When Sally had presented the fuel bill for the boat’s trip to Villefranche and back, Carol had seen her point. This meant that, unless a massive order came in for a ship moored nearby, the Shore-to-Ship project was effectively shelved. If anyone phoned with a small order, Carol would simply tell them that they had just missed the boat, literally.
But Sally was still on for picking up and making deliveries in the van.
As she unfastened her seat belt, back from a mid-morning early-lunch delivery, she watched the paltry gang of diners shuffling into La Mosaïque and taking their seats. They had the air of holidaymakers, French ones today, perhaps from Paris or the north.
Following them inside, she fiddled with her phone, all the while thinking about her bizarre meetings with Eggy and Phoo. She couldn’t believe that people held on to those petty grievances for so long. But then she too was still nurturing the pain from the intimidation they had inflicted, and still was, deep inside, rather frightened of them, as though she was a mere child and they were serious adults. Those two chance encounters had left her feeling pretty nervous about driving the van around. She certainly did not want to bump into them a third time.
Just as the first orders started being served, Theresa arrived in the dining room and made her startling announcement, telling the whole group that she was leaving, with immediate effect, and that she did not know when she would return. Despite her initial shock on Theresa’s behalf, Sally felt sure that the fourteen-year-old she had met last year would be off somewhere having a laugh with her friends, not imagining how this might scare her family. While Theresa was away, Sally would be secretly pleased to take her place, thereby retiring from the world of deliveries to hide in the kitchen. This would enable her to remain out of sight while still making her contribution to the team.
Thus, with no qualms, she volunteered. Carol, she suggested, could take on the deliveries, if and when they came, and in the meantime, at this low level of custom, the dining room and welcome desk could be easily served by William and Benjamin.
Having seen Theresa into the waiting cab, Sally rushed through into the kitchen, threw on an apron and set to work. Theresa had done most of the tricky business. All that was left to Sally was to put things into and take them out of the oven. She also had to whip up the odd thing on the stove-top. But Sally loved cooking, so all was well.
A large orange book, a photo album, was taking up most of the counter to one side of the sink, so Sally stowed it next to the delivery and order folders, and some small trays which stood vertically in a side cubbyhole under the counter, near the back door.
She swirled pureed beetroot on to warm empty plates, ready for the pies, heating up in the oven and almost ready.
As she found her way around Theresa’s kitchen, Sally felt as though she was prying into someone else’s world.
Poor Theresa. She hoped all would work out well, and the little girl would turn up soon. Children could be such a worry, especially if they were secretive or stubborn. Sally had had some close moments with her own two. But hopefully Chloe would be found soon; with any luck before Theresa even landed at Heathrow.
Sally pulled the tray of pies from the oven and swept it round, but her cloth caught the edge of a small glass, spilling slightly foetid water all over the countertop. The glass swirled round, then rolled across the counter and down on to the terracotta floor, where it smashed into pieces.
Flicking the broken glass out of the way, Sally briskly plated up the pies. It was more important that they should be served piping hot than cleaning up the mess on the floor. After William arrived and whisked them through to the dining room, Sally got out the dustpan and brush and knelt to sweep up the glass fragments.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you . . .’
Sally jumped with surprise.
She turned to face Marcel who had sneaked in through the back.
‘I’m just returning the account books. I’ll come again during the break. Theresa not here?’
Benjamin was at the dining-room door calling for three cheese platters.
‘No. She’s not.’ Sally wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘One minute, Benjamin.’
‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Marcel threw up his hands. ‘I’ll see you later.’
For heaven’s sake! The man worked in the restaurant trade. What was he thinking about, coming here at the height of the lunch service?
Sally wondered if it wasn’t to get a glimpse of how things were going in the kitchen before he made his offer. She smiled. Of course in most restaurants the ‘height of service’ would be rather more than eight covers – which was all she was coping with. But, still, for Sally, taking over from Theresa like this, unprepared, even catering for a few tables was something of a baptism by fire.
Sally washed her hands and got back to work, cutting tranches of cheese, snipping small branchlets from a bunch of grapes and arranging them on plates.
