by Celia Imrie
‘No, Sally. That was the producer and star, Marina. Marina Martel calling from the Hotel Astor.’
Sally’s intake of breath was so severe she almost lost her balance. She reached out for the mobile phone. ‘I misheard you.’ She stuck out her hand, pleading. ‘Give me that thing. Call her back. Call her again for me. I thought it was my daughter, Marianne. Stupid hotels with names so alike.’
The First Assistant was still gaping at Sally. ‘We can’t phone her. They won’t put us through. When she needs us she phones in.’
‘Oh, no.’ Sally put her face into her hands. What had she done? ‘Can this evening get any worse?’
As Roger, Cynthia and Theresa ran down the hill, Theresa shouted out, ‘Where exactly are we heading?’
‘How would I know?’ cried Cynthia Muffett. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’
‘I thought you knew, Theresa.’ Roger stopped in his tracks. ‘We can’t just run around aimlessly, like headless bloody chickens. We need a plan.’
‘Perhaps we should check my flat again, in case they’ve gone back there.’
‘Whatever . . .’ said Cynthia. ‘Honestly, Roger. I knew that stupid judge should never have let Neil choose where he wanted to live. You’re incapable.’
‘I know I am.’ Roger let out a sob. ‘I know. Really. I’m so sorry. I made such a mistake.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Everything!’
The three turned on to the quayside, scanning the street for a sight of the two teenagers.
Cynthia jammed her phone to her ear, trying Neil’s number again.
Theresa opened up and ran through the flat, searching all the rooms.
‘Have they taken any food?’ asked Cynthia, standing on the threshold. ‘Could you check?’
Theresa hastily threw open the fridge and looked. ‘No, nothing. Oh wait. They took some chocolate brownies.’
‘Typical kids,’ said Cynthia. ‘Always fantasy over reality.’
‘Oh buggeration!’ Roger was agitatedly patting his jacket pockets, checking them all in a frantic manner. ‘My keys. They’ve taken my ruddy keys.’
‘The keys to what?’ Cynthia turned to him with an ominous stare. ‘The keys to what, Roger?’
Roger threw his hands up and shouted, ‘To the bloody boat, that’s what.’
‘I can see that it would be a good place to hide and be alone,’ said Theresa. ‘Where is your boat moored?’
‘Here. In Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’ Leading them, Theresa ran along the quay towards the Gare Maritime and the tiny port de plaisance behind it.
Darkness was falling fast. The street lights flickered on.
Desperately out of breath, the three turned into the small harbour, and stood together, panting at the water’s edge.
‘Which pontoon?’ asked Theresa, looking out at about fifty boats moored in lines of white.
‘This one.’
‘What’s the boat’s name?’
Roger and Cynthia spoke at once –
Cynthia: ‘Sea Nymph 2.’
Roger: ‘The Bitch Got The House.’
There was a short pause while Cynthia took this in.
‘You changed the name of the boat? Don’t you know that it’s unlucky, Roger? You should never change a boat’s name.’
‘Superstitious rot.’
‘Fine. Could you repeat the name, please, Roger?’ Cynthia took a small step back. ‘And slightly louder this time?’
He hung his head and said quietly, ‘The Bitch Got The House.’
Cynthia turned and slapped his face.
‘Ow! That hurt.’
‘So did the new name of our boat.’
‘Mr and Mrs Muffett! Please! We need to get on to your boat. Now.’
Theresa followed Roger along the wooden pontoon.
He looked around. ‘What?’
His face wore a sudden look of horror.
‘Where?’ Panicked, he turned in each direction.
‘Where’s it gone?’
‘What do you mean, “Where’s it gone?”’ Cynthia was pulling at Roger’s jacket. ‘Roger? Roger! Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘No, Cyn.’ Roger ran both hands through his hair. ‘No, I’m not.’ He put his palms up, covering his nose and mouth. ‘Our boat’s not here.’
‘Now, Roger!’ Theresa stepped in, trying for some sense. ‘You’re certain that this is where you left it?’
‘Yes!’ Roger flung his hands out in a wide circle. ‘Of course I’m bloody certain this is where I left it.’
