Chantal rested her finger on a touch screen and watched the heavy drapes close across the vast presidential suite window frontage, blocking out the musical noise and prying eyes from the quays. Photo happy tourists snapping everything that moved with flashing high powered smartphones also disappeared behind the fabric’s heavy wall. Angelina had reluctantly returned to her bed after Doctor Bonnet gave her a shot of medication and now he was talking to her in a semiconscious state. Chantal stood at the doorway and focused momentarily on Madame Trudeau’s prostate figure, listening to the doctor’s droning monotone speaking into Madame’s subconscious mind and trying to repair the damage to her memory through hypnotherapy. Chantal began to feel weary and realised she too was succumbing, lulled by the doctor’s voice, deciding to join Clayton, busy watching an international soccer match on the lounge room’s sprawling television monitor.
“Madame okay?” Clayton’s middle aged baritone voice drifted across the room but his eyes never left the screen.
“Yep, Doctor Bonnet’s doing therapy with her now,” Chantal offered tiredly.
“What do you think about the doc’s idea of taking her outdoors tomorrow?”
Chantal stared at the mountain occupying the next seat and pondered Madame’s condition with concern. “Personally, I don’t think it’s such a good idea!”
Clayton’s eyes flickered from the screen to Chantal’s and back to the screen as a strategic play came to a bungled and crashing end, causing grief to the enthralled fans. Clayton made no secret of his displeasure either, in a disgruntled moan and gritted teeth. Now that the strategy had been officially relabelled a contentious foul, he tore his eyes from the screen and turned slowly to meet the young woman’s gaze, answering her statement as if he’d been listening all along. “Why not? It would be good for her to get out of here. Plus it would give us something to do, too.”
“What did you have in mind, oh great bored one?! Perhaps traditional Suisse folk trouser wrestling!” a smirk crossed Chantal’s face, teasing Clayton with her absurdity.
“Now there’s a thought, but I think you’d win.” He casually picked up a tourist magazine and threw it across to the table in front of Chantal, landing open at a chosen page. “I like the look of this place, Les Rochers de Naye. It means the Snowy Rocks and its peak overlooks Montreux. Take a look at the pictures. Aren’t they stunning? Apparently the air is fresh, clean and cold and best of all it wouldn’t be too strenuous for Madame and she could rest all the way.”
Taking a contemptuous sideways glance at her rival, Chantal grabbed up the glossy magazine and stared in disbelief at the open page. “And how do we get there?!”
“Dah...! Cog Railway, like everyone else! It goes right to the door and we can catch it from platform eight here at La Gare de Montreux, Montreux’s transit station.”
Chantal threw the magazine to the tabletop, folded her arms across her chest and flopped her back against the leather seat, searching her thoughts for a mature answer to Clayton’s ridiculously childish suggestion, finally verbalising the only objection she could think of. “I don’t think Monsieur Trudeau would be too happy if you intend for Madame to rub shoulders with noisy tourists, especially if she isn’t feeling very well.”
Clayton sensed the rivalry in Chantal’s only objection and with a distracted glance back at the television monitor, he muttered, “Well, book out the whole train. That’s what Monsieur would do! Besides, a walk in the Alps would do Madame the world of good.”
Chantal huffed, knowing it would fall to her to arrange the adventure. Anyway, she conceded to herself, my objection was a valid complaint; and then another mischievous thought bent on revenge casually escaped her lips. “Sometimes I get a little suspicious of your motives around her, Clayton!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Clayton immediately averted his eyes from the soccer match. Chantal had touched a nerve and she knew it.
“Oh, never mind!” she was enjoying having the big teaser on the back foot for a change. “I’ll get the hotel reception desk to... book the whole train!” Chantal’s index finger and middle finger of both hands raised beside her head and made animated bunny ears, emphasising her irritation.
“Atta girl! I knew there was more inside that space between your ears other than Gruyère cheese.”
