The Diamond Caper by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online Page B

the funereal living room, the impossible kitchen. Sam was relieved to see that the two women seemed to be getting on, exchanging comments and even laughing at the architectural horror story as it unfolded. But when she saw photographs of the view, Coco was immediately enthusiastic. “Now I understand,” she said. “You fell in love with the view. Who wouldn’t?”
    From there, Coco started to make all the right noises about gutting the interior and bringing the view into the house, and Sam could see Elena becoming more and more enthusiastic. Perhaps it was time, he thought, to put the brakes on.
    “Just one thing,” he said, “before you bring in the bulldozer. We have terms of business too.” He went through his short list of strict budget, firm completion date, and penalty clauses. To Sam’s surprise, Coco was nodding at everything she heard. “That’s fine with us,” she said. “That’s the way we work.” And on this cordial note, all that remained was to agree on a date for Coco to meet them the following week at the property, and to ask if she could recommend somewhere for lunch, which she was happy to do: Le Club de la Promenade, two minutes from the Negresco.
    The restaurant was decorated, as all beach restaurants seem to be, in a maritime color scheme of blue and white, with the occasional fishing net draped in a picturesque position. The owner, a deeply tanned woman of a certain age, wearing a white T-shirt and hot pants, detached herself from the bar and came over to guide them to a table.
“Voilà,”
she said with a smile, “I give you a table with a sea view.” And there indeed was a glimpse of the sea, just visible between the clumps of beach umbrellas and the rows of bodies—every color from medium rare to well done—that were lined up cheek by oiled jowl. A waitress, dressed like all her colleagues in white T-shirt and hot pants, put two menus on the table and suggested that an
apéritif
might help them make their choice.
    The postmortem began even before the first glass of
rosé
. They agreed that it had been a most encouraging morning. Sam admitted that he hadn’t been at all sure that Coco and Elena would get on after their first rather edgy meeting at the Van Buren house.
    “I told you,” said Elena. “I straightened that out when I called her. Anyway, when she met you, she calmed down.”
    “I have that effect on women,” said Sam. “But then you seemed to get on pretty well. How do you feel about working with her?”
    “Fine. I like what she’s done for her other clients: simple, good taste. I get the feeling that her houses work.”
    “Are you sure we can trust her not to bother Francis?”
    “I already told you,” said Elena. “I’ll make sure she behaves.” Sam had no doubt that she would.
    Their lunch of fresh fish, crisp and perfectly cooked French fries, and
fiadone,
a Corsican-style cheesecake, was all the more enjoyable because they were going through the first and most pleasant stage of property renovation. The ideas were coming thick and fast, the bills hadn’t started to arrive, the expensive and unforeseen problems,
les petits inconnus,
hadn’t yet surfaced—it was all very exciting. Even Sam, a man not normally given to excessive enthusiasms, found himself mentally moving in to a house of sun-kissed perfection.
    Meanwhile, Coco and her colleague were also having a post-mortem, and Monsieur Gregoire, no longer the mild-mannered second fiddle, had become Coco’s equal, assertive and opinionated. And he was not at all in favor of taking on Elena and Sam’s house.
    “Our business,” he said, “has been built on big, multimillion-euro projects, owned by seriously rich people. This little shack is just a distraction.” He stood up, and walked over to the window, shaking his head. “A waste of your time.”
    Coco sighed. There were times when she found Gregoire’s obsession with money intensely irritating. “I’m getting a little tired of rich people