Once back in the restaurant kitchen, Theresa took off her coat. Before she started the lunch proper, she decided she couldn’t resist opening the parcel before anyone else came in. She ripped the cardboard strip along its length, and pulled out the further wrapping …
Lying in a shiny plastic box within was a very large knife. She flipped it over to see the brand. Sabatier. The top level of kitchen knives.
How odd. And how scary. She searched the packaging for any clue, hoping for some message or note indicating who’d sent it, but there was nothing. Just in case it had been dispatched to her by mistake, she put it back into the box, ready to return it.
But what kind of a mistake could that be? It had been sent to her home, not to the restaurant, so it wasn’t a marketing thing.
She rolled up her sleeves and turned to the worktop.
What if it was some sign? Maybe Chloe had been kidnapped. Was she being held somewhere? When Theresa thought back on the phone call, her granddaughter had sounded subdued. Not at all the usual bright and flamboyant girl. When she rewound the conversation, Chloe had seemed very restrained; she’d actually been whispering.
What was going on?
Perhaps everything Chloe had said on the phone was a lie. Maybe she was being held by kidnappers, who were about to launch a ransom campaign. And the kidnappers had sent Theresa a knife, by way of a warning.
Marcel followed William into the kitchen from the dining room.
‘You have to see, I was only giving a realistic price. If things are going as well as you say, then tell me why you’re selling up? I thought I was doing you a favour, so that you could all be free of the place quickly and move on.’ He turned and faced Theresa. ‘You look upset. Has something happened?’
She was not in the mood to share her worries at this time. ‘I’m fine.’
‘If there’s anything upsetting you, Theresa, remember I am your friend.’ Marcel looked at her with that hang-dog face of his. ‘You can always come to me with any problem.’
The nerve of him! How could he be offering help when he had just insulted them all with his meagre offer for La Mosaïque?
Theresa slid the opened package along the worktop.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Marcel. It’s just that I’m hot.’ She held his waist as she squeezed past him to get to the storage fridge. ‘No pork yet? Cyril promised.’
As though on cue, there was a knock on the back door and Cyril entered.
‘Voilà!’ He put his parcels down and went through with William to get a receipt.
‘Don’t you want a quick sale, Theresa?’ asked Marcel once the others had left. ‘Or don’t you really want to sell?’
‘Frankly, at the moment, Marcel, the sale of the restaurant is the last thing on my mind. My granddaughter has run away with some boy but she is somewhere in this area and I have to find her.’
‘Chloe is fifteen, Theresa.’ Marcel laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. ‘She’s practically an adult. I’m sure she can look after herself. Adolescents! You know!’
‘Did you get my message?’ Cyril was now hovering near the doorway to the dining room. He picked up the knife in its illustrated box. ‘Phew! That’s one good knife.’
Theresa faced him. ‘Did you send me that, Cyril? A gift maybe?’
‘Not a very romantic gift.’ Cyril shrugged a no. ‘I use knives every day, all the time. I gut chickens, and saw through bones with axes.’
‘Do anonymous gifts have to be romantic?’
‘Bien sûr . . .’
‘What message, Cyril? You asked about a message.’
Cyril pulled a face, meaning ‘not here; not now’.
‘You asked if I got your message. Spit it out. It can’t be anything so private.’
‘It’s not important,’ said Cyril, slamming the knife back on to the countertop. ‘Really! Another time.’
Theresa was starting to get impatient with him. She had to get on with preparing the service. ‘Do you need anything else, Cyril?’
‘I just have to get past Marcel to reach the fridge.’
‘Don’t get into a sweat, Cyril,’ snapped Marcel. ‘I have important business here. You don’t.’
Theresa stepped back to let Cyril by. Muttering to himself, he hastily started unloading the pork into the cool shelves of the meat refrigerator.
There was something disturbing about Cyril’s presence this morning. Theresa turned back to continue her conversation with Marcel.
