Hotel Pastis by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online Page B

York, and Ziegler. When Simon had been forced to follow the Saatchis and Lowe into America, he had done a share-swap deal with Global Resources, one of the most aggressive of the advertising conglomerates, run by one of the most unpleasant of men. Nobody admitted to liking Ziegler, but nobody could deny that he was effective. He seemed to be able to bully clients into the agency, to overpowerthem with promises of more sales and bigger profits. Simon had seen him in operation dozens of times, brutal to his subordinates and almost manic in his pursuit of clients. Fear was the club he used within the agency, overpaying and then terrorising his staff. Fear of a different kind—the fear of losing market share—was always the basis of his presentations. He could deliver a sixty-minute tirade on his favourite topic, “Selling is war, and those bastards are out to get you,” which was usually successful in making even the most sophisticated clients look nervously over their shoulders before increasing their budgets.
    Simon’s relationship with Ziegler had been described (not within their hearing, of course) as two dogs sharing a kennel that was too small. Each was jealous of his own territory. Each wanted the whole kennel—which in this case was the world—to himself. Their mutual dislike was camouflaged with the corporate politeness that fools nobody, carefully phrased memos bristling with needles and a stilted camaraderie whenever they were on public view together. The moment wasn’t right yet for a decisive fight, but it would come. Simon knew it, and the thought of it, which once would have stimulated him, just made him weary.
    Like many advertising men, he thought often and vaguely about leaving the business. But to do what? He had no desire to go into politics or to become a gentleman farmer or to jump over the fence and become a client, running a company that made beer or soap powder. Besides, what else paid like advertising? He might be in a rut, but it was a rut of considerable luxury, hard to give up without an overwhelmingly attractive alternative. And so he dealt with these moments of discontent as many of his colleagues dealt with them, by finding anew distraction—a faster car, a bigger house, another expensive hobby. Living well is not only the best revenge but the easiest.
    He had reached the long, rolling hills of the Burgundy countryside, and thought about stopping at Chagny to have lunch at Lameloise. Dangerous. He stopped instead at a service station, had a cup of bitter coffee, and looked at the map. He could be in Avignon by mid-afternoon, sitting in the shade of a plane tree with a pastis, the back of the journey broken. He filled up the Porsche and continued south.
    As the names flicked by—Vonnas, Vienne, Valence—the light became brighter and the sky seemed to expand, blue and endless, the countryside harsher with rock and stunted scrub oak. In the vineyards cut out of the hills, small, scattered groups of figures, their backs bent under the sun, were gathering the first grapes of the harvest. This was Côtes-du-Rhône country, producing solid wine for people with outdoor thirsts and appetites. Simon looked forward to his first bottle.
    The sign for Avignon came up and flashed by while he was trying to decide whether to go down to the coast as he’d planned or to take Murat’s advice.
Prochaine Sortie Cavaillon
. Why not? He could always move on tomorrow if he didn’t like it.
    He turned off at the Cavaillon exit and crossed the bridge over the Durance, more of a trickle than a river after the summer drought. As he came into town, he saw the café tables under the trees, brown faces, cool golden glasses of beer. He parked the Porsche, eased his back, and went through the minor acrobatics necessary to get out. After the tinted glass and the air conditioning of the car, the glare and the heat came like a sudden shock. He felt the sun hit his head with a force thatmade him wince. In Paris, it had