by Celia Imrie
She thought she heard the word ‘shit’.
She sat up and waited. No doubt there would be another attempt.
Almost immediately the phone rang. She snatched the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘So sorry, Sally, it’s Theresa. I know it’s an unholy hour but there is a possibility that my granddaughter is heading towards Bellevue, with some weird, fat, old, bald bloke. I just need to know if you might keep an eye on the front door of the flat. Just in case . . . You know.’
‘Why couldn’t this wait for a normal time? I know it’s terrible and everything but for heaven’s sake, Theresa, I’m hardly likely to see him in the middle of the night.’
‘Sorry, Sally. I should have texted or something. I wasn’t thinking.’
Sally hung up and snuggled down into bed.
Once more the phone rang.
Sally considered ignoring it, then thought again.
‘What?’
‘Sally? I realised I hadn’t asked how it’s going down at La Mosaïque?’
‘Don’t even ask. It’s been a catastrophe. We need you back soon. Today William is cooking.’
‘But he—’
‘I know. He doesn’t cook. But he’s refusing to do front of house and, frankly, in these circumstances, I am sick of being in the kitchen too . . . Look, Theresa, I know you’ve got more important things on your plate but when you get back, don’t worry, I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account.’
‘Another thing is that I left my photo album in the kitchen. Could you put it through my door, or safely downstairs in the cellar or something. Some of those photos are really precious to me and the grease . . .’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘Sorry again, Sally.’
‘Me too, Theresa. You get some sleep. I hope you get some better news soon.’
Though Sally tried to drop off again she could not. She lay gazing out of the window at the dark sea, with tiny red, white and green lights of moored yachts bobbing their bright reflections on to the ink black.
Sally next got to thinking of Theresa’s granddaughter. How horrible if she had really run off with some old bald man. She couldn’t just do nothing. If that had been Marianne at fifteen, she would have been terrified. She decided to text Carol who would be out in the van tomorrow morning. She sat up and tapped out a text asking her to keep an eye on Theresa’s flat whenever she parked up on the quay and to keep her eye out both for Chloe and some old bald man.
Although Sally felt worried about Theresa’s missing grandchild, she felt a touch of bitterness too. Her own children had not been the settling-down kind. Marianne was now commuting between London, New York and Zurich on her incomprehensible financial adventures. Sally’s daughter was far too self-preoccupied to think of giving her grandchildren, while her son Tom, though living in nearby Nice, where he ran a small art gallery, was the flipside of the Marianne coin – too much the hippy. He showed no signs of wanting to marry or finding a nice woman to give her a grandchild.
Sally felt sorry for herself, that was true. What had she achieved? Years ago she had been someone, a respected theatre actress; then a TV star with a high profile. But she gave it all up in order to marry a two-timing liar. Or rather she married the liar and he was jealous of her life so persuaded her to surrender it so that she could live his kind of life. But then . . . Oh, it was such a waste of time going back and wishing you’d done things differently.
She’d been happy enough since moving out here to Bellevue-sur-Mer. But, until the restaurant, she’d just been bobbing along, doing nothing really – living from day to day. And now, thanks to circumstances entirely out of her hands, the restaurant was on the floor, and any savings she had had gone down the drain with it.
She turned over once more. She felt restless and miserable. She wanted to run away, take the Trans-Siberian express, spend a year in India, jump on a liner to America, see the world.
But to do things like that you needed money, and Sally had none.
Theresa slept fitfully. At 6 a.m. she decided there was no point staying in bed, so went down to the kitchen. Imogen was sitting at the table, fully dressed. She looked up and gave Theresa a wan smile.
‘What can we do, Mum? I simply can’t sit around doing nothing. It’s not my way.’
Theresa understood exactly what Imogen meant but wondered what on earth they could do.
Her phone buzzed in her dressing-gown pocket. She glanced down. An unknown number with a French prefix. It could be her.
Theresa answered.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
A click. The call ended.
‘What was that?’ Imogen was alert.
‘Don’t know. Wrong number, I think.’
