Last Resort (11 page)

"He was not a transvestite,"

Penny retorted.

"He just liked wearing women's underwear. And I never did say I was in love with him."

"But you did claim to be in love with Graham,"

Sammy reminded her.

"Graham of the wife, three kids, two mistresses and a dog he was so devoted to he couldn't possibly leave his wife."

"Infatuation,"

Penny corrected testily.

"And we're all allowed to make mistakes."

"Now let me see,"

Sammy said, putting her head to one side.

"Then there was Don, wasn't there? The European political correspondent for CNN."

"There was nothing wrong with Don!'

T didn't think so,"

Sammy agreed,

"but you were going to marry him at one stage, weren't you?"

"He asked me and I said no,"

Penny answered.

"OK, it took me a couple of weeks to say no, but I did in the end because I knew he wasn't right for me."

Sammy gave a quick flick of her eyebrows. "That doesn't sound particularly instantaneous to me,"

she commented.

"Anyway, what happened to Declan? Or are you still seeing him?"

"We broke up just before I went to France/ Penny told her.

"I'll tell you the details later, but I left him because I knew it wasn't right. Just like I know David Villers isn't, so Marielle is welcome to him."

"Sounds like some good times ahead,"

Sammy remarked.

"But you can handle it and with me there too at least you'll have someone on your side. So, when do we go?"

"Good question,"

Penny said, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

"I've taken the house from a fortnight on Monday, so perhaps we could find out if we can move in the weekend before. That should give me time to clear up here, see Sylvia and say goodbye to everyone. Did Peter 76

say when he was coming back, by the way?"

"In two weeks,"

Sammy answered.

Well, he shouldn't be a problem,"

Penny said.

"He's been wanting to move Larry in for a while now, but was too kind to say so. Anyway, I'm starving, do you fancy going out somewhere for an early dinner?"

"Great,"

Sammy replied, springing to her feet.

"Where shall we go?"

What about The Canteen in Chelsea Harbour? It's one of the in-places right now."

Sammy's eyes grew round.

"I was reading about that place just before you came in. It said you have to book weeks in advance ... and it's Saturday night."

"Stick with me, babe,"

Penny said, winking and reaching for the phone. A couple of minutes later the booking was made and Penny was wondering what it was going to be like living in a place where she had nothing like the leverage she took almost for granted in London. The prospect flattened her spirits and Sammy's next remark didn't help either.

"Do you think,"

she said gently,

"that before we take off for France we should go up north to visit Mum and Dad's grave?"

As Penny looked away she felt the familiar tightening of grief in her heart.

Since the funeral she hadn't been able to bring herself to go to the grave again and she knew she wasn't going to be able to now.

"It's OK,"

Sammy told her,

"we don't have to. It was just a thought."

T send Mrs Diller money each week to take flowers,"

Penny said lamely.

"Don't think less of yourself for not going,"

Sammy said, putting a hand on Penny's shoulder.

"After all, she's not there really, she's right here with us."

Penny smiled and swallowed the lump in her throat.

"She's right here in you,"

she said,

"because she was every bit as daft and every bit as adorable."

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With so much to do before leaving Penny hardly saw Sammy over the next couple of weeks, though she guessed Sammy had made her own quick trip up North and was spending the rest of the time catching up with her friends. Sylvia was eager to hear about all the new ideas Penny had come up with during her brief stay in France and laughed with such obvious delight when Penny told her what a start she had got off to with David that Penny started to feel rather pleased at what she had done. Sylvia was less reassuring about Marielle, though, saying that she thought Penny ought to keep a close eye on her, because, after all, Penny was going to be on Marielle's territory and it wouldn't be wise to make an enemy out of someone who was clearly so useful.

She feigned horror when she saw the rough costings Penny had come up with on her own, but within a few days the budget had been increased by twenty per cent and the extra rental on the house was passed too.

