Theresa woke to a bleep from her phone.
She grabbed it and peered at the tiny screen. It was exactly 6 a.m.
The message was only some totally irrelevant suggestion sent by one of the apps recommending ‘attractive’ hotels in the vicinity. She saw the screen long enough to notice that the Hotel Astra had a score of 3.1 out of 5, which was three points higher than Theresa would have rated it.
Awake now, albeit reluctantly, she opened the socialising app which Mervin had installed yesterday, wondering whether now would be the time to try to contact Neil. She then remembered that teenage boys were famous for not getting out of bed till noon, so she laid the phone down on her bedside table and turned to face the window.
She looked up at the back windows of the hotel and wondered how many of the people sleeping there last night had been recommended to book a room by their very annoying phones.
She vaguely recalled a bit earlier hearing noises coming from the upstairs flat, followed about half an hour ago by the sound of someone clomping down the stairs, followed by the slamming of car doors. Maybe whoever it was had been heading into Nice for an early flight.
Theresa tried to nap but kept being haunted by thoughts of Chloe. Where would she have slept? Last night it was cold. She prayed that the child had found somewhere decent and warm to lay her head.
If she came by train, might Neil have been waiting for her at the station? Would she have had enough cash on her to take a cab to wherever she went? Chloe couldn’t possibly realise that Nice cabs were three times the price of those in London. What if the driver had suspected she couldn’t pay and dumped her out somewhere along the way?
Could she be walking distance from where Theresa lay, or might she be miles along the coast, at Menton or Toulon?
Theresa wondered whether she should do that thing which people did when they lost a cat – get a photograph reproduced and put it up all over the place – but simultaneously she knew that that would be a horrible thing to do, and that if either Neil or Chloe saw something like that it would be the finish.
Having a photo of Chloe always in her pocket, though, wouldn’t be a bad idea. First things first. Theresa had to find a recent photo of Chloe, then at least she could go around local cafés and hotels asking if anyone had seen her.
Theresa wished she had brought that photo of her with Neil taken after the play. Though, in full Friar Laurence gear, complete with bald wig, Neil would be unrecognisable. She might as well tout around a photo of Friar Tuck, thought Theresa. All you could see was the fatness, the baldness and the brown dress. If only she had asked Neil’s mother for a photo. But on second thoughts, perhaps not.
So first things first. She would get up, go to the restaurant and find a photo of Chloe in the photo album.
Then what?
She thought Imogen would not like that. One thing she did know was that she must run everything past Imogen first and not go jumping into things on a whim.
She decided to phone her daughter to discuss tactics. Then she remembered that England was an hour behind, so there it was only 5 a.m. Even during an emergency that was much too early to call, especially as she had no news to impart.
The letterbox rattled. The postwoman delivering something. Theresa climbed out of bed and went through to the living room.
Something lay on the mat. Probably only news of a sale at the local supermarket. She stooped to pick it up.
It was a photograph of herself, all made up and wearing posh clothes. She flipped the photo over but there was nothing written on the reverse. It was obviously a picture of her which had been taken ages ago, perhaps at one of the children’s christenings. She recalled that it had been in the photo album.
Still in her nightie, Theresa opened the front door and peered into the street to see if the person who had posted it was still there. But there was nothing moving outside except a street-cleaning machine operated by a council workman, which was a hundred metres away, noisily sucking at the gutters and spraying the pavements.
She went back inside and sat at her glass table, staring at the photo. Perhaps it had fallen out of the photo album when she was walking over to La Mosaïque, and some kind person, recognising her from the picture, had posted it back through her door. But that was a few days ago now, and, if she had dropped it in the road, the street cleaners would have swept it off early one morning, along with the discarded sweet wrappers and cigarette ends.
After a quick shower, Theresa dressed and walked along to the restaurant. She let herself in through the back door.
It was just after seven.
No one was inside.
She would have expected someone to have been in by now. The van was not parked outside, so maybe whoever was picking up the fish this morning was already on their way to bring in the daily fresh goods.
She spent some time searching the kitchen for the album. Everything had been moved around since she’d not been here. Obviously other cooks had their own methods, which was fair enough, but she had to go through every cupboard and drawer before being certain that the photo album was not here, near to where she had left it when she departed for London.
She went down to the cellar.
Pieces of paperwork littered the table: bills, receipts and invoices. She sat at the desk and started going through the filing cabinets, searching each folder, just in case it had been hurriedly put inside to get it out of the way.
Almost an hour later she gave up the search.
Sally had not returned the photo album. Theresa wondered if she might have taken it up to her house for safekeeping.
As Theresa came up the stairs to the kitchen, the back door opened.
‘What a shock!’ Bearing a large box, Cyril stood at the door. Theresa could see that he had visibly paled. ‘I thought you were at London.’
