A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  Theresa moved through to the kitchen, to check the answering machine, as that is what she had come to do.

  Almost immediately the landline phone rang. It was going to be William summoning her back to the restaurant.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello?’

  She could hear someone breathing, but nothing more.

  ‘Anyone there? No? All right then. Goodbye.’

  She replaced the receiver and looked at the handset screen for the call log.

  Number Withheld.

  As she scrolled back she noticed that over the last few days there had been quite a few Number Withheld calls.

  No doubt it was some awful marketing robot. She poured a quick glass of water and knocked it back. She needed to get to the restaurant to complete lunch, but still felt so divided by the feeling she should be doing something more active to find Chloe.

  ‘I’ve got a lovely bedroom, so it’s all fine,’ Chloe had said. So did that mean that Neil’s father had a property out here on the Côte d’Azur? Chloe’s sentence didn’t sound as though they were staying in multiple hotels as Theresa had been imagining. When people stayed in hotels they rarely called them bedrooms – just rooms.

  Perhaps Roger Muffett had bought some chateau in the country, or a large city flat, and they drove out each day for lunch in various places.

  Though, to be serious, that didn’t sound right, either.

  It might be that Mr Muffett was house-hunting. That would certainly explain them bobbing around from town to town. Maybe he had rented a place to stay, probably in or near Nice, then they ranged out every day to various towns and villages along the coast on his property search.

  She moved towards the front door but the landline phone rang once more.

  Theresa answered but this time said nothing.

  After a moment or so’s silence at the other end, a female voice said, ‘Mum? Are you there?’

  Imogen!

  ‘Sorry, darling. Did you just phone a minute ago? It’s just that I keep getting these—’

  ‘No. Look this is urgent. Mervin’s had some more connections with Neil. He says that Neil just sent him a message saying that he’s so fed up with technology and tech teachers and everything to do with computers that he’s going to throw his phone and tablet into the sea. If that happens, Mum, you realise we’ll lose all contact. We have to stop him.’

  Trying not to laugh, Theresa bit her lip. She understood exactly what was happening. Now that they knew Mervin was behind the messaging, the two kids were playing up their ex-teacher. But how could she explain this to Imogen without letting on about Chloe’s call? She took a deep breath, praying she was doing the right thing.

  ‘A few minutes ago, Chloe phoned me, Imogen. I spoke to her.’

  ‘What do you mean? Did you tell her to stop fooling about and worrying us all to death?’

  ‘I’m trying to arrange a meeting.’

  ‘What’s her number? I’ll phone her and make it quite clear . . .’

  Theresa knew that, if they were to have any success in getting the kids here, she must not give Imogen Neil’s number.

  ‘It was a Number Withheld, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Damn.’ Imogen sounded very disappointed. ‘What were you saying about a meeting?’

  ‘If things go as I hope they might, tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, Chloe will phone back and agree to meet me for lunch. I left the decision with her.’

  ‘What do you mean, you “left the decision with her”? Mother, we are dealing with a teenage underage child who’s on the run. You should have been firm. Someone has to stand up to Chloe and force her to come home.’

  ‘Stop panicking, Imogen.’ Theresa tried to sound calm and not let Imogen intimidate her. ‘Remember “Softly, softly, catchee monkey”.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mother. We’re not talking about a monkey. We’re talking about a child – my daughter. My fifteen-year-old daughter!’

  ‘My fifteen-year-old granddaughter.’

  ‘You’re impossible, Mother. I really can’t waste time talking to you. But next time you hear from Chloe you must phone me instantly.’

  ‘I would have done, but you phoned me before I—’

  ‘I have to go now.’

  And Imogen hung up.

  Theresa felt sure she was doing the right thing. Wasn’t she? At least this way they had some hope of seeing Chloe in person, and then, once she was here, reasoning with her.

  Theresa was leaving when she noticed something lying on the doormat.

  She picked it up.

  Another photo of herself. This one was of her in her wedding gown.

