Theresa had woken later than she planned and it was only when she was closing the front door that she remembered she had promised to send Lola the photo of herself with her sisters, posing next to Catherine Ségurane’s wall plaque in Nice.
She quickly unlocked, snatched the orange photo album from the shelf and flipped though, looking for the photo. After a few minutes she gave up, shoved the book into a string shopping bag and left for work.
The kitchen was in chaos. Sally had dropped off all the stuff on the shopping list last night, but no one had put it away, then the vegetable man had stacked boxes of fruit and veg on top of the supermarket bags. This meant that when Cyril arrived with the meat delivery, there was simply nowhere for him to rest his box.
Carol and William arrived in time to help move things about.
Cyril grumpily shoved past them, and tried to get the fridge door open using his elbow. Plump and rosy-cheeked, Cyril had blond hair, which was thinning out, leaving a balding circle. Theresa noted that it was getting worse by the week.
‘Just stop, Cyril!’ Theresa shouted. She could see that his efforts were annoying everyone else. ‘Don’t be so stupid. Wait by the door and I will tell you when to come in.’
In a sulk now, Cyril gave a shrug and walked to the back door, where he stood, barely disguising his irritation.
Carol stacked boxes to one side while William traipsed up and down the stairs to the cellar with the dry goods and tins.
Then, amid this confusion, Marcel wandered in through the back door, pushing past Cyril, saying that he needed to speak to them all.
‘Oh, please, Marcel,’ cried Theresa. ‘One minute. It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here. Just go through, darling.’ Marcel clambered through the mess of boxes, bags and packaging strewn on the kitchen floor and sat down in the dining room.
Theresa then called Cyril inside.
‘Thank you so much, my dear Cyril.’ She took his box and dismissed him quickly. ‘As you can see, today, I’m afraid, I have no time to chat.’
She kissed him on both cheeks, in the usual French manner, and waved him goodbye.
Tying her apron on, Theresa shoved the photo album under her arm and came through to the dining room. The others were gathered round the tables, waiting to hear what Marcel had to say.
Sally lingered near the front door with Benjamin.
Theresa could see that they all looked very tired. Although it was morning, she herself was exhausted.
What would they all look like if it went on for months?
‘My friends,’ Marcel addressed them in French. ‘I know you are all suffering. I am aware, thanks to Theresa, of the status of events, all out of our control, which have come to pass. I too have had my own problems. And I am here to suggest a solution, which I hope will suit us all. I realise you will need time to digest my offer, but I make it in good faith.’
Theresa could see that Marcel had caught William’s and Carol’s attention, even if Sally and Benjamin were still huddled together giggling about something else.
‘I wish to buy you. Everything. La Mosaïque, the premises, the equipment, the goodwill.’
Theresa gasped. ‘You don’t mean it?’
Marcel’s surprise suggestion even made Benjamin and Sally sit up.
‘First, I will need to see the accounts, discuss them with my accountant, and if you agree in principle then we will discuss the price.’
He stood, smiling encouragingly. He placed his chair carefully into the table, taking care not to scrape along the mosaic.
‘Can you bring round the paperwork, William, and leave it with me. Give me forty-eight hours to go through everything and we can meet in here same time the day after tomorrow. Yes?’
Everyone echoed his yes.
It was Theresa who reminded them that, before deciding on anything, they were obliged to let Zoe take part in the vote, and that Zoe was off in Switzerland on one of her ‘mini-breaks’, which they all knew were a few days under the knife or being injected with sheep’s placentas, under the guidance of some famed surgeon who promised her eternal youth.
But Marcel must remember that any decision on behalf of La Mosaïque had to be unanimous, and that a majority would be against the terms of their original contract.
He said he understood and moved towards the front door.
Theresa put out a hand to touch him as he passed. ‘Thank you, dear Marcel.’
When he had gone, the buzz in the room was palpable.
‘It will save us so much misery,’ said William. ‘And he’s right. It would be in all our best interests. After all, we’re all planning to stay on in Bellevue-sur-Mer, so we might as well be on friendly terms with the local eatery!’
