by Celia Imrie
Theresa turned off the light, rolled over and stared out at the dark courtyard.
After a few minutes lying in the silence, she began to wonder if she was going mad.
Was it her imagination or could she hear someone saying her name, over and over?
She put her face to the window.
There was no one in the courtyard. How could there be, unless they had dropped down from the Hotel Astra or the upstairs flat?
Then she heard it again.
A whisper.
Theresa!
She pressed her face to the glass and scanned the entire space. No one was there.
Then she looked up towards the hotel.
She felt sure that a head bobbed back inside from one of the dark hotel windows.
Now she wished that she had curtains to draw but it had never occurred to her to get any as no one could see inside, unless they were standing in the courtyard and the only door to that was from her flat.
Slinging her dressing gown round her shoulders, Theresa got out of bed and tiptoed to the back door.
She peered up through the glass panels.
A few windows in the hotel were lit up, but what was strange about that? It was a hotel. Some rooms were occupied by people coming back from a night out, or sleepless with jetlag or excitement; others were empty or occupied by people sleeping.
She stood perfectly still, letting her eyes focus on the shadowy space, waiting for something to move, be it a cat or a rat …
But nothing moved.
As she turned away she heard it again.
Theresa!
She wondered momentarily if she was hallucinating.
Or perhaps might ghosts be real?
This was getting ridiculous. It had been a long day. Actually it had been a very stressful number of days. No wonder her head was playing silly tricks.
Grabbing her blankets, she dragged them from the bed and through into the front room, where she curled up on the sofa.
Tomorrow she would get a roller blind or something put on both the bedroom window and the back door.
When finally she drifted off to sleep it was coming up to 5 a.m. But she was woken almost immediately by feet running down the stairs from the upstairs flat. Then the sound of a car door slamming, and pulling away with an expensive hum.
Theresa rolled over, cursing the buttons in the back of the sofa pillows.
PART FOUR
GNOCCHI NIÇOISE
You could of course save time and effort by simply buying a packet of ready-made gnocchi. That’s what I do! Serves 6.
1kg floury potatoes, peeled
250g plain flour
1–2 egg yolks
1 large tablespoon olive oil
black and white pepper
salt
100g Gruyère cheese, grated
nutmeg, grated
To make the gnocchi, cook the potatoes in boiling water for 35 to 55 minutes, until very loose. Drain and mash. Stir in the flour, egg yolks, olive oil and a good grind of black pepper. Work the dough (as little as possible) until it is well mixed. Divide it up and place it bit by bit on to a floured worktop. Roll the pieces by hand until you get a cylinder 1cm in diameter and continue in the same way for the remainder of the dough until you have used all the mixture. Chop the rolls every 2cm. Roll each piece to form the gnocchi and press with a fork.
Preheat a dish in the oven and then drop the gnocchi into a large saucepan of salted boiling water. As it bobs up to the surface of the water, it is cooked. Usually this takes only a minute or two. Drain and place in the heated dish. Cover with the Gruyère and sprinkle with white pepper and nutmeg. Put under the grill until the cheese is golden and bubbling.
SIXTEEN
Despite the upset of having Eggy as her screen husband, and regardless of the snog with him and the shocking evidence of his affair with the casting director which had ended yesterday’s working day, Sally was feeling high about being back in the acting saddle.
She wondered now why she had taken so much time out. She really enjoyed the frantic camaraderie of a location shoot. The laughs with the make-up and wardrobe department, joking with the crew while queueing to get the lunchtime catering tray, and sitting under canvas or on a bus with them all to eat it. Location catering had improved a lot since the old days, or perhaps this time it was because there was French money in the film, the caterers themselves were French, and thus naturally it was de rigueur to serve wine at lunchtime. Not that Sally touched a drop on set. She’d be far too worried about forgetting her lines. Also, after she’d reached fifty she found that drinking at lunchtime made her feel terribly tired for the rest of the day. But it certainly loosened up the camera crew.
Lunch on a British film set was a scant fifty minutes; here the déjeuner spread out to become the customary French two hours, giving her enough time to eat, relax and study the script for the afternoon’s scenes.
She had risen that morning, dressed in the dark and made her way down to the waiting car. Eggy was already sitting inside grinning.
‘I thought while we shared the car in we could go through lines,’ he said.
Sally had been amazed that yesterday her words had come out in the right places and in the correct order, so was very happy to agree. They both had three speaking scenes today. One easy scene with few words, set inside an apartment in Monaco. Then lunch. After that a tricky scene, with lots of dialogue, to be filmed on a nearby beach, where they had to have a heated argument, much to the delight of onlookers, played by local extras. The final scene of the day was on the same beach as it started to grow dark, the two bungling petty crooks – she and Eggy – trying to climb into a boat and speed away.
But despite Sally’s high hopes, so far this morning’s scene had run to twelve takes.
