There's been a flurry of activity over the last week. While tout le monde has been in London, I chose, rather perversely, to take a long weekend in Paris. Not perhaps the most tactical moment to leave my office - in the middle of what one of my mildly pretentious friends describes as "the season". It may have been just a day and a half, but hours can be crucial, as the richer people are, the more impetuous they tend to be. Thankfully, not only was the new member of the team in place but with suitable fanfare, a dramatic entrance, and a week that soared to an appropriate crescendo ... The Thesp returned.
He appeared on Monday morning at 10:30am - I had forgotten he wasn't a morning person. He walked in, paused, whipped his summer linen scarf around his neck and proclaimed "Dear Boy", his arms outstretched.
"Quentin," I replied, then realised that I was being signalled to hug him. I obliged.
"It is so good to see you," he said, releasing me and holding me at arm's-length to examine my face. "You're sad, of course you are," and before I could respond I was locked into a firmer hug.
The new member of the team was observing this with some surprise.
"Quentin, you must meet X," I said.
"X?" Quentin echoed, looking round the room without acknowledging him.
"Quentin," I prompted, indicating where X was sitting while it dawned on me that it was Quentin's former desk.
"Hello," X said, polite as always.
"Ah, the folly of youth, such a thing to cherish," was The Thesp's response. And so the day and week continued in the same vein.
The Thesp was full of his adventures in Rome and the enchanting flirtations he had enjoyed with beautiful contessas.
"But I make a promise to you," he offered, "I will never fall in love with a married woman again. I've learnt from La Barracuda that they'll never leave their husbands for a penniless artisan, however great the love."
"At a certain point, comfort becomes important," was all I could offer by way of consolation. I was hoping he'd get the message: start finding and selling properties with the same vigour that he otherwise reserves for his doomed love affairs.
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FOLLOW USΑκολουθήστε τη σελίδα του Euro2day.gr στο LinkedinI divvied up our clients, gave The Thesp and "The Interloper" (as the The Thesp has christened him) a list of the properties they were to show, then sped to the Eurostar, arriving 15 minutes before departure and sailing through to my seat. A late night in Paris with friends, followed by an exquisite breakfast (suitably decadent) at the Hotel Daniel while reading this paper was followed by a day of what my godmother describes as anthropology and others describe as cafe life - walking, stopping for a cafe and observing the Parisiens in their milieu.
. . .
Back in London, my staff were, I hoped, showing our three prime properties to clients: to the Russians, who appear to be back in the market; to the French, who still find British tax laws lenient compared with their own; to the citizens of the Gulf States, awash with oil money and a wish to be within walking distance of both Harvey Nichols and The Berkeley; and to the Americans, brought to London by work or love. Meanwhile, I was spending the night at Versailles, a place I hadn't been since childhood. The following morning, my travelling companion and I found ourselves awake at dawn, so we walked through the park as the mist rose from the water. Whether it brought a revolution to France or not, it's a testament to scope, ambition, folly (as The Thesp might say), absolutism and sheer exuberance. The high baroque of the palace is too much for me but the grounds, from the grand and formal to the intimate spaces and whimsical fantasy of Marie Antoinette's hameau, are something remarkable. It made me think of my oligarch clients and their aspirations to own the best yacht, the largest mansion in Belgravia, the biggest plot in Cap Ferrat. They all seemed pretty humble in contrast to Louis XIV.
As dawn turned to morning and our walk stretched from one hour to three, I had a call from The Thesp:
"My friend ... The Interloper ... let him turn to triathlons, or whatever the young do. There's a lack of savoir-faire there, of finesse."
Really, I wondered. Must this be? Why not let him stay and eat croissants until his heart's content, as long as he does a good job.
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