Despite the upset of having Eggy as her screen husband, and regardless of the snog with him and the shocking evidence of his affair with the casting director which had ended yesterday’s working day, Sally was feeling high about being back in the acting saddle.
She wondered now why she had taken so much time out. She really enjoyed the frantic camaraderie of a location shoot. The laughs with the make-up and wardrobe department, joking with the crew while queueing to get the lunchtime catering tray, and sitting under canvas or on a bus with them all to eat it. Location catering had improved a lot since the old days, or perhaps this time it was because there was French money in the film, the caterers themselves were French, and thus naturally it was de rigueur to serve wine at lunchtime. Not that Sally touched a drop on set. She’d be far too worried about forgetting her lines. Also, after she’d reached fifty she found that drinking at lunchtime made her feel terribly tired for the rest of the day. But it certainly loosened up the camera crew.
Lunch on a British film set was a scant fifty minutes; here the déjeuner spread out to become the customary French two hours, giving her enough time to eat, relax and study the script for the afternoon’s scenes.
She had risen that morning, dressed in the dark and made her way down to the waiting car. Eggy was already sitting inside grinning.
‘I thought while we shared the car in we could go through lines,’ he said.
Sally had been amazed that yesterday her words had come out in the right places and in the correct order, so was very happy to agree. They both had three speaking scenes today. One easy scene with few words, set inside an apartment in Monaco. Then lunch. After that a tricky scene, with lots of dialogue, to be filmed on a nearby beach, where they had to have a heated argument, much to the delight of onlookers, played by local extras. The final scene of the day was on the same beach as it started to grow dark, the two bungling petty crooks – she and Eggy – trying to climb into a boat and speed away.
But despite Sally’s high hopes, so far this morning’s scene had run to twelve takes.
The business was set in a dark room at night, where Eggy and Sally were trying to break into a safe. There were staccato lines interspersed with the movements of the action. Once they had got inside the safe, they had to pile the contents of boxes into a sack. But at that point they discovered they had forgotten to bring it, so ended up having to load wads of money and bundles of jewellery into Eggy’s character’s beret and down Sally’s underwear. They then had to walk out of the apartment appearing deadpan.
Dark curtains blacked out the windows, and the lighting rig was arranged to make it seem as though the only light came from the occasional use of a torch and matches.
Everything technical which could go wrong had done so. The matches would not strike, the prop torch had flickered and cut out mid scene, then the safe numbers had all clicked correctly but the door was jammed and had to be levered open by the prop man. They’d tested it a few times, then gone for another take during which a helicopter had come over, flying low, and drowned out the sound.
This was followed by a near-perfect take, but one minute before the end of the scene the film cartridge had run out. So it was back to square one. Next take, a light bulb popped; after that when Sally pulled on the door handle, it came off in her hand.
Carpenters arrived and made good and the crew went for yet one more take. But by now Sally had gone word blind. Every time one of her lines came up she wasn’t sure whether she had already said it, and then after a minuscule pause she got the line wrong. When Eggy came over and whispered, ‘It’s fine, love, just relax,’ it had made her feel even worse.
Everyone was sent back to their start positions for the thirteenth time, and the clapper boy knelt before her and said: ‘Scene ninety, take thirteen, let’s hope this one is lucky for some.’
The rest of the crew guffawed. Daniel yelled, ‘Cut!’ and told everyone to pull themselves together. He reminded the crew that the shoot was already three days behind and Marina Martel would be arriving in France any day expecting results.
Sally glanced over to Daniel and could see that he was scared. She herself was terrified. By taking this job she had so much to lose. She could not foul it up. For sure she had to please Marina Martel. Sally was quite aware that, as Marina was the producer, the rushes would be sent to her each night for comment.
And at the same time, if the film was an embarrassment Sally would also have risked her friendship with the gang at La Mosaïque. And they were her everyday life. If she lost them, living in Bellevue-sur-Mer could become intolerable.
But that Daniel, the director, might also be worried, nervous that his work might be badly judged, had never occurred to her. She had been so wrapped up in her own fear she’d forgotten that she wasn’t the only person on set who was feeling anxious.
Eggy gave her a nod and Sally smoothed down the front of her costume, ready to go for take fourteen.
‘Don’t mind me!’ Sally heard a whispered voice in the dark ahead. ‘I’m not really here! Ssssshhh! Ssssshhhh!’
She knew well the rounded tones of Eggy’s wife, Phoo Taylor-Markham. Who had let her on to the set?
Sally tried to continue as though Phoo was not out there, watching her, hiding in the dark corner, lurking behind the script editor, the grip, the sound operator, the wardrobe assistants and make-up girls.
