To Cut a Long Story Short

In the taxi on the way to the restaurant she was at pains to tell me how pleasant her room was and how attentive the staff had been.

Over dinner - I must confess the meal was sensational - she chatted about her work in New York, and mused over whether she would ever return to London. I tried to sound interested.

After I had settled the bill, she took my arm and suggested that as it was such a pleasant evening and she had eaten far too much, perhaps we should walk back to the hotel. She squeezed my hand, and I began to wonder if perhaps …

She didn’t let go of my hand all the way back to the hotel. When we entered the lobby, the bellboy ran over to the lift and held the doors open for us.

‘Which floor, please?’ he asked.

‘Fifth,’ said Susie firmly.

‘Sixth,’ I said reluctantly.

Susie turned and kissed me on the cheek just as the doors slid open. ‘It’s been a memorable day,’ she said, and slipped away.

For me too, I wanted to say, but remained silent. Back in my room I lay awake, trying to fathom it out. I realised I must be a pawn in a far bigger game; but would it be a bishop or a knight that finally removed me from the board?

I don’t recall how long it was before I fell asleep, but when I woke at a few minutes before six, I jumped out of bed and was pleased to see that Le Figaro had already been pushed under the door. I devoured it from the first page to the last, learning all about the latest French scandals - none of them sexual, I might add - and then cast it aside to take a shower.

I strolled downstairs around eight to find Susie seated in the corner of the breakfast room, sipping an orange juice. She was dressed to kill, and although I obviously wasn’t the chosen victim, I was even more determined than

before to find out who was.

I slipped into the seat opposite her, and as neither of us spoke, the other guests must have assumed we had been married for years.

‘I hope you slept well,’ I offered finally.

‘Yes, thank you, Tony,’ she replied. ‘And you?’ she asked innocently.

I could think of a hundred responses I would have liked to make, but I knew that if I did, I would then never find out the truth.

‘What time would you like to visit the exhibition?’ I asked.

‘Ten o’clock,’ she said firmly, and then added, ‘if that suits you.’

‘Suits me fine,’ I replied, glancing at my watch. ‘I’ll book a taxi for around 9.30.’

‘I’ll meet you in the foyer,’ she said, making us sound more like a married couple by the minute.

After breakfast, I returned to my room, began to pack and phoned down to Albert to say I didn’t think we’d be staying another night.

‘I am sorry to hear that, monsieur,’ he replied. ‘I can only hope that it wasn’t …’

‘No, Albert, it was no fault of yours, that I can assure you. If ever I discover who is to blame, I’ll let you know. By the way, I’ll need a taxi around 9.30, to take us to the Musee d’Orsay.’

‘Of course, Tony.’

I will not bore you with the mundane conversation that took place in the taxi between the hotel and the museum, because it would take a writer of far greater abilities than I possess to hold your attention. However, it would be less than gracious of me not to admit that the Picasso drawings were well worth the trip. And I should add that Susie’s running commentary caused a small crowd to hang around in our wake.

‘The pencil,’ she said, ‘is the cruellest of the artist’s tools, because it leaves nothing to chance.’ She stopped in front of the drawing Picasso had made of his father sitting in a chair. I was spellbound, and unable to move on for some time.

‘What is so remarkable about this picture,’ said Susie, ‘is that Picasso drew it at the age of sixteen; so it was already clear that he would be bored by conventional subjects long before he’d left art school. When his father first saw it - and he was an artist himself - he …’ Susie failed to finish the sentence. Instead, she suddenly grabbed my hand and, looking into my eyes, said, ‘It’s such fun being with you, Tony.’ She leaned forward as if she were going to kiss me.

I was about to say, ‘What the hell are you up to?’ when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

‘Check,’ I said.

‘What do you mean, “Check”?’ she asked.