A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  She jumped, startled, then picked up.

  ‘All right. Come clean. What do you want from me?’

  ‘Well, actually, Theresa, I wanted to know if you’d like to come out for a drink.’

  ‘Sally?’

  It was.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. I won’t snitch. I phoned Carol first, you see. And she suggested you might be in need of some company.’

  The very thought of getting out of this flat, where she felt like a sitting duck, seemed like a wonderful idea.

  ‘All right, Sally. You’re on.’

  ‘Posh clothes, darling. We’re going smart. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Oh, and we’re going with your upstairs neighbours. I hope you’re on good terms.’

  ‘I am,’ replied Theresa, overflowing with relief. ‘Phoebe Taylor was in the restaurant last night, and we had a laugh.’

  ‘Me, not quite so much, but that’s another tale,’ said Sally. ‘See you in ten.’

  Theresa hastily put on some make-up and changed into a smart dress, and when Sally’s car drew up was hovering by the front door. She heard Sally ring the upstairs doorbell. Immediately she opened her own front door and locked up behind her.

  ‘You’ve saved my bacon,’ she said, ducking briskly into the front seat of the car. ‘Quick – before anyone sees me.’

  Once in the passenger seat Theresa bent down into the footwell, pretending to do something to her shoe, until the two back doors had slammed and Sally revved the engine and the car sped up the hill.

  Eggy ordered champagne, a bottle with four glasses.

  Sally did the mental arithmetic – one and a half glasses each.

  Conversation was pretty sticky. To Sally it seemed as though they were all tiptoeing around so many subjects, from Sally and Eggy’s film job to the reason why they were sitting here together having a drink at all.

  ‘I loved your sitcoms,’ said Theresa during one of the leaden pauses. ‘Very funny. Especially Paddy and Pat.’

  ‘Thank you, Theresa.’

  Sally watched as Phoo bestowed upon Theresa a condescending smile of the type usually reserved for fans.

  ‘Compliments like that make my day. It was indeed a well-beloved show.’

  And once again awkwardness reigned.

  Eggy put up his hand and signalled for another bottle.

  Just as the waiter was popping its cork and pouring, one hand smartly behind his back, Sally noticed Marianne enter with a well-built middle-aged man with dark hair, greying at the temples. She saw Theresa make a surreptitious wave. The man waved back at her. Trailing behind them was a teenaged boy.

  At the same moment Sally’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen. It was Jean-Philippe.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I need to get this.’ Sally took the phone out into the brightly lit hotel lobby. ‘Oh God, Jean-Philippe. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. I wanted you to chum me to a drinks thing at the Negresco.’

  Jean-Philippe told her he’d love to, and Sally had to explain that he was now superfluous to requirements. He laughed and told her that once he’d bathed and preened himself he might well ‘happen’ to pop in later. Don’t worry, he’d make it seem a sheer coincidence.

  As Sally made her way back into the bar, she was thinking how the whole quality of this evening was like a dream, or was it a nightmare?

  She paused to greet her daughter. The man accompanying her rose to shake her hand.

  ‘Roger Muffett, I’m the father of Neil, here, the little squirt who ran off with your pal’s granddaughter.’ He leaned his head to one side and squinted at Sally. ‘I’ve met you before, haven’t I? You look very familiar.’

  Sally noticed that Neil was blushing tomato-red, his eyes popping at her as though he was trying to transmit a secret message. She also perceived the boy’s slight shake of head, so said, ‘I don’t think so,’ even though she really did think he looked familiar.

  Marianne was also signalling at her. In actual words it would have been something like ‘shove off and stop queering my pitch,’ Sally realised, so she smiled and returned to her seat with the Markhams and Theresa. They were chatting merrily about British television of yesteryear.

  ‘Phoo and Eggy were telling me about when they first knew you.’

  Oh God.

  Sally could imagine.

  Without thinking, she took a large swig of champagne and ferociously bit off the end of a breadstick dipped in tapenade.

  ‘I never realised you were held in such high esteem by everyone in the theatrical profession,’ Theresa continued. ‘Phoo has been telling me all about your wonderful interpretation of Natasha in The Three Sisters. I so wish I’d seen it.’

