Hotel Pastis Read Free Page B

slowly, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing. “What’s the kitchen in the new place like?”
    “Horrid,” said Ernest as he started carving the lamb. “Poky and plastic. Perfect for a dwarf with no taste who loathes cooking. The rental agent was very proud of it. Custom-built, she said. Custom-built for what, I said—TV dinners for one?”
    Simon had taken a short lease on a flat in Rutland Gate, mainly because it was round the corner from the office. He’d hardly looked at it; the car had been waiting to take him to the airport. What the hell. It was only somewhere to sleep until he found somewhere to live.
    “It won’t be for long, Ern. We’ll look at flats as soon as I’ve got some time.”
    Ernest served the lamb, rosy and running with juice. “Well, I won’t hold my breath. I know you. Off to New York every five minutes, or Paris, or Düsseldorf. Rush rush rush, jet lag and bad temper, and when you’re in London it’s one dreary meeting after another.” Ernest finished his wine and poured some more. His cheeks were flushed as he leaned forward into the candlelight. “They don’t care, you know, at the office.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “They don’t care about you. All they care about is what you can do for them—their new cars, their bonuses, their silly little status games. I heard Jordan having the vapours for half an hour the other day because a client had parked in his space in the garage. You’d have thought someone had touched up his secretary. ‘I shall have to take this up with Simon if something isn’t done at once.’ Pathetic. Well, you know better than I do. They’re all like children.”
    “I thought you weren’t going to let them spoil dinner.”
    Ernest went on as if he hadn’t heard. “And another thing. Holidays. Three hundred people in that office, and only one of them hasn’t had a holiday this year.” He reached for the decanter. “Another glass of wine if you can guess who that is.”
    Simon held out his glass. “Me.”
    “You. No wonder you look so peaky.”
    Simon remembered his reflection in the bathroom mirror. When was the last time he’d taken a few days off? It must have been nearly two years ago, when he and Caroline had been pretending they still had a marriage. He’d been delighted to get back to the office.
    Ernest cleared the plates and put the cheese on the table. “Maybe it’s the wine talking,” he said, “and you can call me an old nag if you like, but I don’t care. You need a holiday.” He fussed over the cheese board. “A bit of each?”
    “I don’t know, Ern. I’ve got a lot on at the moment.”
    “Leave Jordan in charge. He’d be thrilled. He could use your parking space.” Ernest put the cheese in front of Simon. “There. Have a nibble of the Brillat-Savarin, close your eyes and think of France. You’re always saying how much you love it. Take a car and drive downto the south.” He cocked his head and smiled at Simon. “You know what they say about all work and no play?”
    “Yes, Ern. It makes you rich.” And then he took a mouthful of cheese and thought of the south. The warm, seductive south, with its polished light and soft air and lavender evening skies. And no executive committee. “It’s tempting, I must say.”
    “Well, then,” said Ernest, as if he’d just won an argument, “lie back and enjoy it. That’s what temptation’s for.”
    Simon reached for his glass. “Maybe you’re right.” The wine felt warm and round in his mouth, comforting and relaxing. He grinned at Ernest. “Okay, I give in. Just a few days. Why not?”

2
    S imon was in the office by eight-thirty. The long and tastefully stark corridors were quiet, empty except for the potted palms and ficus trees that were now so numerous an official agency gardener had been hired to look after them, a willowy young man who wore cotton gloves and spent his days polishing leaves. Ernest called him the foliage executive.
    Passing