Three
Over months, eventually stretching into years, Harvey Jordan had learned every trick and manoeuvre to access, uncover and utilize the identity of unwitting victims, none of which had to be employed to discover all he needed to know about the blonde, disdainful woman. This was pleasure, an amusement to pass the afternoon, not work upon which he had to concentrate. Directly after making his deposit box arrangements and setting the intrusion traps in his suite, Jordan quit the Carlton to stroll along the Croisette towards the port to indicate his own disinterest, although frequently pausing to ensure that she was not coincidentally taking the same exercise behind him, wanting the intended encounter to be at his choosing, not by accident.
Using his knowledge of the hotel, he timed his return to the Carlton for the beginning of their afternoon tea service, confident that he entered the lounge without her awareness and gained a seat sufficiently close behind her to easily overhear the waiter address her as ‘Madam Appleton’ and to detect the American accent when she ordered. He was also close enough to see that the book in which she was now engrossed was Pride and Prejudice. Jordan declined tea himself, needing to be in position in the lobby. He didn’t hurry selecting the right place, disappointed there wasn’t an unobtrusive spot from which he had a complete view of the room-key pigeon holes as well as a sufficient warning of her approach into the lounge. He settled for the best available combination and hid himself behind the Herald Tribune, raising it higher at the first sight of her before she actually came into the reception area. He was doubly lucky as she did precisely what he’d hoped by going straight to the desk for her key, which Jordan immediately recognized to be at the suite level upon which he had his own, five rooms further along the same corridor; an unexpected but welcome bonus. Because he was not working and sought recognition, rather than his usual anonymity, Jordan had ensured his immediate acknowledgement by heavily tipping upon his arrival the valet parking supervisor at the top of the hotel’s sweeping entrance into the underground facility, and so was greeted by name as he approached. Knowing from his previous visits that vehicle spaces were allocated by room number he gave that of the woman, not his own, shaking his head when the supervisor frowned as he looked up from his occupation list and said, ‘That’s Mrs Appleton’s suite? She doesn’t have a car here.’
‘Stupid of me: not concentrating,’ apologized Jordan, giving his own number.
Jordan drove contentedly along the Croisette in the direction he’d earlier walked, leaving the Renault in the underground public car park adjoining the port and choosing the restaurant with a first-floor overview of the marina and its yachts, reflecting upon what it had been so easy to learn about the dismissive Mrs Appleton. She was an abstemious American woman about thirty years old who liked classic English literature, with so few friends or acquaintances she didn’t even bother with a cell phone, staying alone and without transport in one of the best hotels in the South of France, sufficiently wealthy to wear a five-carat diamond ring and be able to afford a beach- fronting suite, although unlikely to venture out too long upon it from the umbrella and sun hatted care she took to protect her complexion. And she was hopefully lonely or bored or both.
The ice maiden melted the following day, although initially only very slightly. But still enough. By the time she emerged from the elevator, just before eleven, Jordan had bought a paperback edition of Jane Austin’s Sense and Sensibility from the English language bookshop near the railway terminus and was back, ensconced in the lounge, the book and its title positioned on the table in front of him to be obvious to anyone entering from the lobby; Jordan himself was once more hidden behind his raised newspaper awaiting her arrival. He kept the Herald Tribune uncomfortably high, his arms beginning to ache, until the coffee service began, thankfully lowering it to order and establish that she was deeper within the room, writing at an upright table. Whatever it was appeared to be a long letter, several thick pages, not a holiday postcard. She was wearing a bare shouldered day dress but with a matching patterned bolero, her book, wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses carefully beside her on the other chair. Better able to see her without the glare of yesterday’s sun Jordan decided she was very much younger than the casino professional and her hair a much more natural blonde. The dark-rimmed reading spectacles it seemed necessary for her to wear added rather than detracted from her attractiveness. It was going to be an interesting distraction trying to establish whether she was a genuinely natural blonde. He’d give himself today, maybe going over into tomorrow; if there hadn’t been sufficient progress by then he’d move on. Maybe, even, go back to one of the casinos to find the more approachable Ghilane.