Theresa hastily returned the call. The ringtone was definitely somewhere abroad. But no one picked up. She wondered if it was perhaps Chloe trying to contact her, but didn’t want to suggest that to Imogen.
Theresa’s mind flooded with images of Chloe having regrets and trying to dial her for help, of the bald old man snatching the phone out of the child’s hand and throwing it away.
But then the call could have been from anyone in France calling her on restaurant business, perhaps simply phoning her from a car or a train and going through a tunnel.
‘We could go into school, maybe,’ Theresa suggested. ‘Ask whether anyone saw him hanging around the playgrounds or at the school gates.’
‘Do you think I haven’t already sent emails to all my staff asking them exactly that?’
In silence Theresa prepared herself a cup of tea, and sat down at the table to drink it.
‘I can’t see why I didn’t see it coming,’ said Imogen.
‘Children can be very secretive. It’s sometimes hard to read them. And when they are determined, well . . .’
Imogen scraped her chair back. ‘Oh God, I hate these chairs. They’re always wobbling.’ She stood up and strode through into the living room, where she flung herself down on to the sofa, feet up, and stared out into the darkness of the street.
Cradling her cup of tea, Theresa followed, sitting on an armchair near the coffee table.
In her pocket, her phone vibrated, then rang.
She answered.
It was Cyril, about today’s meat order.
‘Sorry, Cyril, you’ll have to speak to Sally or William. I’m terribly busy.’
‘I wonder, Theresa, if today you might like some fresh—’
‘I’m sorry but my granddaughter has gone missing. I’m in England. I really don’t care about the meat. You’ll need to speak to someone who’s actually in the kitchen.’
‘I’m very sorry to be disturbing. Pardon.’ Cyril hung up.
Theresa watched Imogen and realised that there was little she could do but be here for her.
Her phone rang again.
Imogen spun round and said furiously, ‘Don’t mind me, Mum, I’m only out of my mind with worry. Carry on, please, with your business calls.’
Chastised, Theresa rose and answered the phone while climbing up the stairs.
It was Carol.
‘Darling. Now I’m just sitting in the van in the parking opposite your flat, so I thought I’d better keep you up to date.’
Theresa had no idea what she was talking about.
‘Really, Carol, I’ve no time for La Mosaïque at the moment . . . But I—’
‘Sally told me you wanted me to keep an eye out on your place.’
‘It really doesn’t matter . . .’
‘All right. But for your information there is, at this very moment, a balding man peering through your front window. He’s literally got his face crushed up to the glass.’
Theresa was pulled up short. She turned and sat on the top step.
‘Sorry, Carol, tell me that again.’
‘A man with a bald head – not entirely bald, you know, not Captain Picard, more of a tall Winston Churchill – is looking through your fr
ont window in a rather earnest fashion.’
Theresa was now furious not to be there in person. From here what could she do?
‘Is he fat?’
‘I can only see his back.’
‘Can you go and question him?’
‘And ask him what?’
‘I don’t know. He may be the man who’s run off with my granddaughter. You remember her? Chloe? She’s gone off with some old bald man.’
‘I’m on it.’ Carol cut off.
Theresa remained immobile at the top of the stairs. She knew it would be unwise to say anything to Imogen until she heard again from Carol.
She got up and made her way to her bedroom. As she reached the door, Cressida came out of her own bedroom, rubbing her eyes.
‘Oh, it’s you, Grandma. I thought Chloe was home.’
Theresa gave Cressida a squeeze.
‘The man – you know, Chloe’s friend. Was he in the playground or at the gates, or where?’
Cressida gave a shrug as though Theresa was stupid, and said in that swooping tone, ‘Noooo! He was in the assembly hall. But he was a long way away. I didn’t really see him. I was bored.’
Theresa’s fingers gripped Cressida’s shoulder.
She was getting somewhere.
But at that moment the phone in her pocket buzzed again.
