Not Quite Nice

by Celia Imrie

  ‘So what was the point of your spying mission then?’

  ‘Oddly enough,’ Marianne continued as though Sally had not spoken, ‘I think it was your persuading him to buy the boat which started off Ted’s yearning for independence. Buying the boat was the first big secret he kept from her.’

  ‘Apart from a hundred and forty-three female tourists,’ said Sally, feeling her indignation rising.

  So now everything that had happened to Ted was all her fault!

  ‘How is Sian?’ asked Sally. ‘Have you seen her since you came back?’

  ‘She’s pretty edgy, naturally enough. She keeps saying Ted’s gone off “for some space to breathe”. She keeps repeating things like “he needs to get back to his roots” and all the usual excuses middle-aged wives give for errant husbands. I imagine I’ll have a lot of work to do over the next few weeks, both in providing comfort and doing the work which Sian will be unable to do.’

  Sally felt appalled by her daughter’s coolness, but said nothing.

  ‘You must have arrived here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer bright and early.’

  ‘I came back last night, actually. I was always meant to be coming here and working with Sian today. Things changed so suddenly though. Now it is vital I am here.’

  ‘Where did you spend the night?’

  ‘If it’s any of your business, I was in a hotel.’

  ‘You should have stayed here. You don’t need to waste money on hotels.’

  ‘It was late. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘And it was you who let Sian think that nothing was going on between Ted and Jessica?’

  ‘Nothing was going on between Ted and Jessica.’

  ‘Come on, Marianne! You saw them! Always flirting, partnering one another in the Cookery Club.’

  ‘Oh, you and your silly Cookery Club. I have no idea who Jessica is. That she chose the same day as Ted to leave town is nothing to do with him.’

  ‘Oh! You know that for certain, do you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mother, I do.’ Marianne calmly picked up her handbag and made for the door. ‘And now I’d better get back to work. I fear that today poor Mrs Kelly is going to be in no state to make sensible business decisions.’

  She left, and Sally angrily threw her cup down on to the table.

  Luckily it failed to break.

  Theresa went up to see David. She knew it wasn’t the same kind of pain, but having been duped by Brian, she felt somehow connected with David’s loss of Carol, and – having been there during the whole flirtation, but blind to it all – felt almost as though it had been her own fault.

  She expected to find a desolate man, alone and crying, but he was pacing the room, raging, flinging things at the wall and reacting with fury to everything other than the actual loss of his wife.

  ‘I bought her the clothes she ran off in. And the suitcases. It’s common theft. Why should that unctuous pimp swagger round carrying my Louis Vuitton suitcase?’

  Theresa suggested making a cup of tea.

  ‘I paid thousands of dollars for that car,’ he snarled at her as she filled the kettle. ‘It’s a Jaguar, for Christ’s sake. An icon. And I need it. How dare she take my only form of transport to cavort around with that libidinous Lothario?’

  Theresa again tried to appease David, but his temper grew and grew, till suddenly it appeared to reach a crescendo.

  Then, quietly, he sat down. ‘Give me the yellow pages,’ he said.

  Theresa handed over the big book. David rifled through the pages.

  ‘I’m going to put a detective on to them,’ he said calmly. ‘I want that automobile back. Why should that smooth-talking Limey loafer have my Jaguar convertible?’

  David ran his fingers down the columns, then picked up the phone. He looked up at Theresa as though she was his secretary and said ‘Thanks anyway. I’ll be fine on my own from now on.’

  He fluttered his fingers at her, as though to say ‘You are dismissed.’

  Without even taking a sip of the tea she had made, Theresa went back to her lonely flat.

  She sat at the glass-topped table, winding back every conversation she had had with Brian, realising that all his lovely comments, made while drinking in the brasserie the night before last, which she had thought were for her, were actually directed towards Carol. None of it, not one word had been for her at all.

  ‘Sometimes something comes along, and you have to seize it, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

  Brian had been talking Carol into running off with him.

  Why had Theresa thought it was a coded message for her?

  How stupid could you get?

  Carol was sending or receiving a text too, wasn’t she, a few minutes before Brian walked in. An assignation, perhaps? Or warning him that she wasn’t alone?

  Theresa let out a little sob. Why on earth would Brian have been flirting with her? Let’s face it, she was fat, old and washed-up.

  Theresa felt even more idiotic now, knowing that she had been overcome by wishful thinking and had let her imagination run away with her.

  Given half a chance, anyone would elope with Carol. She was gorgeous. Tall, witty, slim, stylish, blonde, glamorous, with a perfect figure . . . she was everything desirable in a woman.

  After about an hour mulling it all over and making herself more and more unhappy, Theresa decided she must have something else to focus on or she would go mad.

  She phoned Sally to ask whether there was any news about Faith’s condition. ‘Should we go in and try to see her, do you think?’

  Sally told her no, the hospital had been very firm that, as Faith was in intensive care, only family members could visit her.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Theresa. ‘While Alfie’s helping the police, that means no one.’

  ‘She’s unconscious, I suppose,’ said Sally, ‘but I do think it might be nicer if someone could be there, to hold her hand or something.’

