Free The Diamond Caper by Peter Mayle Page A

This was Kathy’s favorite hotel in Paris, not only for its elegance and excellent service, but also because of its convenient proximity to the temptations of the Avenue Montaigne. Each morning, after a light breakfast and a brisk session with Roberta (“Call me Bobbie”), her personal trainer, she would head out to the boutiques, her American Express card poised in expectation, and spend the hours until lunchtime choosing, trying on, and buying what she liked to think of as essential equipment for her casual French summer: dresses, caftans, Panama hats, swimsuits, the occasional handbag, and a selection of the latest beach jewelry. This had been her habit for the past two or three years, and she was now known to many of the sales assistants along the avenue; not just known, but deeply loved, as her budget was apparently limitless.
    It hadn’t taken her husband, Fitz, very long to discover that he had neither the stamina nor the interest for high-intensity shopping, and his mornings were spent in their suite with a cigar and his iPad, nursing his business interests around the world. At the end of the morning he and Kathy would meet for lunch. And today they had a lunch invitation. It had come from Coco’s father, Alex, who would be arriving on the Riviera in a few days. Coco had suggested that the Fitzgeralds might enjoy getting to know him quietly before they all got caught up in the social whirl.
    When they arrived at the Bistrot de Paris, they were taken to a table in the corner where their host was waiting. A stocky, well-tailored man in his late sixties, Alex had his daughter’s dark coloring and, it quickly became obvious, his daughter’s charm. He fussed over the Fitzgeralds and made sure they were comfortable. Champagne appeared, and Alex offered a toast.
    “To Coco’s favorite clients, the Fitzgeralds. If only they were all like you.”
    After that, conversation flowed easily. The two men started by exchanging a few credentials. Fitz mentioned his racehorses and his apartment on Central Park South; Alex countered with his collection of Impressionist paintings and his villa in Thailand. In this way, it was established that this was a meeting of equals, and that each was a man of taste and substance. Kathy told Coco later that it was like watching two tennis pros warming up.
    By the time coffee arrived, an observer might have thought that the three of them were old friends. Arrangements were made to meet again on the Riviera. Alex just
had
to see the house on Cap Ferrat, so he and Coco
must
come over for dinner. As they parted company outside the restaurant, all of them felt that it had been a most pleasant and worthwhile meeting.
    Kathy reported back to Coco on the phone that afternoon. “He’s so charming, your dad. And Fitz really liked him—isn’t that great? So we’re all going to get together when we come down.”
    After Coco had made the appropriate noises, the conversation turned to the Fitzgeralds’ party, and the all-important guest list. Coco had put together the names and brief descriptions of a dozen couples to add to the group of old American faithfuls on the existing list, and not surprisingly, several of these suggestions were Coco’s clients. She had decided to include Elena and Sam, whose qualifications—the right age, amusing, and fluent in English—were impeccable. Kathy was delighted, and it was agreed that she and Coco would have what she called a working lunch as soon as she and Fitz had arrived on Cap Ferrat.
    —
    Elena and Sam had fallen into an instructive and enjoyable routine. Two or three mornings a week they would walk over to their house to check on its progress and to admire whatever had been done since their previous visit. They had quickly come to like and rely on Claude, the
chef de chantier,
who had worked with Coco for many years. He was a wiry, sun-wrinkled little man who had come up through the ranks of artisans, learning at every stage; masonry, plumbing,