‘You say “just fifteen” but fifteen years old is nothing, Marcel. You know how difficult an age that is. Remember you told me about your own son.’
Marcel’s son had gone on to drugs at sixteen, and been found in a gutter one morning, overdosed. It had taken years of care to help him back to leading a good, healthy life. The boy, now twenty-two, was living in Paris, attending a college for pastry chefs.
‘So, Theresa, what are you doing about your granddaughter?’ Marcel shuffled from foot to foot. ‘You don’t want her to fall into the hands of bad people. Perhaps I can help. I can talk to you. Talk to her.’
‘I have spoken to her today, and I’m hoping she’ll contact me again somehow and that then we can arrange a meeting.’
‘Hope? Why don’t you simply phone her back?’
‘She didn’t use her own phone.’
‘I don’t envy you.’ Marcel rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘As you say, teenagers can be wily.’ He seemed as though he himself might burst into tears. ‘I’m so sorry about before.’ He pulled his cap over his eyes and moved towards the back door. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help . . .’
When he had gone, Cyril took his face out of the fridge and gathered up his empty boxes. ‘It is love, you see,’ he said. ‘It is always love. Especially with adolescents.’
Throughout the lunch service Theresa’s mind kept returning to Chloe. She wondered where she might be now; how she was eating; did she sleep with Neil; where did she sleep; what was Neil’s father actually like? She couldn’t imagine a man who was carefree about welcoming and then encouraging two underage children to play truant from school being really as lovely as Chloe had implied. She wished Chloe would come here, then at least Theresa could provide her with a decent hot meal and try to talk some sense into her. But then, with the kind of money Neil’s father seemed to possess, she supposed Chloe would be fed well enough already.
She sent out the last of the desserts, a poires belle Hélène and a cheese platter, then hung up her apron. As she grabbed her bag she felt her phone vibrate.
This time a text message from a number she did not recognise.
‘Meet me this afternoon, 15.30, Le Bar – Le Chat Bleu, Cours Saleya, Nice.’
This had to be Chloe or Neil making contact.
She glanced at her watch. She’d be lucky to get there on time. She ran straight to the station and caught a train into town; then, not wanting to waste precious minutes, took the tram down to the Vieille Ville.
Theresa trotted anxiously through the tiny back streets of the Old Town and arrived in the marketplace. Most of the stalls had packed up, and the restaurants, like her own, had just closed for the afternoon. She scanned the café terrace. No sighting of Chloe, but there were quite a few empty tables. She took a table in a corner near the back of the terrace to get a better view. From there she could see anyone approaching in any direction, and she would easily recognise Chloe from a good distance.
She ordered a café express and sat, while others all around her were chatting or reading the local paper. She looked at the time. Twenty to four. Surely Chloe would have given her more than a few minutes before giving up and going? The little white cup, only half-filled, but served with a slim biscuit, arrived and she tried to drink it slowly, savouring the rich aroma. It was difficult trying to dawdle over a coffee while not reading or fiddling with a diary, but she knew she had to keep her eyes forever scanning the crowds, in case Chloe was hovering, worried that this was a trap. A group of tourists briskly walked past, following someone holding up a flag on a stick. She saw that they were all wearing identical headpieces. There was a new position – a tour leader who didn’t even have to talk to their followers, just press buttons and play them the commentary!
After half an hour, Theresa felt bad sitting there fiddling with an empty cup so ordered a glass of wine. Why not? She felt tense enough thinking about the whole situation: Chloe’s running away, the mysterious gifts, the string of missed calls. And it wasn’t as though she was going to be driving or operating heavy machinery. And she had more than an hour before starting tonight’s service. She deserved, and needed, a drink.
She tried sending a text to the unknown number. But nothing.
After she had munched her way through a basket of crisps and drained the last drop of the wine, it was half past five. She knew in her heart that Chloe wasn’t coming. But how much longer should she wait? Should she live in hope that Chloe would turn up, even after waiting two hours?
