Nice Work (If You Can Get It)

by Celia Imrie

  After putting the phone away Theresa rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know why men are so difficult. We know there are risks. But there are risks in everything. Just crossing the road is a risk.’

  Carol took control of the trolley and shunted it along at a lick. ‘I do wish William would look on the bright side and stop being so pedantic about everything. I mean, Theresa, look at the deal I got us. It’s almost too good to be true.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Theresa ran along at her side, trying to keep up with her. ‘Anyhow – let’s have a go.’

  ‘And if we fail . . . ’

  ‘“We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking place . . . ”’

  ‘Ssshhhh, Theresa, don’t tempt fate.’ Carol crossed her fingers and ducked. ‘You’ve quoted from that play.’

  ‘I’m not superstitious,’ replied Theresa, steering the front end of the trolley towards the cash desks. ‘And anyhow, doesn’t it only apply to actors in theatres?’

  ‘Ah, but the restaurant will be our little theatre, really, won’t it? We don’t want to jinx the place before we start.’

  ‘You’re not having doubts, Carol, are you?’

  ‘None. I love a project, especially now, when I’ve nothing else left in my life. It’s so good to keep busy. And, you know, it’s exciting!’ said Carol, heaving a twelve-litre can of paint from the trolley and dropping it on the checkout’s conveyor belt. ‘I’m happy as a clam.’

  An hour or so later, Theresa stood alone in the potential kitchen of the new restaurant, dropping off the paint and cleaning materials while Carol paid the taxi driver.

  William was already there, inspecting the possibilities of the reception space.

  ‘Excellent. You’re back. Let’s go to your place and talk,’ he said calmly.

  * * *

  Having successfully dissuaded Jackie from an evening’s ‘jolly old flyer jaunt’, Sally found herself, right after breakfast, on a train rattling along overland in the direction of Cannes, listening to the story of her old friend’s enormous TV success. ‘Five series; any number of BAFTAs and People’s Choice Awards, three for me personally, and then the broadcaster decided to pull it. We were all poleaxed, to say the very least. I mean, the ratings were high, we were delivering primetime quality TV on a pretty tight budget and we had totally won the hearts of the British viewer, everything was tickety-boo. The whole matter was a pretty bad show.’

  ‘I thought you said it was a good show?’

  ‘No, I mean, it was pretty bad show of them, the broadcasters – the nasty blighters.’ Jackie gave a wry smile. ‘Been in the blinking series rather too long, old chum,’ she said. ‘Got in the way of speaking the lingo, you know, old bean.’ She gave Sally a wink and said: ‘Plus – it’s part of the image, you know. What my public expect.’

  ‘What about the new project?’ asked Sally, edging the heavy package of flyers from one knee to the other. ‘Is that all tickety-boo too?’

  ‘It’s fairly spiffing,’ said Jackie, in all earnestness. ‘We were on an all-women air crew, delivering planes during World War Two and, after the network went bonkers and we got the elbow, a few of us banded up to make a little drama-doc based on the real-life lady-flyers. Do you like the title? We’ve called it The Lady-Birds.’

  ‘And it’s been chosen as part of the main programme at Cannes!’ Sally was genuinely impressed. ‘Well done! Will you have to walk up the red carpet in a glamorous gown?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Jackie gave a little cough. ‘But we do have a showing in what they call the Marketplace.’

  Sally raised her eyebrows.

  ‘If it does well there we could make a lot of money in overseas sales. The European market is pretty huge, but we really want to crack the USA. I mean – look at Downton Abbey.’

  ‘I don’t get English TV here,’ said Sally. ‘I’m afraid I’ve rather missed out on what’s going on back at home.’

  ‘Oh, you see, I couldn’t bear that.’ Jackie made a face of exaggerated horror. ‘Being so cut off. Stuck in some postcard-pretty backwater. I need to be in the thick of things.’

  Sally resisted the urge to reply, and instead looked out of the train window.

  ‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘The hippodrome.’

  Jackie peered out through the dusty window. ‘Is that a theatre?’

  ‘No, old bean, it’s a racecourse.’ Sally laughed. ‘Where they trot.’