She hoped that she would find tonight easier. Once she felt she was in control of her own kitchen, and her own work, rather than finishing off someone else’s, and feeling uncomfortable in their space, it had to be easier.
Didn’t it?
As Sally moved across the kitchen to return the cheeses to the appropriate shelf, her foot went sliding and she found herself hurtling towards the door, then the floor. Without thinking, she grabbed on to the hot cooker-top to steady herself. She landed on the tiles on all fours, one hand burnt.
‘Damnation.’ She looked down to find that the cause of the slip was the remnants of a red rose which had fallen with the glass. Where had that been hiding? She threw the wretched thing into the bin, and held her palm under the cold tap for a few moments to ameliorate the pain.
The timer pinged, alerting her to another batch of pies due to come out of the oven. She pulled an oven glove over her sore hand and grasped the hot baking tray, only to find once more that, due to the awaiting cheese plates and the restaurant’s books, which Marcel had thoughtlessly laid on the other counter, there was nowhere to put it down. Balancing the tray on the edge of the sink, with her other hand Sally chucked the books down into the cubbyhole under the counter.
All would be well. She would master this kitchen.
This afternoon was a one-off.
It had to be.
Theresa spent hours going through security. Luckily she had her passport, which she tended to keep in her handbag in case she ever fancied going across to Italy, as nowadays there were random checks on the trains. Plus, of course, if you ever wanted to enter the casino at Monte Carlo, it was necessary to take a passport.
As her little win there had been the final deciding factor on her move to Bellevue-sur-Mer, the Garnier Casino had become rather a totem in her life.
But as she had not planned on leaving the country this morning, she only had her handbag with her, which should have made things easier. It did not. For naturally it was full of things which are forbidden in carry-on luggage.
As the security official dumped Theresa’s bottle of very expensive perfume into the bin, he gave her a bright smile. Her favourite penknife, a pair of nail scissors and a box of matches, which she always kept with her in case the cooker burners failed to ignite, followed the perfume. She was then taken aside and interrogated for some time regarding why she would be travelling today without anything but a handbag, especially as she had no return flight booked. What was she running from?
She was eventually let through and on to the flight, where her thoughts were concentrated on the trouble which waited ahead in London.
She ran through many ideas of how to continue the search for Chloe. It seemed clear to her, from what she knew of both Imogen and Chloe herself, that the most likely scenario was a secret boyfriend.
Despite the loud and constant chatter of a couple seated beside her, Theresa’s thoughts managed to remain fairly focused. She inadvertently learned an awful lot about them. They lived in a chi-chi village outside Stoke-on-Trent. They disagreed violently about whether red or rosé wine was superior, and spent much of the two-hour flight squabbling about that and other trivia.
Theresa realised that she had no clues about where Chloe might have gone because she always thought of her as a child rather than a person. She knew about all those things which were associated with childhood: the exams Chloe had passed and was due to sit, her grades, her hobbies and how she had excelled in the annual school play. But she knew nothing of Chloe’s real desires or those inner flames which every human kept burning, leading them hopefully towards some kind of better tomorrow. She recalled her own childhood, and realised that she could still remember yearnings she had had when she was only six. So, as Chloe was fifteen, Theresa knew that the best clue to finding her would be to search out these private desires.
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me next that you prefer Beaujolais to Rioja,’ said the male from the trendy village outside Stoke-on-Trent.
‘Absolutely. In my opinion Rioja tastes just like saddle soap.’
‘You spent a lot of your youth licking saddles, did you, dear?’
‘When I had ponies, I loved my life. They were my happiest years,’ said the woman from the village near Stoke-on-Trent. ‘I should never have married a man who’s never even been to a gymkhana.’
‘I regularly have a bet on the horses. That’s as far as I am prepared to go. But, no, dear, I cannot see the delight of a weekend’s hacking.’
Theresa ran her mind back over the time Chloe had spent in Nice. That was when she had known her best. To Theresa, Chloe had always appeared to be the rip of the family. A bit of a tomboy. The leader of the pack.
But as children moved into the teenage years, Theresa realised that even a few months could make a massive difference in behaviour. When those hormones kicked in, everything turned on its head.
‘If you feel that way, perhaps you would have done better to marry a horse.’