She ordered another wine.
At a quarter to six she knew she was cutting it fine. She’d be lucky getting back in time to start the dinner. Hastily she paid up, leaving a decent pourboire for the waiter who had very kindly not pestered her even when tables were starting to fill up with the aperitif crowd.
As Theresa cooked that night, sending out dishes to the dining room, borne by William and Benjamin, Carol assisted as best she could.
‘We’re overloaded out there,’ she drawled. ‘Better to help you out.’
‘No deliveries to do tonight?’ Theresa tackled a large steak, lifting it from the frying pan and laying it alongside the vegetables. It splashed juices over the edge, and she had to apply kitchen paper to the sides of the plate.
‘If something local comes in I’ll take it. But I’m not going off into the hinterland and getting stranded again. No siree.’
Theresa felt glad that she had Carol to talk to. The stress of the last few days was like a snowball; the more you worried the bigger the worry became. Time for a new subject.
‘No word from Sally, I suppose.’
‘Oh yes!’ Carol prepared a mixed side salad in a small bowl. ‘Milady Connor-Doyle has returned to the stage. Or should I say the movies.’
‘She’s gone back to acting? You’re joking?’
‘Absolutely not. She’s on location, filming in Monte Carlo. And, from her tone, unrepentant. She left a message on William’s machine. He went into a jig of anger which might or might not be interpreted as a war dance.’
‘Well, at least someone’s happy.’ Theresa couldn’t believe this. ‘Talk about rats leaving a sinking ship.’
‘Just leave the mugs to sort out the mess.’ Carol drizzled vinaigrette over the salad.
‘Is that Sally’s game, d’you think? Swanning off to cavort around with film stars in Monaco while her friends have their noses to the grindstone trying to save their own and her arses?’
Theresa picked up an egg from the stand and it slipped from her fingers, smashing on the tiled floor.
‘Damn!’ She reached for a cloth to mop it up. The last thing they all needed was for someone, maybe herself, to fall and break a leg.
‘You seem quite preoccupied this evening, darling?’ Carol drained the new potatoes and laid a few on top of the gravy, which Theresa had ladled over the meat. ‘I presume there’s no word from the kid?’
‘She texted me to meet in Nice, then she didn’t show. I just don’t know why she would text me then not come. I’m frightened something has happened to her.’
‘She’s a teenager, Theresa. They have social rules all to themselves. Maybe something better turned up. Perhaps she didn’t feel that she could excuse herself from the boy’s family.’
‘Then why not text me to say she wasn’t coming?’
‘Don’t you remember being young?’ Carol laughed. ‘In my humble opinion it’s an intensely selfish period of life.’ She picked up the plate and whisked it into the dining room, calling over her shoulder, ‘You’ll hear from the child in her own good time.’
But as Theresa left the restaurant at the end of service, she was disappointed that there were no vibrations from her phone – no voicemails or texts on her mobile. Absolutely nothing.
She strolled listlessly across the road and stood for a while gazing at the black sea, watching the lights of boats anchored in the bay. She was almost mesmerised by the slopping reflections of the moonlight, which spilled down on to the horizon, a rippling white stripe which ended in the slapping water at the sea wall near her feet.
If she was a teenage girl alone with a boy with whom she was besotted, would she have made an arrangement to meet her granny for a coffee? Absolutely not. Theresa knew she must have got it wrong.
As Theresa let herself inside the flat, she yawned. She was dog-tired. Not only from the hours she had been keeping and all the rushing about, going to London and back, but the stress of everything was starting to get to her. She had the worry about Chloe and La Mosaïque to cope with and she had not addressed either one mentally.
Before she’d had the time to remove her coat and check her answering machine for messages, the landline phone rang. With a sigh she picked up.
It was Imogen.
‘To Nice? When? Shall I make up the spare room?’
‘No. It’s too small and dark. I shall stay at that seedy hotel up the road – what’s its name again?’