‘Yes,’ explained Theresa. ‘And now I am back.’
‘You gave me fright!’ Cyril put the box on the counter and asked Theresa to sign for its receipt. ‘It’s lovely that you are back. Your granddaughter is returned?’
‘We’re not sure where she is yet.’
Loud chattering echoing in the tiny lane outside foretold the arrival of Benjamin and William.
On the sight of Theresa they stood stock-still for some seconds.
‘What are you doing here?’
Sensing tension, Cyril buried his head in his order book checking his deliveries against the dockets.
Suddenly he let out an exasperated sigh and banged the heel of his palm on his forehead.
‘Merde, I’ve forgotten the pork. I’ll be back later.’ Cyril excused himself and hastily left.
‘We were about to put up the “Due to unforeseeable circumstances we are closed” sign.’
Theresa could see a nasty glint in William’s eye. He was spoiling for a fight.
‘As we seem to be the only two people left working in this enterprise, we thought we might as well just shut up shop and be done with it.’
‘I’m sorry, William, you’re going to have to explain.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. We will,’ snapped Benjamin. ‘First, you waltz off without so much as a by-your-leave. Next thing Carol gets stuck up in La Turbie, along with the van, and now Sally has buggered off as well. By text message, if you please! The rats have deserted the sinking ship, leaving Muggins and Friend.’
‘Excuse me, Theresa!’ William shoved past her, heading for the dining room and the front door of the restaurant. ‘There are things to do here. Like watching a ship with no lifeboats smash into an iceberg.’
‘Thank God, you’re back.’ Benjamin lowered his voice to talk to Theresa. ‘It’s been a hellish couple of days. You cannot imagine. And he’s gone right off the rails.’
‘Sorry, Benjamin, but I’m not exactly back—’
‘You have to be back, Theresa. You are physically standing in front of me.’
‘But I was—’
‘Please do the lunch today. Please!’ He threw himself to his knees. Theresa was worried for his designer trousers. The floor looked none too clean.
‘There’s nothing here for me to cook,’ she said. ‘Do get up, Benjamin.’
‘There’s meat.’ Benjamin rose and indicated the box on the countertop. ‘And we have potatoes, rice, pasta . . .’
‘You do realise that my granddaughter is still missing? And anyway, what’s wrong with Sally?’
‘This is all we know.’ Benjamin held up his mobile phone and read: ‘“Something has come up – sorry! Cannot be in to work for the next week or so. Sally. I will buy myself out.”
‘You understand, Theresa,’ he said, while she glanced at the text to see whether it might have another meaning. ‘Sally is in a sulk because of the hideous goings-on in here last night. That’s all this is.’
‘Good riddance.’ William was back, and in for the kill. ‘She’s a sanctimonious drama queen and I, for one, have had enough of her.’
Five minutes later, Theresa had her apron on, and was preparing today’s special – cottage pie – while Benjamin and William got the dining room ready.
She reasoned that, until some contact was made with either Chloe or Neil, there really wasn’t much she could physically do to aid the search. She had made numerous attempts to get through to Neil via Mervin’s app. He had not replied.
About five minutes before the house was due to open to the public, with a bright ‘Coooeee’, Zoe popped her head round the back door.
It was lucky that Theresa knew Zoe’s voice, as, after undergoing the new Swiss treatment, her face was unrecognisable: a glossy forehead, something about her eyes which gave her an oriental appearance, and lips so full they looked as though she might have bought them in a joke shop. ‘Just wanted to hear any news. All running smoothly since I went away, I hope.’
William and Benjamin arrived abruptly in the kitchen, waving their mobile phones.
‘Has anyone seen this?’ cried Benjamin. ‘It’ll be that bloody Marcel and his cronies.’
‘A whole batch of one-star reviews on FaveEats!’ William leaned against the countertop. ‘I never read these stupid internet things, but look! Even the burger bar in the garage up on the autoroute now has a higher rating than us.’
‘According to this other foodie site,’ Benjamin swallowed hard before continuing, ‘we are the lowest-rated eating establishment in Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
Zoe grabbed the phone from Benjamin’s hand, and peered down at the screen. ‘Can’t see a thing.’ She looked up and blinked her false eyelashes, not realising that one of them had unhinged itself and fallen across her right eye. ‘It’s gone awfully dark in here. I don’t know how you work in these conditions. Anyone got a magnifying glass?’
‘Does anyone seriously read those star-review things before choosing where to eat?’ Theresa would never consider the opinions of total strangers.
‘Only everyone in the world,’ snapped Benjamin. ‘Nowadays there’s no strolling around looking in at places you fancy. People are like sheep. They rush to the suggestions at the top of the list, and steer well clear of the ones at the bottom. It’s a self-perpetuating load of rubbish.’
