The French Connect With Those Damn Yankees... ...Again.
Literally just one day later the phone blipped again.
I turned the volume down on the video screen... And just picked an ordinary handset phone.
“John. What are you doing.”
“Well, Vera. I was watching Sharon Stone just now telling Drew Barrymore, that all the men she has met – are insincere. Do you know what she might be meaning there, Vera? Insincere. What does that mean – insincere...”
“John,” Vera’s voice didn’t sound exasperated. Just a bit breathy. “John I’ve decided I’m coming down there where you are.”
“You mean where Charlotte will be because I didn’t ever say that I was going to tell you where I was going to be.”
“It’s important. I need to meet with you.”
“Oh. Really? You guys have lost that shot though, Vera. You were offered it first and you blew it. They said you would only get the one shot and I actually convinced them to give you two or three, and you blew all of them. Now you’re all gonna have to sub-contract behind the French people because that’s who they, they, have chosen to deal with.”
“What about you though? I would like for us to talk face-to-face. Can I meet with you?”
“Well I don’t see, really, what you would have to offer, and I can guess that you don’t have any substantial backing from anyone there -.”
“I’ll arrange a meeting for you with Sharon Stone...”
“Ha ha ha ha ha. That’s very funny, Vera. But step one for you, is that you get over here and talk to Charlotte one-on-one first now. Not with me any more. That includes your new bosses, and your new direct boss, and anybody else up there and in fact I can guarantee you that there is no chance ever for any of them and you’re all on your own with what’s about to happen. You had your chance. Vera –, your people are not up to it.
“But I tell you what, I’ll give you personally, one little escape route from here. But you start again all the way back behind the eight-ball with Charlotte. By the way – if you talked with Sharon Stone, just saying, right – but do you think she would be able to tell if you were insincere?”
“I’m not insincere.”
“No, you are not. You’re just very very confused about the basis for owing anyone any loyalty. Anyway don’t worry about that for now, better go pack your bags and head out here ASAP. I’m not exactly sure what the French do -, I never heard they did any water-boarding but she is sure as hell going to find you out if you guys think you’re going to be delivering any kind of message in a cleft stick, as they say.”
“Message in a cleft stick...” I heard her give a slight snort.
Within a few weeks, Alon Gordon (well ‘Gvorshin,’ really) had scoped out this amazing place for the ‘gifting suites.’ There was this huge three-storey mansion in Lamb Street, backed right on the apron of a large grassed parkland river-side strip lined with large old eucalyptus and some groves of paper-bark trees. Super brilliant clear view of the city sky-line across the river and slightly to the West side of Heirisson Island. Kangaroos right there, on Heirisson Island. No one much could see them from any vantage point except you could see them from the balconies of the two upper floors of the mansion.
And hardly anyone even knew there was a ‘Lamb Street’ it was so surreptitiously tucked away in the back of some old ‘Federation’-style residences in the South Perth/Victoria Park suburbs. No one paid any attention to ‘Lamb Street.’ Not like they did to all those other up-scale streets and near-city (multi) million-dollar addresses.
...Nice one, Alon. Clever boy.
So. Anyway. Seemed like Charlotte’s advertisements had picked up a couple of rich men who wanted to send their girl-friends (or wives maybe) to have a meeting with the designer house chief representative.
And of course, Vera-Lucien was here too. Staying at the mansion. Courtesy of Charlotte.
Vera was literally harassing me about Major Dames. LOL
I told her, I said ‘but it’s all up to him, isn’t it? I don’t give him orders, Vera. He’ll be about the place and he knows that you’re here and that you want to speak with him. So, who knows.’
I told her that about ten times. Seemed to me like I had to say it over and over to her ten times - prolly was maybe really three times.
Who was going to put their cards on the table first between Charlotte and Vera-Lucien, I wondered.
Would they have lunch together first, or a typical Paris brunch thing, or maybe even dinner...
I wondered that, one afternoon, by that evening there was a short message on the communicator from Xan: ‘Thüringer Bratwurst.’
What? What?! Barbecue. Of course. When in Rome...
There they would be, the two of them, out in the back yard there, with the wonderful view of the red-sky summer sunset and city-scape – drinking what? German ale? No, with women it would probably be some lighter style ‘summer’ wine. I’d have had Belgian brown beer. But I wasn’t invited.
...So I got my own Belgian beer and some pre-cooked deli sausages and watched them on ‘Ronnie-vision.’
I can’t lip read that well.
“Do you think it will be okay to put the sound through, Ronnie...”
“Yes, I think so,” said Ronnie.
“Okay then, Ronnie. Put the sound through. Let’s hear what these chicks have to say to each other.”
Oh dear. First there was the comment on the beautiful, yes they were, very beautiful deep blue accent lights against the water-wall feature next to the outdoor spa.
Then, there was the silly girl typical dissing of men who usually lit the barbecue. Then there was the explanation from Charlotte that she had them Albany Genesta Estate Rosé rather than German beer to go with the Thüringer sausages.
The barbecue was a legit German Wachsenburggemeinde-style for the Rostbratwurst – real charcoal so that the skins can be charred slightly. But no beer though. Shame, because you are supposed to sprinkle a little beer over the sausages as they are slowly being grilled.
Ah, no. Wait. Dammit, Charlotte had a bottle of dark Leffe in her hand there that she had gotten from out of the drinks fridge. Not German beer, but hell yeah. Just the right type as far as I’m concerned.
What the heck.
What was this now...?
Did Vera want to get in the spa... Because... Because Charlotte intended to go in the spa...
Still, maybe they would get into some important talk in there.
Never happened. It was all idle chit-chat. How the city was really so beautiful of a place. Yes we know that you bitches. ...How the wine went so well with the sausages. How the weather was so, so, wonderful!
I mean really, Vera. Charlotte. Come on girls, the weather? Really now.
Only slightly interesting thing was Vera’s one-piece swimsuit.
And that had been for only just twenty seconds between the glass doors and the spa steps and then, in, into the dark blue glittery waters of the spa – and then, anyway, the glorious red sunset was gone and it was all purple. Everywhere.
Ah fuck that. I didn’t switch it all off but actually I think I fell asleep anyway.
Dunno what happened after that.