‘Hotel Astra.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But you could stay here—’
‘No, I couldn’t. I’m bringing the girls and I’m bringing Frances, so that, if I’m called upon, she can babysit.’
‘But I could—’
‘No, Mummy. You couldn’t. You go out to work, remember? For us it’s the Easter holidays, starting tonight. So we’ll be arriving tomorrow morning. I just didn’t want to surprise you by us bumping into one another in the street.’
‘But I—’
‘I have to go now, Mum. Packing. Passports. Tickets. Early start. Lot of organisation to be done.’
And she hung up.
Theresa went and looked at the spare room. It was small and dark. Imogen was right to stay away. For a guest room it was not very welcoming. Theresa decided, when she had the time and money, to get someone in to paint it a nice bright colour, put up some pictures, perhaps a mirror to give the illusion of space.
She flopped down on the empty spare bed and, feeling tired and unwanted, she wept.
After a moment or two she pulled herself together again. Though in her heart the fear was still whispering: Failure! Failure on every level – as mother, grandmother, wife, solicitor’s secretary and now restaurateur.
It was all hopeless. What was the point of trying?
When you thought about it, everything came to dust.
She sat up, perching on the edge of the bed, and decided that the only possible solution was a cup of hot chocolate followed by sleep.
Depressed to her core, she moved back into the main room and switched on the kettle.
While waiting for it to boil she noticed something on the mat.
As the post had already come and gone long ago, it must no doubt be some junk mail – a local flyer for an astrologer, pizza delivery or a vide-grenier, the French equivalent of a car boot sale, perhaps.
She turned over the sheet of A5 paper. It was an odd collage of photos, artlessly done, one photo arranged higgledy-piggledy and photocopied to make one flabby mosaic-like design. Looking closely, she realised that all the little photos were of her. Some taken recently, but most were copies from her missing album.
The make-up girls were cleaning up the wagon, wiping down the tops and stowing things away, ready for it to move off.
As Sally came up the steps, Judy smiled and held out a jar of cold cream and a box of tissues. ‘Quite a baptism of fire!’
Sally stooped to look at her face in the mirror. The lipstick was everywhere! When Eggy went in for a kiss it was like being sucked at by a wet Hoover. Sally hoped that she had looked as though she was enjoying it. The public always had the idea that these kissing scenes were likely to inspire you to run off and leave your husband or wife, it was all so exciting to look at. Little did they know about the reality.
‘Is he an old friend of yours?’
Judy said this with an implied wink. She obviously imagined that they had once previously had an affair. Well, that was acting for you!
‘I worked with him when I was starting out. We weren’t really close,’ Sally said, aware that that was a massive understatement.
During the shooting of the final scene of the day, after the kiss and the initial shock of seeing one another, Eggy had been rather subdued, she thought, and played the scene very efficiently, almost as if there was something weighing heavily on his mind. He seemed sheepish with her, although he did mumble encouraging noises. She remembered, when she was their ASM, that he had had a good side, and always had a wink and a sparkle in his eye. Over here he did seem a little bit like a fish out of water. Perhaps he was edgy because sometimes the crew spoke to one another in French. Sally was fine replying to them and obviously understood, particularly everything the script editor – or as Sally remembered in her day calling the continuity girl – said, but Eggy stood beside her looking lost, and she had ended up being the one encouraging him.
‘Sally Doyle?’ The Third Assistant was outside the trailer. ‘Your car’s ready.’
Sally dumped the soiled tissues in the waste bag and, waving goodbye to the girls, ran down the steps.
‘Large silver vehicle.’ The Third pointed across the car park. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but you’re sharing a ride tonight with Mr Markham. The driver will drop you off first.’
Sally nodded and grinned, as her soul sank.
What would they talk about during the thirty-minute drive?
When Sally slid into the car Eggy was already waiting in the back seat. The car purred into action, swinging out past the car-park barrier and into the main road leading out of town.
