by Celia Imrie
‘Drinks at Le Negresco it is.’
Eggy once more lifted his glass to clink with Sally.
It was decided. Tomorrow she would go for drinks with Eggy and Phoo. Sally hoped she could contact Jean-Philippe and that he would be free.
After a slightly uncomfortable silence they got to chatting about mutual friends: actors and directors from Sally’s past, some still working, others dead or retired.
Eventually the subject came back to the film of the moment.
‘So, after so many years out, how did you get into this movie, Salz? Local contact?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Complicated?’
Sally wished she hadn’t used that word. How she was in the film couldn’t be nearly as complicated as the way Eggy got the part. She decided that honesty was the best policy: ‘I was asked by the producer.’
‘Marina Martel?’
Sally nodded, hoping she didn’t sound too grand.
‘Wow!’ Eggy gave a whistle of approval. ‘For me, I’m just close to the casting director and she knew I was staying down here, and so, well, when the other bloke dropped out . . .’
‘Close to the casting director? Really?’ asked Sally, scrutinising his face for telltale tics.
‘Yes, yes.’ He waved his hand. ‘You know how it goes. We’ve known one another for ages. Over the years I’ve had a lot of work through her.’
‘I suppose she suggested Phoo for my part?’
‘Erm . . . no.’ Eggy blushed a deep red. ‘No. Not at all.’ He topped up his glass and took a gulp. ‘Quite the reverse in fact.’
He really did seem profoundly uncomfortable. Sally knew that Phoo had pressed for her role and that Eggy had opposed it. But from the shade of aubergine flooding Eggy’s countenance, Sally suspected there was a lot more going on than that. Something perhaps to do with a certain casting director’s pregnancy?
Eggy raised his hand to attract the waiter. He pointed to the bottle, which Sally realised was almost empty, though she had only had two glasses.
She ordered a cheese platter and a plate of charcuterie to absorb some of the alcohol. Eggy was really knocking it back. At this rate he’d still be drunk by the time they were filming their scenes tomorrow. He was already moving into the maudlin stage of inebriation.
‘Just make it two glasses, please.’ Sally spoke to the waiter in French. Eggy wouldn’t notice if another bottle didn’t materialise.
While picking at the salami, his eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s hard work, you know, being married.’
Thinking about Phoo, Sally could certainly see Eggy’s point, but also knew she was in no position to say anything. Those two had been married since Sally was in her teens, were still married, and tomorrow Eggy would be sober.
The two glasses of wine arrived. Eggy knocked his straight back.
‘Everything in life is hard,’ Sally said. A reply anodyne enough to mean absolutely nothing.
‘Believe me. Marriage is the hardest.’ Eggy’s lower lip quivered. He stilled it by picking up his empty glass, pretending to sip at nothing.
‘Are you not in love any more?’ Sally threw all caution to the wind. Why not ask straight out? ‘Is that it?’
Eggy didn’t say anything. He just hung his head. The silence spoke volumes.
‘If you really think like that, Eggy, perhaps you should consider separating.’
He turned to her, horror spread across his face. ‘We can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . because . . . because we’re us.’ Eggy looked at Sally with a childlike bewilderment. ‘We’re famous for being married. The Magical Markhams! That’s us. Divorce? Can you imagine? No. No. Can’t be done. Not now, anyway. Much too difficult all round.’
Sally felt very uncomfortable at having wheedled out this confession. What could she say? Better to appear disinterested, impartial. Though it all seemed tragic.
‘Anyway,’ Eggy hiccuped as he continued, ‘poor Phoo has had a few setbacks recently. She is still my best friend. We rub along, you know. We both know about the business and how it works. Imagine trying to explain the days when you can’t go to your wife’s birthday party because you’re filming in Monaco! She knows about all that stuff because it’s the same for her. Plus – most important of all – we make each other laugh.’
Each to his own, Sally thought.
She imagined there might be better reasons for living with a person. But there you are.
Chacun à son goût.