Jordan waited until she finished whatever it was she was writing and was reading through it before rising to make his way out into the lobby, choosing a path to take him directly by her table. He did not look in her direction, nor was aware of her looking in his, and he was past before she said, ‘Excuse me!’
The satisfaction coursed through him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your book. You’ve left your book.’
Jordan frowned, turning to where he had been sitting. ‘I have a call to make. I’m coming back.’
‘I’m sorry… I thought…’
The words were stumbled but she didn’t colour with embarrassment. Closer he saw that she was blue-eyed, so maybe she was genuinely blonde. ‘Thank you. Will you stand guard while I’m gone?’
‘I’m embarrassed.’ She still didn’t blush.
An East coast accent, the vowels hard, judged Jordan, expertly. ‘You’ve no reason to be.’
Jordan continued on before she could reply, building in the time for his absence by going up to his suite and remaining at the window for a few minutes, watching the beach filling up beneath its parasols. From the attention with which the sunbathers were creaming and oiling themselves Jordan guessed it was hotter out on the beach than it had been the previous day.
She was waiting for his return, smiling up at once, her thick manila envelope sealed. It was automatic for Jordan to try to read the address but it was very positively turned against him, which would have made his interest too obvious if he’d tried harder. ‘My book is untouched, as I left it,’ he said and smiled. The spectacles were back in their case now, along with everything else on the chair beside her.
‘I misunderstood. I’m sorry…’
‘I’m not,’ said Jordan, maintaining the momentum. ‘Now we’re talking instead of being on the opposite sides of the room from each other.’ Standing above her he could see the dark beginning of a deep and enticing cleavage.
‘I didn’t intend to intrude, but…’ she began again.
‘I didn’t think that you did,’ Jordan stopped her. ‘I think it was a fortunate misunderstanding.’
She shifted uncertainly, looking down at the only available chair full of her belongings.
Gesturing to where he had been sitting earlier, Jordan said, ‘There’s more room where I am. Let’s have an aperitif there.’
‘My things?’ she said, making her own gesture.
‘They can stay where they are. Or be brought to us if you want them.’
She hesitated. ‘They can stay here.’
It was going to work, as it invariably did, Jordan decided.
Harvey Jordan, whose vocation was seduction in every sense and definition of the word, didn’t hurry. He never did once the first barrier was breached. The initial isolation and pursuit of a victim was as much an orgasmic pleasure as its culmination, either sexual or financial, and he had a lot of mental foreplay to savour here. Remembering her half glass abstinence the previous lunchtime he chose a single glass – not even a half bottle – of champagne for their aperitif and distanced himself from her at the furthest end of the couch. He gave her his real name – Christian as well as family – and learned that hers was Alyce (‘with a y, just to be different’) and that it was her first visit to France. She hadn’t yet felt confident enough to try the French in which she’d graduated, as well as in Spanish, both with A plus, from Smith college; she admired the ease with which he spoke French to their waiter, ordering the drinks and asking for the luncheon menu and for a table, not outside on the open terrace, but directly inside the better shaded floor-to-ceiling veranda doors which, still imposing his own pace, Jordan did without inviting her in advance. She accepted at once when he belatedly apologized for his feigned presumption. Jordan felt a fleeting jump of unease at her mention of the park-view appartment, because his last identity sting had been in Manhattan, quickly dismissed by the self-assurance that small though the island was, the likelihood of her knowing anyone with whom he’d had a chance encounter was remote, particularly after her reference to a weekend house in the Hampton’s, which she preferred to the city. And he hadn’t been using his own name then anyway. There was no reference to a job, or a profession, or to the husband who had presumably provided the diamond and the wedding band, and Jordan held back from any curiosity: it was a not infrequent reflection of his that so easily did he find it to