  They spent the morning wandering around Cannes, getting their bearings while dropping leaflets anywhere that would let them.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jackie, ‘it’s gin slings on me when we’re done. What larks!’

  As they walked down from the station, the streets were buzzing with people. Every bar was loud with laughter and business chat.

  ‘I want to capture all these people,’ said Jackie dreamily.

  ‘But they’re not here for the film festival, Jackie. That doesn’t start till next week.’

  ‘Surely they’re like me – here early to get a good start on everyone else?’

  Sally pointed up at the canopy outside the Palais des Festivals. ‘Look! This week it’s a conference on taxation.’

  Over bread and Theresa’s favourite cheese, Comté, William, Benjamin, Theresa and Carol held their meeting.

  ‘The widow Magenta’s son had been living in Sardinia for years,’ said Carol. ‘But he died a few years back, before his mother. And now it’s the grandson who’s in charge. He just came of age, and so he can finally get rid of it. Costanzo told me he didn’t want a shop, a café or a restaurant or any kind of premises in France. He just wants the cash so he can go home and settle down, in Italy.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’ William doodled on a pad while they sat around Theresa’s table. ‘To get clarity.’

  Carol shrugged and scrolled through the contacts on her phone. She gave William the number and he walked through to the back of Theresa’s flat, phone to one ear, finger stuck in the other.

  Theresa felt relieved suddenly; she knew all this was for the best. So far they had been blundering blindly into the project with all the unchecked enthusiasm of Mickey Rooney in those old films: ‘Hey gang, let’s open a restaurant – and let’s do it right here, right now!’

  Benjamin was looking through the estimates. ‘Two of these are ridiculous,’ he said.

  ‘I agree,’ said Theresa. ‘They’re the ones who speak English. The reasonable one, a Frenchman, can’t start for two months.’

  ‘Pity I didn’t train as a plumber,’ William replied, swishing back to the table. ‘Our vendor is going to the estate agent now, and they’re getting the lawyer to draw up an agreement about any work we do between now and the end of our contract.’ He sat and looked over towards Carol, smiling. ‘I am very sorry, Carol. I totally underestimated you.’

  ‘Are we mad?’ asked Theresa.

  ‘Of course we are,’ said Benjamin. ‘Isn’t that the whole point?’

  ‘A profit might be useful too.’ William piled up the papers on the table.

  ‘We’ll never do it,’ said Carol with a deep sigh.

  ‘We jolly well will,’ said Benjamin, now sounding more fired-up than anyone else in the room. ‘If those pop-up restaurants can do it, so can we.’

  ‘So can we start painting?’ asked Theresa.

  ‘Benjamin has a friend with a scrap lorry. He’s going to clear out the old equipment the moment I give him the call, which is when I have the new agreement in my hand. After that, off you go, gals! You can kick off by painting the walls where the new cookers are going to go.’

  William began stacking the paperwork on top of his briefcase.

  ‘Once we have all the assurances that while we’re renting it we’ll be covered for expenses, I will start the ball rolling. It would be mad to lose an opportunity like this – it’s almost too good to be true.’

  Theresa started at this phrase. Only a few hours before, Carol had said precisely the same thing. Was this fear like an infectious fever that they would
all feel, one by one? Or was there really something to be afraid of because the deal they had been offered was so good? Tonight, alone, she would go through everything once again and put her mind at rest.

  She pressed her hands, palms down, on the cool of her table’s glass top. ‘Anyhow, as soon as you give us the nod, Carol and I can spend the rest of the day being scrubbers, cleaning out that filthy kitchen, so any company would be welcome.’

  She winked at Carol.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, I think Carol did very well with that deal; the place couldn’t be more perfect for what we want – the size, the location. It’s ideal, and you know we have every chance to make it work. So let’s press on, shall we?’

  William rooted about in his briefcase, then said, ‘I seriously think we should start looking around for a mortgage and putting in all the legal paperwork to buy. It’ll probably take about a month, three at the most. We’ll continue to rent until the purchase is complete, with a proviso that if the deal falls through we can either continue to rent or have compensation for any money we spend on materially improving the property.’