‘Hi, Theresa. I ran across the road but once I’d locked the van he’d vanished. I can’t imagine how he disappeared so quickly. Really. I can have only averted my eyes for fifteen seconds and whoosh – gone!’
‘Did you look up the hill?’
‘Of course. I looked in every direction. I’m beginning to wonder if he wasn’t a hallucination.’
Lola, already dressed in her school uniform, came out of the bedroom and dragged Cressida back inside.
‘Oh, and by the way, you’d better get back here pretty damn quick, or La Mosaïque is going to fold in days. Three days ago we might have been in the ketchup, but now we’re positively swimming in it.’
From downstairs, Imogen let out an anguished cry.
‘I have to go, Carol. Speak soon.’
Theresa ran down the stairs as fast as she could.
Imogen was standing in the kitchen, holding her hand under the cold tap. ‘Burned myself. Stupid.’
‘Shall I . . . ?’
‘Just leave me alone.’
Theresa crept back up the stairs and quickly dressed. When she came back down Cressida and Lola were tucking into breakfast.
‘I’ve decided to go into school today,’ said Imogen. ‘With the girls. So please could you stay here, just in case. Hold the fort.’
Theresa said yes. What else could she do? But she wondered why on earth she was here.
After they had gone, the house descended into an eerie silence, with only the ticking of the kitchen clock to break the monotony. Theresa wandered around for a while. She sat on Chloe’s bed and pulled out the drawers hoping something would prove to be a clue to her whereabouts. But it was only the usual things you’d find in a teenage schoolgirl’s room: socks, T-shirts, pants and weekend clothes.
Theresa went downstairs, made herself a coffee and flopped down on to the sofa. She tried to put herself into Chloe’s mind. But the impossible thing was to imagine her mind under the influence of some bald old man. She felt sure now that Cressida was fantasising or confused about his wearing a brown dress. Unless perhaps this Laurence was a transsexual teacher …
On the shelf beneath the coffee table there was a pile of magazines and the orange spine of a photo album, exactly like her own, which she had been so worried about during the night.
She wondered if she hadn’t gone mad and inadvertently thrown the photo album into her bag and brought it with her and not left it on the counter back in the kitchen of La Mosaïque. As she reached forward and pulled it out, she vaguely recalled a Christmas when she’d absent-mindedly bought two for the price of one albums, gave one to her daughter and in the end kept the other for herself.
Theresa flicked idly through the pages of fading photos of christenings and children’s parties. Chloe in a fancy-dress costume, dressed as a witch. A goose-pimpled Lola, blue with cold, standing by the school pool, holding up a swimming medal. Cressida, shy and knock-kneed, in a huge school hat. Probably her first day, thought Theresa. Some pictures of a pantomime. It was hard to see through the make-up and work out whether any of her grandchildren were involved. She presumed they must be. Why else were the photos in here? She felt happy that Imogen kept up this book. After all, in these days of camera phones, very few people kept hard copies of photographs.
Theresa turned the page to a lovely full-length photo of Chloe in her costume as Juliet. She wished she could have seen the production. Chloe looked perfect in the part. So eager and innocent. Her hair down, flowing over the shoulders of a beautiful ivory and gold gown.
On the next page was another gorgeous photo – Romeo stooping over Juliet, who lay on top of the tomb. A handsome lad, in a maroon doublet and hose. This was followed by a photo of Chloe, this time in a line-up with some of the boys in the play. It had obviously been taken in the dressing room. Reflections showed other people who were not in costume looking on, laughing. Another with Chloe resting her head on the shoulder of Friar Laurence while two costumed boys, Romeo and probably Mercutio, gazed into one another’s eyes. Underneath was a handwritten label: ‘Love give me strength!’
Theresa smiled and closed the book.
How funny.
She went back into the kitchen and popped another pod into the coffee machine.
She pressed the button and the machine made its usual roaring noise. As she strolled back to the sofa, Theresa warmed her hands around the cup of extra-strong coffee.
Juliet in love with Friar Laurence! That would be a turn-up for Shakespeare’s plot!