Clayton had to duck the magazine as it flew across the room, slammed into the wall and fluttered helplessly to the floor, skimming his head and missing by millimetres. Distracted by the interchange, the heavily muted sounds of a roaring crowd floated across the room from the television monitor. He’d neglected a crucial play and missed the chance to coach his team through the foul up.
*~*~*~*
The hotel desk had been efficient as usual when a request came from the presidential suite. They were familiar with ridiculous demands emanating from heavily pampered wealthy people, and to book out a complete cog railway carriage for personal use was a simple task to complete, but gave the railway schedulers a boorish headache. The game was simple: every time the request was denied, another inflated offer took the place of the previous until the pain was offset by a soothing price tag reflecting the cost and an enjoyable profit for the privately owned cog railway.
Chantal had been up before the sun. Madame’s breakfast had already arrived via room service, and a small leather carry bag had been packed for Madame’s comfort and needs for the day. As Chantal gently woke Madame from a deep sleep and placed her breakfast on her lap, Madame broke out in a broad smile and then a tender yawn.
“Mmm, I had a good sleep and I feel wonderful, Chantal. It seems as if my world makes sense again and I’m sorry if I have been a bit difficult lately.”
Taken aback by Madame Trudeau’s confession, Chantal quickly adapted to this new angle. “Apology accepted, Madame, but you are not difficult by any means and today we are taking a little outing into the Alps. It was Clayton’s idea and we hope you will enjoy it.”
“Isn’t he a dear man? Remind me to speak to Armon about raising his salary.”
A look of horror broke out across Chantal’s face, but she quickly drew it back into a pleasantly professional and detached expression. It didn’t seem Clayton could do anything wrong in Madame’s sight and even though she had done the organising, Clayton got the credit.
“Where are we going, Chantal?” Madame asked.
“Les Rochers de Naye, Madame, and I believe they had a rare summer snowfall last night on the peak in honour of your visit.”
A gentle knock at the suite door beckoned Chantal away from Madame’s cheerful chatter and she excused herself to answer the enquirer. Judging by the time, Chantal expected to see Clayton’s towering blue-suited form loitering at the doorway. She wasn’t disappointed. With Madame’s glowing affirmation still rankling in her mind, Chantal huffed and turned away from the access, leaving Clayton to close the door while she returned to Madame’s bedroom and prepared to shower and dress her charge.
Clayton’s gaze set respectfully on the floor as he passed the open bedroom, concentrating on the path into the lounge room. Yet as he did, he heard his name being called.
“Clayton?!”
The blue-suited mountain turned to answer the caller and tentatively stood at the bedroom door, contemplating the smiling face and impish eyes gazing from the confines of her bed. “Yes, Madame?” Clayton returned her beckon with a respectful, fond expression.
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness and for caring for me when I was lost and confused.”
Chantal could see Clayton struggling to confine the adoration toward his first lady. The unusual flush of embarrassment and loss for words was so unlike Clayton’s annoying persona in Chantal’s company, yet completely evident in Madame’s.
Clayton bowed respectfully at the door and whispered, “It is a pleasure to serve you, Madame.”
Then with a wave of her hand, Chantal interrupted the scene, forcing Clayton away from the bedroom access and shutting the door gruffly in his face, preparin
g Madame for her day out.
Clayton relaxed his huge frame in the leather lounge chair and gazed blankly through the rambling suite windows, a fire of emotion running through his veins and the stunning smiling features of Madame replaying in his mind. A piece of paper laying on the coffee table caught his attention and he bent to read the note. It was from Doctor Bonnet.
Chantal, please be aware the drugs Madame has been given to help her condition may cause drowsiness. She will need to eat frequently and rest often; don’t be alarmed if she wants to sleep or catnap; this is all a side effect. She should understand more of her surrounds and be more able to grasp her past. If she lapses back into a fantasy world, return her immediately to her accommodation and give me a call. My number is below. Enjoy the outing... Doctor Bonnet.
