A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

‘That might explain the noises, maybe. But not the rose petals.’

  ‘You don’t have a secret admirer?’

  ‘Not unless he’s keeping it a secret from me. Or has a key. You’re sure you haven’t lost mine, have you?’

  ‘I told you, they’re in the cellar cupboard. Could someone have posted the petals through the letterbox?’

  ‘That’s what I think.’ On the other end of the line, Theresa paused – presumably to look. ‘Yes. That must be it. But who?’

  ‘A secret admirer. So what are the noises?’

  ‘All quiet now. But half an hour ago, some couple was making a hell of a racket. It sounded as though they were killing one another.’

  ‘I gather they’re tourists,’ said Sally. ‘Maybe they’re on honeymoon, or a dirty weekend. Carol met the bloke, and he was warbling on about acoustics. Obviously worried that you’d be able to overhear their romantic dalliance.’

  ‘Oh yes. Once they get out of England people do go rather sex-mad, don’t they? Kinky stuff, I expect. Anyhow, it’s good to catch up, though I’m not sure if I’ll see you tomorrow or not. Until we find Chloe, I’m going to be rather distracted . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Theresa. I understand.’

  ‘How’s it going your end?’

  Sally knew that she couldn’t burden Theresa with her woes, so she replied, ‘Oh, I’m fine. But if you’re worried about the flat, Theresa, I’d put the chain on.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sally. It’s already on. And I’ve got chairs balanced up against both doors. And tomorrow I’m getting the locks changed.’

  After hanging up, Sally turned out the light and lay in the dark. Once more there were too many thoughts flitting through her mind to be able to settle down to sleep. She gazed out at the black horizon. A shaft of moonlight drew a neat, white, sparkling strip down the centre. In the distance she could see a brightly illuminated cruise ship sailing silently into port.

  She hoped Chloe was safe. She remembered the worries her own two kids had put her through and dreaded that all starting again with a new generation.

  With a groan, she faced the wall.

  She had been such good friends with William and the others. But the vagaries of fortune at La Mosaïque had put paid to all that goodwill.

  Sally wished again that she had never got involved in this stupid restaurant business. Thanks to it, she was sinking further and further into debt, both financially and socially.

  Bloody William.

  She wished he’d get off his high horse. True, she had not handled the last service very well, but surely everyone was entitled to an off-day? True, the restaurant was failing, but it wasn’t all her fault. Why blame everything on her? After all, William himself was no angel.

  In fact now she wished that she had reminded him of his own failed night as a waiter.

  Next time he started accusing her she was determined to fight back.

  The phone rang again.

  Sally turned over and grabbed the receiver.

  ‘NOW WHAT!’ Silence. ‘Hello? Hello?’

  All she needed – a wrong number.

  ‘Hello?’

  No doubt someone wanting a taxi to Monaco or some equally annoying misdial.

  ‘Hello?’ said Sally. ‘Sorry! Wrong number.’

  She slammed the phone down. It rang again immediately.

  ‘It’s fucking three o’clock in the morning, you bastard.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Sally. These time zones always get me fuddled.’ A woman with an American accent.

  ‘Who is this?’ Sally was truly in the dark.

  ‘Is that Sally Doyle?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ asked Sally.

  ‘It’s Marina Martel. I’m phoning from my offices in West Hollywood.’

  Sally leaped out of bed and stood to attention.

  This was Marina Martel, the Oscar-winning American movie star, on the other end of the line.

  ‘Now, Sally,’ Marina continued. ‘Here’s the thing . . . I’m sorry if it’s the middle of the night with you, but I have a little emergency, and you might be able to assist.’

  Sally’s mind raced.

  Why on earth should Marina Martel be needing her help?

  ‘I realise that last time things didn’t work out for you, because you’d just bought that lovely restaurant with the dazzling floor, but I’m sure that, over the last couple of years, things have settled down a little.’

  Sally knew she couldn’t bore Marina Martel with the details of why that last phrase was so very wrong, so instead she simply said yes.