‘There’s no need to be rude, Rog. The poor woman is trying to help us.’
‘And find my granddaughter.’
‘Oh yes. Yes.’ Cynthia peered into the dark. ‘Do they know how to turn the lights on? You can’t go floating out on a boat at night with no lights . . .’
‘They don’t know anything.’ Roger started to weep. ‘I never let him drive. He hasn’t got a clue.’
‘Neither of them can drive a boat.’ Theresa was very frightened indeed. And worst of all, she knew that it was her fault for letting Chloe out of her sight. ‘Come on, you two. This situation has just got very serious.’
‘Does this boat with a pathetic name still have a tracking device?’ asked Cynthia.
‘I haven’t an inkling.’ Roger shook his head. ‘I never really worked anything much out except stop and go.’
‘Come on, Rog. Concentrate now.’ Cynthia stroked his elbow. ‘For God’s sake, man. It must have a tracking device. These days even a mobile phone can be tracked, let alone a million-pound boat.’
‘I have an idea.’ Theresa pulled out her phone.
There was one person of her acquaintance who would certainly know how to track a missing pleasure boat.
Sally was standing at the water’s edge with Eggy’s stand-in. She was so cold she could barely feel her feet. Judy was fussing around with her hair, Sophie was photographing how the jewellery was positioned, getting her ready for a take, when the Second Assistant came bounding down the beach with the news that Eggy had not only been found, but he was a few minutes away, in a cab heading straight for the location.
Mike, the stand-in, was hurried up the beach and divested of Eggy’s costume.
One more time Sally turned away from the crew and took out her phone. She had tried every ruse she could think of to call Marina Martel and apologise, try to explain the nature of the misunderstanding. But at the Grand Hotel Astor, Monte Carlo, as at all hotels when hosting a mega-star, Marina Martel was booked in under a code name and, unless you knew that, no one on the switchboard would even admit that she was a resident, let alone put you through.
Sally moved over to the First Assistant for a further conversation on the subject, but he was adamant. Marina Martel called the set. The set did not call Marina Martel.
‘Sally?’
One of the tech guys called her down to the boat.
‘We’d like you to get in place and get the engine going. Just so we can time things.’
Sally removed her high heels, giving her feet a quick rub in the hope they might regain some feeling, and hopped into the boat. She looked at the motorcycle-style double saddle.
‘I’m in evening dress,’ she said. ‘How on earth can I get astride that?’
‘Daniel would like you to try taking her out while standing up . . . if you could.’
‘But there’s nowhere to stand,’ she replied, pointing to the console. ‘I’ll need Wardrobe to put a slit in the dress. Wouldn’t that be noticed? Where’s the camera boat?’
‘There won’t be one,’ said the cameraman. ‘We’re close in on your getting up and setting off, then we’re doing a long shot. You saw the sparks team installing some lamps to a battery hidden down at the back . . .’
‘Stern,’ said Sally automatically.
‘ . . . the stern,’ the cameraman corrected himself. ‘Well, the plan is that they’ll keep you well lit all the way out to sea, so t
hat we can follow you precisely. Hopefully we’ll keep turning till you’re a mere spot on the horizon.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Daniel? While we’re waiting for Mr Markham, perhaps we could switch the shots?’
Daniel looked across at his assistant.
‘I think we ought to do the long shot first, whatever. This wind is picking up and I’d like to get that one in the can before it’s too late. With a rising sea like this we can work in the waves at the water’s edge, but I imagine it’ll be hard to keep the boat in focus if it’s bouncing all over the place out there.’
Sally looked out to sea. From the look of those waves the RIB would certainly be bouncing all over the place, even if she left this minute. She’d have a job keeping it upright.
‘You? Stephane, is it?’ The cameraman signalled to one of the grips. ‘You’re wearing black. As long as we make a thing later of Mr Markham removing his top hat in the first shot, when he climbs aboard, we can use you on the long shot . . .’ He pointed towards the boat. ‘In you get.’
As the chief electrician came out of the RIB, which was now brilliantly lit, tentatively Stephane climbed in.