While they drove through a street of high-rises, they remained together in a sticky silence. As the car moved on to the coastal road, Eggy spoke. ‘Ravishing views round here.’ He gazed out of the window at the black sea. ‘It’s a pity it’s so dark. This morning I was intoxicated by the sight of that immense sparkling turquoise. Do you find it calming, too?’
Sally realised that she had lived down here so long now she took the beauty of the azure sea for granted. Perhaps she should gaze upon it anew, and let the sight soothe her nerves.
‘It is calming. I’m very lucky. It’s a lovely place to live.’
‘Yes.’ Eggy let out a little snort. ‘You are blessed.’ His phone rang out a jaunty melody. He glanced at the screen. ‘Excuse me, Sally. I have to take this.’
What luck! For the moment, at least, Sally was off the hook in the realm of small talk.
‘Today went very well indeed. No. No. Quite difficult . . . Yes. We’re together in the car now driving us to our respective homes.’
Difficult to talk, Sally realised he was saying, mentally filling in the detail of the voice on the other end of the line. She could hear that it was a female. Probably Phoo.
She looked out of her window, watching the occasional garages, shops and bars along the way. People were seated out on terraces, heaters burning overhead, knocking back their evening glass of red. How Sally looked forward to quaffing her own. She remembered that someone had once accused Mary Tyler Moore of being an alcoholic simply because, on coming home from work, she drank one Martini every day. Well, if those were the regulations these days, Sally must be an alcoholic too. She was yearning for a drink.
The car passed into one of the tunnels leading through Èze. Instinctively Eggy started speaking louder.
‘Of course I’m excited, my dear. But you’re the one who got me stuck out here. I’d much prefer to be back in London, holding your pretty hand, helping you get by.’
Good lord! What could that mean? While they were going through the tunnel, Sally couldn’t even pretend to be looking out of the window. But it was now clear that, whoever was speaking on the other end of the line, it wasn’t Phoo.
Sally gulped.
She hated being in on other people’s secrets. It was such a terrible responsibility.
With a whoosh the car returned to open air. But Eggy was still practically shouting. ‘No, if it’s a boy, you can’t call it after me . . . Because Edgar is such a silly, old-fashioned name . . .’
Sally wondered whether her shocked gulp had been audible.
Totally embarrassed by what she had overheard, she started up a conversation in French with the driver which lasted until they were almost home. Eggy, ear glued to the phone, was still jabbering away with the casting director when the driver pulled up outside her house.
He glanced up, and mouthed, ‘See you tomorrow,’ bending his fingers in a mini-wave, as Sally climbed out of the car.
She waved back as the car continued down the hill.
She pulled out her key and opened up.
What a relief to be home and alone.
She went straight through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Old British habits die hard!
Next, she opened a bottle of Bandol, pulled out a glass, filled it and took a swig. Forgetting all about the kettle, Sally swung out into her living room and sat down on the sofa to replay her phone messages. She closed her eyes and listened to a blistering diatribe from William and slightly more reserved complaints from Carol and Theresa.
Yes. She should be helping them out with her physical presence. But if she could succeed in this film, she’d not only bring in enough money to save them all, but maybe the publicity would also be good for the restaurant.
She wiped the messages and lay back to study her call sheet for tomorrow. Some more tricky scenes, including one on a little motor boat – a cabin cruiser. Well, she would certainly look forward to that one as a fun way to end the day. She loved the sea, and she was an experienced helmswoman.
Smiling to herself, Sally took another sip of wine.
Eggy and the casting director! However much she tried not to put two and two together from the mobile snippets she had overheard, it was awfully difficult not to brood over the information. Had Eggy got the casting director up the duff? That’s certainly what it sounded like. No wonder she’d landed him the role. Sally looked down the list of crew, searching for the woman’s name. There it was. Right at the bottom. She had known many casting directors in her time but didn’t recognise this one. But, then, that was hardly surprising as she had been out of the business so long.
