by Celia Imrie
‘In Italian, remember . . . ’
‘No, French.’
‘Then we give it to them.’
Theresa shrugged. It was tricky, but this plan actually might work.
22
Sally had had to wait outside the gendarmerie for around twenty minutes before taking their advice and heading home. She walked up to the top of the town, looking for a cab rank. So many streets were barred off for the festival she didn’t know where she might find one.
Then she remembered that there was a night bus, which would be damned cheaper and get her as far as Nice airport, where there were sure to be taxis. She had been standing at the stop for quarter of an hour when a car pulled up.
‘Are you stuck?’ The driver leaned over and pushed open his door. ‘So get in.’
Sally took a step back, then recognised the man at the wheel – Jean-Philippe.
During the twenty-minute drive they talked of Stanislav.
‘I am surprised he got into a fight,’ said Jean-Philippe. ‘I didn’t see him as that type of man.’
‘Too strait-laced?’ suggested Sally.
‘Too precious of his reputation,’ said Jean-Philippe. ‘I’m beginning to think he is quite the Artful Dodger.’
Men! thought Sally. Always think life is a competition.
‘I’ll tell you something else, Sally.’ Jean-Philippe spoke hesitantly. ‘I don’t believe he is entirely truthful.’
Sally shifted in her seat. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘He has, let us say, fibbed to us.’
She wondered what was coming next.
‘I cannot be sure, but I think he does not own that boat we took out for him. I think he is renting it.’ Jean-Philippe flicked his indicator and turned off the Grande Corniche into a steep succession of sharp downhill zigzag bends. ‘I had to go to Marseille to get the spare part, and when I gave the part number the man at the chandlery needed the name of the boat. He went off to get the part and the boy working behind the counter told me it’s a charter boat from Italy.’
‘I thought it was owned by the people in that villa?’
‘Actually, it turns out they were renting both the villa and the boat.’
Sally wondered why that mattered so much to Jean-Philippe.
‘Maybe Stanislav isn’t even a Russian,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he’s an Italian. Maybe he’s a spy!’
‘Just keep an eye on him,’ said Jean-Philippe.
‘I will.’
Jean-Philippe didn’t say much after that but took Sally right to her front door.
When she got in she found Marianne asleep in an armchair.
‘Ted is a rat!’ she mumbled as Sally helped her upstairs towards the bedroom.
‘He is,’ said Sally, and left it at that.
Next morning she was woken by Marianne, looming over her holding up a copy of Nice-Matin.
‘And who is this slut?’ she exclaimed.
Sally wiped her eyes and peered at the newspaper.
The red-carpet shot was of Marina Martel.
‘Well, it’s the world-famous megastar, Marina Martel,’ said Sally, hauling herself into a sitting position. ‘I don’t know why you should think she’s a slut, though.’
‘Not her.’ Marianne bashed the paper with a finger, jabbing it into the photo. ‘Her!’
Sally took the paper, and put on her glasses. She looked closely.
Oh God.
Standing not far behind Marina Martel, held back by a red rope, was Jackie. But the thing that had stirred up Marianne’s ire was the fact that grinning at her side stood Ted, his arm clutched tightly and possessively around Jackie’s shoulder.
‘She’s an actress,’ said Sally, trying to be vague. ‘She’s in a TV series.’
‘I know all that.’ Marianne snatched the paper from her and took another close look. ‘Skirts Fly Over Suffolk. I watch it all the time. But why does Ted look as though he owns her?’
‘Who knows?’ Sally climbed out of bed and whisked to the bathroom to retrieve her dressing gown. She didn’t think that now was the time to confess that they were friends and that Jackie was staying here. ‘Let’s make breakfast,’ she said.
‘I wonder if Sian has seen this?’ Marianne followed Sally downstairs. ‘And I wonder where he is now, the little bed-hopping bastard.’
Before Sally had time to fill the kettle, the phone rang.
It was Sian, and her voice shrieked down the line, ear-splittingly loud.
‘That ungrateful, grubby, deceitful, grabbing, phony little bitch!’ she bellowed. ‘Sally, did you know about this?’
