by Celia Imrie
‘Wow! A real lie-in.’
‘So, anyway, darling, how about exploring this village? It’s bound to have a rustic square with a bustling bar full of colourful locals. I’ll stand you a drink or two . . . We deserve it.’
Sally felt rather relieved not to have to go straight back to Marianne and be forced to listen to further tales of financial skulduggery.
‘But how will we get home later? Places like this don’t have that many buses, you know.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll treat us to a taxi. You live in Bellevue-sur-Mer, don’t you? That’s where I’m staying.’
‘Taxi prices are really prohibitive here on the Côte d’Azur, you know.’
‘Who cares? Go on, Salz. I know we’d both enjoy a debrief on the film. Phoo’s out to dinner with that monstrous Odile.’
‘I thought you liked her.’
‘You can have too much of a good thing. Anyway, I certainly don’t want to go back to an empty rental flat. So depressing. You’re avoiding your daughter and her tales of the financial times. We can spend a bit of time going through the scenes for tomorrow, if you’d like.’
Sally paused to think. It did sound like a pleasant-enough invitation.
‘Go on, Sally. You know you want to. Why not? Just the two of us? A bonne peaceful boisson à la Française?’
‘And we’re off!’ William appeared at the door, dangling an order between two fingers. ‘Table for one. Boring little man in an ill-fitting wig.’
‘One minute, William, before you head back into the fray . . .’ Carol stepped to the cupboard and took out the box of brownies. ‘What have you to say about these?’
‘Whoops! You got me bang to rights, gov’nor.’ William winced and put his hand to his mouth. ‘Let’s just say Benj and I accidentally ate half the box the night before last. We labelled the box to make sure we didn’t do it again. So there you are, girls. Enjoy!’
As William hopped back into the dining room, Carol took out a brownie and handed it to Theresa.
‘I’ve barely had time to eat today.’ Theresa took a bite. ‘So it’s just as well they left these. Mmmm. Delicious.’
She glanced at the order William had stuck to the board, polished off the rest of the brownie and washed her hands, ready to get back to work.
Benjamin rushed into the kitchen and spun straight out again, leaving himself only time to say, ‘They’re here! They’re here! They’re here!’
‘Is she really such a big deal?’ asked Theresa.
Carol shrugged. ‘She’s one of these people who everyone seems to know of, but no one knows what they actually do. Like the Kardashians. Constantly photographed. Owns some pretty important places in St-Trop, beach restaurants, disco clubs where the only regulars seem to be European royalty and pop stars. You know the kind of thing.’
What with the hunger, the relief of Chloe being back and too little sleep, Theresa felt overwhelmed with emotion. She reached out a hand and patted Carol’s arm. ‘Thanks for being so understanding.’
‘Shucks, Theresa!’ said Carol. ‘Don’t get all schmaltzy on me.’
‘Evening all!’ The back door burst open and Zoe stood there in full evening dress. ‘Sorry to be dressed inappropriately, but I was due to be going to some ghastly classical concert up at the Villa Rothschild and the young man who was to accompany me tells me he has caught the flu. A likely story! Probably just loathes Smetana and Rips-Yer-Corsets-Off. But then, who doesn’t? Alas, the result equals the old adage: “All dressed up and nowhere to go.”’
She stepped into the kitchen, swishing her train around as she closed the door behind her. ‘So, my darlings, I thought to myself, where is there a nowhere I could go to without being laughed out of court? And natch, the answer is: here. I don’t think I need to ask whether you have any free tables. As the song has it – I don’t believe in miracles.’
While Zoe was talking, Theresa finished decorating the solitary table’s starter plate.
William darted in with the new orders, which he stuck to the board. He handed one to Carol, a delivery this time, to be distributed to a local home.
Then he took in the sight of Zoe.
‘Oh, God. I should have known that Cruella de Vil would turn up tonight.’ He picked up the starter. ‘Come to ogle the rich and famous, dear?’
‘Rich and famous? Dining in La Mosaïque? Have you forgotten to take your anti-psychotics again, sweetie?’
‘Says the Phantom of the Opera.’