  In fact ‘yes’ seemed to be the only word she had felt able to pronounce since she knew who was calling.

  ‘So, now, Sally.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You remember me telling you how, when I was a kid stationed with my dad in the UK, how much I admired your work as an actress. How I caught up with all your stage work and got the videos of those classic plays you did before Ssssaturday Ssssslamerama!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sally could not imagine where this conversation was leading.

  ‘Well, the thing is, I have a little project going on over in your area,’ Marina Martel continued. ‘You’re not far from Monte Carlo, right?’

  Sally once more let out a feeble yes.

  ‘You see, we’ve been rather badly let down.’

  ‘Right.’ Sally felt triumphant that she had managed to find a new response.

  ‘And, Sally, I would like you to take part in the filming, which starts tomorrow.’

  Sally had images of herself doing the catering, serving in a commissariat or from the chuck wagon.

  ‘It’s only small, but it’s actually a wonderful part. And I want you to play it.’

  Sally was dumbstruck.

  ‘She’s a nagging wife. Very funny role. And she always gets the last laugh. The husband’s a real twit. In fact they’re both a pair of bumblers. But they come out on top.’

  ‘But, Marina, I . . . I haven’t acted for years . . .’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sally. As well you know, acting is just like riding a bike.’

  ‘But I can’t ride a bike.’

  Marina guffawed down the line.

  ‘There you go! That is the character. I realise you’ll probably want to think about it, honey, but we’re very pressed and I really do need your answer in the next half hour. And, also, Sally, do you have email?’

  Sally reeled it off. She didn’t think she could take up this job offer, but at least she could write her refusal to Marina Martel in an email reply. That would be much easier.

  But Marina was still talking. ‘Of course I know you must realise that someone dropped out at the last minute. Stupid woman took herself off skiing at the weekend and is now laid up in some French hospital with two broken legs, a broken nose and a black eye, meaning she can’t walk, and even if we tried some trickery – shooting her in a wheelchair – her face looks as though she’s been in a prize fight. And certainly won’t settle before we finish the shoot. Oh, and by the way, it’s only a week’s shoot. All along the French and Italian Riviera. You’ll to have to reshoot the shots she’s already done, which will set us back a bit. Obviously it’s too late to get someone out there from Stateside without losing another couple of days, and so, as you’re right there, I immediately thought of you. If you say yes, you start shooting tomorrow morning. We’ll put you up in a lovely hotel, of course, but if you prefer to stay at home, naturally we’ll provide a car and per diems in lieu. It’s full Equity, but the fee’s not great. I don’t know if you have an agent . . .’

  Sally’s mind now sped through all her old contacts in the business, wondering if any of them might negotiate this contract for her. She was shocked to realise that by now all of her old agents would probably have retired or maybe have died.

  ‘But it’s all pretty straightforward SAG rules and so on, Sally, a standard contract . . .’

  Sally was once more thinking it would not be right
for her to walk out on the others at La Mosaïque just so that she could follow her own dream.

  After all, she had William breathing down her neck.

  But then again, would another chance like this ever come up in her lifetime? She was almost sixty-five, for heaven’s sake. Time was running out.

  But when things were going so badly, to let the others down …

  ‘I’m afraid the fee isn’t much to write home about, Sally. We’d pay you in euros or pounds, or whatever you like, but I’m afraid I could only offer you twenty-five thousand dollars.’

  THIRTEEN

  Theresa woke to a bleep from her phone.

  She grabbed it and peered at the tiny screen. It was exactly 6 a.m.

  The message was only some totally irrelevant suggestion sent by one of the apps recommending ‘attractive’ hotels in the vicinity. She saw the screen long enough to notice that the Hotel Astra had a score of 3.1 out of 5, which was three points higher than Theresa would have rated it.

  Awake now, albeit reluctantly, she opened the socialising app which Mervin had installed yesterday, wondering whether now would be the time to try to contact Neil. She then remembered that teenage boys were famous for not getting out of bed till noon, so she laid the phone down on her bedside table and turned to face the window.