Sally knew that Marianne would overhear everything she said, and undoubtedly most of what Sian said as well.
‘How could I? Look, Sian, I’m so sorry. I have people here and I’m late.’
‘Make your mind up,’ shouted Sian. ‘You’re either late or there are people there.’ Then there was a slight pause before she added quietly: ‘She’s not there, is she?’
Knowing that Marianne was just as bad a ‘she’ to be present as Jackie, Sally said, ‘I’m due at the restaurant. La Mosaïque. It’s terribly exciting, don’t you think?’
‘I’m a major investor,’ snapped Sian and hung up.
Now that, in front of Marianne, Sally had committed herself to going to the restaurant, she was in a quandary. Should she go, and risk leaving Marianne here, with the ever-present threat of Jackie coming in, using her own key, while Marianne was here alone? Jackie might even arrive with Ted in tow. Sally inwardly groaned at the thought.
Sally decided that from now on, until she had a confirmed location for Jackie’s whereabouts, wherever she was going, Marianne would have to come too.
‘They’re doing a great job down there,’ said Sally. ‘They’re looking for investors. Perhaps you’d like to come in as a partner? You know them all – Theresa, William, Benjamin, Carol. I know they’re looking for people to finance the purchase of the building, which is very sweet, and they’ve done so much already to . . . ’
‘Mother,’ snapped Marianne, ‘will you stop babbling and get dressed.’
Sally again panicked. If she went upstairs maybe Jackie would arrive while she was up there.
‘Why don’t you come up with me?’ she said.
‘Mother!’ Marianne tapped her watch.
Sally ran upstairs and flung on her clothes as quickly as possible. She skipped washing and dashed down again.
‘Okey-dokey! Onwards and upwards!’ The words were barely out of her mouth before Sally realised she was starting to sound just like Jackie.
Marianne gave her a sideways glance.
Sally picked up her handbag and they left together.
As they walked down the hill Sally’s phone rang. It was Tom.
‘Mum! Ciao, bella! Non è una bella giornata?’
‘Tom? I’m sorry, you’d better speak English. I’m with Marianne.’
‘Why, doesn’t she approve of me parlare Italiano?’
‘Are you coming back to Bellevue?’
‘Not immediately, no. I’ve got this lovely job here in Milan now, Mum. So, how is my old sis? Still shagging the Ozzie renegade?’
‘Listen, you.’ Marianne snatched the phone from Sally’s hand. ‘That vile Australian is dead to me. Dead!’ She thrust the phone back towards her mother.
They turned the sharp corner into the alleyway that led down, via some steep stone steps, into the Old Town.
‘So anyhow, Mama, I am working for a great new magazine, linked up with a worldwide credit card, so that my drawings and designs will be seen now in households from Adelaide to Arkansas, from Zagreb to . . . where else starts with a Z? Uh-oh, she who must be obeyed has entered the office. Must go, Mum. Talk soon.’ And he hung up.
Sally could hear fury even in Marianne’s breathing. She prayed that they would not bump into anyone else involved in this seedy affair. There was a chance they’d not only stumble into Jackie but Ted, or Sian. Following events at the after-pa
rty last night, even Stanislav was now a time-bomb in the Sian/Marianne/Ted scenario.
They turned another of the sharp bends. Sally heard footsteps and feared the worst, but ahead, along the lane, coming up towards them was Cathy, carrying a large cardboard shopping bag emblazoned with the MaxMara label.
‘Hello, Cathy!’ Sally gulped. She had utterly forgotten that Cathy was due to spend today under her care. ‘You’re earlier than I expected.’
‘When were you expecting me? I didn’t think Mummy had arranged a time.’
‘Well . . . ’ The girl was right. Sally didn’t actually even remember agreeing to having her at all. In fact, as Cathy was all of nineteen, Sally wasn’t sure why she needed a chaperone. But it was now a fait accompli. ‘Cathy, this is my daughter Marianne. Marianne – this is Diana Sparks’s daughter, Cathy.’
Cathy flung her shopping bag on to the ground.