Though there was little time for reflection, Penny was nevertheless slightly dazed by the feeling she was being allowed to write her own ticket. In fact, the whole project was beginning to take on such an air of unreality that she was starting to feel more like a player in a game she couldn't lose than someone who was preparing to battle her way through the minefields of launching a new magazine. Perversely, it was only when Sylvia or Yolanda pronounced some of her ideas to be unworkable that she felt truly comfortable with her new role, but even so she was still finding it hard to see herself as a boss when she really didn't feel like one and nor was she convinced that she actually had what it took to be one. That wasn't to say she was considering backing out - far from it, in fact, she'd already come too far for that, and, besides, she was becoming kind of attached to her new magazine lately. So why doubt herself when Sylvia obviously had total faith in her and when, in her more

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confident moments, she was sure she would come through?

During the hectic week before her departure, which included a radio phone-in for LBC, a book review for Time Out and the handing over of material on interviews she had already set up, she kept trying to round up her friends and colleagues for some kind of farewell bash. But, typical of Londoners, their diaries were always booked weeks in advance and though a couple could make it one night the others couldn't and vice versa. Experiencing intense swings in emotion as the day of departure approached, their unavailability made Penny feel horribly like someone already in the past. She was used to having a full diary herself, but she'd always managed to make room for emergencies. And that was how she saw herself, as an emergency. For this was going to be her last chance to dish out invitations and extract assurances from everyone that they'd stay in touch or come to visit.

However, the night before she was due to leave the surprise was sprung. Sylvia had invited her to dinner at Mossiman's, saying she would send a car to pick Penny up and take her there. But when the driver sailed right on past the restaurant Penny got her first inkling that something was afoot. And what a something it turned out to be. Sylvia had taken over a West End nightclub and it seemed everyone Penny had ever known or interviewed was there. The place was bursting with journalists, photographers, celebrities, politicians, activists, sports people, high achievers, New Age healers, designers, novelists, restaurateurs, reviewers, astrologers and any number of the many eccentrics she had interviewed. They were all there to wish her good luck and tell her how sorely she was going to be missed. Penny was so overwhelmed that all she could do was shriek in surprise and joy as she recognized one face after another, after another.

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They rocked and bopped the night away, drank the place dry of champagne, then moved on to wine, and devoured a magnificent buffet that had been prepared by a team of Mossiman's students. Sylvia made a speech that got tears flowing and Yolanda presented her with a gold Cartier pen, a red, leather-bound and goldembossed diary from Smythson's of Bond Street, and a hilarious caricature of herself in a beret with a string of onions around her neck and umpteen scandalous rags and lawsuits fluttering from her hands.

At the end of the evening, as Penny moved tearfully from one embrace to the next, she wished to God that Sylvia hadn't singled her out for this job, because the idea of leaving them all behind was suddenly almost too much to bear. It no longer felt like a game she couldn't lose - quite the reverse, in fact: it felt as if she was being sent straight to jail.

The feeling persisted into the next day, when she and Sammy boarded the plane for Nice and got there to find it cloudy and cold and being thrashed by the mistral. It was only Sammy's rapturous cries as the estate agent took them slowly along the drive towards the wonderful villa that stopped Penny getting on the next plane back.

Fortunately the following day the wind had dropped and though it was still cold it was clear and sunny, so Penny decided that a little exploration of their surroundings was in order. They started by searching out the local boulangerie, where a fat, merry old lady with a whiskery chin and floury apron treated them to a hearty Gallic welcome and wanted to know all about what they were doing in France, while wrapping their crusty baguettes in flimsy paper and popping a couple of succulent butter croissants into a bag - on the house.

After, they strolled across to the cafe, which was satisfyingly populated by Gitane-puffing ouvriers in black berets and blue serge overalls and, less satisfyingly, a few local yobs. They sat outside sipping piping-hot, thick creamy coffee and

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soaking up the uniquely French atmosphere.

