by Celia Imrie
She quickly unlocked, snatched the orange photo album from the shelf and flipped though, looking for the photo. After a few minutes she gave up, shoved the book into a string shopping bag and left for work.
The kitchen was in chaos. Sally had dropped off all the stuff on the shopping list last night, but no one had put it away, then the vegetable man had stacked boxes of fruit and veg on top of the supermarket bags. This meant that when Cyril arrived with the meat delivery, there was simply nowhere for him to rest his box.
Carol and William arrived in time to help move things about.
Cyril grumpily shoved past them, and tried to get the fridge door open using his elbow. Plump and rosy-cheeked, Cyril had blond hair, which was thinning out, leaving a balding circle. Theresa noted that it was getting worse by the week.
‘Just stop, Cyril!’ Theresa shouted. She could see that his efforts were annoying everyone else. ‘Don’t be so stupid. Wait by the door and I will tell you when to come in.’
In a sulk now, Cyril gave a shrug and walked to the back door, where he stood, barely disguising his irritation.
Carol stacked boxes to one side while William traipsed up and down the stairs to the cellar with the dry goods and tins.
Then, amid this confusion, Marcel wandered in through the back door, pushing past Cyril, saying that he needed to speak to them all.
‘Oh, please, Marcel,’ cried Theresa. ‘One minute. It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here. Just go through, darling.’ Marcel clambered through the mess of boxes, bags and packaging strewn on the kitchen floor and sat down in the dining room.
Theresa then called Cyril inside.
‘Thank you so much, my dear Cyril.’ She took his box and dismissed him quickly. ‘As you can see, today, I’m afraid, I have no time to chat.’
She kissed him on both cheeks, in the usual French manner, and waved him goodbye.
Tying her apron on, Theresa shoved the photo album under her arm and came through to the dining room. The others were gathered round the tables, waiting to hear what Marcel had to say.
Sally lingered near the front door with Benjamin.
Theresa could see that they all looked very tired. Although it was morning, she herself was exhausted.
What would they all look like if it went on for months?
‘My friends,’ Marcel addressed them in French. ‘I know you are all suffering. I am aware, thanks to Theresa, of the status of events, all out of our control, which have come to pass. I too have had my own problems. And I am here to suggest a solution, which I hope will suit us all. I realise you will need time to digest my offer, but I make it in good faith.’
Theresa could see that Marcel had caught William’s and Carol’s attention, even if Sally and Benjamin were still huddled together giggling about something else.
‘I wish to buy you. Everything. La Mosaïque, the premises, the equipment, the goodwill.’
Theresa gasped. ‘You don’t mean it?’
Marcel’s surprise suggestion even made Benjamin and Sally sit up.
‘First, I will need to see the accounts, discuss them with my accountant, and if you agree in principle then we will discuss the price.’
He stood, smiling encouragingly. He placed his chair carefully into the table, taking care not to scrape along the mosaic.
‘Can you bring round the paperwork, William, and leave it with me. Give me forty-eight hours to go through everything and we can meet in here same time the day after tomorrow. Yes?’
Everyone echoed his yes.
It was Theresa who reminded them that, before deciding on anything, they were obliged to let Zoe take part in the vote, and that Zoe was off in Switzerland on one of her ‘mini-breaks’, which they all knew were a few days under the knife or being injected with sheep’s placentas, under the guidance of some famed surgeon who promised her eternal youth.
But Marcel must remember that any decision on behalf of La Mosaïque had to be unanimous, and that a majority would be against the terms of their original contract.
He said he understood and moved towards the front door.
Theresa put out a hand to touch him as he passed. ‘Thank you, dear Marcel.’
When he had gone, the buzz in the room was palpable.
‘It will save us so much misery,’ said William. ‘And he’s right. It would be in all our best interests. After all, we’re all planning to stay on in Bellevue-sur-Mer, so we might as well be on friendly terms with the local eatery!’
Aware that she needed to catch the last post, Theresa busily flipped through the orange album, skipping past old photos of her wedding and those of Imogen as a teenager, and extracted the picture of the famous wall in Vieille Ville, Nice, in which she and her granddaughters posed in front of the bas-relief of Catherine Ségurane. She took an envelope from the welcome desk, addressed it to Lola and inserted a brief note, before sealing it. Explaining to the others that she would be back in a matter of minutes, she ran out to the postbox.
As she trotted past the brasserie, she could see Marcel inside talking earnestly with a small group of people.
She had just popped the envelope into the box when the postwoman’s van drew up. Theresa felt happy that the photo was on its way home.
The grandkids had once been a bit of a problem for her, but the magic of this town had changed all that. They had come over here, and learned that she was not the enemy.
She was now so fond of them, and clearly they of her.
As she passed the brasserie for the second time, Theresa gave Marcel a wave and he winked and mimed a kiss in her direction. She blew him a kiss in return, using both hands.
Cyril’s van pulled away.
In the dining room of La Mosaïque, William was on the phone to Zoe. Even from as far as the kitchen doorway, she could hear Zoe’s excited ‘yes’.