‘I married the nearest thing,’ replied the wife. ‘I married an ass.’
Theresa was very happy to get off the plane.
She took the Tube into town and went straight down to her daughter’s house in Wimbledon.
A policewoman was with Imogen, who was now visibly distraught, quite unlike the stern head teacher Theresa knew.
As Theresa sat down Imogen sprang across the room and started putting on her coat.
‘You can find out anything else you need to know from my mother,’ she said, opening the front door.
The policewoman jumped up. ‘Mrs Firbank, I strongly advise you to stay here. Leave this to us.’
But the door slammed and Imogen was gone.
‘I realise that it feels useless staying put, Mrs, er . . .’
‘Simmonds,’ replied Theresa.
‘But it really is the best thing.’ Tapping her pencil on her notepad, the policewoman shook her head. ‘People always want to take action. But, for one thing, your daughter is in no fit state to drive.’
‘She’s not drunk?’
‘No,’ replied the policewoman. ‘But she is extremely agitated.’
‘Of course she is. Who wouldn’t be?’ Theresa decided to take control of the situation. She had seen enough TV shows to know what she should do. ‘But my daughter is a very methodical person. She is probably going to visit all of Chloe’s haunts. Meanwhile we shouldn’t waste any time. Shall we look around her bedroom?’
‘I think that would be very useful, Mrs Simmonds.’ The policewoman laid down her pad and put her hat back on. She followed Theresa up the stairs.
While rifling through her granddaughter’s things, Theresa felt guilty, but knew it had to be done.
‘Does the child have a mobile phone?’ the policewoman asked.
‘Everyone has been ringing her.’ Theresa moved towards the chest of drawers. ‘But it appears she has turned it off.’
She pulled open a drawer.
‘And here we have the solution.’ A pink mobile phone was lying there, nestled between Chloe’s T-shirts and underwear. ‘It is most unusual for a young girl to leave without her phone, wouldn’t you say, officer?’
The policewoman looked grim. ‘Unless she was abducted in the night, which seems highly unlikely without some evidence of a break-in, I would suspect that this means she has a second phone. Perhaps a pay-as-you-go. But I’m afraid that it does make things look rather more serious.’
Theresa sat on the bed. She knew what the officer was about to say.
‘Men who groom children frequently buy them these phones so that they can have more control over them. It would also indicate that some planning went into her disappearance.’ The policewoman bit her underlip. ‘Do you know if she has a passport?’
‘Yes. I live in France. I remember suggesting it, just in case they ever needed to come over to visit me without their mother. I have seen her passport.’
‘Then we must find out whether she took it with her,’ replied the policewoman. ‘Do you know where the household passports might be kept?’
Theresa shook her head. ‘I don’t live here, I’m afraid. When my daughter gets back . . .’
Theresa illuminated Chloe’s phone. She hoped there might be something of a clue left on it. She scrolled through a long list of missed calls, all from her mother and sisters. The recent texts were only about homework and other school-related activities.
The policewoman held out her hand. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take that. It’s more than likely that the child—’
‘Chloe.’
‘That Chloe would have deleted anything she felt scared her mother might see. Frequently, if a departure from the parental home is planned, the child can be very wary about leaving any clues. Luckily the police have ways of retrieving old and deleted files.’
Theresa handed over the phone.
The policewoman took it, made her excuses and left.
Left alone with time to think, Theresa felt rather giddy. It was all so dreadful. On top of the turmoil she realised she had eaten nothing since breakfast. It was now around 7.45 p.m. French time, 6.45 here. She went to the kitchen and fumbled around trying to find something which would instantly appease her rumbling stomach.
As she was spreading a slice of toast with butter, the front door opened and Lola and Cressida were ushered in by a self-styled bohemian type with flowing black hair.
‘Hello. I’m Frances, the girls’ drama teacher.’ Frances thrust forward a hand with multiple cheap rings and bangles. ‘Imogen asked me to bring them home as soon as my rehearsal session was over this evening. She said you’d be here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Dreadful business.’
Theresa excused herself. ‘Pardon me for eating, but I’ve had nothing since breakfast.’
Frances clapped her hands and the two girls stood to attention. ‘I presume you have homework?’
