by Celia Imrie
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me next that you prefer Beaujolais to Rioja,’ said the male from the trendy village outside Stoke-on-Trent.
‘Absolutely. In my opinion Rioja tastes just like saddle soap.’
‘You spent a lot of your youth licking saddles, did you, dear?’
‘When I had ponies, I loved my life. They were my happiest years,’ said the woman from the village near Stoke-on-Trent. ‘I should never have married a man who’s never even been to a gymkhana.’
‘I regularly have a bet on the horses. That’s as far as I am prepared to go. But, no, dear, I cannot see the delight of a weekend’s hacking.’
Theresa ran her mind back over the time Chloe had spent in Nice. That was when she had known her best. To Theresa, Chloe had always appeared to be the rip of the family. A bit of a tomboy. The leader of the pack.
But as children moved into the teenage years, Theresa realised that even a few months could make a massive difference in behaviour. When those hormones kicked in, everything turned on its head.
‘If you feel that way, perhaps you would have done better to marry a horse.’
‘I married the nearest thing,’ replied the wife. ‘I married an ass.’
Theresa was very happy to get off the plane.
She took the Tube into town and went straight down to her daughter’s house in Wimbledon.
A policewoman was with Imogen, who was now visibly distraught, quite unlike the stern head teacher Theresa knew.
As Theresa sat down Imogen sprang across the room and started putting on her coat.
‘You can find out anything else you need to know from my mother,’ she said, opening the front door.
The policewoman jumped up. ‘Mrs Firbank, I strongly advise you to stay here. Leave this to us.’
But the door slammed and Imogen was gone.
‘I realise that it feels useless staying put, Mrs, er . . .’
‘Simmonds,’ replied Theresa.
‘But it really is the best thing.’ Tapping her pencil on her notepad, the policewoman shook her head. ‘People always want to take action. But, for one thing, your daughter is in no fit state to drive.’
‘She’s not drunk?’
‘No,’ replied the policewoman. ‘But she is extremely agitated.’
‘Of course she is. Who wouldn’t be?’ Theresa decided to take control of the situation. She had seen enough TV shows to know what she should do. ‘But my daughter is a very methodical person. She is probably going to visit all of Chloe’s haunts. Meanwhile we shouldn’t waste any time. Shall we look around her bedroom?’
‘I think that would be very useful, Mrs Simmonds.’ The policewoman laid down her pad and put her hat back on. She followed Theresa up the stairs.
While rifling through her granddaughter’s things, Theresa felt guilty, but knew it had to be done.
‘Does the child have a mobile phone?’ the policewoman asked.
‘Everyone has been ringing her.’ Theresa moved towards the chest of drawers. ‘But it appears she has turned it off.’
She pulled open a drawer.
‘And here we have the solution.’ A pink mobile phone was lying there, nestled between Chloe’s T-shirts and underwear. ‘It is most unusual for a young girl to leave without her phone, wouldn’t you say, officer?’
The policewoman looked grim. ‘Unless she was abducted in the night, which seems highly unlikely without some evidence of a break-in, I would suspect that this means she has a second phone. Perhaps a pay-as-you-go. But I’m afraid that it does make things look rather more serious.’
Theresa sat on the bed. She knew what the officer was about to say.
‘Men who groom children frequently buy them these phones so that they can have more control over them. It would also indicate that some planning went into her disappearance.’ The policewoman bit her underlip. ‘Do you know if she has a passport?’
‘Yes. I live in France. I remember suggesting it, just in case they ever needed to come over to visit me without their mother. I have seen her passport.’
‘Then we must find out whether she took it with her,’ replied the policewoman. ‘Do you know where the household passports might be kept?’
Theresa shook her head. ‘I don’t live here, I’m afraid. When my daughter gets back . . .’
Theresa illuminated Chloe’s phone. She hoped there might be something of a clue left on it. She scrolled through a long list of missed calls, all from her mother and sisters. The recent texts were only about homework and other school-related activities.
The policewoman held out her hand. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take that. It’s more than likely that the child—’
‘Chloe.’
‘That Chloe would have deleted anything she felt scared her mother might see. Frequently, if a departure from the parental home is planned, the child can be very wary about leaving any clues. Luckily the police have ways of retrieving old and deleted files.’
Theresa handed over the phone.
The policewoman took it, made her excuses and left.
Left alone with time to think, Theresa felt rather giddy. It was all so dreadful. On top of the turmoil she realised she had eaten nothing since breakfast. It was now around 7.45 p.m. French time, 6.45 here. She went to the kitchen and fumbled around trying to find something which would instantly appease her rumbling stomach.
As she was spreading a slice of toast with butter, the front door opened and Lola and Cressida were ushered in by a self-styled bohemian type with flowing black hair.
‘Hello. I’m Frances, the girls’ drama teacher.’ Frances thrust forward a hand with multiple cheap rings and bangles. ‘Imogen asked me to bring them home as soon as my rehearsal session was over this evening. She said you’d be here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Dreadful business.’
Theresa excused herself. ‘Pardon me for eating, but I’ve had nothing since breakfast.’
