euros, champagne, five. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. I’m hot, I’ll have a mineral water.’
‘You’re probably right, one really shouldn’t drink too much at lunchtime. Especially in this weather.’ He studied the menu. ‘Let’s order, then you can tell me what this is all about. I can recommend the oysters here, they’re excellent. Direct from Normandy. Do you like oysters?’
‘It’s years since I had any,’ I prevaricated truthfully.
‘Now’s the time to try again, then. Unless you’d prefer something else?’
I looked at the menu. Oysters did not figure on any of the the prix fixe possibilities. ‘I think perhaps I’ll just have one thing. I’m not very hungry. But you have oysters, if you want. I’m quite happy to watch.’
‘Well, then, I think I will. Sure I can’t persuade you?’ He looked at me with one eyebrow raised – a trick that as a child I thought particularly stylish, and tried endlessly, and fruitlessly, to master. In fact you can’t: it’s like waggling your ears, something you’re born with, or not. It gave him a rather consciously charming expression of amused inquiry that I found illogically annoying. ‘This is on me, by the way,’ he added. ‘Or rather, my employers. I can smell a story in here somewhere. I’m a journalist – did Delphine tell you?’
I nodded. ‘But she didn’t tell me who for.’
‘It’s a scandal sheet, you almost certainly won’t have heard of it. Very sensationalist and downmarket, very successful. I want to move, but the pay’s too good. I’m looking for a golden way out that will buy me a good job somewhere a bit more reputable.’
I said, to make conversation and because it might raise my stock, ‘I’ve a friend who’s a journalist – Joe Grissom. He does political stuff. Do you read the English press?’
‘A bit. Joe Grissom?’ He looked at me with new interest. ‘I know the name. D’you know him well?’
know the name. D’you know him well?’
I nodded. ‘Very. Is that the kind of job you’re after?’
‘That kind of thing. In French, obviously.’
‘And you think this may help you into it?’
‘You never know. If Rigaut’s mixed up in it. He’s such a bastard – the idea that he’s Interior Minister and can tell all the rest of us what we can and can’t do is, well, absurd isn’t quite the word. I’d really love to get something on him. Especially with this election coming up. He may even end up as premier – perhaps even President. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ He raised his glass. ‘ A bas les salauds .’ Then he waved to the waiter. ‘Some champagne for Madame.’
We raised our glasses: I remembered, too late, that I don’t actually much like champagne. ‘Here’s to your story,’ I said. ‘Though I have to say, I don’t quite see how my problem could have anything to do with politics.’
He shook his head. ‘In this country everything connects to politics. Especially money.’ He laughed again, so infectiously that I started laughing too, though what he had said was not particularly, indeed at all, funny. I suddenly found him sharply attractive – the first time I’d really fancied anyone since the break with Joe. But of course there could be no question of any of that. Whatever Olivier Peytoureau saw when he looked across the table I felt fairly sure it wasn’t a potential bedmate. A potential colleague, perhaps, a well-connected contact . . . In any case, he was married, with a family I both knew and liked. ‘Why don’t we start with six oysters?’ he said, while I was thinking all this. ‘Then if you like them we can order six more. Or a dozen . . . And a bottle of Sancerre? Or how about this Mâcon Blanc Villages?’
We placed our orders, and the wine arrived, along with the oysters. I’d forgotten how refreshing they were, concentrated mouthfuls of ocean. The six we’d ordered vanished almost instantly. Olivier called the waiter and ordered twelve more; while we
‘You’re probably right, one really shouldn’t drink too much at lunchtime. Especially in this weather.’ He studied the menu. ‘Let’s order, then you can tell me what this is all about. I can recommend the oysters here, they’re excellent. Direct from Normandy. Do you like oysters?’
‘It’s years since I had any,’ I prevaricated truthfully.
‘Now’s the time to try again, then. Unless you’d prefer something else?’
I looked at the menu. Oysters did not figure on any of the the prix fixe possibilities. ‘I think perhaps I’ll just have one thing. I’m not very hungry. But you have oysters, if you want. I’m quite happy to watch.’
‘Well, then, I think I will. Sure I can’t persuade you?’ He looked at me with one eyebrow raised – a trick that as a child I thought particularly stylish, and tried endlessly, and fruitlessly, to master. In fact you can’t: it’s like waggling your ears, something you’re born with, or not. It gave him a rather consciously charming expression of amused inquiry that I found illogically annoying. ‘This is on me, by the way,’ he added. ‘Or rather, my employers. I can smell a story in here somewhere. I’m a journalist – did Delphine tell you?’
I nodded. ‘But she didn’t tell me who for.’
‘It’s a scandal sheet, you almost certainly won’t have heard of it. Very sensationalist and downmarket, very successful. I want to move, but the pay’s too good. I’m looking for a golden way out that will buy me a good job somewhere a bit more reputable.’
I said, to make conversation and because it might raise my stock, ‘I’ve a friend who’s a journalist – Joe Grissom. He does political stuff. Do you read the English press?’
‘A bit. Joe Grissom?’ He looked at me with new interest. ‘I know the name. D’you know him well?’
know the name. D’you know him well?’
I nodded. ‘Very. Is that the kind of job you’re after?’
‘That kind of thing. In French, obviously.’
‘And you think this may help you into it?’
‘You never know. If Rigaut’s mixed up in it. He’s such a bastard – the idea that he’s Interior Minister and can tell all the rest of us what we can and can’t do is, well, absurd isn’t quite the word. I’d really love to get something on him. Especially with this election coming up. He may even end up as premier – perhaps even President. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ He raised his glass. ‘ A bas les salauds .’ Then he waved to the waiter. ‘Some champagne for Madame.’
We raised our glasses: I remembered, too late, that I don’t actually much like champagne. ‘Here’s to your story,’ I said. ‘Though I have to say, I don’t quite see how my problem could have anything to do with politics.’
He shook his head. ‘In this country everything connects to politics. Especially money.’ He laughed again, so infectiously that I started laughing too, though what he had said was not particularly, indeed at all, funny. I suddenly found him sharply attractive – the first time I’d really fancied anyone since the break with Joe. But of course there could be no question of any of that. Whatever Olivier Peytoureau saw when he looked across the table I felt fairly sure it wasn’t a potential bedmate. A potential colleague, perhaps, a well-connected contact . . . In any case, he was married, with a family I both knew and liked. ‘Why don’t we start with six oysters?’ he said, while I was thinking all this. ‘Then if you like them we can order six more. Or a dozen . . . And a bottle of Sancerre? Or how about this Mâcon Blanc Villages?’
We placed our orders, and the wine arrived, along with the oysters. I’d forgotten how refreshing they were, concentrated mouthfuls of ocean. The six we’d ordered vanished almost instantly. Olivier called the waiter and ordered twelve more; while we
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