Clayton held the note in his hand, staring at the words and then with a huff threw the note back to the tabletop.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 42
A white Rolls-Royce Phantom waited patiently at the front door to the Hôtel Fairmont Le Montreux Palace, sparkling in the early morning sun with its interior scented heavily with the freshness of brand new leather. Once Clayton had established that Madame would be resident in Montreux for the near future, he’d returned the black Phantom to the Hôtel d’Angleterre in Geneva and took possession instead of the Hôtel Fairmont’s Rolls-Royce Ghost. Unimpressed with the lacklustre interior of the cheaper luxury vehicle for Madame’s comfort and with the blessing of his employer, he’d scouted all over Switzerland looking for a suitably luxurious Phantom. Finding the only available contender to be an occupant of a luxury vehicle dealership, he’d used the gold credit card entrusted to him by Monsieur Trudeau to meet Madame’s expenses and casually handed over 350,000 Swiss francs, immediately taking possession of the brand new vehicle. Now assured Madame’s comfort would not be compromised, Clayton bristled with eagerness and pride waiting to show his first lady her new purchase.
The master bedroom doors crashed open, startling Clayton from his thoughts. The blue-suited giant stumbled in an effort to rise from his position seated in the lounge room, forcing himself to avert his stunned stare as Madame’s graceful presence pirouetted into the hall.
“What do you think, Clayton? My husband has good taste, yes?” Angelina’s figure turned a full circle, showing off a very expensive but attractive knee-length grey skirt and long sleeved jacket with a black veiled fascinator tilted slightly across her long dark hair, setting her dark eyes aglow and partially obscuring the shapely lines of her pretty face with its black netting. Then clinching the stylish parade with elegant, shiny black stilettos.
“Wow...!” Clayton grasped at the words, trying to drag them back but it was too late and he knew if Madame Trudeau took offence, he would be dismissed immediately. “I... I mean, it’s very dignified, Madame, and it suits you very well.”
A shocked expression crossed Chantal’s face, immediately flushing red and holding her breath waiting, wondering whether Madame would take umbrage at the big buffoon’s slip up. But Angelina didn’t seem to be offended and only giggled, smiling at the embarrassed appreciation, trying to think of the last time she’d felt truly feminine and had been noticed by a handsome man, but her memory remained blank.
Relieved by Madame Trudeau’s apparent lack of concern, Clayton ventured another risky suggestion, “It isn’t any of my business, Madame, but walking around on uneven alpine paths and the chill of mountain air might not be conducive to your present attire.”
Now it was Chantal’s turn to claw off the ravages of a perceived offence at the big man’s stumbling. “I have it all under control, Clayton!” Chantal growled. “Madame has a mountaintop outfit too, packed in her carry bag. Men don’t seem to understand that a lady needs to feel beautiful and appreciated wherever she goes.”
“My apologies,” Clayton bowed slightly and tried to back out of his faux pas, although remaining firm in his conviction. “I just didn’t want Madame to be uncomfortable, that’s all.”
“Stop fighting over me, you two! I will let you know if I am uncomfortable! Now, shall we go? I am eager to experience your surprise destination.”
Clayton bounded for the door and smartly drew the obstruction fully open, proudly watching his first lady pass him by and distinguishing the foyer with her presence, immediately drawing admiring accolades from the hotel’s reception staff. Dressed in an immaculately presented corporate uniform, Chantal followed Madame. However, Clayton’s eyes had mindlessly followed Madame’s graceful walk and he blocked the exit partially with his big frame. As she attempted to squeeze around Clayton’s gaping stare, Chantal smirked and then stole a glance at Madame who seemed to be distracted, and then quickly poked her tongue out at Clayton. Clayton made a swipe for the itinerant tongue with his big hand but Chantal was too quick.
*~*~*~*
Regally situated in the back seat of the stately limousine, Madame affirmed Clayton’s purchase with satisfied enthusiasm, leaving her minder beaming. Clayton turned the purring luxury motor vehicle onto the Grand’ Rue and accelerated, heading south, then reaching the Rue de la Gare he turned left until the vehicle reached a roundabout and turned right again. Following the Avenue des Alpes until the Rolls-Royce slowed and finally came to a stop in front of the Gare de Montreux, Montreux’s transit train station.