Frances clapped her hands and the two girls stood to attention. ‘I presume you have homework?’
The girls nodded.
‘Then would you kindly take yourselves to your rooms and start on it, while I talk to your grandmother.’
Theresa was amazed to see their immediate obedient reaction to her command.
Frances lowered her voice. ‘We have all been taken by surprise over this. Of all the children in the school, I would never have expected Chloe to do something like this. She’s always been the reliable girl.’
Frances leaned against the countertop, took an electronic cigarette from her pocket and put it to her lips. ‘You don’t mind, do you? My nerves are shattered.’
‘Did Chloe have a close friend who might know anything?’
Frances took a long drag and puffed out a cloud of strawberry-scented vapour.
‘Alice. Poor child has been given the third degree by all and sundry throughout the day. Watching her, I fear that she is devastated by the whole business, but mainly by the fact that she really didn’t guess anything, and that Chloe, her supposed best friend, held it back from her.’
Theresa’s hopes deflated a little further.
‘And there are no boyfriends lurking?’
Frances chewed on the stem of the vape.
‘No. Last autumn when she played Juliet in the school play, I did wonder about the boy who played Romeo. She was quite intense in her reading of the role, and—’
‘And the boy, Romeo . . . What has he to say?’
‘I rather think that he was more interested in Mercutio and Tybalt than poor Chloe.’ Frances laughed. ‘But she was certainly gone on him.’
‘Is he still at school?’
‘Yes. And, like Alice, has been grilled all day long. He’s barely spent any time with her this term.’ Frances emitted another sickly-sweet puff of vapour. ‘We haven’t sat idly on our hands, you know.’
‘No one else from school has gone missing?’
‘Absolutely not. Look, I’m glad to share information with you, but pl
ease don’t imagine we have left any stone unturned. I think Imogen needed you here because of the other two kids. Poor things.’ She took another puff of her vape. The scent niggled Theresa with some long-forgotten memory, and suddenly she remembered what it was. A childhood ‘treat’. On Sunday mornings, her mother had opened a can of strawberries and laid a few on top of her bowl of cornflakes. Her recollection had them as something like limp, red, sticky surgical swabs. The drama teacher looked at her watch. ‘Oh God. Look at the time. Must rush. We’re rehearsing Treasure Island tonight. All that ship business and X marks the spot. It’s all go.’
When Frances had gone Theresa made her way upstairs to speak to Lola and Cressida. But she feared she would get no further than the teachers had done.
Once lunch was over, Sally gave herself an hour to refresh herself and then returned to the kitchen and started getting everything ready for the evening service. She did not want to be caught out. She spent the early afternoon becoming familiar with the kitchen and the arrangement of the store-cupboards so that the dinner would go extremely smoothly.
In the light of both Zoe’s and Theresa’s absences, Marcel had postponed his meeting with them to discuss his offer for the restaurant. He knew that their decision had to be unanimous and, without the presence of two pivotal partners, he didn’t want to waste his time. Sally thought there might be an ulterior motive lurking there too. He probably wanted to pounce in the style of agents selling timeshares. He would arrive, make an offer and give them only hours to accept or it would be withdrawn. That kind of thing. And for that ploy to work everyone with a vote had to be present.
Sally placed the last of the glass bowls of mandarin fool into the fridge, ready to be served. The potatoes were parboiled, ready to mash. And she had already chopped the little fat discs of panisse into the same shape as chips, ready to fry.
Through the dining-room door she could hear Benjamin squabbling with William. It was a comforting sound. There was a brief silence then somebody turned on the restaurant’s music, which was about as far from lift muzak as you could get. Most of the songs were French, and had a soft, lilting, relaxing feel, a bit like the music which was played in an upmarket hotel bar. Some Stéphane Grappelli, Hot Club de France, Charles Trenet, and even some modern songs by the likes of Emmanuel Moire and Julien Doré. Music was the signal that the doors would soon open to the public.
Sally swayed to the gentle rhythm as she started work on the breadcrumbs for tonight’s fish dish, a pan-fried merlu – or hake. She glanced at the clock: 6.50. Ten whole minutes till the restaurant opened, and the handful of customers booked this afternoon dribbled in.
She felt rather smug.
She was on top of this.
EIGHT
Theresa sensed that Lola and Cressida were unsettled in more than one way by Chloe’s disappearance.
Cressida sat forlorn on her bed, hugging her teddy bear and sobbing dramatically. Theresa wasn’t sure whether the tears were for missing Chloe or for herself.
Lola was more insouciant. It was obvious to Theresa that she had information which she was holding back.
‘You didn’t see her packing a case then?’ Theresa asked.
Lola shrugged and shook her head.
‘Do you know what she took with her?’
‘How should I know?’ Lola started picking at the duvet cover with paint-stained fingers. ‘She left while we were asleep.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Last night.’
Theresa glanced at Lola’s multicoloured fingers. ‘You were doing art this afternoon?’
‘It’s always art today.’ Lola let out a huge sigh which implied that Theresa was a fool. ‘Tomorrow afternoon it’s games.’
‘And you like games?’
‘No, I do not,’ Lola growled. ‘It’s cold and horrible, your legs go blue and you get covered in mud.’