She flipped open her laptop and quickly googled the casting director’s credits, searching for a photograph. All the relevant pages showed a bright-looking woman in her mid to late thirties.
Gosh!
What on earth could she see in a stuffy old codger like Eggy? And what on earth would Phoo make of this?
The phone rang when Theresa was tucked up in bed, just drifting off to sleep.
Neither her tiredness nor the chocolate had done the trick. She had been kept awake not only fretting about the photos, especially this new, strange photo-collage of herself, but also by the sounds of a noisy quarrel taking place in the rented flat above. The man and the woman having a real humdinger this time. The woman was way more loquacious than the man, going at it hammer and tongs, while he only seemed to murmur rebuttals.
With this afternoon’s café shenanigans, followed by the arrival of the photo-medley, Theresa was hesitant to answer the persistent clanging ring, but, just in case …
And it was lucky she did.
‘Grandma? Could I meet you?’
Theresa sat upright in her bed and turned on the light.
‘I think tomorrow we’ll be going through Bellevue-sur-Mer. That’s where you live, isn’t it? So I wondered if I could meet you for breakfast.’
‘Of course, darling. Do you want to come here? Either on your own or with Neil?’ Theresa decided to wait till later to bring up the invitation to the Nice café.
‘I’ll be on my own. About nine?’
‘Isn’t that very early for you?’
Theresa noticed a slight hesitation in her reply. ‘Neil has to go somewhere with his dad to pick some stuff up, so I’ll be on my own.’
‘Fine, fine. You have my address, don’t you?’
‘You won’t have anyone else there with you, will you, Grandma?’
‘Of course not!’
And Chloe hung up.
Wide awake now, Theresa couldn’t stop thinking about the bizarre events happening around her. She gazed up at the ceiling.
She thought about her answering machine. When she got in from the café this afternoon, she had had a machine blinking at her, displaying the information that she had twelve messages, but no one had actually said anything. Just a row of silences and clicks. Could they all have been Chloe, trying to contact her to apologise about not turning up today or trying to set up tomorrow’s meeting?
Theresa turned off the light, rolled over and stared out at the dark courtyard.
After a few minutes lying in the silence, she began to wonder if she was going mad.
Was it her imagination or could she hear someone saying her name, over and over?
She put her face to the window.
There was no one in the courtyard. How could there be, unless they had dropped down from the Hotel Astra or the upstairs flat?
Then she heard it again.
A whisper.
Theresa!
She pressed her face to the glass and scanned the entire space. No one was there.
Then she looked up towards the hotel.
She felt sure that a head bobbed back inside from one of the dark hotel windows.
Now she wished that she had curtains to draw but it had never occurred to her to get any as no one could see inside, unless they were standing in the courtyard and the only door to that was from her flat.
Slinging her dressing gown round her shoulders, Theresa got out of bed and tiptoed to the back door.
She peered up through the glass panels.
A few windows in the hotel were lit up, but what was strange about that? It was a hotel. Some rooms were occupied by people coming back from a night out, or sleepless with jetlag or excitement; others were empty or occupied by people sleeping.
She stood perfectly still, letting her eyes focus on the shadowy space, waiting for something to move, be it a cat or a rat …
But nothing moved.
As she turned away she heard it again.
Theresa!
She wondered momentarily if she was hallucinating.
Or perhaps might ghosts be real?
This was getting ridiculous. It had been a long day. Actually it had been a very stressful number of days. No wonder her head was playing silly tricks.
Grabbing her blankets, she dragged them from the bed and through into the front room, where she curled up on the sofa.
Tomorrow she would get a roller blind or something put on both the bedroom window and the back door.
When finally she drifted off to sleep it was coming up to 5 a.m. But she was woken almost immediately by feet running down the stairs from the upstairs flat. Then the sound of a car door slamming, and pulling away with an expensive hum.
Theresa rolled over, cursing the buttons in the back of the sofa pillows.