Theresa had barely settled in the kitchen when her mobile phone rang. She glanced down to see that it was Imogen on the line.
She knew she shouldn’t when she was already running late, but she decided to take the call. Squeezing the phone between her neck and cheek, she started to scrub some new potatoes.
‘Hello, darling. How lovely to hear from—’
But Imogen immediately cut her off.
‘She’s gone. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay away from work. But someone has to be here in case she comes home.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Chloe. Chloe has gone missing.’
A chill ran though Theresa.
‘Since when?’
‘We don’t know. She wasn’t here this morning when I went to get them all up.’
‘Did the others see anything?’
‘No. They last saw her when they all went to bed. So she could have gone at any time between nine last night and now.’
Theresa looked at the wall clock. Eleven-thirty.
‘She’s not at school?’
‘No.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘Of course I have, Mother. I’m not a fool.’
‘Might she be with friends?’
‘No.’ Imogen let out a sob. ‘I’ve phoned all her friends. They’re all at school.’
‘Her father?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s off travelling somewhere with that bloody au pair of his.’
In the ensuing silence, Theresa’s mind raced through possibilities.
Imogen sobbed again and said, ‘I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I know it’s hard for you . . .’ Imogen’s voice was feeble with crying. ‘But could you come home, Mum? Please?’
Theresa panicked. She knew she should be doing something, but what?
‘I’m at work now – at school,’ continued Imogen. ‘But really I should be at home. Or in both places at once, but I can’t.’
Theresa knew she must go back to London.
But how could she
break it to the others at La Mosaïque? How could she leave them all now, when everything here was at such a crisis point?
But for Theresa there was no choice.
While preparing the lunch, she made a quick check on flights to London. There was one with an available seat, which flew out of Nice in three hours. With security, and check-in, that meant she would have to leave here within the hour.
She ordered a cab to come to the restaurant in forty minutes and take her straight to the airport.
Throwing herself round the kitchen, slamming dishes into the oven, preparing rows of desserts and putting them into the fridge, Theresa tried to think of ways she could prime the others before her departure. She would try to do as much as she could now, working on the basis of the covers for an average lunch service.
Carol ran in with an order for a strange little man in the corner who had changed his mind, and now wanted a different main dish. Theresa realised she should have tried to tell Carol, then and there, that she was leaving. But instead, she presented the new dish, saying nothing.
She knew Carol would want her to stay and also knew that she could brook no argument, or waste time while the others tried to persuade her.
So Theresa made up her mind that she would break it to the others only as she walked out of the door, for then it would be too late, and she didn’t want to deal with their sympathy and suggestions.
She was certain they could manage without her. (And although actually she doubted the truth of that, she tried to suppress all her qualms on this subject.)
Because Theresa knew that she really had no choice.
She had to go to her family.
SEVEN
When Sally had presented the fuel bill for the boat’s trip to Villefranche and back, Carol had seen her point. This meant that, unless a massive order came in for a ship moored nearby, the Shore-to-Ship project was effectively shelved. If anyone phoned with a small order, Carol would simply tell them that they had just missed the boat, literally.
But Sally was still on for picking up and making deliveries in the van.
As she unfastened her seat belt, back from a mid-morning early-lunch delivery, she watched the paltry gang of diners shuffling into La Mosaïque and taking their seats. They had the air of holidaymakers, French ones today, perhaps from Paris or the north.
Following them inside, she fiddled with her phone, all the while thinking about her bizarre meetings with Eggy and Phoo. She couldn’t believe that people held on to those petty grievances for so long. But then she too was still nurturing the pain from the intimidation they had inflicted, and still was, deep inside, rather frightened of them, as though she was a mere child and they were serious adults. Those two chance encounters had left her feeling pretty nervous about driving the van around. She certainly did not want to bump into them a third time.
Just as the first orders started being served, Theresa arrived in the dining room and made her startling announcement, telling the whole group that she was leaving, with immediate effect, and that she did not know when she would return. Despite her initial shock on Theresa’s behalf, Sally felt sure that the fourteen-year-old she had met last year would be off somewhere having a laugh with her friends, not imagining how this might scare her family. While Theresa was away, Sally would be secretly pleased to take her place, thereby retiring from the world of deliveries to hide in the kitchen. This would enable her to remain out of sight while still making her contribution to the team.
Thus, with no qualms, she volunteered. Carol, she suggested, could take on the deliveries, if and when they came, and in the meantime, at this low level of custom, the dining room and welcome desk could be easily served by William and Benjamin.
Having seen Theresa into the waiting cab, Sally rushed through into the kitchen, threw on an apron and set to work. Theresa had done most of the tricky business. All that was left to Sally was to put things into and take them out of the oven. She also had to whip up the odd thing on the stove-top. But Sally loved cooking, so all was well.
A large orange book, a photo album, was taking up most of the counter to one side of the sink, so Sally stowed it next to the delivery and order folders, and some small trays which stood vertically in a side cubbyhole under the counter, near the back door.
She swirled pureed beetroot on to warm empty plates, ready for the pies, heating up in the oven and almost ready.