‘Couldn’t we get someone to march around the streets with a sandwich board telling them to ignore what’s on the app?’ Zoe looked up. The stray false eyelash finally lost its grip and fluttered to the floor. ‘Hello? Did somebody turn the lights on?’
The restaurant front door slammed and Carol stepped into the kitchen. ‘That doggone van. I love her but . . .’ Carol’s face was streaked with oil and her hands were black. ‘I persuaded the garage to do a patch job, just to get me home,’ she announced. ‘But the darned old girl broke down trying to climb up the hill to get on to the main road. I’ve spent the last three hours jacking her up, lying on my back underneath her, giving her the once-over, and finally she’s on the road again.’
‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ added Zoe.
‘I didn’t think that Mech. Eng. would have been quite your scene,’ said Benjamin, curling his lip at the sight of Carol’s soiled clothes.
‘What do you mean, darling? I’ve always adored engines. I’m fascinated with everything mechanical.’
‘But did you manage to collect the fish and veg?’ William stepped forward, his mind forever practical.
‘I’m not Louis Hamilton.’ Carol threw down the keys. ‘I thought you’d be pleased with me for getting the van back in one piece. Did they find the girl?’
‘What girl?’ asked Zoe.
‘My grandchild. No.’ Theresa moved towards the oven to turn it on, getting ready to start baking some potatoes. ‘But I volunteered to do lunch. This afternoon I have to devote my time to finding Chloe.’
‘I thought we were here to offload this restaurant . . . sorry, I mean this money-disposal unit . . . to the irritating twit next door?’ Zoe boomed.
A sharp rap on the back door, and Marcel walked in.
‘I may be French,’ he said, ‘but I realise that a “twit” is not necessarily a good thing.’ He glanced at the tray of individual pies on the counter. ‘I see you are back, Theresa.’
Theresa forced a smile.
Marcel did not return the gesture. ‘Restaurant sans terrace, trente couverts,’ he said. ‘For a swift sale I will offer you two hundred thousand euros. Final offer.’ He turned towards the door. ‘You have till this time tomorrow; after that the offer is withdrawn.’
‘That’s less than we paid for it.’ Zoe attempted a look of horror, causing her remaining eyelash to tumble down and land on her cheek.
‘It’s an insult!’ screeched Benjamin.
‘If your reviews are anything to go by, overpriced.’
Zoe wiped a finger over her cheek and the eyelash slid down on to her décolletage. ‘Agh! A spider!’ She jumped back. ‘Or is it a cockroach?’
Marcel left.
Sally sat in the make-up chair, going through her lines. She had four scenes to shoot today, and, according to the sides she had been given when she arrived on set this morning at six-thirty, it was only in the last scene that she actually spoke. The other scenes involved: 1. walking out of a front door, 2. going into a boulangerie and coming out with a baguette and 3. coming into a public toilet, where she put on a wig and coat, and going out again. All without a word spoken, which was great.
Last night – or, rather, earlier this morning – after she had hung up the call from Los Angeles, Sally had wanted to sleep, but was too excited, so that when the car drew up outside her front door at 5 a.m., she was already waiting, fully dressed, having barely slept at all.
The make-up wagon was parked up, jammed among all the other movie vehicles in an open car park on the outskirts of Monaco.
Judy, the make-up girl, was charming, and immediately arranged with the Third Assistant to get a cup of tea and some pastries brought in for Sally.
While Judy applied Sally’s make-up base, Sally asked her a bit about the film. The current fashion was always to keep actors in the dark – only give them the pages they were featured in – so it was difficult to get a sense of the whole story.
‘Wish I could help,’ said Judy. ‘I only started today too, I’m afraid, Sally, and everyone else is off with the main unit, which is doing some car stuff up on a high road where Princess Grace Kelly shot some movie with Cary Grant and later died in a crash. Frankly I’m glad to be down here. IMO sounds like an unlucky place to shoot.’
‘You don’t have a cast list on you, do you, Judy?’
‘Sorry, Sally. Please could you stop talking for a moment. I need to concentrate on your lips.’
As Judy applied the lip brush, Sally mentally went over her lines again for the scene this afternoon. It was an exchange with a man named Gilbert, a scene which ended in a snog. Lord. She had forgotten this unpleasant side of showbiz. A roomful of people staring at you from every possible angle while some total stranger had his tongue down your throat. The glamorous life!
The caravan bounced a few times as someone came up the steps.
‘Sally Doyle!’ A tall man in a sheepskin-collared leather jacket held out his hand. ‘Daniel Sullivan. I’m the director of this little caper. So pleased you’re joining us. Marina is producing from LA, the London casting director’s gone into premature labour, and, well, you don’t want to hear about our problems. But the upshot is, at the eleventh hour, in total desperation, we’ve got you here with us, and . . . hoorah.’