A small party of professionally dressed people idled in the slender off-street car park as if waiting for a celebrity and when the elegant Phantom ambled onto the scene, the group divided, revealing a motorcycle gendarme waving Clayton into a reserved parking space. Clayton brought the vehicle to a stop and silenced the engine with a tap of his finger to a touch pad and then bounded out of his seat, forcing his way through the gawking crowd and opened Madame’s door. As Angelina stepped to the pavement, the crowd gasped and murmured at her immaculately graceful presence.
“Madame Trudeau! Welcome to our humble business. My name is Pierre Beauparlant and I am president of the Montreux-Glion-Rochers de Naye railway, but we prefer simply MGN and its a lot quicker to pronounce, don’t you think?” Beauparlant’s diatribe finally took a breath, leaving a vacuous void in the surrounding air. Reaching in, he took Madame’s hand in a gentle grasp and eagerly shook it and then after the formal greeting, the spiralling vortex exploded and the void closed in like a thunderclap with Beauparlant’s monotone continuing unchecked.
“It is a great honour for our company to have such a generous benefactor as your husband, Monsieur Armon Trudeau watching and guiding our steps. When we were advised by the hotel that none other than Madame Trudeau herself was about to experience the beauty and awe of our service, we removed all the barriers and took the liberty of equipping your personal train transport for the day with a private steward and food service. It was also drawn to my attention that Madame is regrettably, unwell so we have made arrangements with the Grand Hôtel at the peak to offer their best room for Madame’s convenience and required rest. Also, we have acquired a wheelchair for your service, allowing you to freely move about Montreux Gare’s underpass without taxing your strength. Furthermore, a small motorised electric vehicle will travel with your train in the luggage carriage and be at your disposal upon reaching the mountain peak.”
Beauparlant finally took a breath and with as much diplomacy as Madame could muster, she interrupted the kind but incessant chortling. “I am grateful that you have paid so much attention to my comfort, Monsieur Beauparlant, but I am not an invalid and as you can see I have my very capable staff surrounding me, adept to cater to my every need. It is my wish to see Les Rochers de Naye as everyone else sees it and I am determined to walk under my own strength through your fascinating underground access and experience the station’s full potential. If, however, I require assistance, Clayton’s gentle manner is well practised with my illness and is more than capable of dealing with my needs.”
Clayton’s shoulders pulled back and his chest swelled with pride listening to Madame’s speech. Right then, he could?
??ve attempted to hold back the tide for his first lady.
Accompanied by the official entourage, Madame Trudeau, closely flanked by Clayton to one side and Chantal on the other, rested her hand around Chantal’s arm for support. Her lady-in-waiting guided her clacking stilettoed steps through the well appointed and tidy underground labyrinth below the station’s tracks and finally weaving a course to platform eight and their waiting train.
Among the intriguing sounds of the busy station, a traditionally dressed Suisse man positioned close by coaxed the melodic tones of a Cor des Alpes and drew Madame’s delighted attention to the crafted long spruce alpine horn. Enthralled by the show and intently listening to the harrowing and soulful pitch, she showed her appreciation with a polite patter as the expert piper completed his short performance.
Diverting her attention, a formally dressed and uniformed steward, short in stature but big on bravado, met the group at the train door and welcomed the dignitary aboard. Glancing sideways and catching the stern and scrutinising eye of Pierre Beauparlant, the aging steward reverently and with emphasised pomp guided Madame to her seat. “My name is Borsch, Madame, and this seat will offer the best view. If I can be of service at any stage, please gesture.”
Madame elegantly climbed into the spacious seat just behind the driver and nodded her thanks.
Turning his attention to Chantal and Clayton, the steward’s congenial exterior suddenly evaporated. “Please take any seat, but keep your distance from her ladyship. I... will be attending to her needs aboard this carriage!”
Shocked at the curt display of assertiveness, Madame’s two staff members glanced at each other dumbfounded. Even Chantal obeyed the austere elderly steward and obediently took a seat two rows behind Madame.