But she could not.
She found herself almost anticipating Phoo’s rude remarks.
‘Scene ninety, take fourteen.’
‘And action!’
Sally began afresh but when her line approached the words all came out in the wrong order.
Daniel cut again, barking at the camera crew to keep turning.
‘End slate!’ Daniel ran both hands through his slightly greased hair and landed them with a slap on his thighs.
By the time they had a decent take, the crew were grumbling about their lunch break.
The location catering was set up in a car park, walking distance from the afternoon location. Daniel, checking his watch, asked the actors if they didn’t mind losing some of their break so that they could go ahead to the beach and run through the scene a few times before the technical department arrived to set up. Eggy and Sally agreed.
They were both taken briefly to the location in a van then back to base.
Sally had not caught a glimpse of Phoo since they’d moved on from that unnerving seventeen-take scene and now wondered if she hadn’t been imagining hearing her voice.
‘I saw the rushes last night,’ whispered Judy.
Sally felt a flash of expectant excitement.
‘You looked good. We made the right choice with that shade of lipstick.’
Sally had forgotten that on a film set you were rarely paid a compliment; everyone was only really concerned with their own contribution. Therefore when make-up artists were watching the rushes all they looked at was the make-up!
The van drew to a stop and Sally got out.
A wardrobe girl rushed forward with an overall to cover her costume.
‘Don’t want you smeared with mayonnaise for this afternoon,’ she said. ‘There are no washing facilities down here.’
Sally made her way to the back of the queue, got her food and then walked to the tented area, where tables had been set up for everyone to eat.
And there was Phoo, seated at the tech crew’s table, her arm around Eggy, holding up a large glass of rosé, throwing her head back and laughing, teeth bared.
‘Oh, Sally was always such a klutz, wasn’t she, Eggy? Absolutely hopeless at everything!’
Theresa was up by seven-thirty, making pancakes and all kinds of breakfast treats for Chloe. She wondered how best to handle the conversation. The most important thing was to establish a channel of communication, some way of being able to keep in touch, and to know where Chloe was at all times. But when Theresa contemplated this idea she also realised that it was rather threatening. Even as an adult she would find it horrible to think that someone might want to have tabs on her all day and night.
Obviously Imogen would have other ideas, but Theresa felt sure that the essential thing was, rather than capturing her and forcing her home, to get Chloe to go of her own free will.
She wished she had something more tempting to lure the child. Once a captive animal had escaped it was hard to get it back into its cage, unless of course the conditions outside were worse than the ones in. And from all accounts Chloe was currently living the high life. Theresa no longer even had the South of France as bait to lure her. Chloe already had that. And at the same time, the child was clearly being entertained by a very rich man and his son, whom she adored. How could she compete with that?
Once Chloe was here in person, Theresa hoped to entice her to meet up on a regular basis. Maybe invite Neil and his father to dinner at La Mosaïque? After that her mind ran dry. What other activities might she suggest to keep a grip on the girl? Everything she thought of, to use Chloe’s own expression, sounded pretty lame.
At eight forty-five the doorbell rang, and Theresa went to open with a wide – she hoped – welcoming smile.
But it was only the postwoman who must have thought she was totally bonkers. With a brusque ‘Bonjour’ she thrust a package into Theresa’s hands and scooted off.
Theresa went back into the flat and opened the packet. A CD of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé.
How strange. She had not ordered any such thing. What could that mean? And who had sent it? Might it have been Chloe herself? But that seemed rather a mature idea for a teenager.
Theresa opened the front door again, to let the sunshine in and take a peep along the front, just in case Chloe was in sight. Who knew, if Chloe was dropped off by car that would give a chance for Theresa to get the number plate. Though what on earth she could do with it after that she had no idea. It was just what people always did on TV series. It might be possible that Neil’s dad would be in the car and Theresa could perhaps have a private word with him, maybe invite all three into her flat.
She crossed the road and sat on the sea wall, looking back at her own front door.
Carol pulled up in front of her. She was in the driver’s seat of the restaurant’s temporary van, windows down, sunglasses on, looking like a 1950s movie star.
‘Taking the sun, my darling?’
‘Waiting for my granddaughter.’
‘You found her?’
‘Not exactly, but she’s coming to breakfast.’
‘Hola! There’s a start, anyhoo. See you later, darling. Off to get the seven loaves and two fishes.’
‘We’ll need more than that.’
‘I know, sweetie – joke!’
Carol revved the engine and sped off up the hill.
