Exocet

‘If I have hurt you, forgive me. It was not intended. I will learn, though, to mend my manners. You must give me time.’

And there was that breathlessness in her again as the music stopped and he drew her off the floor. ‘Champagne?’ he said. ‘Being French I would presume it to be your drink.’

‘But of course.’

He snapped his fingers to a waiter, took a glass from the proffered tray and handed it to her. ‘Dom Perignon – only the best. We’re trying to make friends and influence people tonight.’

‘I should imagine you’d need to,’ she said.

He frowned. ‘I don’t understand?’

‘Oh, there was an item on the television news earlier this evening. Questions in the British Parliament about the Falklands. Apparently your navy is about to go on manoeuvres in the area.’

‘Not the Falklands,’ he said. ‘To us, the Malvinas.’ He shrugged. ‘An old quarrel, but not worth arguing about. The politicians have it in hand. In my opinion, the British will do a deal with us one of these days. Probably in the not too distant future.’

She let it go, slipped a hand in his arm, and they crossed to an open French window and moved out. On the way, he picked another glass of champagne off a passing tray for her.

‘Don’t you drink?’ she asked.

‘Not a great deal and certainly not champagne. It creates havoc with me. I’m getting old, you see.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Forty-five. And you?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Dear God, that I should be so young again.’

‘Age,’ she said, ‘is a state of mind. Herman Hesse said somewhere that, in reality, youth and age exist only among ordinary people. All more talented and exceptional people are sometimes young and sometimes old, just as they are sometimes happy and sometimes sad.’

‘Such wisdom,’ he said. ‘Where does it all come from?’

‘I went to the Sorbonne and then Oxford,’ she said. ‘A women’s college, St Hugh’s. Not a man in sight and thank God for it. Now I’m a journalist. Freelance. Magazine work mainly.’

Behind them the trio started to play A Foggy Day in London Town. ‘I was a stranger in your city.’ He started to sing the intro softly in English.

‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Paris is my city, but Fred Astaire had it right in the movie when he sang that song. Everyone should walk along the Thames Embankment at least once, preferably after midnight.’

He smiled slowly and held her hands. ‘An excellent idea. But first, we eat. You look like a girl with an appetite. A little more champagne and then, who knows?’

It was raining hard and fog crouched at the end of the streets. The trenchcoat he had found for her was soaked, as was the scarf she had bound around her hair. Montera was still in uniform, his magnificence anonymous under a heavy officer’s greatcoat. He wore a peaked cap.

They had walked for several miles in the pouring rain followed by his official car, patient chauffeur at the wheel. She wore a pair of flat shoes he had borrowed for her from one of the maids at the Embassy.

Birdcage Walk, the Palace, St James’s Park. Montera had never enjoyed himself so much in the company of another human being.

‘Sure you haven’t had enough?’ he asked, as they moved down towards Westminster Bridge.

‘Not yet. I promised you something special, remember?’

‘Ah, I was forgetting.’

They came to the bridge and she turned on to the Embankment. ‘Well, this is it. The most romantic place in town. In that old movie, Fred Astaire would have held my arm and sung to me as we strolled with the car following us, crawling along the kerb.’

‘Ah, but the traffic situation has changed since that, as you can see,’ he told her. ‘Too many cars parked at the kerb already.’

Above them, Big Ben chimed the first stroke of midnight. ‘The witching hour,’ she said. ‘Have you enjoyed your guided tour?’

He lit a cigarette and leaned on the parapet. ‘Oh, yes, I like London. A wonderful town.’

‘But the English not so much?’

It was there again, that extraordinary perception. He shrugged. ‘They’re all right. I trained with the RAF at Cranwell and they were good – the best. The trouble is that to them we’re all dagos, we South Americans, so if the dago is a good flyer, it’s because they’ve done a good job on him.’

‘That’s shit,’ she said, coldly angry. ‘They don’t owe you a thing. You’re a great pilot. The best.’

‘Am I?’ he said curiously. ‘And how would you know that?’

The rain increased into a solid drenching downpour and he turned and whistled to the car. ‘I’d better get you home.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It would seem appropriate,’ and she took his hand and they ran together towards the car.

The Pissaro on the wall of the sitting room of the flat in Kensington Palace Gardens was beautiful. Montera, standing before it, a brandy in his hand, examined it closely.

Gabrielle came out of the bedroom, brushing her hair. She wore an old bathrobe, a man’s obviously, several sizes too big for her.

Montera said, ‘Do my eyes deceive me or is the Pissaro an original?’

‘My father, I’m afraid, is disgustingly wealthy,’ she said. ‘Electronics, armaments, things like that. His headquarters are in Marseilles and he tends to indulge me.’

He took in the robe and said gravely. ‘It was too much to expect that a girl like you could have reached the ripe old age of twenty-seven without complication. You are married, I think? I was wrong.’

‘Divorced,’ she said.

‘Ah, I see.’

‘And you?’

‘My wife died four years ago. Leukaemia. I was always rather difficult to please so my mother arranged things. She’s like that. She was the daughter of a family friend.’

‘A suitable match for a Montera?’

‘Exactly. I have a ten-year-old daughter named Linda who lives contentedly with her grandmother. I am not a good father. Too impatient.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

And then he was close and she was in his arms and his lips brushed her face. ‘I love you. Don’t ask me how, but it’s true. I’ve never known anyone like you.’