‘I’m only asking to whom you refer, William dear, when you say “rich and famous”?’
‘Odile de la Warr.’
‘No! That old rooster! Here in La Mosaïque? You are kidding me. Oh, this is too funny.’ Zoe pushed past Theresa and Carol and peeped into the dining room. ‘Oof! Someone should have told her to hold back on the filler and the fake tan.’
Theresa glanced at Zoe – bursting pout, eyebrows pulled up so high she could not affect anything but a look of constant surprise – and just managed to stop herself saying, ‘Pot/kettle.’
William went back to work, but not before Zoe had linked her arm in his.
‘I’ll have the table beside theirs, please, darling. And I’ll try to blend in.’
‘Blend in?’ squawked William. ‘What do you think this is? Madame Tussauds?’
As she watched Zoe sailing into the dining room in her sparkling evening gown and glittering tiara, Theresa found herself laughing, holding her sides, rocking back and forth.
Zoe’s arrival had somehow punctured the bubble of tension she’d been experiencing for the last few days, and suddenly she was feeling great again.
She turned to share the joke with Carol, but Carol had left.
Perhaps she too had gone into the dining room, pretending to be an ordinary customer.
Theresa roared with laughter.
When it wasn’t tragic, life was really so funny.
She worked on the starter plates for Odile’s table, chortling to herself.
Carol didn’t come back. Maybe she really was next door, sitting down to dinner with Zoe. Then Theresa remembered that Carol had been given a delivery order and she must be out around the town, driving. Theresa recalled that, while she had been away, Carol had been stranded, the van broken down, but she had got it going herself. Theresa giggled at the thought of her lying under the chassis, blood-red varnished nails and impeccable make-up, sorting out the engine.
Suddenly, William burst into the kitchen, interrupting her fantasy.
‘I can’t witness another creepy fawning moment from my apparent beloved. Much as I am a fan of the opulent Odile, I’m feeling quite sick from the syrupy benevolence pouring out of Benjamin’s every orifice . . . well, not every . . . that would be vile. But you know what I mean, Theresa. And no, before you say it, I can’t afford a divorce.’
He spun around, seized an apron from behind the door and put it on.
‘So, dearest? Where do you want me?’
Theresa was coping perfectly so didn’t really want William in here at all.
‘Isn’t Carol off on a delivery?’ she suggested. ‘Will Benjamin be able to manage without you?’
‘He’ll bloody well have to, the sycophantic little crawler.’ William grabbed a spoon and started pointlessly stirring a pan of stewed apples. ‘The smarmy, toadying creep can certainly manage three tables on his own.’
‘How’s Zoe doing?’
William gave an exasperated groan. ‘She only went up to Odile and said, “Good evening, you old slapper!” I could have died on the spot.’
‘How did Odile take it?’
‘She gave Zoe the up and down and replied, “From an old broad like yourself I take that as a sublime compliment.”’
‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Theresa laughed. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t. Not only that, but the dusty little man in the corner is being quite demanding, when all we need to do is keep Odile happy.’ He rubbed his chin and screwed up his eyes.
‘I have an idea. How far on are you with everything in here?’
‘Only dessert to go, and they’re practically ready.’
He took Theresa by the shoulders and twisted her round till she was facing the dining room.
‘Don’t do that, William.’ Theresa balanced herself by clutching the edge of the counter. ‘You’re making me feel quite dizzy.’
He untied the knot of her apron, then fluffed up her hair.
‘Now, elegant Mrs Simmonds, you are going out to join Zoe at the table. Your duty tonight will be to keep Zoe under control. And, while you’re at it, you can edge my “other half” away from Odile. There’s nothing like overkill for ruining a good thing.’
‘But, I . . .’
‘Go on.’ He pushed Theresa towards the door. ‘Go out there and make your country proud!’
As she stepped into the dining room, Theresa staggered a little. She felt pleasantly exhausted. She was looking forward to sitting down, maybe taking a little bite.
Zoe was seated at a table for two. Theresa took the seat opposite her.
‘Oh, hello, darling. I was just telling these two how you and Sally are partners. Odile was sharing with us all the details of her new disco-bar in St-Trop. The Cockatoo.’