She glanced at the clock. It was getting late. Almost eleven. She got the bill and asked the waiter if he could call them a taxi.
The waiter explained that there was only one cab service in the village, but he was an old man and he never worked after nine at night or before nine in the morning.
Sally asked for the time of the first bus.
‘There are only four buses a day which pass through here. The first at nine-thirty,’ he replied. ‘And it takes about an hour to get to Nice centre ville.’
Well, that was a blow!
She turned back to Eggy. ‘There are no cabs, Eggy.’
But it was as though he had not understood what she’d said.
‘Very impressive, Salz, the way you just spin off into French without so much as a by-your-leave.’
As the waiter moved back behind the bar and started washing their glasses, Eggy rested his head on Sally’s shoulder.
‘It’s a devil’s life, sometimes, living with Phoo, you know. But, remember, we said “for better for worse”, so there we are. We just have to grin and bear it, dontcha know. But I also think she’s very misunderstood.’
Sally wasn’t in the mood for marital confessions. Or for explanations of Phoo’s foul behaviour.
The only thing on her mind was how the hell were they going to get back to Bellevue-sur-Mer.
They both had a company car picking them up at nine in the morning. They were due to go to Make-up and be ready to go on set at the location by eleven.
If the worst came to the very worst, Sally supposed they could take rooms somewhere in this village and phone the production company to see if they could get picked up from here.
She called the waiter over again and asked if there was a hotel nearby. He told her there was one, and it had one room available. He said it was owned by the bar – a kind of inn.
‘Sally?’ Eggy pulled his head up. He was starting to slur. He turned laboriously to face her. ‘You know, I’ve always thought you were a very attractive woman . . .’
‘Do you want to take the room?’ the waiter asked them, in French.
Eggy returned his head to Sally’s shoulder. Simultaneously his hand landed on her thigh and his plump fingers started squeezing at her flesh.
‘No thanks,’ she replied, briskly removing his hand. ‘We have to get back to Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
How she could achieve this she had no idea.
‘You know, I’ve not told anyone this, but Phoo and I, well, we’ve not lived together as, well, as husband and wife, for about forty years now.’
Sally realised he must be so drunk he was getting things muddled. They’d only been married for fifty years.
‘Come on, Eggy,’ she said, standing up and thereby shaking him off. ‘Time to go home.’
As they made their way to the door, Eggy raised his hand and pointed at the WC sign.
While he was in the gents, Sally had a brainwave.
She phoned Carol and in as few words as possible explained the situation. Carol laughed and said she’d be right there.
Sally used the time waiting for the van to appear trying to get Eggy a bit sobered up. She took him out of the bar and walked him round the square, but he kept slipping down to the ground. He was very heavy to lift back to his feet. He must be all of six foot tall, and these days had quite a paunch on him.
In the darkness she pushed his arm over her shoulder and led Eggy down through winding alleyways to the main road
which led up into the village. As they staggered along, Eggy continued trying to grope her.
‘You don’t want to do that, Eggy.’ Each time she firmly shoved him away. ‘We’re working together tomorrow. You’ll be embarrassed.’
A car turned around the sharp bend coming up the hill. The headlights lit them, blinding them both. Eggy’s face slumped once more into Sally’s shoulder.
As the van pulled up, Sally bent low to the driver’s window to explain a bit more to Carol.
‘He’s totally plastered. We’ll have to squeeze him into the front seat.’
Sally dragged Eggy round the bonnet and shoved him into the van.
Carol glanced at him, then did a double take.
Sally edged in, shunting Eggy along, and slammed the door.
Carol turned the engine over.
‘Let’s get you both home, eh? So, Sally, how do you know this old soak? New romance? Been keeping him a big secret from us?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ Sally reached for the centre seat belt and strapped Eggy in, before clicking her own in place. ‘I’ve known him for years and years. When I was starting out in the business I was a junior in a theatre company with him and his wife. You recognised him?’
‘Oh yes.’ Carol’s voice carried a dark determination. ‘So, you sneaked off for a secret date together?’