As she found her way around Theresa’s kitchen, Sally felt as though she was prying into someone else’s world.
Poor Theresa. She hoped all would work out well, and the little girl would turn up soon. Children could be such a worry, especially if they were secretive or stubborn. Sally had had some close moments with her own two. But hopefully Chloe would be found soon; with any luck before Theresa even landed at Heathrow.
Sally pulled the tray of pies from the oven and swept it round, but her cloth caught the edge of a small glass, spilling slightly foetid water all over the countertop. The glass swirled round, then rolled across the counter and down on to the terracotta floor, where it smashed into pieces.
Flicking the broken glass out of the way, Sally briskly plated up the pies. It was more important that they should be served piping hot than cleaning up the mess on the floor. After William arrived and whisked them through to the dining room, Sally got out the dustpan and brush and knelt to sweep up the glass fragments.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you . . .’
Sally jumped with surprise.
She turned to face Marcel who had sneaked in through the back.
‘I’m just returning the account books. I’ll come again during the break. Theresa not here?’
Benjamin was at the dining-room door calling for three cheese platters.
‘No. She’s not.’ Sally wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘One minute, Benjamin.’
‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Marcel threw up his hands. ‘I’ll see you later.’
For heaven’s sake! The man worked in the restaurant trade. What was he thinking about, coming here at the height of the lunch service?
Sally wondered if it wasn’t to get a glimpse of how things were going in the kitchen before he made his offer. She smiled. Of course in most restaurants the ‘height of service’ would be rather more than eight covers – which was all she was coping with. But, still, for Sally, taking over from Theresa like this, unprepared, even catering for a few tables was something of a baptism by fire.
Sally washed her hands and got back to work, cutting tranches of cheese, snipping small branchlets from a bunch of grapes and arranging them on plates.
She hoped that she would find tonight easier. Once she felt she was in control of her own kitchen, and her own work, rather than finishing off someone else’s, and feeling uncomfortable in their space, it had to be easier.
Didn’t it?
As Sally moved across the kitchen to return the cheeses to the appropriate shelf, her foot went sliding and she found herself hurtling towards the door, then the floor. Without thinking, she grabbed on to the hot cooker-top to steady herself. She landed on the tiles on all fours, one hand burnt.
‘Damnation.’ She looked down to find that the cause of the slip was the remnants of a red rose which had fallen with the glass. Where had that been hiding? She threw the wretched thing into the bin, and held her palm under the cold tap for a few moments to ameliorate the pain.
The timer pinged, alerting her to another batch of pies due to come out of the oven. She pulled an oven glove over her sore hand and grasped the hot baking tray, only to find once more that, due to the awaiting cheese plates and the restaurant’s books, which Marcel had thoughtlessly laid on the other counter, there was nowhere to put it down. Balancing the tray on the edge of the sink, with her other hand Sally chucked the books down into the cubbyhole under the counter.
All would be well. She would master this kitchen.
This afternoon was a one-off.
It had to be.
Theresa spent hou
rs going through security. Luckily she had her passport, which she tended to keep in her handbag in case she ever fancied going across to Italy, as nowadays there were random checks on the trains. Plus, of course, if you ever wanted to enter the casino at Monte Carlo, it was necessary to take a passport.
As her little win there had been the final deciding factor on her move to Bellevue-sur-Mer, the Garnier Casino had become rather a totem in her life.
But as she had not planned on leaving the country this morning, she only had her handbag with her, which should have made things easier. It did not. For naturally it was full of things which are forbidden in carry-on luggage.
As the security official dumped Theresa’s bottle of very expensive perfume into the bin, he gave her a bright smile. Her favourite penknife, a pair of nail scissors and a box of matches, which she always kept with her in case the cooker burners failed to ignite, followed the perfume. She was then taken aside and interrogated for some time regarding why she would be travelling today without anything but a handbag, especially as she had no return flight booked. What was she running from?
She was eventually let through and on to the flight, where her thoughts were concentrated on the trouble which waited ahead in London.
She ran through many ideas of how to continue the search for Chloe. It seemed clear to her, from what she knew of both Imogen and Chloe herself, that the most likely scenario was a secret boyfriend.
Despite the loud and constant chatter of a couple seated beside her, Theresa’s thoughts managed to remain fairly focused. She inadvertently learned an awful lot about them. They lived in a chi-chi village outside Stoke-on-Trent. They disagreed violently about whether red or rosé wine was superior, and spent much of the two-hour flight squabbling about that and other trivia.
Theresa realised that she had no clues about where Chloe might have gone because she always thought of her as a child rather than a person. She knew about all those things which were associated with childhood: the exams Chloe had passed and was due to sit, her grades, her hobbies and how she had excelled in the annual school play. But she knew nothing of Chloe’s real desires or those inner flames which every human kept burning, leading them hopefully towards some kind of better tomorrow. She recalled her own childhood, and realised that she could still remember yearnings she had had when she was only six. So, as Chloe was fifteen, Theresa knew that the best clue to finding her would be to search out these private desires.
