Samantha Hall and Roderick Van Cleef explained to the chauffeur that if he couldn't do his job, he could find another.
"But the car was running perfectly just minutes ago," the French driver said, with a touch of that French arrogance that wonders what it is doing even talking to lesser people, much less apologizing to them.
"Well, that obviously isn't the case now," Samantha drawled, spinning her Oscar de la Renta cape dramatically about her shoulders.
"What a bore," Roderick said with a sigh.
"It's all your fault, Roddy. If we had flown the Concorde . . ."
"What's that got to do with this? Besides, the Concorde's as uncomfortable as ballet shoes."
"We could have chartered a plane, then," Samantha said.
"For a bloody weekend?"
"My last lover did," Samantha said.
"Your last lover was too fat to fit into the seat of a commercial jet."
"She was not," Samantha said. "And anyway-"
"Pardon me, but I see you're having some car trouble," said a young man with a yellow handkerchief in his pocket. "May I give you a lift?"
"Roddy, have this person arrested," Samantha snapped.
"Why? He's offering us a ride."
"In a Chevrolet," Samantha hissed. "And he's wearing polyester. You don't want me seen with someone in a polyester jacket, do you?"
"Frankly, I wouldn't give a damn if he were wearing fig leaves. Look at the taxi line."
"Actually, the car's quite comfortable," the eager young man said with an engaging grin.
Samantha heaved a great sigh. "All right. My weekend's already ruined anyway. I might as well turn it into a total fiasco. Bring on the Chevrolet."
She stepped haughtily toward the blue American sedan. Another young man smiled at her from the front seat. He was holding a yellow handkerchief in his hands.
"You can come too," the young man told the French chauffeur.
"I will not ride with a paid laborer," Samantha screeched.
"It'll be all right," the young man said soothingly. "He can ride in the front seat with us. And the trip will be over in no time at all."
Number 134.
Miles Patterson sat in the airport bar sipping a martini, his well-worn leather bag at his feet. He had been flying internationally for twenty-five years and he had found that a couple of stiff drinks immediately after a long flight helped eliminate jet lag. Let others scurry through corridors dragging their bundles and bags and kiddies and then wait interminably at the baggage claim and then again for a cab ride. Miles Patterson prefered to blot up two martinis in silent ecstasy, until Paris looked like a warm and friendly place.
"Do you mind if I sit next to you?" a young pretty girl asked as Miles was nearing the end of his second martini. She was less than twenty years old and had Brooke Shields's hair and melon breasts. Paris had never before seemed so warm and friendly.
He shook his head and the girl asked shyly, "Are you visiting?"
Miles stared, stupefied for a moment, before dragging himself back to reality. "Uh, no. Business. I'm a jewelry merchant. I make this trip six, eight times a year. "
"Goodness," the girl said, looking down at the leather bag. "If those are your samples, you'd better be really careful."
"No, no," Patterson said, smiling. "The samples are on me. Big security risk, you know. I have a hell of a time getting through customs."
The girl laughed as if he'd said the funniest words ever uttered. "It's so nice to meet another American," she gushed. "Sometimes I get so . . . I don't know, hungry ... for men like you."
"Hungry?" Miles Patterson said, feeling the olives from the martinis tumbling around inside his stomach.
"Um," the girl said. She licked her lips.
"Where are you staying?" he asked quickly.
The girl leaned close and whispered. "Very near here," she said. "We can walk there. Right through a field of deep grass." Her chest rose and fell.
"What a coincidence," he said. "I've just been thinking that what I need most right now is a good brisk walk." He tried to laugh. She brushed her breasts against him as she stood up. A yellow handkerchief dangled from her belt.
"You lead the way," he said.
"Oh, I will," the girl said. "I will." As they left the airport, she took the handkerchief from her belt and stretched it taut between her hands.
Mrs. Evelyn Baynes was not wearing a sari. Not today. Not in Paris. She was wearing the latest Karl Lagerfeld walking suit in mauve and her hair had been done by Cinandre in New York. She was wearing the most uncomfortable Charles Jourdan shoes that money could buy and she felt terrific for the first time in weeks.
"Hurry up," she said, prodding her two children toward the portly couple waiting at the baggage claim area. "Joshua, take Kimberly's hand. And smile. This is the first time we've been out of that pit in God knows how long."
"The ashram is not a pit," Joshua said hotly.
"And I don't like Mrs. Palmer," Kimberly balked. "She always tries to kiss me. Can I kill her, Joshua?"
"Sure, kid," the boy said. "Just wait for me to give you the signal,"
Evelyn Baynes beamed. "That's using psychology, Joshua," she said. "You'll be a fine leader someday."
"Someday I will be chief phansigar," the boy said.
"Now, I don't want to hear another word about that god-awful place. We've got a whole week in Paris to be civilized again." She squealed as she embraced Mrs. Palmer. "My, Emmie, the extra weight agrees with you," she said.
"You've simply withered away to nothing, dear," Mrs. Palmer cooed back. "Have you been ill? Oh, no. That's right. You've been living with some religious cultists or something, haven't you?"
"Now, Emmie," Herb Palmer broke in.
"Well, it is the talk of the neighborhood, dear, The Madisons have already moved out."
"Emmie . . ."