‘No. No, Carol. We’re working on the same project. Filming. It was a very long and tricky day and we decided afterwards to go for a drink. Who knew that this place was so utterly cut off? It was a mistake. He went on and on about his wife, who’s staying in town with him. To be frank, it was grim. I should have gone straight home.’
‘He’s not divorced then?’
‘Oh God, no. Very much still together with the wife.’
‘At the very least I would have expected him to be a widower.’
‘He’s half of Theatreland’s golden couple.’ Sally’s mind flitted to the conversation she had overheard with the casting director and she stammered out: ‘They both came to supper at La Mosaïque a few nights ago. Don’t you remember them? Eggy and Phoebe Markham.’
‘Phoebe Taylor. Good lord. I rather believe that while you were canoodling up here with this old boy, down in La Mosaïque his wife was getting plastered with that blown-up doll, Odile de la Warr. Now I see why.’
‘Well, there we are.’ Carol’s line was starting to annoy Sally. She’d done nothing, after all, except lend an ear. ‘But, I must assure you, my relationship with Eggy is strictly professional.’ Sally laughed away the notion which Carol had obviously picked up that she was up here in the middle of nowhere having a romantic tryst with Eggy Markham. ‘Really, Carol. I wouldn’t touch him with a pair of ten-foot tongs.’
‘Hmmmmmm.’ Carol was tight-lipped. ‘Whatever.’
Eggy snorted and shifted in his seat.
‘He’s flat out.’ Sally sighed. ‘I wonder how his wife will take to him coming back unconscious?’
But Carol did not respond.
This was not how Sally expected going with Eggy for a little drink to end up. Carol, already disgruntled that she had flown off to do this acting job, was now also judging her as a cheat and a man-eater.
Sally knew that the more she tried to explain things, the worse it would get.
For the rest of the journey she and Carol barely spoke a word.
TWENTY
Early next morning Imogen phoned Theresa to tell her that she was taking Chloe and the other two children directly to the airport and heading back to London. She had seen Neil hanging about the hotel, she said, and didn’t want to allow any complications to develop.
Theresa suggested she might come up to say goodbye, but Imogen told her that they were all already sitting in the taxi, simply waiting for Frances to pick up her bill, so it would be pointless.
Theresa was quite upset. She had a slight headache. A ravenous hunger had also come upon her, but there was little in the cupboard, except the box of brownies, and she didn’t much fancy them for breakfast. So, as a treat, to cheer herself up, she went along the road to Marcel’s brasserie.
The morning was chilly, with no sun. An easterly wind was picking up dust and stray leaves and dancing them along the pavement. The brasserie terrace was deserted, but indoors the place was bustling.
At a table for two near the window she saw Roger Muffett, eating breakfast with Neil. He looked up, waved at Theresa and called to her across the room: ‘Come and join us.’
‘So you’re still here,’ she said, leaning against the back of a chair. ‘I gather Imogen has taken Chloe back to London.’
Neil’s face was the picture of misery.
‘Little fellow’s not very happy about that.’
‘Good morning, Theresa.’ Marcel came up and pulled out her chair. ‘It’s a rare day that you pay us a visit this early.’
‘I’m lucky, Marcel. I am among friends.’
‘And what can I get you?’
‘Un café crème, et une brioche, s’il vous plaît, Marcel.’
Marcel lingered a little before moving off. Theresa wondered whether he was thinking of saying something else. Perhaps he wanted to try and sway her to make the others accept his pitiful offer for the restaurant. But after a moment he turned away, went into the kitchen and came back with her breakfast.
‘What’s that?’ Neil pointed at her sugar-speckled bread.
‘A brioche. Would you like to taste?’ She pulled off a lump and put it on to Neil’s plate.
‘I suppose you must be thinking of getting back on the boat again now, Roger, and heading off into the great unknown? What an adventure it must be!’
‘Really?’ Roger sighed and topped up his coffee from the pot on the table. ‘Must I?’