Aware that she needed to catch the last post, Theresa busily flipped through the orange album, skipping past old photos of her wedding and those of Imogen as a teenager, and extracted the picture of the famous wall in Vieille Ville, Nice, in which she and her granddaughters posed in front of the bas-relief of Catherine Ségurane. She took an envelope from the welcome desk, addressed it to Lola and inserted a brief note, before sealing it. Explaining to the others that she would be back in a matter of minutes, she ran out to the postbox.
As she trotted past the brasserie, she could see Marcel inside talking earnestly with a small group of people.
She had just popped the envelope into the box when the postwoman’s van drew up. Theresa felt happy that the photo was on its way home.
The grandkids had once been a bit of a problem for her, but the magic of this town had changed all that. They had come over here, and learned that she was not the enemy.
She was now so fond of them, and clearly they of her.
As she passed the brasserie for the second time, Theresa gave Marcel a wave and he winked and mimed a kiss in her direction. She blew him a kiss in return, using both hands.
Cyril’s van pulled away.
In the dining room of La Mosaïque, William was on the phone to Zoe. Even from as far as the kitchen doorway, she could hear Zoe’s excited ‘yes’.
Theresa had barely settled in the kitchen when her mobile phone rang. She glanced down to see that it was Imogen on the line.
She knew she shouldn’t when she was already running late, but she decided to take the call. Squeezing the phone between her neck and cheek, she started to scrub some new potatoes.
‘Hello, darling. How lovely to hear from—’
But Imogen immediately cut her off.
‘She’s gone. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay away from work. But someone has to be here in case she comes home.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Chloe. Chloe has gone missing.’
A chill ran though Theresa.
‘Since when?’
‘We don’t know. She wasn’t here this morning when I went to get them all up.’
‘Did the others see anything?’
‘No. They last saw her when they all went to bed. So she could have gone at any time between nine last night and now.’
Theresa looked at the wall clock. Eleven-thirty.
‘She’s not at school?’
‘No.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘Of course I have, Mother. I’m not a fool.’
‘Might she be with friends?’
‘No.’ Imogen let out a sob. ‘I’ve phoned all her friends. They’re all at school.’
‘Her father?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s off travelling somewhere with that bloody au pair of his.’
In the ensuing silence, Theresa’s mind raced through possibilities.
Imogen sobbed again and said, ‘I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘I know it’s hard for you . . .’ Imogen’s voice was feeble with crying. ‘But could you come home, Mum? Please?’
Theresa panicked. She knew she should be doing something, but what?
‘I’m at work now – at school,’ continued Imogen. ‘But really I should be at home. Or in both places at once, but I can’t.’
Theresa knew she must go back to London.
But how could she break it to the others at La Mosaïque? How could she leave them all now, when everything here was at such a crisis point?
But for Theresa there was no choice.
While preparing the lunch, she made a quick check on flights to London. There was one with an available seat, which flew out of Nice in three hours. With security, and check-in, that meant she would have to leave here within the hour.
She ordered a cab to come to the restaurant in forty minutes and take her straight to the airport.
Throwing herself round the kitchen, slamming dishes into the oven, preparing rows of desserts and putting them into the fridge, Theresa tried to think of ways she could prime the others before her departure. She would try to do as much as she could now, working on the basis of the covers for an average lunch service.
Carol ran in with an order for a strange little man in the corner who had changed his mind, and now wanted a different main dish. Theresa realised she should have tried to tell Carol, then and there, that she was leaving. But instead, she presented the new dish, saying nothing.
She knew Carol would want her to stay and also knew that she could brook no argument, or waste time while the others tried to persuade her.
So Theresa made up her mind that she would break it to the others only as she walked out of the door, for then it would be too late, and she didn’t want to deal with their sympathy and suggestions.
She was certain they could manage without her. (And although actually she doubted the truth of that, she tried to suppress all her qualms on this subject.)
Because Theresa knew that she really had no choice.
She had to go to her family.