Unlike Harvey, Nathalie proceeded to down her champagne in one gulp - requiring now more than ever a little dutch courage. She quickly deposited her glass upon the silver platter of a passing waiter, and followed the two gentlemen, all the time hand in hand with Harvey. She gripped it tight, and for once did not care if he noticed. They took their places at the new table, and it was immediately obvious that they were now participating at a completely different level - the table itself was an impressive slab of mahogany, with legs as thick as tree trunks. The cards were elegant and understated, each one crisp and accurate and beautifully illustrated. They were seated upon beautiful Regency chairs that could have come straight from an eighteenth century manor house. There was a little viewing platform behind them, from which interested parties could watch the sumptuously well heeled whilst they burned their cash. The dealer was a young woman not far off Harvey and Nathalie’s age; pretty, black hair tied back from her face, with steely eyes that indicated that, despite her relative youth, she would miss nothing. “Bonsoir,” she announced firmly in her particularly neutral accent, when the other seats had been filled.
Harvey suddenly grabbed the blonde and kissed her roughly, passing his curt message through their pressed lips. She could not reply, instead she turned away from him sharply and proceeded to smile falsely at their new friends. There was nothing that Nathalie would have rather done at that moment than continue her brazen cheating; however, she was faced with two rather huge obstacles. Firstly, their new companions were now rather more observant, and were quite blatantly watching the couple like hawks. To her horror, the large gentleman with the passing resemblance to an angry dog leant backwards in his chair and passed a few unheard words to another suited man who had been standing in the wings. Suddenly, Nathalie became aware that the two men were not alone, and several of the observers were also quite clearly part of their party. Scanning the faces of the three or perhaps four other men, the blonde quickly assumed that they provided some sort of protection element to little Mister Vītoliņš. Their eyes now and again studied her face with a clinical precision. Harvey and Nathalie were being scrutinised.
Secondly, Nathalie had absolutely no idea how the game of Baccarat was played. She had no clue exactly what was required to win. And, to make matters worse, it did not involve a small ball that could be happily nudged around a spinning wheel with the simplest of incantations, but rather was a card only game - and changing the values that appeared on the face of a randomly shuffled and professionally dealt playing card was a skill that laid beyond some near-wandless incantation.
However, Harvey appeared not to need her intervention at all, because before she knew exactly what had happened, he had placed a bet, cards were dealt, and the dealer announced that “Monsieur wins.” The Monsieur, judging by the dealer’s nod in his direction, was none other than Harvey Landsdowne himself.
Nathalie’s eyes widened as the croupier stick pushed a rather large pile of chips towards them. Suddenly, as if on cue, Vītoliņš exhaled loudly. Briefly the blonde met his eyes, and he gave her a strange, twisted smile; his small teeth on prominent display. It appeared that their new friend was not too happy at how events were shaping up.
Nathalie had to act. “Same again, please,” she suddenly announced to the table, ignoring Harvey’s burrowing glare, and to make matters worse, Nathalie leaned forward and thrust every single chip they had in their possession towards the dealer, and had to get up out of her seat to do it. The dealer gave a very slight frown, unaccustomed as she was to such an extreme bet. She even gave a quick look towards Vītoliņš, who returned with a slight nod, seemingly permitting such brazenness at his table. Their mountain of chips were dragged over the little rectangle labelled “PLAYER”.
The blonde’s logic was simple. It was quite apparent that Harvey and Nathalie had, somewhat inadvertently, pissed off a very powerful individual, and maybe had even gone so far as to have ruined his night. The gentlemen that Mister Vītoliņš associated with gave off the distinct impression that they broke bones for a living, and only gouged eyes for fun, and therefore the most prudent course of action for anyone with half a brain would be to get the hell away from them, as quickly as possible. Therefore they would go all in. Win everything, or more likely, lose it all; both offered a reasonably quick means of escape - both could end the game sooner rather than later.
As if to spite them, Vītoliņš carefully leaned forward, and, with a rather blatant glance at Nathalie’s cleavage, he pushed a very sizeable stack of his chips upon the area of the table marked “BANKER”. Again, he was going against their bet.
A card a dealt. Another then to the banker. A second to the player, followed by one more to the banker. With an elegant flip of the pallet, the two player cards were overturned. A Queen and a Three. Next, with a suitable pause for drama, the Banker’s hand followed. A Nine and a Four.
