One

It was high summer in London, and the raindrops felt almost warm on Max Skinner's face as he ran up Rutland Gate and into Hyde Park. He followed the curve of the Serpentine while the shapes of other people determined to suffer before breakfast came and went in the gray predawn murk, their faces slick with rain and sweat, their progress marked by the moist slap of their footsteps on the path.

The weather had discouraged all but the hard-core joggers. It was too wet for those bouncing, pink-cheeked girls who sometimes provided Max with a little welcome distraction. Too wet for the resident flasher who was usually on duty behind a bush near the bandstand, leer and raincoat at the ready. Too wet even for the pair of Jack Russells whose joy it was to nip at every passing ankle, their embarrassed owner lumbering after them mouthing apologies.

It was too wet, and perhaps too early. Max had been getting into the office late recently, often as late as seven-thirty, and Amis, his boss and nemesis, was not pleased. This morning would be different, Max promised himself. He'd get in first, and make sure the miserable sod knew it. That was the big problem with Max's work- ing life: he liked the job but loathed the people, Amis in particular.

Turning at the top of the Serpentine, Max started back toward the Albert Memorial, his thoughts on the day ahead. There was a deal that he'd been nursing along for months, a deal that would deliver a bonus big enough to pay his infinitely patient tailor and, much more important, get the bank off his back. Occasional murmurs of discontent about the size of his overdraft had turned into letters couched in ever more menacing terms, underlining the fact that it had been a lean year so far. But it was going to change, Max felt sure. With a surge of optimism, he sprinted down Rutland Gate, shook himself like a dog on the doorstep, and let himself into the stucco-fronted Georgian house that a developer had gutted and converted into what he described as highly desirable executive pieds-à-terre.

The janitor of the building, a gnome of a man with a papery, subterranean complexion, looked up from his vacuum cleaner and clucked his tongue at the trail of wet footprints Max was leaving on the carpet.

"You'll be the death of me, you will. Look at that bleeding mud, all over my Axminster."

"Sorry, Bert. I keep forgetting to take off my shoes before I come in."

Bert sniffed. They had the same conversation every time it rained, and it always ended with the same question. Bert was a keen follower of the stock market, and longed for the chance to do a little insider trading. "Got any good tips for today, then?"

Max paused at the door of the elevator and put a finger to his lips before speaking. "Buy low. Sell high. Don't tell a soul."

Bert shook his head. Cheeky young git. But then, he was the only one in the building to remember Bert's birthday with a bottle of Scotch, and there was always a nicely filled envelope from him at Christmas. Not a bad lad, thought Bert, as he pushed the vacuum cleaner back and forth over the traces of wet mud.

Max's second-floor apartment was a work in prog- ress; or, as a decorator friend with his eye on a lucrative assignment had said, an unfinished symphony. At the moment, it was a place used for sleep and very little else. There were two good modern paintings leaning against the wall, a few pieces of spiky avant-garde furniture, a dusty and sorry-looking ficus, a battery of stereo and video equipment. Despite having been there for more than two years, Max had managed to avoid giving the apartment any personal touches, apart from a small pile of running...

 

"A delightful divertissement. . . .plenty of . . . local color, comic dalliances and a feastful of entertainment."

 

"Happily snide (and knowledgeable). . . . Wicked turns of phrase . . . . Quite agreeable, with an insouciant nose . . . perfect for summer reading."

 

"Mayle makes Provence sound like the most enticing place this side of paradise. Reservations, anyone?"

 

"Bubbly, light-hearted, good-natured. . . . [Mayle's] descriptions of food and country ambience. . . live up to his reputation."

 

"Fast-moving and fun. . . . a deliciously light-hearted tale. . . . The Provencal life never tasted so good."

 

A Good Year by Peter Mayle
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