Later they took a walk through the artist's village of Mougins, which nestled around the peak of the hill overlooking their villa and the sea. Though they were not wildly impressed with the paintings, the village itself was so picturesque that Sammy used up an entire roll of film on shots of the old stone fountain, the quaint little houses fringing the narrow, cobbled streets and of Penny, braving the cold outside one of the chic, overpriced bistros.

After lunch the rain started again, so they drove around in their rented car for a while getting a feel of the densely forested, hilly terrain with its cute little Provencal villages and brief but glorious glimpses of the sea.

Finally, tired but a lot happier than she'd been the day before, Penny turned the car for home, while Sammy snored gently in the seat beside her, maps, guidebooks, a new beret and ropes of garlic scattered around her feet.

When they returned to the villa, Penny stood for a while gazing out at the drizzling rain as it rippled the surface of the pool. She was even more nervous than she had expected to be at the prospect of all that lay ahead and, standing here now, she could once again feel herself starting to doubt her ability. However, deciding the only way to beat her nerves was simply to get on with things, she picked up the phone to call Marielle, firstly to let her know she had arrived and, secondly, to ask if Marielle had arranged the meeting Penny had mentioned in one of her faxes.

"Yes, I have called it for tomorrow morning at ten,"

Marielle told her.

"I see/ Penny said, failing to keep the tightness from her voice.

"Well, I'm afraid that doesn't suit me, so I'd appreciate it if you could call it for Wednesday, as I asked."

Marielle was silent.

"I take it that the people I asked you to contact have all 81

been contacted?"

Penny enquired silkily.

They have/

"What about David?"

"He says he will come to the meeting if he can. Maybe Wednesday won't be convenient."

Penny looked up as Sammy walked into the room. Thank you, Marielle/ she said, meeting Sammy's eyes. Til see you in the morning."

Turning over the pages in her address book, Penny found the phone number of David's apartment and dialled it. She let it ring for some time, but there was obviously no one at home so she put the receiver down again, damned if she was going to call Marielle back to find out if she knew where he was.

"Well?"

Sammy prompted.

Penny's eyes moved back to hers.

"Well,"

she said,

"I think it's high time David Villers and Marielle Descourts found out who the real boss is around here."

Sammy grinned. That's the spirit,"

she said.

"But just don't let them become an obsession, OK? No, I know it's still early days, but now's as good a time as any to remind you that there are other things in life that are more important than that magazine."

"Mmm,"

Penny said thoughtfully. Then, giving a sudden shiver, she turned to look at the fireplace.

"It's cold,"

she said.

"Do you feel cold? Let's light the fire."

The digital clock at Nice railway station read 20:55 as Robert Stirling, a short, balding, overweight American in his early fifties, alighted from a second-class carriage to merge with the masses. In his right hand he carried a nondescript briefcase; over his left shoulder he toted a heavy, worn-out holdall. His protruding bottom lip supported a fat cigar; fallen ash dusted a lapel of his belted raincoat.

As he moved unobtrusively through the crowds his small, piercing eyes were searching out the bland faces

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of his back-up. The weapon he had been handed in Paris was concealed in the briefcase together with a history of David Villers's life.

By the time he reached the exit two dark-suited men were flanking him. One had taken his holdall; the other was speaking to him in low, rapid Italian.

Taking the cigar from his mouth, Stirling stopped to crush the remains underfoot. Then in a gruff, impatient voice, he said,

"Speak English."

Forty minutes later Stirling was boarding a Britishregistered, Turkish-built motor yacht at the Port Pierre Canto in Cannes. As his heavy bulk rocked the hull the door of the deck salon opened and Marielle Descourts, in a red, skintight pant suit, came out to greet him.

Early the next morning Esther Delaney, a short, flamboyantly dressed, elderly woman with vivid hazel eyes and a wrinkled complexion, breezed smilingly through customs and started along the walkway towards the arrivals hall of Nice airport. In her long red cape, white fur hat, with matching muff and white leather boots, she caused more than a few heads to turn, which pleased her enormously since she imagined they were probably wondering if she was famous.