Nathalie had no idea what was happening. The following events occurred before her grey eyes, and it was only afterwards that she could put them into correct chronological order: a third card was dealt upon the player side - it was a Three. A third card was dealt upon the bankers side - it was an Ace of Hearts. Mister Vītoliņš gasped. There was an audible cry from the observers. The dealer announced “Monsieur wins. Again”. Vītoliņš’ huge companion got to his feet with his face like thunder. Mister Vītoliņš raised his right hand just a touch; enough to signal to his protector to halt. Or, perhaps more worryingly, that now was not the correct time. An obscenely large mountain of chips was pushed in front of Harvey.
Nathalie exchanged a look with Harvey - half of horror, half of amazement.
The Floor manager approached, personally congratulated Harvey, and asked if he wished to continue.
“No we are finished, thank you!” came the abrupt shout from Nathalie, perhaps somewhat too enthusiastically.
—————
By the cashier’s desk in the lobby, a woman carefully counted the plastic cards and chips that had been emptied in front of her by the Floor Manager. He turned back to Harvey and gave him a careful smile. “Exceptional luck, I must say, Monsieur Landsdowne. Do you play often? You know, for expert gamblers we do have several tournaments each month, the best players from Europe frequently make an appearance; should you be interested, I would be more than happy to arrange a table for you and your wife . . .”
Nathalie shot the manager a look, but was momentarily distracted when the cashier’s automated money counter sprung into life with a mechanical rattle, gathering notes at lightning speed into fat bundles, each one then taken off the platform by hand and given a paper wrapping. Each wrapping was embossed with the words “50,000 Francs”. Four such bundles were gathered together, and placed carefully in a linen bag; the casino’s name printed upon the front in an understated font.
With a handshake, the Floor Manager gave the little fat sack to Harvey. “Have a lovely evening, sir. Until next time.”
—————
Nathalie nearly ran out of the casino, clattering down the front steps in her heels, all the way convulsing with uncontrolled laughter. At the bottom, she spun around and propped her arse upon the wheel arch of a metallic blue Lamborghini Murciélago.
For a moment she was near doubled over, and it took moments for her to gather herself together enough and put words in the correct order to make a coherent sentence. “Oh . . . Landsdowne . . . you should have seen the look on your face.” Again, giggles took over and she was unable to speak.
Her laugh subsided, and she looked up through her eyelashes at him, as he stood there proud and perfect upon the steps. Fearing he didn’t see the funny side, which, probably was the sensible way to behave seeing how close they had got to some rather unpleasant and threatening muggles, she changed tact. “Look, I’m sorry I helped you; I only wanted to give you a good start. It’s only muggle money, it’s not real or anything. We can get away with anything here; they have no idea, they’re thick as planks.”
She walked back up to him slowly, the pedestrians making a gap for the couple as they streamed past them on their way to their evening appointments. “And you were very good at that Back-ah-row thing, however that worked. You were on your own with that one, unfortunately.” She took his free hand and pulled it up to her chest, playing with his fingertips. “We still haven’t finished this . . . date,” she spoke the offending word with a grimace, and bit her bottom lip as if deep in thought. “And now, seeing as we’re not dead, and you have a sack full of muggle money, perhaps we can make it a little bit more . . . interesting?”
The blonde took him by the hand and began the short walk across the Place du Casino, to the huge gothic building with the bone-white facade that expanded across the whole western side of the Place. Nathalie was attracted to it simply because it had the word “Hotel” in a delicate font above the elaborately welcoming doorway, as the creamy lights from all its windows spilled out onto bustling footpath before it.
Once through the strange spinning door, Nathalie came to an abrupt halt. (She had been doing this rather often since their sojourn in Monaco had begun). The Hotel de Paris was, for all intents and purposes, a palace. There was enough marble in the lobby to keep a regiment of Renaissance sculptors happy for the rest of their lives. A vaulted dome ceiling above them was hung with violently ornamental crystal chandeliers, which in their disgusting precision split and refracted light into countless white flashes that flecked over all the horrendously overdressed old people sitting under them.
Coming momentarily back to earth, Nathalie turned and saw the Reception. She squeezed Harvey’s arm and whispered briefly into his ear. “Let me.” Before he could protest, she kissed him full on the mouth, and when she broke away she gave him one brief command, “Just look woozy please.” With a wink, she marched off in the direction of the reception desk as if about to invade a central European country.