  As she flipped it over the front doorbell rang, and Theresa literally jumped a few centimetres into the air.

  It was the postwoman, who handed her a parcel, got back on to her scooter and sped away up the hill.

  The box announced that it was from a large online store. That was strange as Theresa had not ordered anything from them for months.

  She crammed the packet under her arm, and started locking up. It was only while putting her keys in her handbag that she noticed the reverse of the wedding photo she had just received.

  On the slightly foxed white paper, someone had drawn an ornate red heart pierced with a black arrow.

  Sally thanked the lord that the first scene she shot was really simple. She had to walk out of a dark blue door, take a furtive look in either direction and then stride off confidently along a street peopled with extras. She clinched it in one take. The crew moved on and set up location at the boulangerie. Here she had to rehearse taking money from her pocket, passing it to an extra who handed her a baguette, which she stuck under her arm, and again walking off along the street.

  On the second section Daniel suggested that Sally take a bite out of the loaf as she walked. She was in a dilemma, as she knew that this was something never done here in France, except by tourists. And as the movie was about two criminals who above all wanted to blend into their surroundings, she felt that her character, Louise, would not do this. Nor was it in the script.

  She didn’t want to seem difficult but knew that she was right in refusing to follow Daniel’s orders for the sake of the film’s credibility.

  She tried to move nearer to him to explain, but the First Assistant insisted she stay on the spot as the crew was fixing up some supplementary lighting on her.

  When the time came for the shot, Sally stepped out of the boulangerie and walked away, baguette tucked under her arm.

  ‘Cut!’

  Everything stopped.

  ‘Sally, dear. You forgot to take a bite.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Daniel. I thought that the two crooks needed to be somewhat invisible and look like locals. If I take a bite I’d immediately look like a tourist.’

  Daniel sighed.

  ‘Very opinionated, aren’t you, for an unknown?’

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘It’s not your job to think, luvvie, that’s what I do. OK?’ He made a signal to the First Assistant. ‘Another shot, right away.’

  Seething with rage and embarrassment, Sally moved back to the start mark and prepared, on the second take, to dig her teeth into the baguette.

  After lunch they moved location again. The scene in the public convenience, where she changed into her disguise, went smoothly enough. There was a tricky moment when one of her false nails got caught in the netting of the wig, but she used it and they didn’t need to do a retake.

  As she sat in the back of the van which took her and the make-up girls to the final location of the day, Sally once more scanned her lines. She looked out of the window at the stunning views of Monaco harbour and mouthed the lines to her own reflection. She hoped that the bloke playing Gilbert was funny. It was easy to see that her laughs would depend on his delivery.

  The van drew up outside a luxurious hotel on the seafront. The Third Assistant took them up to the suite where they would f
ilm the last scene.

  ‘I’m afraid the other unit is running a little behind, Sally, so I’m going to walk through the scene with you now. Then, when your partner in crime turns up, we can go straight for a take.’ He indicated the room. ‘We’ve only got this suite for a few hours. So we need to wrap and have all of our kit out of here by eight p.m. at the very latest.’

  When the tea break came round – a trolley with a platter of finger sandwiches, and polystyrene cups of coffee and tea – Sally took hers out on to the balcony and sat watching the sunset, making the most of the ravishing view, with all the twinkling decorations of the yachts going by, strung over with flags and coloured lights. Imagine being rich enough to take this room! How wonderful that would be. She looked down at the grim faces of people passing. The strange thing was that every trip she had made to Monte Carlo – and, earlier in her life, to another tax haven, Jersey – seemed to indicate that the richer you were the more miserable you appeared. What she saw now confirmed that.

  She was chuckling to herself, thinking that there might be some balance in the world, and that not being on the top of the financial heap could have its benefits, when the Third Assistant called her inside to shoot the scene.

  The others had arrived.