The girls nodded.
‘Then would you kindly take yourselves to your rooms and start on it, while I talk to your grandmother.’
Theresa was amazed to see their immediate obedient reaction to her command.
Frances lowered her voice. ‘We have all been taken by surprise over this. Of all the children in the school, I would never have expected Chloe to do something like this. She’s always been the reliable girl.’
Frances leaned against the countertop, took an electronic cigarette from her pocket and put it to her lips. ‘You don’t mind, do you? My nerves are shattered.’
‘Did Chloe have a close friend who might know anything?’
Frances took a long drag and puffed out a cloud of strawberry-scented vapour.
‘Alice. Poor child has been given the third degree by all and sundry throughout the day. Watching her, I fear that she is devastated by the whole business, but mainly by the fact that she really didn’t guess anything, and that Chloe, her supposed best friend, held it back from her.’
Theresa’s hopes deflated a little further.
‘And there are no boyfriends lurking?’
Frances chewed on the stem of the vape.
‘No. Last autumn when she played Juliet in the school play, I did wonder about the boy who played Romeo. She was quite intense in her reading of the role, and—’
‘And the boy, Romeo . . . What has he to say?’
‘I rather think that he was more interested in Mercutio and Tybalt than poor Chloe.’ Frances laughed. ‘But she was certainly gone on him.’
‘Is he still at school?’
‘Yes. And, like Alice, has been grilled all day long. He’s barely spent any time with her this term.’ Frances emitted another sickly-sweet puff of vapour. ‘We haven’t sat idly on our hands, you know.’
‘No one else from school has gone missing?’
‘Absolutely not. Look, I’m glad to share information with you, but please don’t imagine we have left any stone unturned. I think Imogen needed you here because of the other two kids. Poor things.’ She took another puff of her vape. The scent niggled Theresa with some long-forgotten memory, and suddenly she remembered what it was. A childhood ‘treat’. On Sunday mornings, her mother had opened a can of strawberries and laid a few on top of her bowl of cornflakes. Her recollection had them as something like limp, red, sticky surgical swabs. The drama teacher looked at her watch. ‘Oh God. Look at the time. Must rush. We’re rehearsing Treasure Island tonight. All that ship business and X marks the spot. It’s all go.’
When Frances had gone Theresa made her way upstairs to speak to Lola and Cressida. But she feared she would get no further than the teachers had done.
Once lunch was over, Sally gave herself an hour to refresh herself and then returned to the kitchen and started getting everything ready for the evening service. She did not want to be caught out. She spent the early afternoon becoming familiar with the kitchen and the arrangement of the store-cupboards so that the dinner would go extremely smoothly.
In the light of both Zoe’s and Theresa’s absences, Marcel had postponed his meeting with them to discuss his offer for the restaurant. He knew that their decision had to be unanimous and, without the presence of two pivotal partners, he didn’t want to waste his time. Sally thought there might be an ulterior motive lurking there too. He probably wanted to pounce in the style of agents selling timeshares. He would arrive, make an offer and give them only hours to accept or it would be withdrawn. That kind of thing. And for that ploy to work everyone with a vote had to be present.
Sally placed the last of the glass bowls of mandarin fool into the fridge, ready to be served. The potatoes were parboiled, ready to mash. And she had already chopped the little fat discs of panisse into the same shape as chips, ready to fry.
Through the dining-room door she could hear Benjamin squabbling with William. It was a comforting sound. There was a brief silence then somebody turned on the restaurant’s music, which was about as far from lift muzak as you could get. Most of the songs were French, and had a soft, lilting, relaxing feel, a bit like the music which was played in an upmarket hotel bar. Some Stéphane Grappelli, Hot Club de France, Charles Trenet, and even some modern songs by the likes of Emmanuel Moire and Julien Doré. Music was the signal that the doors would soon open to the public.
Sally swayed to the gentle rhythm as she started work on the breadcrumbs for tonight’s fish dish, a pan-fried merlu – or hake. She glanced at the clock: 6.50. Ten whole minutes till the restaurant opened, and the handful of customers booked this afternoon dribbled in.
She felt rather smug.
She was on top of this.