‘Non, non. Les Cacatoès.’
‘No need to show off, Odile, dear. We all understand French.’ Zoe leaned forward and, inclining her head in the direction of Odile and Phoebe Taylor, whispered to Theresa, ‘This conversation is classic. Wish I had a pen.’
‘As I always say,’ Phoebe blotted her lips with her linen napkin, ‘there is no gathering which cannot be uplifted by a cock or two.’
Theresa blinked in disbelief as, deadpan, Phoebe Taylor ladled another forkful of food into her mouth. ‘Tell you what I miss over here. You never see it in restaurants any more. But when I was in France at finishing school, it was everywhere. And that is coq au vin. No other way to travel.’ She pushed her plate away and spluttered with laughter.
Theresa giggled.
Benjamin oozed forward, bearing dessert menus. ‘Terminez, mesdames?’
Odile nodded and waved at the plates as though she desired them to vanish instantly.
Benjamin laid down the menus, swiped up the plates, took the orders and briskly minced away.
‘So, yes, Theresa,’ Odile leaned across the aisle between their tables, bracelets clinking, ‘as you all know, in the hospitality trade, things have been a little tricky for the last couple of years. Takings down everywhere after the . . . event. But it will get better. At least the Italians are back.’
‘Much good that is for us,’ said Zoe. ‘Italians only eat at Italian restaurants, preferably those owned by Italians. This place is Anglo-Provençal.’
‘True. But as I was saying, I’m opening Les Cacatoès next week. Then I’m putting my feelers out for somewhere new along the coast. A little nearer to Nice and the airport.’ She looked around at La Mosaïque’s dining room. ‘Somewhere smaller. Cosier. More intime.’
Under the table, Zoe kicked Theresa’s ankle.
‘Ouch!’ Theresa tried to cover her exclamation with a serene smile.
The wiry man in the corner put a hand in the air. When he failed to catch Benjamin’s eye, he said aloud, ‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît!’
Benjamin turned briefly to acknowledge him before vanishing into the kitchen.
‘I’m also fond of sausage.’ Phoebe blinked and looked up as though resuming a continuing conversation. ‘Aren’t you? Not bothered whether it’s German, English or Italian. I like it fat, long and spicy.’
Theresa started to laugh aloud, and could not stop herself.
Benjamin rushed from the kitchen bearing dessert plates. He plonked them down and made a goggle-eyed face at Theresa.
She couldn’t make out what on earth he was signalling her to do. He looked as though he was on that ancient TV programme Give Us a Clue. She was tempted to sign back: ‘Book and Film?’
Tonight everything seemed so funny.
She really had the giggles, in the same uncontrollable way she had had at school, sometimes in church or roll call.
Zoe was also now pulling a face at her, nudging her shoes.
To Theresa both Zoe and Benjamin looked like cartoon characters. She couldn’t believe that everyone else wasn’t laughing at them, and at Phoebe Taylor with all her double entendres.
Benjamin moved rapidly to the man in the corner and took his payment.
The man walked slowly from the restaurant.
As he passed her table, Odile smiled and wished him a very good night.
Phoebe leaned forward and squinted down at her plate of fruit. She thrust in a spoon and held it out in Theresa’s direction. ‘Kumquat?’
Theresa exploded with laughter.
‘Cockatoo! I love birds.’
‘Oh, so you are gay? I was wondering.’ Phoo peered at Theresa as though inspecting a sweater and looking for moth holes. ‘Sally talked about her “partner” Theresa, but I didn’t realise . . . I always picture her falling for some great big muscly chap. But I suppose “needs must when the devil drives”. She was always a bit of a goer, that Sally. We all knew her as the Birmingham Rep bike.’
Benjamin was at Theresa’s shoulder, trying to edge her to her feet.
‘What are you doing, Benjamin? Can’t you see I’m enjoying myself?’
‘Theresa!’ He was whispering, tugging at her dress.