“Good evening Madame,” came the spritely and enthusiastic greeting, heavily accented, from the gentleman behind reception; young and trim with brown hair that looked as if it has been cast from plastic and glued onto his skull; so soaked in pomade it was. “How can I assist you?”
“Good evening,” replied Nathalie, reaching the desk and smiling, yet narrowing her eyes as if about to deliver bad news. “I wonder can you please help us. I really need a room for the night.”
“I am so sorry, Madame, we are totally fully booked. For the rest of the week, in fact. People are enjoying the last of the summer,” and he gave a well polished yet incredibly false laugh. He had probably repeated the same comment seventy times that same day.
“I’m certain they are,” answered Nathalie, “however, I’m in a little bit of a bind, actually.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, arms folded across her chest and upon the desk. The receptionist followed suit.
“I’m from the British Consulate. That young man over there is the ambassadors’ son. From Paris. He was down here, having a little bit too much of a good time, if you know what I mean, and managed to stir up a little bit of mess.” She leaned further even more, all the better to carry her whisper, her face a polite picture of scandal, “I can’t say too much, but let’s just say a significant amount of money was lost, and some upset Oligarchs are left wondering where their girlfriends have spent last night.” The blonde pushed herself backwards, eyes wide in faux horror. The receptionist did the same.
“And, as you can see, he’s is no state to travel back to Paris tonight.” She gestured with a eye roll over her shoulder towards Harvey, who was still standing resolutely behind her, for all the world like a Donatello statue of a Roman God. She frowned momentarily at his lack of faux abandon, and turned back to her confident. “ . . . absolutely legless. And so, if you could do Her Majesty’s Government a huge favour, help us lie low for the evening, it would be most appreciated, I can tell you.”
The receptionist, who seemingly was completely on board with Nathalie’s ridiculous tale, had a pained expression upon his wrinkle-free face. “Oh, Madame, I would love to help, I really would, and I adore your Queen, and the two Princes, however we simply have no capacity tonight. I mean, the only room in the whole hotel that is empty is the Presidential Suite, and I’m . . .”
“Perfect, we shall take it.”
“Madame it is fifty-five-thousand Francs per night.”
“Yes yes, fantastic value, thank you so much. I cannot tell you how much of a help you have been. The British Government will most certainly remember your assistance. Do you take cash?”
- - - - - -
With a sizeable chunk removed from Harvey’s winnings, a Bellhop escorted the couple along the extravagant long corridors, hopping through the floors in vast gold-lined elevators, until, at the end of a particularly long couloir on the hotel’s uppermost level, they reached the double doors of Presidential Suite.
“Any luggage, Madame?” asked the Porter politely. Nathalie was most amused at his adorably cute burgundy uniform and matching hat.
“No. We travel light,” came her reply.
The doors were swung open with a flourish, and the most ridiculous excuse for a room that Nathalie had ever laid her eyes upon was displayed before her disbelieving eyes. Like one of Farren’s baroque chambers, yet condensed into a smaller format. The Porter gave the couple a whistle stop tour - the huge living room with a couch that could sit a dozen people. A dining table that could fit a dozen more. A silver ice bucket with a bottle of Champagne poised at a jaunty angle in the middle. A white carpet as thick as a forest beneath their feet. A chandelier - naturally - glinting sharply above them. A bathroom with a standing bathtub and a sea view. Enough cosmetics to stage chemical warfare. A bedroom; the centrepiece of which was a four-poster six foot wide bed that certainly ran close to the whole size of Nathalie’s cramped apartment in London. For a final flourish, the porter flung open the balcony doors, presenting the shining jewel of the room - its view out over the harbour and the French Riviera beyond. It was genuinely breathtaking - the glistening lights of the boats and the warm glow from the harbour down below, whilst an inky blue sky was fading into black above them.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, Madame?” asked the porter politely.
“. . . it is . . . very good, thank you,” replied Nathalie softly, her face a picture of bewilderment. “I think . . .”
“Fantastic,” came his curt reply. “Have a wonderful evening. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to call for me.”
The door closed with a soft click. Still stunned, Nathalie turned back to Harvey, whom she had momentarily lost track of. She gave a deep breath, and put her hand upon her chest. Her eyes were as wide as saucers.
“Well, I think this will do, yes?”