  So, having tried to put the brakes on all morning, William’s foot had slipped on to the accelerator, and he was now proposing they go straight in and buy the place. Theresa felt worried about committing to more expense while they were still pouring out money and with no hope of an income in some weeks.

  ‘Are any of us in a position to buy?’

  ‘Look,’ said William with a sigh. ‘The property is being offered to us at an absurdly cheap price. Once we buy we can always sell and, after the work we’re doing, we should make a profit. It would be mad not to continue at least looking into the terms we could get.’

  Theresa realised that William was right, although she knew that they were all going to be cash-strapped for a bit. But there would be some time in hand while William investigated mortgages and contracts and, whichever way things went, rent or buy, they needed to get the restaurant looking and working like a restaurant.

  ‘What do we do about the building-work estimates?’ she asked.

  William looked over the papers again. ‘I say we go for the Frenchman, even if we have to wait. Call him now, Theresa. Before he gets booked out for July.’

  ‘What?’ screeched Benjamin, as Theresa moved towards the back of the room to make the phone call to Monsieur Leroux. ‘We won’t get to open till August? We’ll have lost half the season . . . ’

  Theresa dialled.

  ‘Hang on, Theresa!’ yelled William. ‘Benjamin’s right. We can’t wait that long. We’ll have to go with the second one. It’ll cost us more but we’ll have more time to recoup the money once we’re open.’

  At that moment Theresa got through to Madame Leroux.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Madame. We’d very much like to go along with your husband. But, unfortunately, as he cannot start before July, it means we have to say no.’

  Then Madame Leroux said something that changed everything.

  ‘What a shame. I gathered you were in a rush. Are you not able to use him immediately, this week? His other job doesn’t start till the end of next week. He is free from tomorrow, but would have to finish by Thursday. You can have him for a week . . . if you want?’

  Sally took a late lunch with Jackie in a small café opposite the Palais des Festivals.

  ‘I really need to see whether I can get into the Martinez. I’ll treat you to a drink there.’

  Sally knew of the hotel’s reputation as the most select on the Croisette.

  ‘The Martinez isn’t the kind of place that has leaflet displays, Jackie.’

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ said Jackie, brightly. ‘Courage, cheerfulness and resolution will bring us victory!’

  Sally stirred her coffee. Why bother to give advice when it was ignored? ‘Leave some with a doorman there, then,’ she said.

  ‘You know as well as I do that that never works.’ Jackie shrugged. ‘They just drop them into the nearest litter bin.’ She took a sip of tea, leant back in her chair and sighed. ‘Crikey! It’s so much tougher than I thought it would be.’

  When the bill came Jackie smiled and said, ‘Thank you so much, Sally,’ even though Sally had said nothing like ‘Let me get this’. So, yearning to go on strike from leafleting, Sally paid up.

  She glanced across the road at the workmen who were working under arc lamps, hanging a huge sign above the steps to the left of the main entrance of the Palais des Festivals.

  ‘Do you have your pass for the actual festival on you?’

  ‘Rather!’ said Jackie.

  ‘You should go and see whether they’ll let you inside. You could perhaps find someone who organises the leaflet stands.’

  ‘What a jolly good idea. It looks so much like a fortress, I suppose I was daunted, but we must stand firm in our resolve, mustn’t we?’

  Sally wondered whether going into character might have an effect. She channelled Celia Johnson and said energetically: ‘I think you should do it yourself, Jackie. Have an explore. Get a feel of the place.’

  ‘But . . . ’

  Sally gave a benign smile. ‘I have a book. Really, I don’t mind waiting.’

  Jackie was still hesitating.

  Another spurt of Celia Johnson from Sally: ‘Jackie, crack on, old girl! Give it a whirl. That’s your best bet. Never say die, eh? The worst that can happen is that they don’t let you in. And maybe it would be good to get some leaflets in there before the deluge arrives.’

  ‘I say, Sal, you really are a ripping pal.’

  Sally waved as Jackie moved off. ‘I’ll be here or around, don’t worry.’

  While she watched Jackie cross the forecourt to the main entrance, Sally sorted out some coins for the tip.