‘I do happen to be a person in my own right, you know. Not just the daughter of some actress or other.’ Sally felt embarrassed but at the same time panicked. How else could she introduce her? Just ‘Cathy’, she supposed, but then Marianne would only have enquired how they knew one another and they’d be back at square one.
‘Been shopping?’ asked Sally, in a feeble attempt to change the subject.
‘Obviously,’ said Marianne and Cathy in unison.
‘We’re heading down to offer our services to the people who are opening the new little restaurant on the quay. Fancy joining us?’
Cathy shrugged.
‘Why not? I’ve nothing else to do. Mummy’s off all day doing interviews and other boring stuff, while I hold the fort here.’
When the three women arrived at the front door of La Mosaïque, they saw a young man leaving.
Sally entered first. ‘Knock, knock!’ she announced as they came round the entry screen. She stopped to survey the scene – the tables in position, the white walls decorated with painted fragments of the mosaic pattern from the floor in blues and reds and yellows.
‘Wow!’ Sally cried, twirling to get a better look. ‘Haven’t you lot all worked hard? My goodness, it’s a miracle.’
Marianne and Cathy gathered behind her.
Benjamin stood and William rushed forward. ‘Sally, darling, it’s been an age.’
Theresa moved towards the door to greet them and Carol surveyed the artwork – which she had hand-painted.
‘We came to offer our services,’ said Sally. ‘Each in our own way.’
‘How lovely!’ Theresa felt happy, but William prevented her from speaking.
‘What exactly can you do?’ he asked.
‘If you like, I’ll take a look at your business plan,’ said Marianne.
William scowled.
Sensing the atmosphere, Carol said, ‘How’s Ted?’
Marianne shot her a look and said, ‘Who’s Ted?’
The atmosphere chilled further.
Both Theresa and Sally laughed, and muttered niceties about how things were coming along.
‘I was so excited to hear you’d been dining with Diana Sparks,’ said William. ‘Wow. She is my A-number-one actress in the world . . . ’
‘Cathy is . . . ’
Cathy yawned. ‘Here we go – the Mummy Fan Club.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling.
‘ . . . Diana’s daughter. But I do happen to be an individual human being too, you know.’
‘A new dress?’ asked Theresa, spying the shopping bag.
‘A coat,’ said Cathy.
‘Can we see it?’ asked Carol.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t be interested. It’s just a coat. Nothing special.’ Cathy looked around. ‘Who’s the artist? It reminds me of Chagall.’
‘Me, unfortunately,’ said Carol. ‘If it was Chagall, we’d all be quids in. And I, for one, want to see your coat.’
‘Oh, no.’ Cathy held the bag close to her body. ‘Nobody wants to look at me. It’s too embarrassing. I can’t do it. I prefer to lurk in the shadows. I’m not used to being stared at.’
‘Well, good,’ snapped William. ‘Then we should get on. I’ll just say to everyone present that we are looking for backers – in a practical sense. People to buy the bricks and mortar, so it’s not just investing in a business that may or may not succeed. If you or anyone you know has a little spare cash they’d like to put into property, please tell me.’
‘If we invested, what return would we get?’ asked Marianne.
‘You’d own a piece of the restaurant,’ said William.
‘If you’re asking people to help you buy a place and then they don’t get paid back until you sell, there’s no investment. You’re just begging for a free loan. What if you forget to insure the place and next day a plane crashes into it? What would the investment be worth then? Nothing.’
Theresa wished this conversation had not started.
‘Is there a ladies’ room?’ asked Cathy. ‘When I’m stressed I get IBS.’
Theresa pointed to the sign that said WC.
‘If I were you,’ continued Marianne, ‘I would go for an extension of the lease and carry on renting. Go for five years or longer.’
‘The boy who owns it is keen to sell and have the money. If we don’t buy, somebody else will.’
‘Especially after all the work we’ve done,’ added Benjamin.
‘Boy?’ asked Marianne. ‘Which boy?’
‘He’s Italian,’ said Theresa.
‘He inherited it from his grandmother,’ Carol chipped in.
‘Not the widow Magenta’s grandson?’ said Marianne.
They all nodded.
‘And you still expect other people to stump up towards it, with their family history?’
