Dial M for Merde by Stephen Clarke Read Free Book Online Page B

is something intriguing about a young woman eating dinner on her own. She had just finished her salad, and as she reached forward to pick up her glass, for a moment her face was lit in the glow from her candle. She raised a hand to flick her black hair off her cheek, and suddenly I knew why I’d felt the urge to stare at her. It was the girl who’d been parading around up on the castle wall. Our eyes met, and I was certain that there was a flash of recognition before she retreated to the shadows again. Which was weird. Had she really seen me mouthing warnings at her?
    â€˜You OK?’ M asked.
    â€˜Yes, great. Hungry, though,’ I said. It would have been too complicated to explain.
    5
    Next morning, I went out to buy some fruit to supplement our room-service breakfast. If there’s one thing France has taught me, it’s to seize every opportunity to eat seasonal fruit. Balls to year-round strawberries – in September, you binge on figs and Muscat grapes.
    The two white ghosts were sitting out in the courtyard, side by side, drinking coffee. They met my ‘Bonjour’ with curt nods.
    When I got back with my bags of fruit, M was up and dressed. The breakfast had been delivered and she’d poured us each a cup of coffee. Hers was almost empty. She was just getting off the phone.
    â€˜Can you pass me a pen?’ She flicked her fingers towardsthe bedside table. I picked up the nearest ballpoint. ‘No, not that one, the other one,’ she said. I handed the second pen to her, and she scribbled something on a corner of newspaper that she tore off and folded up. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘The other pen’s black. I never write with a black pen.’
    â€˜Why not?’ I asked.
    â€˜Oh, long story. I can’t stand anything black. Black clothes, black cars.’ I’d noticed that none of her clothes, even her underwear, was darker than chocolate brown. She was a Fauve at heart.
    â€˜Well, I hope you don’t mind black grapes and black figs,’ I said, sliding the bags of fruit towards her.
    â€˜They’re purple, not black,’ she said, nipping off a small bunch of grapes. ‘Oh, I have to go back to Banyuls, by the way. I’ll probably be gone all day.’
    â€˜Again?’ I knew she’d come down here to work, but I couldn’t help showing my disappointment. I’d thought we could take a boat out, explore the coast, do things together.
    â€˜Yes, again,’ she said defensively.
    â€˜Shall I come with you? We can meet up for lunch or something.’
    â€˜Better not. I can’t let anyone know I’m mixing business with pleasure – they’d stop my subsidies. Anyway, it’ll take ages. You don’t know what it’s like when us scientists get going. Lunch would be deathly boring unless you want to listen to them rabbiting on about the infestation rate of toxic algae in the northern Mediterranean.’
    â€˜Ah,’ I said, ‘well as it happens, I was reading on the web about that, and—’
    She interrupted me with a kiss. ‘What are your plans for today?’
    I had a think. I didn’t fancy lying on the beach all day. ‘Ihave to get some stuff for Elodie’s wedding,’ I said. Which would take me about ten minutes. ‘Why don’t I see if I can get chatting to those commandos?’
    â€˜What?’ M looked almost scared of the idea.
    â€˜They spend half their lives underwater,’ I said. ‘I could hang around and—’
    â€˜Please, Paul,’ she interrupted me. ‘Let me do things my way. No improvised interrogations, OK?’
    â€˜OK.’
    â€˜Promise?’
    â€˜Promise. M’s the word.’
    We sealed the deal with a kiss and she went trotting down the stairs.
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    Normally, I’m not the kind of guy who stops in his tracks when he sees an athletic young man with tight buns. But these were extraordinary times, and