  ‘I wish there was something we could do about it all,’ said Theresa. ‘Anything.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Sally. ‘It’s all awful. There isn’t a happy face to be found in the whole town.’

  When Theresa put down the phone she thought about it. What had been written in the stars above, to make today so awful for everyone?

  Faith was in hospital and still in a serious condition; Sally was unhappy because of Faith being attacked, and in her house; Sally’s son had disappeared with Zoe, a woman old enough to be his grandmother, not to mention as mad as a box of frogs; Theresa herself was upset about being such a fool about Brian, and feeling guilty for having had Imogen over here to stay, where her card had been cloned; William was alone while Benjamin fought his demons in rehab; David had lost his very glamorous and witty wife to Brian. And although Theresa had never got on with Sian, still she felt terrible for her. The poor woman must be in shock after her husband had upped and left for Australia without so much as a by your leave.

  Theresa put the kettle on and made herself some tea. She looked down at her wonderful wrought-iron and glass table and mulled over the thought that it was odd how something so beautiful could have come from a shop run by a drug dealer.

  She took her cup and sat.

  She wished she had a crossword or something to pass the time. Or even better wished there was something she could physically do to make things better.

  She grabbed a notepad and decided to write a shopping list, then she could take a bus to Cap 3000 perhaps and wander round the shopping mall, anything . . . as long as she could get out of the flat and out of Bellevue-Sur-Mer for an hour or two.

  She rooted in her bag and pulled out her turquoise pen – she was happy to have it back, the one little thing which brought her a tiny ounce of satisfaction on this miserable day.

  As she rolled the pen around in her hand she realised that she hadn’t seen it since that day months ago when she was knocked down and robbed.

  It was one of the things snatched, inside her stole
n handbag.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  She thought back to the theft, and the man pushing her down the steps.

  Brian had been the first person on the scene that day, apparently her knight in shining armour. That had been their first meeting. He had been at the top of the steps when she was pushed by the surly swarthy man in the leather jacket – the other drug dealer.

  Brian didn’t move in till after that incident.

  She had thought Brian must have picked up the pen in the flat, when he was staying here as her lodger.

  But she was robbed before Brian moved in.

  Brian had never been in the flat at the same time as the pen.

  So how had he come by it?

  Certainly not by picking it up while staying in the flat.

  She inspected the pen again, this time taking out a magnifying glass and double-checking the inscription on the silver band to see that those really were her initials.

  T.S.

  Yes. It was her pen.

  It had been taken from her by the man who rob­­­­bed her.

  But somehow, after that, it had come into Brian’s possession.

  Theresa tried to calm her thoughts.

  By some mad serendipitous coincidence he could perhaps have bought it in the junk market, on a stall made up of stolen goods.

  But in her heart she knew he hadn’t.

  And if Brian hadn’t come upon it by chance, there were further sinister connotations.

  He must have had something to do with the man who grabbed her bag.

  Maybe he was even the one pushed her while the other one ran down to snatch the bag?

  For some moments she sat still, her heart pounding.

  Theresa stood up. She would phone the police and tell them.

  She picked up the phone.

  She sighed and put it down again.

  What would the police make of her story? ‘Officer – I know the man who was in possession of my stolen pen!’

  They’d laugh her off the line.

  Perhaps she was simply looking out to make a villain of Brian because he had made a fool of her.

  For the moment she would do nothing. But tomorrow, when she’d had a night to mull it over, she would share the information with Sally or William or David. She had to tell one of her neighbours.

  Perhaps they had similar tales which put together would add up to something really incriminating.

  24

  Sian called on Sally in the morning, for coffee. She was wearing dark glasses, which she did not take off, even though they sat together in Sally’s kitchen.

  ‘Your daughter is an angel,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s handling all the books, the business, everything.’ Sian gave a little whimper. ‘I can’t seem to focus properly.’

  ‘Have you heard from him at all?’ Sally asked.

  ‘No. Just the farewell note which he left late at night before he sneaked out for his early flight. He must have been planning it for a while. You don’t just pick up tickets to fly to Sydney at the last minute.’

  ‘Maybe he’s really homesick,’ suggested Sally. ‘Does he have family out there?’

  ‘Some cousins and a sister, I believe.’ Sian emitted a dry sob. ‘I knew he carried on with women, of course I did. But I never thought he’d just go off like that.’

  Sally shrugged.

  That Jessica had been a slippery little thing.

  ‘Men can get led on, you know, Sian. It happened to me too. My husband . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ said Sian. ‘There isn’t another woman, I’m pretty certain. He really needed to find himself again. I realise that I overpowered him, with all my business propositions and international plans. He only ever wanted the simple life. So he’s gone off to find it. He just needs space.’

  And we all know where that space is, thought Sally.

  ‘He’s never been the same since he did it with that Theresa woman.’ Sian sipped from her cup. ‘I hope she’s feeling rough about it.’

  ‘Sian. I am certain nothing happened between Ted and Theresa. Really. Nothing.’

  ‘Hmmmm!’ Sian shook her head. ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘No,’ said Sally firmly. What else was there she could say? ‘Jessica, on the other hand . . .’