She gripped the cup and slammed it down on to the tabletop so hard that it cracked.
She pulled out the photo album again and flicked urgently through to the back.
Fire! Laurence! A bald, old, fat man in a dress, who Cressida had barely noticed in the assembly hall, because she was too bored.
That was it!
She crammed the photo album into her tote bag, ran out on to the street and hailed a cab.
PART THREE
TÊTE DE MOINE ET SES LÉGUMES
Serves 8.
head of broccoli
4 carrots
4 courgettes
2 fennel bulbs
1 shallot, finely chopped
150g butter
1 cup white wine
salt and pepper
prepared chestnuts, to taste
200ml maple syrup
lemon juice, freshly squeezed
fresh parsley, chopped
Tête de Moine cheese, with its curler
Chop the vegetables and cook them in boiling water, making sure to put them in in order of hardness so that they all reach the same consistency (carrots first, courgettes last). When still al dente, drain and put aside.
Meanwhile gently cook the shallot in 50g butter, in a large frying pan, until transparent. Spoon in the white wine and increase the heat until the liquid reduces. Add a pinch of salt, a grind of pepper and the rest of the butter.
In a small frying pan, drop the chestnuts into a knob of melted butter and fry, then pour on the maple syrup, keeping the heat up until the liquid reduces.
On a gentle heat, put the drained vegetables, and chestnuts, into the wine sauce. Toss well and sprinkle with the lemon juice, salt and parsley. Decorate with frilled ‘flowers’ of Tête de Moine.
TEN
Sally quite enjoyed the lunch service, which luckily consisted of many locals coming for the wonderful prix-fixe menu.
Cyril, the butcher, was there, sitting in a corner with his wife, a busty, smiling woman with an earthy laugh, who seemed very concerned on Theresa’s behalf. Cyril kept asking frequently if Sally knew when Theresa would return. Sally wondered whether it was
because he was genuinely concerned about Theresa’s missing granddaughter or maybe that he preferred her cooking.
Towards the end of service her own friend Jean-Philippe came in and, as everyone else was already on desserts by then, it was easy to hang around his table and chat with him. He had bought a new boat. A 35-foot sports motor yacht. He wanted her to come out on it whenever she had a day off. She had to explain that until things here in the restaurant were a bit more stable she’d have no time, but after that – try and stop her!
Before signing off for the afternoon Sally went into the kitchen to check on William and Benjamin who seemed very calm and merry as they tidied up after the lunch service.
Sally walked out into the street and sat on a post on the quayside.
The sea was a deeper blue than usual today, and glassy-still. The sun was very warm. Her coat was de trop, so she shook it off and threw her face back to bathe in the sunbeams.
‘Darling!’ Carol’s voice was a positive croon. ‘Well, have I got news for you.’
‘You haven’t found Chloe?’
‘No, darling. I’ve been propositioned.’
Sally opened her eyes and stared at Carol.
‘By whom?’
‘By a charming Englishman, with the most dreamy voice I think I have ever heard. Well, since the death of Richard Burton, anyhow.’
‘I thought you were off men?’
‘I’m only off lying, cheating criminals and husbands who’ve slyly slipped their wedding ring into the inside pocket of their vest.’
‘Vests don’t have pockets. Do they?’
‘Lost in translation, darling. Remember, I’m from Muncie, Indiana.’
‘Where did this pick-up happen? Not at the cash and carry?’
Carol gave one of her deep-throated laughs. ‘No, silly. Here. Right here in this very street.’ She pointed to the hill. ‘Or, rather, that one. Remember you told me to watch out for any activity at Theresa’s apartment? Well, I was watching early this morning, and I saw the backside of some bald man peering in through the front window. I gave chase but he vanished. A little later, when I came back to bring in the fish, I saw him again marching up the hill. So I challenged him. He told me I had a sexy voice and wondered if I might be around over the next few days to join him for an aperitif. So, anyhoo, upshot is I’m on for drinks with him in Nice. He wants me to show him around the Vieille Ville – as they say!’