  Daniel was standing in the corner talking earnestly to an actor who had his back to Sally. He was kitted out in a mind-boggling floral sun suit consisting of a short-sleeved jacket and matching shorts. She gave a quiet bravo to the costume designer. That costume was hilarious – a brilliant touch. Even from the back view, the man looked like an utter twit.

  ‘First positions, please.’

  Sally flopped on to the sofa and picked up the colourful mock cocktail which she had to fiddle with in the scene and eventually spill all over herself.

  ‘Sorry, everyone. Especially Eddie, who’s barely got his breath back from shooting the scenes up on the autoroute.’ Daniel stepped forward. ‘I know this is unusual, but don’t blame me. Blame the stupid actors who ballsed up the schedule. Now, I’m going to turn on this rehearsal. So, though it’s a rehearsal, can we treat it as a take, please? You never know.’

  ‘Sound?’ called the First Assistant.

  ‘Speed,’ replied the sound guy.

  ‘Camera?’

  ‘Rolling.’

  The clapperboard operator knelt down in front of Sally, the clapper poised.

  ‘Scene 102, take one.’

  He snapped down the board.

  ‘And . . . action!’ called Daniel.

  ‘We did it, darling!’ Sally took a sip of her drink and leaned back, kicking her shoes off and putting her feet up on the coffee table. ‘Gilbert, darling?’ She turned to face the windows. ‘Shall we dine on the terrace? Champagne, caviar, the works? We deserve it after that haul!’

  ‘What? Sorry, didn’t hear you! The water was running.’ The actor playing her husband came on to the lit area. ‘But I say let’s go for everything on the menu! Money no problem, now, eh? Kiss, kiss!’

  As he dived down on to the sofa and grabbed Sally’s face, she wasn’t sure who was more shocked.

  She could see the panic in his eyes.

  They both struggled to continue the dialogue without going off script.

  The actor playing her husband, with whom an on-camera full-mouthed snog was seconds away, was none other than Eggy Markham.

  FIFTEEN

  Once back in the restaurant kitchen, Theresa took off her coat. Before she started the lunch proper, she decided she couldn’t resist opening the parcel before anyone else came in. She ripped the cardboard strip along its length, and pulled out the further wrapping …

  Lying in a shiny plastic box within was a very large knife. She flipped it over to see the brand. Sabatier. The top level of kitchen knives.

  How odd. And how scary. She searched the packaging for any clue, hoping for some message or note indicating who’d sent it, but there was nothing. Just in case it had been dispatched to her by mistake, she put it back into the box, ready to return it.

  But what kind of a mistake could that be? It had been sent to her home, not to the restaurant, so it wasn’t a marketing thing.

  She rolled up her sleeves and turned to the worktop.

  What if it was some sign? Maybe Chloe had been kidnapped. Was she being held somewhere? When Theresa thought back on the phone call, her granddaughter had sounded subdued. Not at all the usual bright and flamboyant girl. When she rewound the conversation, Chloe had seemed very restrained; she’d actually been whispering.

  What was going on?

  Perhaps everything Chloe had said on the phone was a lie. Maybe she was being held by kidnappers, who were about to launch a ransom campaign. And the kidnappers had sent Theresa a knife, by way of a warning.

  Marcel followed William into the kitchen from the dining room.

  ‘You have to see, I was only giving a realistic price. If things are going as well as you say, then tell me why you’re selling up? I thought I was doing you a favour, so that you could all be free of the place quickly and move on.’ He turned and faced Theresa. ‘You look upset. Has something happened?’

  She was not in the mood to share her worries at this time. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘If there’s anything upsetting you, Theresa, remember I am your friend.’ Marcel looked at her with that hang-dog face of his. ‘You can always come to me with any problem.’

  The nerve of him! How could he be offering help when he had just insulted them all with his meagre offer for La Mosaïque?

  Theresa slid the opened package along the worktop.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Marcel. It’s just that I’m hot.’ She held his waist as she squeezed past him to get to the storage fridge. ‘No pork yet? Cyril promised.’

  As though on cue, there was a knock on the back door and Cyril entered.

