Anything Considered by Peter Mayle Page B

head. “Forget it. What’s the point? He’s dropped it off.”
    “Merda.”
    “We’ll have to go and get it from the apartment.”
    “Merda.”
    ——
    Bennett had surpassed himself. He had found a small silver tray, and a bud vase, which now held a single rosetaken from the bouquet he had bought as a predinner surprise for Susie. He placed a glass of champagne next to the vase, made his way carefully down to the bathroom, and tapped on the door.
    “Room service.”
    There was a delighted squeal from the cloud of warm, scented steam that rose from the bath. Susie, in foam up to her shoulders, extended a hand to take the champagne. “Brilliant,” she said. “You are sweet. This is wonderful.”
    “We aim to please, madam.” Bennett placed the vase on the marble slab at the end of the bath and looked down at her. “You seem to have mislaid the soap. May I be of assistance?”
    “Bennett, actually there
is
something you could do for me.” She raised her eyebrows. “That is, if you’re still feeling lovable.”
    “Try me.”
    “I forgot to get any cigarettes at Heathrow, and I wondered if you’d be an absolute angel and pop out and get me some. I promise I’ll be partly dressed by the time you come back.” She sucked in her cheeks and batted her eyelashes energetically. “I might even find you a tip.”
    Bennett smiled, scooped up a handful of foam, and dropped it on her head. “I’ll be back.”
    The Place du Casino was clogged with the weekend crowds as Bennett strolled across to the Café de Paris, which seemed to have been taken over for the evening by a convention of businessmen, each wearing a prominent name tag in his lapel. The terrace was a sea of suits, andthe small kiosk that sold postcards, guidebooks, and cigarettes was three deep in customers waiting for the girl behind the counter to finish talking on the phone. Bennett decided to wait at the bar.
    He stood next to a solitary conventioneer, identified by his label as “Hi! I’m Rick Hoffman,” and ordered a Scotch. He paid with a hundred-franc note, and Hoffman shook his head. “Can you believe this place?” he said to Bennett. “They just stiffed me six bucks for a beer. Plus they expect a tip. Plus they look down their noses and treat you like you’re some kind of retard.” He shook his head again, then looked at Bennett more closely. “You’re not with International Digits, are you?”
    Bennett thanked his lucky stars. “Afraid not,” he said. “I’m a local.”
    Hoffman brightened up. “You are? Tell me something.” He leaned closer. “Where’s the action?”
    “The casino’s just across the street.”
    “Nah. You know,
action
. Babes.”
    “Ask the doorman at your hotel.” Bennett felt obliged to add a warning. “But it won’t be cheap.”
    Hoffman nodded, then leaned closer still. “These French chicks. Do they …” He stopped to take a swig of his beer.
    Bennett prepared himself for what he was sure would be an intimate question about some cherished sexual fantasy. “Do they what?”
    “Take American Express? I’ve got a gold card.”
    Bennett’s expression became serious as he whisperedin Hoffman’s ear. “Those girls can do things with an American Express card you wouldn’t believe.” He finished his Scotch. “I’ve got to go. Good luck.”
    He bought a carton of cigarettes at the kiosk and went back across the
place
, hoping that Hoffman’s search for sexual bliss on a credit card would end well, and thinking pleasurably of his own evening. It was good to have a girl around again. If the week went well, perhaps Susie could come out for another visit later in the summer. He’d show her Cannes and Saint-Tropez. As the elevator took him up to the apartment, he was thinking where he could take her tomorrow for a serious French Sunday lunch. Life was good.
    Brahms had been replaced on the stereo by the new Alain Souchon CD that Susie had bought in Nice, and she came swaying out of the sitting