  At the central glass door Jackie pushed but no luck. The place was closed.

  A security guard followed her, his hand raised.

  Jackie held up her pass.

  He seemed to argue with her for a moment, then pointed to another building along the way. Together they walked along, Jackie gesticulating all the while. Obviously she was giving him some cock and bull story; Sally knew that the passes meant nothing till the festival started.

  As Jackie disappeared into the great echoing halls, Sally came out of the bistro and strolled along the Croisette, gazing into the expensive and fancy shops. It was a lovely sunny day. Not too hot or windy and, unlike the duration of the film festival, Cannes was all but deserted, bar a few camera-toting tourists walking along in a crocodile. They must be on a coach trip – Cannes in the morning, Monte Carlo in the afternoon.

  After a while Sally decided to go back to wait by the entrance to the Palais for Jackie to come out.

  As she stood at the foot of the steps looking up, it wasn’t hard to imagine herself doing it officially, smiling right and left, stopping to pose for the photographers. It was funny, but although, for most of the time, Sally managed to convince herself that she didn’t miss being in the business, somewhere hidden deep inside she realised that a tiny flame still burned.

  ‘Sally?’

  As though at a distance, she heard the female voice say her name.

  ‘Sally Doyle?’

  It was peculiar to hear the form of address again at that exact moment – it had been her acting and maiden name, so she hadn’t immediately responded. Now she looked across at a woman she recognised instantly. Most of the population of Europe, if not the USA, would recognise her too, as she was the star of some hugely successful TV series and many films.

  ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ said the woman.

  ‘Of course I do!’ Sally, like everyone, knew Diana Sparks.

  ‘It’s Diana! Diana Sparks! Don’t you remember, I was Iras to your Cleopatra all those years ago at Frinton?’

  ‘Diana!’ Sally’s eyes popped out of her head. ‘Of course!’

  The truth was that till this moment Sally had wiped the whole season at Frinton from her memory. It had been fraught with drama, af
fairs, and actors getting drunk on and off stage. The director was a nasty little wasp who for the entire rehearsal period had given her a hell of a time and driven her almost to give up.

  If Sally remembered it at all, it was only as a horrible dark patch in her career.

  ‘What an awful time!’ laughed Diana. ‘Do you remember that dreadful short little director with acne and bad breath, what was his name? Eddy something?’

  ‘He was so rude to me.’

  ‘He was so rude to all the women. Vile misogynist. And he walked out halfway through the dress rehearsal and the production got taken over by the chairman of the board.’

  ‘Who didn’t have a clue about anything to do with the stage.’

  ‘And those terrible costumes that were like the Bluebell Girls starring in Carry On Up the Nile!’

  Sally had forgotten all these details. The Frinton job was one she dropped from her CV quite early on. She genuinely had no recollection of it. But now that Diana reminded her, she recalled the lot.

  ‘It was like being in the porno version of Antony and Cleo.’

  ‘So cold! Shivering in the wings, all blue and goosebumpy!’

  ‘Lord, I do remember that. Trying to do those long speeches while I could hear your and Charmian’s teeth clacking behind me.’

  ‘That was Marcia Montague. She gave up about six months after that job. Became a homeopath.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Sally. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘And that filthy old pervert playing the fig-seller.’

  ‘Some long-forgotten comedian, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. Kept telling us how as a youngster he had headlined for Mike and Bernie Winters. And as for Enobarbus!’ snorted Diana. ‘Old grope-hands! Always feeling us up in the wings.’

  ‘“Whoopsie, can I be of assistance, methinks I spy a lacy brassière a-peeking out!”’

  They both laughed so loudly that several passers-by stopped to look round.

  Then, as though by magic, a circle gathered, people thrusting notebooks and pieces of paper towards Diana.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Sally. Don’t go.’

  Diana switched on a brilliant smile and turned towards the little crowd. She answered questions and signed for a good five minutes. Sally kept glancing up at the doors to the Palais des Festivals, expecting Jackie to emerge. She wasn’t sure how good a combination this might be – Jackie and Diana together. But meeting Diana again, and recalling that awful season, was such fun.