Free Maestra by L. S. Hilton Page B

place – I can’t bear to think you would think I was – like that. I was testing you. You see, you’re so wonderful, and I – I –’
    Even his gargantuan ego might balk at the word love, so I had a little sob instead. Another one, Jesus. He gave me his handkerchief, which was large and white and smelled cleanly of Persil. I remembered my mum, on one of her good days, giving me a bath and wrapping me in a clean white towel that smelled just the same, and after that the sobs became real. So then we had a chat and I told him I was frightened, that I had lost my job (as a receptionist in a gallery) and when he proposed that I might like to get away for a weekend I pretended I’d never been to the South of France, and wouldn’t that be heaven, but we’d better take my friend too, to show I wasn’t really that sort of girl. Or not entirely. I did a bit of whispering about how he might persuade me otherwise. In truth, it was the possibility of having to share a bed with him that made me want someone else along. Plus if he felt like a threesome it was better to come equipped. It wasn’t hard to hint that the persuasion might involve, say, £3,000, just to help me along until I could find work. So when he left there was a thousand on the table, to cover two tickets to Nice, and I lurched over to Mercedes and told her we were going to the Riviera.
    ‘Christ, Jude,’ she said admiringly, ‘what’ve you got up there? Crack?’

8
    I’d used some of James’s fifties to get together some gear for the trip. A tan braided leather weekend bag and matching tote from a little shop in Marylebone that could pass for Bottega Veneta, a black Eres tie-side bikini, Tom Ford sunglasses, a Vuitton Sprouse scarf in turquoise and beige. When we landed at Nice airport, I was pleased to see that the accessories meant I looked like many of the other women coming in for the weekend: super-groomed but not too effortful. Mercedes (we said we’d try to use club names so as not to slip up) was uncharacteristically restrained in simple jeans and a white shirt. James was waiting for us in the café next to the arrivals lounge. I took a deep breath as I saw the unselfconscious sprawl of his bulk, the patches of sweat on his pale pink shirt. Sure he was fat, but did he have to be such a slob? There was something conceited about it, as though his money meant he could afford to disregard the effect he had on other people – which of course it did. I took a deep breath. I had a sudden weird longing to be back in my horrible flat. I’d spent so many hours there, planning, dreaming, safe in the fantasy that the future was going to happen. But this was it. This was the future. Or at least, in the absence of a better plan, the next few months. I could do this, I told myself. More than ever now, I had to do this. It was just about control.
    A young Moroccan-looking man in a dark jacket with ‘Hôtel du Cap’ on the breast loaded our bags into a long black car. James heaved himself into the front and the car immediately sagged like an old bed on his side. I couldn’t look at Mercedes.
    ‘ S’il vous plaît, Mesdemoiselles. ’
    I slipped through the door he held for me and sat back on ivory leather seats. The car was cool, the windows tinted, the engine had a low purring hum. This was what it felt like, then. James was fiddling with his phone so I didn’t need to try to make conversation. When we arrived at the hotel, Mercedes squeezed my hand excitedly.
    ‘It’s gorgeous, James,’ she breathed, giving me a nudge.
    ‘Really lovely,’ I added enthusiastically.
    We waited discreetly in the black marble-tiled hallway while James checked in. One of the receptionists asked us for our passports, and I told her quickly in French, with a calm smile, that they had gone up with the bags and we could bring them down later. I didn’t want James to have any chance of seeing our real names; it would spoil the mood.
    ‘Your French is dead good!’ said