  She looked up at the back windows of the hotel and wondered how many of the people sleeping there last night had been recommended to book a room by their very annoying phones.

  She vaguely recalled a bit earlier hearing noises coming from the upstairs flat, followed about half an hour ago by the sound of someone clomping down the stairs, followed by the slamming of car doors. Maybe whoever it was had been heading into Nice for an early flight.

  Theresa tried to nap but kept being haunted by thoughts of Chloe. Where would she have slept? Last night it was cold. She prayed that the child had found somewhere decent and warm to lay her head.

  If she came by train, might Neil have been waiting for her at the station? Would she have had enough cash on her to take a cab to wherever she went? Chloe couldn’t possibly realise that Nice cabs were three times the price of those in London. What if the driver had suspected she couldn’t pay and dumped her out somewhere along the way?

  Could she be walking distance from where Theresa lay, or might she be miles along the coast, at Menton or Toulon?

  Theresa wondered whether she should do that thing which people did when they lost a cat – get a photograph reproduced and put it up all over the place – but simultaneously she knew that that would be a horrible thing to do, and that if either Neil or Chloe saw something like that it would be the finish.

  Having a photo of Chloe always in her pocket, though, wouldn’t be a bad idea. First things first. Theresa had to find a recent photo of Chloe, then at least she could go around local cafés and hotels asking if anyone had seen her.

  Theresa wished she had brought that photo of her with Neil taken after the play. Though, in full Friar Laurence gear, complete with bald wig, Neil would be unrecognisable. She might as well tout around a photo of Friar Tuck, thought Theresa. All you could see was the fatness, the baldness and the brown dress. If only she had asked Neil’s mother for a photo. But on second thoughts, perhaps not.

  So first things first. She would get up, go to the restaurant and find a photo of Chloe in the photo album.

  Then what?

  Take it to the police?

  She thought Imogen would not like that. One thing she did know was that she must run everything past Imogen first and not go jumping into things on a whim.

  She decided to phone her daughter to discuss tactics. Then she remembered that England was an hour behind, so there it was only 5 a.m. Even during an emergency that was much too early to call, especially as she had no news to impart.

  The letterbox rattled. The postwoman delivering something. Theresa climbed out of bed and went through to the living room.

  Something lay on the mat. Probably only news of a sale at the local supermarket. She stooped to pick it up.

  It was a photograph of herself, all made up and wearing posh clothes. She flipped the photo over but there was nothing written on the reverse. It was obviously a picture of her which had been taken ages ago, perhaps at one of the children’s christenings. She recalled that it had been in the photo album.

  Still in her nightie, Theresa opened the front door and peered into the street to see if the person who had posted it was still there. But there was nothing moving outside except a street-cleaning machine operated by a council workman, which was a hundred metres away, noisily sucking at the gutters and spraying the pavements.

  She went back inside and sat at her glass table, staring at the photo. Perhaps it had fallen out of the photo album when she was walking over to La Mosaïque, and some kind person, recognising her from the picture, had posted it back through her door. But that was a few days ago now, and, if she had dropped it in the road, the street cleaners would have swept it off early one morning, along with the discarded sweet wrappers and cigarette ends.

  After a quick shower, Theresa dressed and walked along to the restaurant. She let herself in through the back door.

  It was just after seven.

  No one was inside.

  She would have expected someone to have been in by now. The van was not parked outside, so maybe whoever was picking up the fish this morning was already on their way to bring in the daily fresh goods.

  She spent some time searching the kitchen for the album. Everything had been moved around since she’d not been here. Obviously other cooks had their own methods, which was fair enough, but she had to go through every cupboard and drawer before being certain that the photo album was not here, near to where she had left it when she departed for London.

  She went down to the cellar.

  Pieces of paperwork littered the table: bills, receipts and invoices. She sat at the desk and started going through the filing cabinets, searching each folder, just in case it had been hurriedly put inside to get it out of the way.