‘It’s dull today, I know. But don’t let a spot of rain get you down. Usually the weather here is lovely. In the winter it’s hot at midday and freezing at night. But at least most days we do get the sun. I think it would be gorgeous to go drifting out on to the Med. Even on a cloudy day.’
‘Hmm. Good for you,’ growled Roger. ‘You’re welcome to it.’
‘My friend Sally drives a boat.’ Theresa spread her brioche with apricot jam, then took a sip of the lovely strong coffee. ‘I’m afraid I only go as far as driving a car.’
‘I couldn’t be more bored with the boat. Once upon a time it all seemed like such a good idea. But a life like this isn’t at all as it looks in the adverts.’
‘Nothing ever is.’
‘Excuse me.’ Roger laid down his napkin and rose, looking for the lavatories. ‘Neil, please could you entertain Mrs Simmonds while I visit the little boys’ room.’
Roger weaved through the tables to a door near the back of the café. Neil leaned in to Theresa. ‘Poor Dad. He had all these horrible girlfriends, but they didn’t like it on the boat either. They all went home. I got the idea that they thought because Dad lived on a yacht that he was a millionaire. They didn’t understand that we live on a boat just because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.’
‘How do you feel about it all?’
‘I’d like to live in a house again.’
‘In France or England?’
‘You know, I really miss my mum. And, honestly, I miss my old home too. I even miss school.’
Theresa handed Neil another piece of brioche. Poor boy. In fact, Roger had looked so beaten she felt sorry for the pair of them. What a mess.
Marcel was back. ‘I hear you took your coffee in the market in Nice a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘Were you trying to avoid me? You usually come here.’
‘Are you spying on me, Marcel?’ Theresa looked him in the eye.
‘No. Cyril told me he saw you there. He was taking photographs or something. I just thought that after our recent discussion about the price of your restaurant you might be . . .’ He started fiddling with the table. ‘The other gentleman is gone away?’
‘Only for a minute.’
‘I wanted to talk to you ab
out La Mosaïque . . .’
At this moment, to Theresa’s great relief, Roger emerged from the gents. She had no desire to be cornered by Marcel to talk money without anyone from the restaurant team to back her up. She was frightened she might say something in her poor French which Marcel would take as her agreeing to another minuscule offer. This was the problem when you spoke a language in the most basic of fashions. You might say something which actually meant something very different – like all those badly translated menus where Crudités Variées became Various Crudenesses, and Gratin d’Avocat – or avocado with grilled cheese – appeared as Cheesy Lawyer.
‘Oh look. Here comes Roger.’
Marcel moved off. Roger sat.
‘You know what, Theresa, I’ve had it with all the fancy French food, the wine, the coffee, the so-called “good life”. I just want to slump down on the sofa with a football match and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.’
‘Followed by beans on toast,’ added Neil. ‘And a burger.’
‘And chips, with tons of ketchup, and a fried egg.’
‘Sausages.’
‘Bacon.’
The way these two males were waxing on about English food reminded Theresa of the opening song from the musical Oliver! She half-expected them to put their hands to their chests, gripping imaginary braces, and start hopping from foot to foot in imitation of a Victorian street dance, all the while warbling manfully on the subject of shepherd’s pie and mustard, fried-egg roll, toad-in-the-hole and jam roly-poly with custard.
‘Have you got a busy day laid on, boys?’
‘If only,’ said Roger with a sigh, gazing out to the grey sea.
‘I don’t know whether this is an idea which would appeal to either of you, but Monaco is only just up the road. There’s meant to be a wonderful museum . . .’
‘Oh, not art. Please not. Or history. I left school thirty years ago, Mrs Simmonds.’
‘No. It’s motor cars. Race cars mainly.’
She noticed that Neil had looked up, his eyes gazing sheepishly at his father.
‘You fancy that, nipper?’
Neil nodded.
‘Right ho. Monaco it is.’ He stood up. ‘Breakfast is on me, Mrs Simmonds. See you around.’
