondered if it was Roger Timmonier who fired the fatal shot.

George had seen what Michel could be like when the two dined with their wives one warm summer evening at a smart restaurant in Bordeaux not far from Thérèse and George’s second home. The atmosphere was good humoured and relaxed. Michel ordered another bottle of Château Haut-Brion wine (over €300 a bottle), ignoring the others who said they had had enough. George thought it was a complete waste of a good wine and only Michel drank any. At the end of the meal he suggested to George that they should smoke a cigar. Smoking in restaurants was permitted in those days so, as they were sitting at a table next to the open door, the two men lit up and began to enjoy the excellent Cohiba cigars that Michel had chosen. As they smoked, a group of diners passed close to the table on their way out. A slim middle-aged man in a suit leaned over and said, “You know, it stinks in here with all your foul smoke.”

As the man immediately moved away out of the door to the pavement, Michel jumped up from his chair and followed, challenging him. “What did you say? I’d like you to repeat that so I can hear you.”

The man turned and repeated what he had said before, whereupon Michel swung a punch, catching the man on the side of the head. He collapsed and slumped to his knees. As Michel was lining up another punch, George leapt to his feet and intervened, grabbing Michel from behind and encircling his arms. He spoke quietly into Michel’s ear.

“What are you doing? You could have killed him. You don’t know how fit he is and someone could call the police.”

He drew Michel back into the restaurant, meeting the manager coming the other way.

“It’s all over, just someone being rude. It’s all sorted. We’ll pay and go, please.” George was worried that someone might have already called the police and they could all end up in the cells. Michel was not concerned.

“Fuck the police. I know them. They are all rotten. I have got what it takes to shut them up.”

George led him away and they drove home in silence. Next day Michel didn’t mention the incident, but Thérèse asked Charlotte what had set him off.

“He gets argumentative when he drinks too much,” she replied, as though this was a regular occurrence.

Back at the 21st birthday party on the Cote D’Azur, George and Thérèse Milton were formally introduced to Johnny Mendes and his wife Ayida. Thérèse took an instant dislike to Johnny, though she did not explain to George whether it was something he said or just an impression. Later she described him as a slimy character. George found Johnny to be on his best behaviour, though rather sly and ingratiating. He invited Thérèse and George to stay at his Paris hotel next time they needed accommodation there. Having already seen if not met Ayida at the pool with Gigi, George could now appreciate her dressed in a fine turquoise sarong. She was from a mixed race background of Haitian origin, one of eighty thousand Haitian migrants living in France. She had fine European facial features, svelte figure, hypnotic green eyes and café-au-lait skin, a combination which would encourage men to give her the benefit of the doubt on any subject. Her broad smile and white teeth would finish the job of seduction.

Another guest George encountered at the party was Philippe Bouvet, the ex-husband of Sandrine, Charlotte Bodin’s younger sister with whom he had a son, also present. The two men struck up an easy conversation from the first encounter and George did not have to ask many questions to elicit a wide and deep perspective on the family and current relationships. George remarked on the obvious big budget lifestyle and how nice it was to share in it. Philippe agreed.

“Yes,” he said, “Michel is a very generous person. I used to work with him.”

“I didn’t know that. What did you do?”

“I was the chief designer for the shop-fitting business.”

“So what happened?”

Philippe nodded his head resignedly. “What do you know about the business, George?”

“I know something about it. I’m in business consultancy, so I understand the process as an outsider.”