Sally wasn’t sure whether the young man was aware how rude he had been, but she smiled as best she could manage without moving her lips for Judy.
‘So, anyway . . .’ He glanced down at a clipboard in his right hand. ‘We’re off to a flying start with a few scenes from towards the end of the movie, on the day of the heist.’
‘It’s a heist movie?’
‘What other kind of movie gets shot in Monte Carlo?’
The Red Shoes? thought Sally. Grand Prix?
‘So far we’ve had terribly bad luck. Bloke originally playing Gilbert, your husband, caught mumps and had to pull out a week after we started rolling. Who gets mumps in this day and age? We’d already shot some of his scenes, but on the last day he looked less like a suave Englishman and more like a pantomime Mr Toad, so . . .’ Daniel kicked his foot out. ‘Order of the boot for him. New fellow has some relationship with the pregnant casting director, and managed to squeeze himself into the role as replacement. Then Lia, the silly cow, whose plum part of Louise you’ve managed to snitch, decides, contrary to clearly stipulated contractual rules against such Eddie the Eagle recreations, that she’s a downhill racer and—’
‘Will I get a full script at all, Daniel? Only I’m a bit in the dark about the story.’
‘I’ll get all your sides printed out and delivered to your hotel room . . .’
‘I’m actually coming in each morning from my home in Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
‘Ooooh la la!’ Daniel said. ‘A proper little vedette! We’re all staying at a frightfully posh place here in Monte Carlo. The Grand Hotel Astor. All mod cons, gym, 24-hour room service, ravishing views of the Med, swimming pool, bar, four-star restaurant. But I suppose your own place must beat that.’
Sally hated the way everyone assumed that if you lived down here you owned a moated palace. But she had more pressing worries than correcting his presumption. ‘And the story?’
‘Blah-blah-blah, really. All you need to know is that you are playing one of a cameo couple of amateur burglars, who accidentally ruin things for the main characters who are pros at the burglary business. They of course are being played by Marina Martel and Steve Baxter, real stars, who arrive over here in a few days, by which time hopefully you’ll be gone and out of our hair . . .’
Judy coughed, and threw a glance at Daniel.
‘So, anyway, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Janey, here . . .’
‘Judy.’
‘Judy! Yes, that’s right. Sorry about that.’ He banged his forehead. ‘Judy! Judy! Judy! Isn’t that a quote in some ancient, long-forgotten film? Anyway, as you gather, we’re picking up all the scenes we’d already shot with the queen of off-piste slalom, and we’ve a hell of a lot to cram into the scant hours of daylight, aujourd’hui, so “one-take wonders” are the order of the day, lady.’ Daniel raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve gathered you’re an old pro at the game, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. I usually find veteran actresses very efficient.’ He ran his fingers through his hair and held a pose for a moment. Sally wondered if he was about to vogue down the steps. But instead he inspected his clipboard. ‘See you down on set, erm, Sally. We have a rather fancy bakery for you to enter, but I can’t attest to the public conveniences, and as for the door . . . Well, as Shakespeare once said: a door is a door is a door.’
If Marina Martel had chosen this man as director, Sally presumed that he had to be good at his job, even if his social skills had certainly not been nurtured in the Barbara Cartland charm school.
Daniel’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered.
‘Who?’
As the voice at the other end spoke, Daniel rolled his eyes in the direction of Judy and Sally and continued: ‘Not that old bag again. Doesn’t she understand English? The role is cast, cast, cast, and, no, I do not want to see either her CV or a show reel . . . Yes, I’m sure she knows quite a few important people in the business . . . No, no, no. Tell her under no circumstances should she fly out to the set to meet me.’ Resuming the conversation at the top of his voice, Daniel turned on his heels.
‘Now, Sally,’ said Judy as Daniel bounced away down the stairs, rocking the make-up wagon so that Sally’s seat felt as though it was on a trampoline, ‘before I start on the hair, I’m just going to try out a few wigs for scene 102.’
Sally sat back. She mustn’t let her nervousness get in the way of this opportunity. Nor must she become obsessed with the idea that she was totally out of touch with the business, just because she had been living in France for so long. She might not be so young any more, and could even qualify as a ‘veteran’ performer, as Daniel had so keenly reminded her, but Sally felt she was still au courant.
Judy advanced with an auburn fringed wig with flick-ups. She hovered behind Sally, then pressed the wig down on her head.
‘Oh. I say!’ Looking at herself in the mirror Sally laughed. ‘Very Mary Tyler Moore.’
‘Who?’ said Judy.