Without thinking, Theresa blurted out, ‘Sian Kelly is investing.’ She instantly realised the faux pas.
‘That bitch?’ said Marianne. ‘Then you are sunk before you even start.’
A deathly silence reigned.
Theresa caught eyes with Sally, who winced an apology.
A knock and Marcel entered.
Knowing the tension which had been stirred up by their plan to open a new eatery near his brasserie, the four in the restaurant team stood braced.
Theresa took a pace forward, blocking his way. ‘We don’t want trouble, Marcel. I have already explained that we have no intention of stepping on your toes.’
William stood beside her. ‘Besides which, I wonder whether we’ll even make it to opening, let alone outlast our six-month lease. So how about leaving us alone, Marcel.’
‘I want there to be no more bad feeling,’ said Marcel, with a shrug. ‘It’s just that nobody thanked me for the present.’
All four proprietors said: ‘Present?’
‘My gift to you?’ Marcel grinned.
‘Gift?’ said the four.
‘The tête du porc?’
‘Pig’s head?’ Theresa said, the penny dropping.
‘My peace offering.’ Marcel rooted about in his shopping bag. ‘I knew you said you wanted to prepare local specialities. So I thought you might also like these?’
Marcel grabbed Benjamin by the elbow, then held his arm aloft.
He proffered a brown paper bag, tinged with bloodstains.
‘Testicles. Very tasty, especially sliced, battered and deep-fried.’
Benjamin flopped to the floor in a faint.
At this moment Cathy emerged from the ladies’ room wearing her new coat.
She paraded into the centre of the dining room and gave a twirl.
‘Well, everyone,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
Along with Marcel, Sally, Marianne and Cathy were shown round La Mosaïque. They cooed at the neat but effective cellar, with its desk and filing cabinets on one side and large wine racks and fridges on the other. The kitchen, with its white walls and stainless-steel appliances, also met with great approval. Sally felt quite jealous of them and their project and really wished she had joined them at the start.
After the little tour i
t was clear that Theresa, Carol and William wanted to be alone to get on with things. Benjamin sat quietly in a corner sipping a glass of water, so Sally took her leave.
Rather than go straight back home, she invited Cathy and Marianne to an early lunch at the brasserie. Today was becoming a nightmare of anticipation. She wished Jackie would text or leave a message, so that she at least knew her whereabouts and could avoid an embarrassing scene with Marianne. There was also no way of knowing when or if Sian would pop up and pick a fight.
After an anxiety-ridden lunch, she arrived back at the house, with Cathy and Marianne still in tow. a huge bouquet was waiting, tucked in behind her front wall.
‘If those are from Ted,’ said Marianne, stepping over the threshold, ‘they can go straight into the bin.’
No doubt from Jackie, thought Sally, to apologise for the debacle last night.
But Cathy picked them up. ‘I’m used to doing flowers. My mother gets so many bouquets.’
She pulled off the small card and handed it to Sally, who tore open the envelope and quickly read: ‘Forgive me please. Dinner tomorrow night? Call me. Stanislav.’
Well, there was a turn-up!
While Cathy was mid-arranging, with flowers strewn all over the shower-room basin, her phone rang, and she moved to the living room, where she sat under the front window, talking. Marianne rolled her eyes in Sally’s direction. She mouthed: ‘How long are you stuck with her?’ then said aloud, ‘I wonder where that rat is now.’
In her fluster over the flowers from Stanislav, Sally was unsure for a moment to whom Marianne was referring.
‘I’m looking forward to making a scene with Ted, and humiliating him in public. I was hoping he would roll up at the brasserie. That terrace is a perfect stage.’
Sally swallowed. All she wanted was a quiet life, and here she was in the middle of a maelstrom.
Her phone rang. It was Sian. ‘Fancy lunch?’
‘I already ate.’ Sally shuffled from foot to foot, praying that Marianne couldn’t hear who was on the line. ‘I’m a bit busy now, I’ll call you back.’
She hung up.
‘Sian, I assume.’ Marianne flopped into an armchair. ‘Presumably she also saw the photo in Nice-Matin.’
Cathy advanced, holding her phone out ahead of her. ‘Mummy wants a word with you.’