Sally helped him get astride the pillion, while she had no option but to ride side-saddle.
‘OK, folks.’ The First Assistant signalled to the crew to prepare. ‘We’re going for a take on this.’
The clapperboard went into position.
‘Sound?’
‘Speed.’
‘Camera?’
‘Running.’
‘Scene 198. Take one.’
‘Stop!’ Eggy panted as he trotted down the sand, fastening his shirt buttons as he came towards the boat. ‘I’m here. WAIT! I’m here!’
‘And cut.’ Daniel sank back on to his shooting stick. ‘Quick as you can now. And look, while we’re here, let’s shoot Eggy getting in, with the lines, please.’ He turned to the First Assistant, then looked up at the sky, then at his watch. ‘Let’s run it all into one scene. Do the scene with Sally already in the boat. OK? Just for now. We can fiddle it in the edit. But at least we’ll have something.’
The First Assistant nodded and held up his hand for silence. ‘Start positions, everyone!’
Stephane moved away and Eggy stood a few feet back from the boat.
‘Turn on the engine, please, Sally.’
Sally fired up. She so wanted to quiz Eggy about where he had been, and what the hell Theresa had to do with it.
‘Take her out a little from the shore.’
The crew pushed the back of the boat forward, and it started bucking on the wave crests.
‘Sound?’
‘Speed.’
‘Camera?’
‘Running.’
‘Scene 198. Take two.’
‘And . . . action!’
Eggy stood poised and Sally waited for the call to start the lines, but all they could hear was the roar of the engine.
‘And cut!’
The First Assistant waded out to the boat.
‘Did you not hear us call “Action”?’
‘No!’ shouted Sally and Eggy in unison.
‘All I can hear is the motor,’ Sally explained.
‘Me too,’ said Eggy.
‘Mr Markham, maybe you could turn slightly towards me now and on Action I will give you a visual,’ shouted the First. ‘Watch for my signal.’
He made his way back to the beach.
‘Miss Doyle, you will know when to drive away because Mr Markham will be climbing on to the seat behind you.’
‘Sound?’
‘Speed.’
‘Camera?’
‘Running.’
Eggy turned to look out for the signal.
‘Scene 198. Take three.’
‘And . . . action.’ The First’s hand slashed downwards.
Eggy waded into the waves, shouting, ‘Don’t go without me, old girl!’ then clambered over the orange rubber side of the boat, and took his position behind Sally.
‘Hold tight!’ she cried. Part of the script. ‘Next stop Bank of England!’
Sally pushed the throttle and the boat took off into the bay.
‘I’m so sorry, Sally. You cannot imagine . . .’ Eggy shouted into her ear but the wind swallowed most of his words.
‘Not now, Eggy.’ Sally would have loved nothing more than to punch his lights out. But not while the cameras were turning.
As the little RIB smashed into an oncoming wave, it jolted and then crashed down into the trough behind.
‘Jesus!’ Eggy cried as he slid off the seat, then rapidly clambered back up. ‘Bloody hell! This is more than I was expecting.’
Sally gritted her teeth. ‘I did say “Hold tight.”’
Eggy flung his arms around Sally’s waist. Sally still had her prop handbag dangling from one arm. As they shot out into the deeper bay, it started really annoying her, blowing all over the place, thumping against the control console, slamming into her chest.
‘Take my bag, Eggy!’
‘What?’
‘TAKE MY HANDBAG! HANDBAG!’
‘Righto, Lady Bracknell.’ Eggy held on with one hand and slid the bag from Sally’s arm with the other. ‘It’s vibrating!’
‘Jesus!’ Sally knew what this would be. She turned back towards the shore. She hoped they were far enough out now. ‘It’s my phone. It’ll be Marina Martel. Answer it.’
‘WHAT?’
‘My phone. ANSWER IT.’
Eggy opened the bag and put the phone to his ear.
‘What? Who? Right. Hello. Well, we’re . . . Yes, I’ll tell her.’ He slipped the phone back into the bag.
‘Well?’