  Sally took a deep breath and gaped at Theresa, then back at Phoo, who was gazing serenely into her champagne glass.

  What on earth was going on?

  ‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ said Eggy, leaning back in the sofa and taking in the room with its boiserie and gold-framed paintings of kings of France. ‘What a lovely way to end a day’s work.’

  ‘Especially when we’ve got such a late call tom—’ Before Sally could finish her sentence Eggy’s foot lashed out under the table and kicked her ankle so hard she made an audible squeak.

  ‘Late-ish,’ he said sharply. ‘These days I count a nine a.m. as a lie-in, don’t you? So ten-thirty seems like heaven.’

  Sally knew that tomorrow was scheduled as a night shoot.

  And that their pick-up wasn’t due till 3 p.m.

  Theresa was also making small movements, which caught her eye. When she turned to look she appeared to be making secret motions in the direction of Marianne.

  Sally pulled up her sleeve and gave her own arm a sharp pinch.

  No.

  She was awake.

  ‘So have you been partners for years and years?’ Phoo leaned forward and picked up a handful of herb-roasted nuts.

  ‘No,’ Sally replied. ‘Must be around two or three years.’

  Phoo nodded sagely.

  ‘That’s quite old to make such a sweeping change. Eggy and I have been together so long now we’re practically welded.’

  ‘Welded bliss,’ added Eggy, stretching out his arm and putting it round Phoo.

  Theresa was lifting her eyebrows and pulling a face at Sally. She appeared to be saying, ‘Have it your way. I don’t mind playing along.’

  Why was everything tonight like a long course in the art of mime?

  Sally was at a loss. Had Theresa given Phoo the impression that they were lovers? What on earth was going on?

  ‘My friend Jean-Philippe may come along later.’ Sally was determined to get things straight. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him all day, but he was out at sea delivering a yacht for a client in Genoa. Then he had to take the train home. All tunnels.’

  ‘Jean-Philippe?’ Phoo was doing that wise-old nodding act again, all sympathy. ‘Is he your beard?’

  ‘He has a beard, yes.’

  ‘No. I meant is he your “beard”. I believe that’s the expression, among the LGBTV community – you know, when you need to keep something about your private life covered up . . .’ Phoo started inclining her head now, bobbing her scalp in Marianne’s direction. ‘When the family is around the place. You know.’ She was bouncing her head so regularly she was giving a fair impression of a toy dog in a car rear window. ‘When . . . family . . . is nearby . . .’

  Nod, nod, nod.

  ‘Why would I need to cover it up from Marianne? She knows all about the restaurant . . .’

  ‘No. I’m not talking about the restaurant.’ Phoo laughed, still shaking her head. ‘I mean . . . you know . . . The L word.’

  Phoo now wiggled her eyes back and forth between Sally and Theresa.

  When Sally looked to Theresa for some support, all she got back was the same wide-eyed stare. This time it said: ‘You got yourself into this; you can get yourself out of it.’

  Sally wondered if this was anything to do with Carol. Had Caro
l spoken to Theresa about her being stuck up in the hilltop village with Eggy? Did Theresa believe that she and Eggy were at it, and so now she was spinning some lie which she had told Phoo to cover for her? Or did Theresa, for some reason of her own, need to make Phoo believe that they were lovers? She wished that someone had let her into the rules of whichever charade everyone was playing. She would then willingly join in.

  Suddenly Marianne’s date had crossed the room and was looming over her.

  ‘I know who you are now,’ bellowed Roger. ‘You’re that bloody delivery-woman with the stuck-up health food which lost me my girlfriends.’

  Sally glanced past the man and could see his son shaking his head, making ‘Sorry’ gestures.

  ‘If I needed a lecture on healthy eating I’d buy a book by Jamie Oliver.’

  She saw the thick twists of dark hair curling over the top of his shirt collar and remembered where she knew him from.

  It was ‘Snooky’ from the yacht with the long and ghastly name which she couldn’t quite remember. ‘The Wife Got The House?’

  ‘Oh, so the bitch has been speaking to you, has she?’

  Sally’s question seemed to have popped his bubble somewhat.

  ‘I heard she was coming over here.’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  Marianne arrived on the scene.