  ‘Who’s Jessica?’ asked Sian.

  ‘The slight blonde girl. She announced her departure the day before Ted left.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sian. ‘The journalist.’

  ‘Journalist?’ It was Sally’s turn to be surprised.

  ‘Oh yes. We had quite a chat about the business. She writes for one of those British tabloids, you know. Pages and pages full of nothing but rumours about celebrities you’ve never heard of, fashions you wouldn’t be seen dead in and letters from very cross people from the Cotswolds.’

  Sally remembered the fight over the Dictaphone at the Cookery Club and said quietly, ‘Jessica was a journalist?’

  Sian sobbed.

  Theresa had grabbed a newspaper from the tabac before jumping on to the bus into town.

  As she was feeling so shaky today, she decided on a little comfort, to read about things at home in England, and so bought one of the overpriced one-day-old English tabloids.

  She stuffed it into her bag and spent the journey gazing out of the window at the unsurpassable view over the Bay of Angels.

  She was heading for the Nice flower market. She planned to take a stroll through all the stalls, buy a little something, some olives or a tub of honey, then take herself to lunch on one of the sunny terraces.

  She walked down through the dark alleyways of Old Town, looking at some lovely Jacquard linen tablecloths. Having chosen a nice one, and even taken her credit card out, she decided she must resist the temptation to buy. As she put the card back into her purse, she remembered she had still not phoned the bank since the message came up on that machine. As she hadn’t used the card since, she had forgotten all about it. She’d have to do it once she got home.

  In the bustling market she bought some olive and chilli tapenade and found a table at the bar near the end of the Cours Saleya, near the Ponchettes and the glowing yellow façade of Matisse’s old Nice home.

  She browsed through the menu and ordered a salad Niçoise and a glass of Côtes de Provence rosé wine. Why not?

  While she waited she pulled out the newspaper and started to read the front page.

  A shadow fell over her.

  ‘Theresa!’

  It was William.

  ‘Come and join me.’ He pointed towards a table near the back of the terrace. ‘Corny line, but do you come here often?’

  ‘I’ve passed by a few times. It always looks so lively.’

  As he helped her gather her things, William whispered in her ear. ‘It’s a sort of local gay bar, really. Though tourists generally have no idea. You get fam­ilies and honeymoon couples sitting among all the local lesbian and gay couples, totally oblivious.’

  As she shoved the paper into her bag, Theresa looked around and realised William was right.

  ‘What fun,’ said Theresa. She whispered back to William. ‘How is Benjamin?’

  ‘He’s OK,’ replied William. ‘For the moment. I’m picking him up from rehab tomorrow.’

  It was during dessert that Theresa plucked up courage to ask the question she longed to ask William.

  ‘The man you saw with Brian last week. I presume it was in here?’

  William nodded.

  ‘Perhaps they were the unsuspecting tourists you just told me about?’

  ‘Brian had his hands all over the man,’ said William. ‘It was pretty revolting. It might be a kind of gay scene here, but it’s not that kind of place.’

  ‘Describe the man he was with again?’ Theresa asked.

  ‘Worn brown leather jacket, denim jeans, chain smoker . . .’

  Theresa thought it was an accurate description, but realised it could still be anyone, not necessarily the man who robbed
her.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Swarthy. One of those passé Tom Selleck moustaches.’

  It was surely the same man who had robbed her.

  Brian knew him. Brian’s hands were all over him.

  They were a couple.

  Brian had assisted the man who robbed her.

  Brian was a fake.

  Brian was in collusion with a crook, and might well be a crook himself.

  Yet she had been fooled into taking him into her own house, believing his hard-luck story. He was a conman. She hated to think what might have happened if she’d let things go any further.

  There was only one conundrum . . .

  ‘If Brian is so into men,’ Theresa asked, ‘why do you think he ran off with Carol?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s bi?’ said William.

  ‘Or after her money?’ suggested Theresa.

  William looked puzzled and said ‘What money?’

  ‘Carol’s money. Isn’t she an heiress?’

  William shook his head, wincing, implying Theresa was mad for thinking so.

  ‘I rather gathered she was part of the Heinz family. American . . . Heinz baked beans, soup, ketchup and all that stuff.’

  ‘No,’ said William in a long querulous swoop.

  ‘So why all the “57” references?’

  ‘Her maiden name was Heinz. But so many Americans are of German descent, and Heinz is a very common name to them. It means Henry. I think she was from Pittsburgh, too, where there is a Heinz factory, but you can bet your bottom dollar a multibillionaire family like that would live somewhere fancy, like upstate New York, not downtown Pittsburgh.’

  ‘So Carol isn’t rich?’

  ‘No. David is the rich one. Back in the States he was a property developer. Bought up huge properties in Soho and Noho and Tribeca, when prices were rock bottom. Did them up, and sold them on for a fortune.’

  ‘Really?’ said Theresa. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘David is rolling and Carol was the attractive woman on his arm, whom he was always so eager to please. She certainly got lucky with him. David kept her in great style, which she liked. Naturally enough.’