Better Than Easy Read Free Page B

be
in
Amsterdam though, are we?”
    Tom frowns.
    â€œThey have hotels like that in Amsterdam because it’s a city of clubs and bars and cruising zones,” I say. “Loads of guys want to go there anyway. Up in the Alps I think you’re much more likely to get hearty Christian heterosexual hill-walking types in those green convertible short/long trouser things.”
    Tom sighs. “I guess,” he says sadly.
    â€œWhat are they called anyway?” I ask, dragging on the joint again and then passing it to Tom. “Those zippy short/trouser things?”
    Tom shrugs and looks mock-despondent. “Pantaloons?” he says.
    â€œPantaloons?”
I repeat, and we both collapse into laughter.
    â€œAnyway, they usually have good muscled walking legs,” I say when I manage to stop sniggering.
“Pantaloons
indeed.”
    Tom flashes the whites of his eyes at me. “I love a chunky calf,” he says. “A chunky calf protruding from the bottom of a pantaloon.”
    I nod. “I know you do,” I say. “Only they’re
so
not called pantaloons.”
    Tom reaches out and rubs my own, not-so chunky calf. “Fancy a siesta?” he says.
    I open my mouth to say, “Yes,” but the phone starts to ring. With a little difficulty I stand and cross the room. “Allo?” I say. I frown at the officious voice on the other end, then I cover the mouthpiece and roll my eyes at Tom. “It’s about the gîte,” I tell him. “Just hold that thought, OK?”

Dreams On Hold
    The phone call takes forever. The information I am given is irritating and confusing and particularly hard to decipher through my dope smoke screen. By the time I hang up, Tom has given up and wandered off, so I sit and frown and sigh repeatedly until he returns, two carrier bags of food hanging from his wrists.
    â€œWhat kind of a country
is
this?” he asks, pushing his way in. “I mean the French think they’re so civilised – some guy on telly said it was
the
most civilised country in the world the other day – anyway, I think that’s what he said.”
“Le pays le plus civilisé du monde,”
he mocks pompously. “But they’ve never even heard of rhubarb crumble. Can you imagine that? You see, we
do
need to plant rhubarb. Urgently! Anyway, I found lemon meringue pie – I suppose that’ll have to do…” He looks at me and pauses as he notices my expression. “What was that about then?” he asks, nodding sideways towards the phone and pulling a frozen lemon meringue pie in a box from the Picard bag.
    â€œThat,”
I say rolling my eyes, “was bad news.”
    â€œAbout the gîte?”
    I nod sadly. “About the gîte.”
    â€œShe’s
not
pulling out?” he asks, suddenly serious, frozen in the doorway, the pie still half in, half out of the bag. “She can’t now, can she?”
    â€œNot quite,” I say. “But you know Chantal’s missing husband.”
    Tom shrugs. “I never saw him.”
    I shake my head. “None of us did – it seems he’s
really
missing.”
    â€œMissing?”
    â€œYeah, like missing-person missing,” I explain.“He walked out on her eighteen months ago and never came back.”
    â€œWhat, like, popped out for a packet of cigarettes?” Tom asks. “Or a lemon meringue pie?”
    I shrug. “Something like that. Only trouble is, because they were married, the place automatically belongs to both of them. So he needs to be present to sign the sale.”
    Tom’s mouth drops. “And what? Chantal didn’t know this when she signed the papers?”
    I shake my head and interrupt. “She says not. I mean, that wasn’t her – it was the lawyer, but no, he said she inherited the gîte, so she just thought it was hers.”
    â€œSo what, until this bloke turns up we can’t buy the