  ‘Come on, Roger, let’s not make a fuss, now, eh?’

  Marianne took his arm and led him back to their table, where Neil sat hunched up, his face in his hands.

  ‘Our first and only Shore-to-Ship delivery. It was a disaster.’ Sally said it more for something to say than to explain herself. ‘We gave him a delicate fish, and a cheese platter, when he really wanted baked beans on toast and chips.’

  ‘That’s what we all really want,’ said Eggy. ‘With ketchup and a nice cup of tea.’

  Sally remembered something else about the encounter. ‘The boy called me Theresa.’

  ‘Neil?’ Theresa peered across at the boy.

  ‘So often happens with couples.’ As she nudged Theresa’s elbow, Phoo’s speech was slightly slurred. ‘Did you get the house, darling? Well done you! Eggy and I have a Beamer.’

  It was all too much for Sally. Everything had become so surreal. It was exactly like one of those actors’ nightmares where you are on stage in the middle of an obscure play by someone like Eugène Ionesco, but you have never even read the play and have no idea of your role, let alone the lines. And you look down to see that you are naked.

  Sally grabbed her champagne glass and downed it in one.

  When she looked up she saw that everyone was squinting towards the doorway, where some people were hovering, waiting to be seated. It was Odile de la Warr, accompanied by a gaggle of Italian men.

  Phoo raised a hand and waved. Odile murmured something to the Italians and they all turned away, and left the bar, heading for somewhere else to drink.

  ‘I don’t think she saw us,’ said Phoo.

  But Sally knew that she had.

  What she wasn’t sure of, though, was which one of them Odile de la Warr was avoiding.

  As they all came out of the hotel, stepping warily down the white marble steps, Theresa realised that she had got rather more drunk than she had intended. But even this did not soften the pounding of her heart when a passing motorcycle backfired. Instinctively, as she had on that terrible night a few years ago, when they had stood yards away from this spot as the lorry barrelled towards them, she reached out and grabbed Sally’s hand. From the strength of her friend’s grasp, she knew that Sally had experienced the same shock.

  They rounded the corner and broke into a run as they had that night, stumbling together along the pavement of Rue Cronstadt.

  They ran onwards until they turned the corner leading into Rue du Commandant Berretta. Even though they could hear Phoo behind them, calling loudly, ‘Hey there, you two, wait for us!’ they ran on.

  As they came to a halt, both panting, they leaned against the wall, and Sally burst into tears. Theresa put her arms around her friend.

  Last time, it had been the other way round. It was she who had broken down in tears once they reached safety, while Sally had remained stoical.

  ‘I thought we would be over it by now,’ Sally sobbed. ‘It’s such a beautiful place. To have that loveliness tainted by something so horrible . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Theresa, holding her tight. ‘We were so lucky. I’m sure the fear will fade one day.’

  Sally wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

  ‘Come on, darling.’ Theresa reached out and stroked her hair. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘We can’t.’ Sally burst into tears again. ‘I drank far too much. I’m way over the limit.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Theresa. ‘Those ruddy waiters keep topping up the glasses. You can’t count. You really have no idea you’ve drunk too much till you can’t walk straight. Should we phone Carol?’

  ‘She wouldn’t thank us,’ said Sally. ‘Last time she was quite snippy with me.’

  ‘Isn’t that because you were canoodling with the married actor, fella-me-lad?’ Theresa signalled with her head.

  Sally jerked herself away. ‘Me and Eggy? Good God, no. Is that what she told you?’

  ‘There you are!’ Phoo was bearing down upon them. ‘Break it up, you lovebirds. You can get your nookie once you’re home.’

  Both Theresa and Sally shook their heads and opened their mouths and closed them again, realising there was no point even trying to explain.

  Eggy ambled round the corner. ‘Can’t remember which car is yours, Salz, old girl. Is it the blue one?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Phoo, strolling towards Sally’s car and slapping it on the boot. ‘It’s this one. Isn’t it?’

  While Theresa rooted in her handbag for a tissue to give to Sally, Phoo put her knee up on the bonnet of the car. At first no one had any idea what she was intending to do.

  Next thing she was clambering up over the windscreen, dragging herself on to the sunroof. Once on top of the car, she stood up.