  ‘Voilà!’ He put his parcels down and went through with William to get a receipt.

  ‘Don’t you want a quick sale, Theresa?’ asked Marcel once the others had left. ‘Or don’t you really want to sell?’

  ‘Frankly, at the moment, Marcel, the sale of the restaurant is the last thing on my mind. My granddaughter has run away with some boy but she is somewhere in this area and I have to find her.’

  ‘Chloe is fifteen, Theresa.’ Marcel laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. ‘She’s practically an adult. I’m sure she can look after herself. Adolescents! You know!’

  ‘Did you get my message?’ Cyril was now hovering near the doorway to the dining room. He picked up the knife in its illustrated box. ‘Phew! That’s one good knife.’

  Theresa faced him. ‘Did you send me that, Cyril? A gift maybe?’

  ‘Not a very romantic gift.’ Cyril shrugged a no. ‘I use knives every day, all the time. I gut chickens, and saw through bones with axes.’

  ‘Do anonymous gifts have to be romantic?’

  ‘Bien sûr . . .’

  ‘What message, Cyril? You asked about a message.’

  Cyril pulled a face, meaning ‘not here; not now’.

  ‘You asked if I got your message. Spit it out. It can’t be anything so private.’

  ‘It’s not important,’ said Cyril, slamming the knife back on to the countertop. ‘Really! Another time.’

  Theresa was starting to get impatient with him. She had to get on with preparing the service. ‘Do you need anything else, Cyril?’

  ‘I just have to get past Marcel to reach the fridge.’

  ‘Don’t get into a sweat, Cyril,’ snapped Marcel. ‘I have important business here. You don’t.’

  Theresa stepped back to let Cyril by. Muttering to himself, he hastily started unloading the pork into the cool shelves of the meat refrigerator.

  There was something disturbing about Cyril’s presence this morning. Theresa turned back to continue her conversation with Marcel.

  ‘You say “just fifteen” but fifteen years old is nothing, Marcel. You know how difficult an age that is. Remember you told me about your own so
n.’

  Marcel’s son had gone on to drugs at sixteen, and been found in a gutter one morning, overdosed. It had taken years of care to help him back to leading a good, healthy life. The boy, now twenty-two, was living in Paris, attending a college for pastry chefs.

  ‘So, Theresa, what are you doing about your granddaughter?’ Marcel shuffled from foot to foot. ‘You don’t want her to fall into the hands of bad people. Perhaps I can help. I can talk to you. Talk to her.’

  ‘I have spoken to her today, and I’m hoping she’ll contact me again somehow and that then we can arrange a meeting.’

  ‘Hope? Why don’t you simply phone her back?’

  ‘She didn’t use her own phone.’

  ‘I don’t envy you.’ Marcel rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘As you say, teenagers can be wily.’ He seemed as though he himself might burst into tears. ‘I’m so sorry about before.’ He pulled his cap over his eyes and moved towards the back door. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

  When he had gone, Cyril took his face out of the fridge and gathered up his empty boxes. ‘It is love, you see,’ he said. ‘It is always love. Especially with adolescents.’

  Throughout the lunch service Theresa’s mind kept returning to Chloe. She wondered where she might be now; how she was eating; did she sleep with Neil; where did she sleep; what was Neil’s father actually like? She couldn’t imagine a man who was carefree about welcoming and then encouraging two underage children to play truant from school being really as lovely as Chloe had implied. She wished Chloe would come here, then at least Theresa could provide her with a decent hot meal and try to talk some sense into her. But then, with the kind of money Neil’s father seemed to possess, she supposed Chloe would be fed well enough already.

  She sent out the last of the desserts, a poires belle Hélène and a cheese platter, then hung up her apron. As she grabbed her bag she felt her phone vibrate.

  This time a text message from a number she did not recognise.

  ‘Meet me this afternoon, 15.30, Le Bar – Le Chat Bleu, Cours Saleya, Nice.’