The Highest Stakes of All
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It seemed a long time since their budget had been able to run to a suite with two bedrooms, and while she didn’t begrudge her father his comfortable night’s sleep, quite understanding that he needed to wake completely refreshed in order to keep his wits sharp, nevertheless she missed the peace and privacy which the sitting room could not provide.
When she was sure all was as it should be, she packed sun oil, her coin purse and a paperback book into her raffia bag, together with two leftover rolls from breakfast wrapped in tissues to provide her with a makeshift lunch.
She pinned her hair up into a loose knot, covering it with a wide-brimmed straw hat, then pulled a white cheesecloth tunic over her turquoise bikini, donned her sunglasses and picked up her towel. Thus camouflaged, she set off down to the swimming pool.
Few people, if any, recognised her in the daytime. Wearing espadrilles instead of the platform-soled high heels that Denys insisted on took at least a couple of inches from her height, and with her hair hidden, her face scrubbed clean of its evening make-up, and wearing a modestly cut bikini, she attracted little attention even from men who’d been sending her openly amorous looks the night before.
The St Gregoire charged a hefty number of francs for the hire of its loungers on the paved sun terraces, so Joanna invariably chose instead to spread her towel on one of the lawns encircling the pool, a practice not forbidden, but muttered at by the man who came to collect the money from the paying guests.
Ignore him, Joanna told herself, rubbing oil into her exposed skin already tanned a judicious golden brown. And try to pretend the grass isn’t damp while you’re about it.
She turned on to her stomach, and retrieved the book she’d found in a second-hand store just before they’d left for France, a former prize-winning detective story by a British author called P. D. James, which had attracted Joanna because its title, An Unsuitable Job for a Woman, seemed to sum up her current situation.
Maybe I could become a private investigator, she mused, finding her place in the story. Except I don’t have someone likely to die and leave me a detective agency.
A more likely scenario, if things went badly wrong this time, was a swift return to the UK and a job for Denys in Uncle Martin’s light engineering works. It had been offered before, prompted, Joanna suspected, by her uncle’s very real concern for her future. Although he’d had plenty of troubles of his own in the past few years with the imposition of the three-day week, strikes and constant power cuts to contend with.
But her father had replied, as always, that it would kill him to be tied to a desk, and he had to be a free spirit, although Joanna could see no freedom in having bills you were unable to pay. One day, she thought, he might have to bite on the bullet and accept Uncle Martin’s offer.
And for me, a secretarial course, I suppose, she mused resignedly. But I’d settle for that, if it meant a normal life. And not being lonely any more. I’m just not the adventurous type, and I only wish I’d realised that much sooner.
It wasn’t really possible to make friends when they were so often on the move, but other girls tended to steer clear anyway. And apart from one occasion in Australia, which she’d tried hard to forget, she’d been left severely alone by young men, too.
She stopped herself on the point of another sigh. Forget the self-pity, she adjured herself, and find out how private investigator Cordelia Gray is going to solve her first solo case.
At that moment, she heard her name called, and turned to see Julie Phillips approaching across the grass.
Joanna sat up smiling. ‘Hi, there.’ She looked around. ‘What have you done with Matthew?’
‘Chris has taken him down to the village.’ Julie sat down beside her, shading her eyes from the sun. ‘He wanted to buy something for his mother from that little pottery shop.’ She sighed. ‘I can hardly believe our week is up. And, would you believe, we’re almost sorry to be going home. For which we have you to thank, of course.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Joanna said roundly. ‘It was just lucky I happened to be at the desk that day, and was able to help.’
She’d been waiting to buy some stamps when she’d overheard the clearly distressed young couple protesting to an unsympathetic desk clerk about the hotel’s policy of barring babies and young children from the restaurant after seven p.m.
As their French was clearly minimal, she’d helped translate for them, even though their objections were ultimately met with a shrug of complete indifference.
They’d adjourned to the terrace bar for coffee, where Joanna had learned they’d won their South of France holiday in a magazine competition, but their intended destination had been a three-star hotel in the BelCote chain.
A fire had resulted in a grudging upgrade to the St Gregoire.
‘But we felt from the moment we got here yesterday that they didn’t really want us.’ Julie had said. ‘They made a fuss about putting a cot in the bungalow, told us there was no babysitting service, then dropped the bombshell about the restaurant. If we wanted to eat there, we had to have the special children’s supper at six.’
She’d sighed. ‘We’re just so disappointed with it all. It isn’t a bit as we’d hoped. Now we feel we simply want to go home.’
Joanna could only sympathise but she was unsurprised. The hotel was a place where little children might be seen but not heard, and Matt had a good pair of lungs on him.
But the St Gregoire had accepted this family, however reluctantly, and it was totally unfair to prevent them sampling the culinary delights on offer in the restaurant.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said. ‘We—I—never have dinner until at least nine. If you’re prepared to eat early, I’ll come to the bungalow each night as soon as the children’s supper is over and look after Matt for you, so that you can dine together in the restaurant.’