  Theresa lurched forward and offered Phoo a hand, trying to lure her back down.

  ‘I am somebody.’ Phoebe Taylor started beating her chest. ‘You can all get lost.’

  Theresa looked to Sally, who was gaping up, open-mouthed, still wiping away her tears.

  Then Phoebe started bouncing up and down, as though the roof of Sally’s car was a trampoline, and, while she bounced, she chanted, ‘Paddy and Pat, Paddy and Pat . . .’

  Theresa looked to Eggy, but he remained still, standing there. But he wasn’t looking at his wife. He stared down at the pavement, as though searching for lost keys.

  When Theresa glanced up again, Phoebe was tearing at her pink cashmere sweater, pulling it over her head, revealing her plump, naked top, covered only by a greying brassiere.

  ‘We have to get her down,’ said Theresa, tugging at Eggy’s elbow. ‘She’ll hurt herself. She’s ruining Sally’s car, and . . . well . . . if anyone gets a photo of this, it’ll be the end . . .’

  ‘The end of what?’ Eggy looked Theresa in the eye. ‘You see . . . That’s exactly the problem.’

  ‘Paddy and Pat, Paddy, Paddy, Paddy . . .’ Phoo was still bouncing, all the while grabbing at her own back, trying to unfasten her bra. ‘Paddy’s dead. Paddy’s dead.’

  ‘My sunroof,’ muttered Sally, leaning back against the wall.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about this.’ Eggy spoke with a mournful solemnity. ‘And the main reason for that is that I am not Paddy.’

  ‘Paddy! Paddy! Paddy!’ Phoo continued calling out the name of the character played by the recently deceased beloved Irish actor.

  ‘For the last forty years she’s loved him.’ Eggy shrugged. ‘And now he’s not here any more.’

  ‘Eggy! You’ve got to help! That’s my car.’ Sally stood beside Theresa, turning to stretch an arm out towards Phoo. ‘Apart from anything, it’s very dangerous for her.’

&
nbsp; ‘She won’t come for me. Only Paddy could have got her down.’

  ‘Oh God, no!’ The imperious tones of Odile de la Warr rang out. ‘The woman’s not still banging on about that tiresome man. She is a complete idiot.’ She pushed through them all and stepped forward to the car. ‘Phoebe! Stop it! Give me your hand, darling. This is neither the place nor the style in which to air your grief.’

  Phoo stopped calling out the name Paddy and looked down at Odile. It was as though she was waking from a dream and was not sure where she was.

  ‘Odile?’

  Theresa had a terrible realisation. Phoebe Taylor, one half of the ‘Magical Markhams’, the most constant wedded couple in showbiz, had for years and years been having an affair with Dermott Presley. Dermott Presley! A man utterly celebrated for his ‘family values’ and devotion to his homely wife. A man rarely photographed without his children and dogs at his side, Aran sweater brightening his face from below, always a smile of quiet contentment, adding a twinkle to his tranquil expression. As she stepped forward to help Odile, Theresa decided she would never believe another thing she read in the newspapers.

  Sally’s phone rang. She spoke urgently into the handset. ‘Jean-Philippe! Thank God. There’s been a bit of an incident. We’re round the back of the hotel.’

  At the same time a bright flash illuminated the dark side street.

  Hearing the noise, a gaggle of tourists had gathered to see what was going on. More than one of them had already captured the moment on their phone.

  Theresa knew that, even if none of these people recognised Phoo, by dawn those photos would be on Twitter. It wouldn’t take very long for someone to work out exactly who was bouncing up and down topless on a car roof behind the famous Negresco Hotel calling out the name of her dead lover.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Theresa woke with a start and looked around her. For a short time she had no idea where she was. She recalled the stalker situation and her heart skipped a beat. Had she been kidnapped?

  Then she remembered.

  After the uncomfortable scene behind the Negresco, Sally’s friend Jean-Philippe had kindly driven her and Sally back from Nice to Bellevue-sur-Mer, while the Markhams went with Odile de la Warr. Sally’s car had been towed away by a mechanic. The roof was dented, the windscreen smashed and the ceiling inside now too low to get safely into the driver’s seat.