‘Sally’s playing my part, you know, in some film opposite my husband Edgar. They offered it to me first. But I turned it down, of course. Not meaty enough for me. Less the filet-mignon role than a lump of old corned beef. But, bless! Someone has to take these tired little cough-and-spit parts. And as an actress Sally Doyle always was bloody hopeless.’
‘I heard she was rather good,’ said Zoe.
‘Nonsense.’ Phoebe slammed her hand down on the table. ‘Sally had unwarranted and undeserved success.’
Theresa now didn’t know what everyone was going on about.
She sat back, smiling at the room.
She felt serenely happy.
‘Theresa? Are you feeling quite all right?’ Zoe was scrutinising her face. ‘You’re looking very pale.’
‘I’m just tired. And relieved after all the recent upheaval.’ She sighed with contentment. It was odd – even after having eaten, she still felt starving. When she got home she thought she might rustle up a croque-monsieur.
‘Croque-monsieur . . .’ she said aloud, with a raucous guffaw.
The little hilltop village certainly was picturesque. Winding cobbled streets, lined with small old houses painted in various shades of terracotta and ochre, led up to the square. Shaded by plane trees, the centre of the square was set up for pétanque. There were only a few shops – a clothing boutique, an artisanal jeweller, a gallery, a garage and a bike-repair station.
The sun had gone down, and the temperature dropped. Sally’s clothes weren’t nearly warm enough to handle it. As she walked along, peering into windows, deciding which of the two bars to patronise, she shivered.
‘Can’t have my wife catching cold the night before our big scene.’ Eggy took off his jacket and draped it around Sally’s shoulders.
They decided on the bar which did not have a loud sports television, blaring out a rugby match.
This one was quiet, with a few workmen gathered round a table playing cards.
They chose a red faux-leather corner banquette and on Sally’s advice ordered a basket of panisse chips to go with their bottle of Bandol.
‘We’ve not had time for you to fill me in on all the years between,’ said Eggy. ‘You must have had many adventures.’
‘Not really.’ Sally didn’t want to go into a tedious spiel explaining how she’d landed up here. She just wanted to relax and be quiet after a long day’s work.
‘Santé!’ She raised her glass.
‘Cheers!’ He raised his and they chinked.
Looking at him this evening, Sall
y felt sorry she had put him in the same bag as his wife. On his own, he was actually rather kind.
‘You know, I really like a glass of wine,’ said Eggy, knocking it back in one slurp. ‘But what I’d really kill for is a cup of builder’s.’
‘When we next get some time off, you could pop over to my place in Bellevue-sur-Mer and I’ll brew you a whole pot. How about the day after tomorrow?’
‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid.’ Eggy nudged Sally in the ribs. ‘I told you. Got a hot date in Nice.’
Sally recalled Eggy mentioning this before but had actually thought he was joking.
‘Someone on the film crew?’ she asked, intrigued at how, with his wife breathing over his shoulder, he could manage to fix up a date.
‘No. Local. Lovely-looking woman, very striking. A random encounter.’
‘When you were in St-Tropez?’
‘No. Near you. We’ve rented a place in BSM, as it happens. A little first-floor flat, down on the seafront. Easier for the filming, you know. They offered me a hotel room, but I couldn’t leave old Phoo on her own. And St-Tropez is all very well but it’s quite a schlep.’
Sally worked out that the only possible place he and Phoo could be staying must be in the rental flat above Theresa.
Eggy gazed down into his empty glass, then mournfully picked up the bottle and refilled it.
‘I feel rather badly about everything so far, you know, Sally. And I think it would be a decent gesture to ask you, please give us a second chance. And perhaps I could offer you and a friend – maybe that sailor chappie, or the nice lady you own the restaurant with – a little treat: dinner or drinks, somewhere really nice, to make all good. What do you say?’
To be truthful, another evening with Phoo wasn’t exactly on Sally’s bucket list, but she realised that there was no way she could refuse this invitation without seeming churlish.
‘Drinks sounds like the better idea. After work one evening.’
‘Why not tomorrow? It’s good to wind down after filming.’ Eggy took another swig of wine. ‘Where’s the poshest place for a drink around these parts?’ he asked.
‘Le Negresco,’ Sally replied. ‘It’s in Nice.’