The business was set in a dark room at night, where Eggy and Sally were trying to break into a safe. There were staccato lines interspersed with the movements of the action. Once they had got inside the safe, they had to pile the contents of boxes into a sack. But at that point they discovered they had forgotten to bring it, so ended up having to load wads of money and bundles of jewellery into Eggy’s character’s beret and down Sally’s underwear. They then had to walk out of the apartment appearing deadpan.
Dark curtains blacked out the windows, and the lighting rig was arranged to make it seem as though the only light came from the occasional use of a torch and matches.
Everything technical which could go wrong had done so. The matches would not strike, the prop torch had flickered and cut out mid scene, then the safe numbers had all clicked correctly but the door was jammed and had to be levered open by the prop man. They’d tested it a few times, then gone for another take during which a helicopter had come over, flying low, and drowned out the sound.
This was followed by a near-perfect take, but one minute before the end of the scene the film cartridge had run out. So it was back to square one. Next take, a light bulb popped; after that when Sally pulled on the door handle, it came off in her hand.
Carpenters arrived and made good and the crew went for yet one more take. But by now Sally had gone word blind. Every time one of her lines came up she wasn’t sure whether she had already said it, and then after a minuscule pause she got the line wrong. When Eggy came over and whispered, ‘It’s fine, love, just relax,’ it had made her feel even worse.
Everyone was sent back to their start positions for the thirteenth time, and the clapper boy knelt before her and said: ‘Scene ninety, take thirteen, let’s hope this one is lucky for some.’
The rest of the crew guffawed. Daniel yelled, ‘Cut!’ and told everyone to pull themselves together. He reminded the crew that the shoot was already three days behind and Marina Martel would be arriving in France any day expecting results.
Sally glanced over to Daniel and could see that he was scared. She herself was terrified. By taking this job she had so much to lose. She could not foul it up. For sure she had to please Marina Mart
el. Sally was quite aware that, as Marina was the producer, the rushes would be sent to her each night for comment.
And at the same time, if the film was an embarrassment Sally would also have risked her friendship with the gang at La Mosaïque. And they were her everyday life. If she lost them, living in Bellevue-sur-Mer could become intolerable.
But that Daniel, the director, might also be worried, nervous that his work might be badly judged, had never occurred to her. She had been so wrapped up in her own fear she’d forgotten that she wasn’t the only person on set who was feeling anxious.
Eggy gave her a nod and Sally smoothed down the front of her costume, ready to go for take fourteen.
‘Don’t mind me!’ Sally heard a whispered voice in the dark ahead. ‘I’m not really here! Ssssshhh! Ssssshhhh!’
She knew well the rounded tones of Eggy’s wife, Phoo Taylor-Markham. Who had let her on to the set?
Sally tried to continue as though Phoo was not out there, watching her, hiding in the dark corner, lurking behind the script editor, the grip, the sound operator, the wardrobe assistants and make-up girls.
But she could not.
She found herself almost anticipating Phoo’s rude remarks.
‘Scene ninety, take fourteen.’
‘And action!’
Sally began afresh but when her line approached the words all came out in the wrong order.
Daniel cut again, barking at the camera crew to keep turning.
‘End slate!’ Daniel ran both hands through his slightly greased hair and landed them with a slap on his thighs.
By the time they had a decent take, the crew were grumbling about their lunch break.
The location catering was set up in a car park, walking distance from the afternoon location. Daniel, checking his watch, asked the actors if they didn’t mind losing some of their break so that they could go ahead to the beach and run through the scene a few times before the technical department arrived to set up. Eggy and Sally agreed.
They were both taken briefly to the location in a van then back to base.
Sally had not caught a glimpse of Phoo since they’d moved on from that unnerving seventeen-take scene and now wondered if she hadn’t been imagining hearing her voice.
‘I saw the rushes last night,’ whispered Judy.
Sally felt a flash of expectant excitement.
‘You looked good. We made the right choice with that shade of lipstick.’
Sally had forgotten that on a film set you were rarely paid a compliment; everyone was only really concerned with their own contribution. Therefore when make-up artists were watching the rushes all they looked at was the make-up!
The van drew to a stop and Sally got out.
A wardrobe girl rushed forward with an overall to cover her costume.
‘Don’t want you smeared with mayonnaise for this afternoon,’ she said. ‘There are no washing facilities down here.’
Sally made her way to the back of the queue, got her food and then walked to the tented area, where tables had been set up for everyone to eat.
And there was Phoo, seated at the tech crew’s table, her arm around Eggy, holding up a large glass of rosé, throwing her head back and laughing, teeth bared.
‘Oh, Sally was always such a klutz, wasn’t she, Eggy? Absolutely hopeless at everything!’
Theresa was up by seven-thirty, making pancakes and all kinds of breakfast treats for Chloe. She wondered how best to handle the conversation. The most important thing was to establish a channel of communication, some way of being able to keep in touch, and to know where Chloe was at all times. But when Theresa contemplated this idea she also realised that it was rather threatening. Even as an adult she would find it horrible to think that someone might want to have tabs on her all day and night.
Obviously Imogen would have other ideas, but Theresa felt sure that the essential thing was, rather than capturing her and forcing her home, to get Chloe to go of her own free will.