‘It was your friend Theresa. Her granddaughter and the boy Neil have taken his father’s boat out on their own from Bellevue Marina and are lost at sea. How do you track it?’
‘What?’
‘As Theresa hung up she said something very odd: “The Bitch Got The House”.’
‘How do we know when they’ve said “Cut”?’ Sally looked over her shoulder to Eggy. ‘Do we just keep on driving till we reach Corsica?’
Eggy turned round, still acting his role, then faced Sally. ‘They look as though they’re still turning. No one’s waving us to stop or circle back or anything like that.’
Obviously Sally couldn’t phone Theresa to tell her, but she realised that somebody had to call the coastguard as soon as possible.
‘OK.’ She stared towards the horizon. Either side of the bay, dark, rocky crags loomed, jutting out of the water. She knew from experience that the most dangerous rocks were invisible, lurking feet, sometimes inches, beneath the surface.
Keeping right in the centre of the bay, Sally opened the throttle. ‘Let’s go!’
Their boat was now leaping wildly out of the water, slamming down hard on the ever-increasing waves.
Sally estimated from the direction of the wind and tide that tonight, in these conditions, whichever way a pleasure boat leaving Bellevue-sur-Mer was headed, it would be swept towards this bay. The wind was howling in from the west, and the swell was also surging eastwards.
Sally herself was finding it hard to keep this little RIB on a straight course, so God knows how amateurs, let alone kids with no experience at all, would fare on a sea as high as this one.
She looked down at the console. Thank goodness, it was a normal one. No one had tampered with the layout. There was a speedo, a couple of other gauges, on her right the throttle, and on her left a ship-to-shore emergency radio. The receiver with its curling wire was in its cradle. If she caught a glimpse of the lost boat she could call in. Sally remembered that the boat was very big and very white. But there was no use doing anything now, as the radio would only locate this boat, the RIB that she and Eggy were in.
She continued her drive towards the horizon.
Stupid bloody kids.
‘I don’t feel very well.’ Eggy, still gripping Sally’s waist, was now resting his head on her shoulder.
‘Head u
p, Eggy! Keep looking at the horizon.’ Sally pushed the throttle further forward. ‘And whatever you do, Eggy, do not be sick down my back!’
Theresa, Roger and Cynthia stood on the quayside stabbing at their phones, trying to find out how you called the French coastguard. Cynthia said she remembered reading stories where some English tourists, lost in the Mediterranean, had phoned the coastguard back in Falmouth, who then sent out emergency calls to the local forces in Italy or Greece or somewhere.
‘That’s all very well,’ said Theresa, ‘but we don’t have a number for Falmouth either.’ She shoved her phone back in her pocket. ‘Look. There’s no point standing here and getting cold. We’d be better off going back to my place and making calls on the landline. I’ve got a laptop there too.’
But Cynthia and Roger said they preferred to stay out near to the water’s edge.
Theresa decided that, as she walked home, she would call the general emergency number, 112, in the hope that someone there knew what to do. But just as she started to dial, her phone rang. She answered.
‘Is that Theresa?’ It was a very laid-back English male voice. ‘This is Mervin. The tech guy from Mrs Firbank’s school. Calling from London.’
‘I really can’t talk now, Mervin. There’s an ongoing emergency situation.’
Theresa had no idea why she was suddenly talking like Mervin.
‘I know all about it, Mrs S. That’s why I’m calling you. I just received a message from young Neil. He appears to be in distress. They motored out into the bay on his father’s boat and they turned off the engines thinking they’d stay where they were but, what with wind, tide and all that, they’re running adrift. They seem to have floated out to sea. I called Falmouth coastguard, but when I told them the boat’s name – The Bitch Got The House – they told me to stop messing them about and hung up. So I made a few more calls and found out that you need to call somebody down in the South of France called John Darmarey who’s with the Mary Team.’
‘Who?’
This time Mervin spoke the words together as one phrase.
‘John Darmarey, Mary Team.’
Theresa understood. ‘Thank you, Mervin. I shall phone them.’ She could see how, to an English tech-head, the words Gendarmerie Maritime might sound just like that.