  Almost an hour later she gave up the search.

  Sally had not returned the photo album. Theresa wondered if she might have taken it up to her house for safekeeping.

  As Theresa came up the stairs to the kitchen, the back door opened.

  ‘What a shock!’ Bearing a large box, Cyril stood at the door. Theresa could see that he had visibly paled. ‘I thought you were at London.’

  ‘Yes,’ explained Theresa. ‘And now I am back.’

  ‘You gave me fright!’ Cyril put the box on the counter and asked Theresa to sign for its receipt. ‘It’s lovely that you are back. Your granddaughter is returned?’

  ‘We’re not sure where she is yet.’

  Loud chattering echoing in the tiny lane outside foretold the arrival of Benjamin and William.

  On the sight of Theresa they stood stock-still for some seconds.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Sensing tension, Cyril buried his head in his order book checking his deliveries against the dockets.

  Suddenly he let out an exasperated sigh and banged the heel of his palm on his forehead.

  ‘Merde, I’ve forgotten the pork. I’ll be back later.’ Cyril excused himself and hastily left.

  ‘We were about to put up the “Due to unforeseeable circumstances we are closed” sign.’

  Theresa could see a nasty glint in William’s eye. He was spoiling for a fight.

  ‘As we seem to be the only two people left working in this enterprise, we thought we might as well just shut up shop and be done with it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, William, you’re going to have to explain.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. We will,’ snapped Benjamin. ‘First, you waltz off without so much as a by-your-leave. Next thing Carol gets stuck up in La Turbie, along with the van, and now Sally has buggered off as well. By text message, if you please! The rats have deserted the sinking ship, leaving Muggins and Friend.’

  ‘Ex
cuse me, Theresa!’ William shoved past her, heading for the dining room and the front door of the restaurant. ‘There are things to do here. Like watching a ship with no lifeboats smash into an iceberg.’

  ‘Thank God, you’re back.’ Benjamin lowered his voice to talk to Theresa. ‘It’s been a hellish couple of days. You cannot imagine. And he’s gone right off the rails.’

  ‘Sorry, Benjamin, but I’m not exactly back—’

  ‘You have to be back, Theresa. You are physically standing in front of me.’

  ‘But I was—’

  ‘Please do the lunch today. Please!’ He threw himself to his knees. Theresa was worried for his designer trousers. The floor looked none too clean.

  ‘There’s nothing here for me to cook,’ she said. ‘Do get up, Benjamin.’

  ‘There’s meat.’ Benjamin rose and indicated the box on the countertop. ‘And we have potatoes, rice, pasta . . .’

  ‘You do realise that my granddaughter is still missing? And anyway, what’s wrong with Sally?’

  ‘This is all we know.’ Benjamin held up his mobile phone and read: ‘“Something has come up – sorry! Cannot be in to work for the next week or so. Sally. I will buy myself out.”

  ‘You understand, Theresa,’ he said, while she glanced at the text to see whether it might have another meaning. ‘Sally is in a sulk because of the hideous goings-on in here last night. That’s all this is.’

  ‘Good riddance.’ William was back, and in for the kill. ‘She’s a sanctimonious drama queen and I, for one, have had enough of her.’

  Five minutes later, Theresa had her apron on, and was preparing today’s special – cottage pie – while Benjamin and William got the dining room ready.

  She reasoned that, until some contact was made with either Chloe or Neil, there really wasn’t much she could physically do to aid the search. She had made numerous attempts to get through to Neil via Mervin’s app. He had not replied.

  About five minutes before the house was due to open to the public, with a bright ‘Coooeee’, Zoe popped her head round the back door.

  ‘Only me!’

  It was lucky that Theresa knew Zoe’s voice, as, after undergoing the new Swiss treatment, her face was unrecognisable: a glossy forehead, something about her eyes which gave her an oriental appearance, and lips so full they looked as though she might have bought them in a joke shop. ‘Just wanted to hear any news. All running smoothly since I went away, I hope.’