She wished she had something more tempting to lure the child. Once a captive animal had escaped it was hard to get it back into its cage, unless of course the conditions outside were worse than the ones in. And from all accounts Chloe was currently living the high life. Theresa no longer even had the South of France as bait to lure her. Chloe already had that. And at the same time, the child was clearly being entertained by a very rich man and his son, whom she adored. How could she compete with that?
Once Chloe was here in person, Theresa hoped to entice her to meet up on a regular basis. Maybe invite Neil and his father to dinner at La Mosaïque? After that her mind ran dry. What other activities might she suggest to keep a grip on the girl? Everything she thought of, to use Chloe’s own expression, sounded pretty lame.
At eight forty-five the doorbell rang, and Theresa went to open with a wide – she hoped – welcoming smile.
But it was only the postwoman who must have thought she was totally bonkers. With a brusque ‘Bonjour’ she thrust a package into Theresa’s hands and scooted off.
Theresa went back into the flat and opened the packet. A CD of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé.
How strange. She had not ordered any such thing. What could that mean? And who had sent it? Might it have been Chloe herself? But that seemed rather a mature idea for a teenager.
Theresa opened the front door again, to let the sunshine in and take a peep along the front, just in case Chloe was in sight. Who knew, if Chloe was dropped off by car that would give a chance for Theresa to get the number plate. Though what on earth she could do with it after that she had no idea. It was just what people always did on TV series. It might be possible that Neil’s dad would be in the car and Theresa could perhaps have a private word with him, maybe invite all three into her flat.
She crossed the road and sat on the sea wall, looking back at her own front door.
Carol pulled up in front of her. She was in the driver’s seat of the restaurant’s temporary van, windows down, sunglasses on, looking like a 1950s movie star.
‘Taking the sun, my darling?’
‘Waiting for my granddaughter.’
‘You found her?’
‘Not exactly, but she’s coming to breakfast.’
‘Hola! There’s a start, anyhoo. See you later, darling. Off to get the seven loaves and two fishes.’
‘We’ll need more than that.’
‘I know, sweetie – joke!’
Carol revved the engine and sped off up the hill.
Theresa looked up the road. No one was on the pavement; she could see no heads bobbing up and down behind the protective wall up the hill either. She turned the other way. A gush of people emptied out of the railway station. Theresa hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps Chloe would arrive by train. There were stations all along the French coast into Italy. Wherever Mr Muffett was, Chloe could easily get here by rail.
She scanned the crowd as it thinned out and dispersed.
No Chloe.
‘Theresa?’ Marcel had crossed the road from his terrace. ‘I was wondering if I could have a private word? Maybe I could come to your place later this morning.’
‘I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, Marcel. I’m waiting for my granddaughter.’
He laughed and pointed back at his terrace.
‘Is that her over there?’
Theresa glanced at the tables of people taking petit déjeuner in the morning sun. Sitting alone near the door to the inside of the brasserie was Chloe, cradling a large coffee in both hands, blending in with the crowd. She seemed a little scrumpled, but that was teenagers for you.
Theresa leaped to her feet.
‘God. I need my eyes testing. I was looking everywhere but . . .’
‘The meeting?’
Theresa couldn’t think of that now. ‘Whatever you like, Marcel. Just ring the bell. You’re very sweet to offer.’
She ran over the road and stood before Chloe.
‘Thank God you came, Grandma. It was only after I�
��d ordered the coffee that I realised I only have English money.’
‘That’s all right.’ Theresa dug into her pocket and pulled out some coins. ‘Shall I join you here, or do you want to come over to mine?’
‘Can we go to yours, please.’
‘Whatever you like.’ Theresa felt strange being so subservient to a child, but realised it was necessary to keep her on side. ‘Take your time.’
‘That’s all right. It’s gone cold now, anyhow.’
Theresa was painfully aware that she must weigh every word she said. Whatever happened she must not scare Chloe off, and at the same time try to reason her around to going home.
‘How long have you been sitting here?’
‘Oh, ages.’
‘You should have knocked at my door. I was up.’
Chloe stood up and stretched. ‘I love the sun,’ she said, stepping off the terrace. ‘It makes everything feel so much more cheery.’
‘Are you not feeling cheery?’
Chloe did not reply.
‘I suppose Neil’s dad has a huge mansion.’
Chloe stopped and looked Theresa in the eye.
‘Why on earth should you think that?’
‘I don’t know. Something his mother said, I suppose.’
‘You’ve met Neil’s mother?’
Theresa thought back to the dishevelled drunkard in her run-down ‘villa’ in Streatham and wished she had not let that slip.
‘Only briefly,’ she said. ‘In London. When we didn’t know where you were.’
‘They hate one another, his parents. It’s so unfair,’ said Chloe quietly. ‘It makes life extremely difficult for Neil.’
Theresa nodded.
‘Will Neil come here and pick you up today? To take you back to—’
‘You won’t get anything out of me like that,’ Chloe snapped, then clammed up again.