‘I suppose the boys like games, though?’
Lola hunched her shoulders. ‘They like football.’
Theresa lobbed in a trick question: ‘Did Chloe’s boyfriend like football?’
Lola laughed and said ‘No’ in that querulous tone which implied that Theresa had made a ridiculous suggestion.
‘You don’t like her boyfriend?’
But Lola suddenly wised up to Theresa’s wiles and looked directly into her eyes to reply. ‘I don’t know anything about him,’ she said, defiant.
Theresa clapped her hands and rose from the end of the bed where she was perched. ‘Bath-time!’
‘It’s too early for a bath.’
‘Not when I’m in charge, Lola.’
Theresa went into the bathroom, turned on the radio and ran a bath, then marched Lola in. ‘I want you clean as a new pin. Fingernails included. After that I will cook you both a very lovely supper.’
‘Can we have chocolate tiffin?’
‘We’ll see.’
Once Lola was established in the bath, Theresa went back into the bedroom to quiz Cressida without the watchful and determined eye of her elder sister.
‘I bet you miss Chloe, don’t you?’ she asked, watching Cressida as she pulled out her pyjamas and laid them on the bed.
‘I want chocolate tiffin too,’ the youngest grandchild replied.
‘Of course. It’s important to share.’ Theresa picked up a book from Lola’s backpack and pretended to be interested in it. Idly turning the pages, focusing on them rather than her grandchild.
‘And do you like Chloe’s boyfriend?’
Cressida bit her lower lip and said nothing.
‘Does she meet him at school, or after school?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ replied Cressida. ‘He’s gone abroad.’
‘Abroad? Like me,’ said Theresa calmly, though her heart had started to thump. She recalled Chloe’s remark on the phone, asking about the South of France. ‘French Riviera,’ she said.
‘How do you know that?’ said Cressida. ‘No one is allowed to know.’
‘Chloe told me on the phone yesterday.’ Theresa dangled the bait. ‘He must be handsome, this young boy.’
Cressida looked at her warily. ‘You’re making a joke, aren’t you, Grandma?’
‘Of course. He’s not that handsome, is he?’
‘Of course not. He’s fat, and bald.’ Cressida pulled a face and added an afterthought. ‘And he’s not a young man. Actually he’s very old.’
Sally was in the middle of her worst nightmare. Or at least she wished it was only a nightmare, rather than real life.
Just when things were going swingingly in the kitchen, a huge gang of British tourists arrived demanding ‘nosh’. They were on a cruise, but, due to some technical disaster, the ship’s coach couldn’t come to pick them up for two more hours, so they had all decided to use the time here to take supper.
The main problem with this was that they wanted serving with snacks, and they wanted serving now.
William had politely explained that this was in fact not a café, but a restaurant, and that they could not just sit here for two hours sipping a coffee or a glass of wine. However, if they chose to remain, he would be delighted to serve them dinner.
They all stayed put.
A man in a shell suit stood up and shouted above the sound of the chatter that William should turn the music off; or better, replace it with some decent English music, like Rihanna. Everyone at his table cheered.
Drained of all colour, William snapped the music off, while Benjamin rolled his eyes and headed for the relative quiet of the kitchen.
‘Prepare yourself, Sally. Tonight is going to be hell,’ he warned her. ‘I suppose you don’t have any Valium, do you? I think it won’t be long before William is going to lose it.’
‘Why would you think that I have Valium?’
‘Because you’re an actress.’
Sally threw the spatula down on the countertop.
‘What a ruddy assumption! Don’t you actually think that if I had Valium I wouldn’t have a
lready taken five this evening?’
‘You look as though you have. You seem so much calmer in here than you did after that incident with the man on the boat.’
William arrived and stood behind Benjamin’s shoulder.
‘They all want the fish and chips Niçoise. That’s twenty. Twenty fish and chips Niçoise. I tell you, Sally, it’s like a horror story out there. I don’t think that in all the years I’ve lived here I have seen so many ugly outfits in one room.’ He pulled both hands back through his sleeked hair, then slammed his palms down on to the serving surface with a deep sigh. ‘I need a Valium.’
‘Told you!’ Benjamin gave a little pout.
The sound of the bell, indicating new arrivals, summoned William back to the dining room.
Sally and Benjamin gave him just enough time to get out of earshot before bursting into laughter.
‘Where’s Carol?’ asked Sally, wiping a tear away.
‘Delivering to one of our regulars who’s down with la grippe or les hémorroïdes or something equally unsavoury.’
They both grabbed the countertop and rocked with silent hysteria.
‘Oh lord, it’s like being at school or something. Why are we laughing?’
Benjamin shrugged. ‘Better than wringing our hands and sobbing, I suppose.’ He sniffed and turned away.
‘Benjamin! Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Back into the restaurant from hell.’
‘No, no. I need you in here.’ Sally picked up a large, sharp knife.
Benjamin held up his hands in supplication. ‘Be gentle with me!’
‘Well, then, darling, roll up your sleeves and start slicing the panisse, while I get on with breading the fish.’
William appeared again, looking even more tightly wound up than the last time.