Theresa looked up the road. No one was on the pavement; she could see no heads bobbing up and down behind the protective wall up the hill either. She turned the other way. A gush of people emptied out of the railway station. Theresa hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps Chloe would arrive by train. There were stations all along the French coast into Italy. Wherever Mr Muffett was, Chloe could easily get here by rail.
She scanned the crowd as it thinned out and dispersed.
‘Theresa?’ Marcel had crossed the road from his terrace. ‘I was wondering if I could have a private word? Maybe I could come to your place later this morning.’
‘I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, Marcel. I’m waiting for my granddaughter.’
He laughed and pointed back at his terrace.
‘Is that her over there?’
Theresa glanced at the tables of people taking petit déjeuner in the morning sun. Sitting alone near the door to the inside of the brasserie was Chloe, cradling a large coffee in both hands, blending in with the crowd. She seemed a little scrumpled, but that was teenagers for you.
Theresa leaped to her feet.
‘God. I need my eyes testing. I was looking everywhere but . . .’
‘The meeting?’
Theresa couldn’t think of that now. ‘Whatever you like, Marcel. Just ring the bell. You’re very sweet to offer.’
She ran over the road and stood before Chloe.
‘Thank God you came, Grandma. It was only after I’d ordered the coffee that I realised I only have English money.’
‘That’s all right.’ Theresa dug into her pocket and pulled out some coins. ‘Shall I join you here, or do you want to come over to mine?’
‘Can we go to yours, please.’
‘Whatever you like.’ Theresa felt strange being so subservient to a child, but realised it was necessary to keep her on side. ‘Take your time.’
‘That’s all right. It’s gone cold now, anyhow.’
Theresa was painfully aware that she must weigh every word she said. Whatever happened she must not scare Chloe off, and at the same time try to reason her around to going home.
‘How long have you been sitting here?’
‘Oh, ages.’
‘You should have knocked at my door. I was up.’
Chloe stood up and stretched. ‘I love the sun,’ she said, stepping off the terrace. ‘It makes everything feel so much more cheery.’
‘Are you not feeling cheery?’
Chloe did not reply.
‘I suppose Neil’s dad has a huge mansion.’
Chloe stopped and looked Theresa in the eye.
‘Why on earth should you think that?’
‘I don’t know. Something his mother said, I suppose.’
‘You’ve met Neil’s mother?’
Theresa thought back to the dishevelled drunkard in her run-down ‘villa’ in Streatham and wished she had not let that slip.
‘Only briefly,’ she said. ‘In London. When we didn’t know where you were.’
‘They hate one another, his parents. It’s so unfair,’ said Chloe quietly. ‘It makes life extremely difficult for Neil.’
Theresa nodded.
‘Will Neil come here and pick you up today? To take you back to—’
‘You won’t get anything out of me like that,’ Chloe snapped, then clammed up again.
This was going to be a tricky encounter, to be sure. Theresa walked at the child’s side, rooting in her pockets for the front-door keys. She opened up and let them in.
‘I made you some pancakes,’ she said, pointing to the table. ‘Dig in at will.’
‘You haven’t told Mum about me coming here, have you?’
‘Of course not.’ Theresa was pleased that she hadn’t had to lie. ‘This is strictly between you and me.’
Chloe licked her lips. It was clear that she was nervous and plucking up her courage to say something. Theresa prayed that it would not be anything awful, like announcing that she was pregnant.
She busied herself with the kettle, hoping it would leave Chloe more free to speak.
‘Grandma?’ Chloe said quietly.
‘Yes?’
‘May I have a shower first?’
Theresa was astonished that this was the thing which had made Chloe so nervous to ask.
‘My bathroom is your bathroom,’ she replied, heading for the cupboard and pulling out a clean bath towel. ‘Take as much time as you like.’
As Chloe disappeared into the bathroom, Theresa regretted adding the last sentence. After all, Imogen had announced that she would be arriving in Bellevue-sur-Mer today. Who knew what time her flight would get in? Once landed she had to make her way from Nice, check in at the hotel and come down here – that was true. But it would certainly be better all round if, when Imogen turned up, Chloe was not here.
While the child was bathing, Theresa pondered on why, if she was staying in a millionaire’s mansion, she wanted to take a shower?
Chloe’s response to the suggestion that Roger Muffett lived in a large house somewhere down here certainly indicated that maybe he didn’t. In fact if he did, surely the water would be connected and there would be bathrooms galore? Unless maybe it was one of those collapsed old farmhouses in the middle of being renovated? Perhaps Theresa’s other imagined possibility was correct – that Roger Muffett was living in a hotel and commuting around the area, property-hunting. But, seriously, these days didn’t all hotels have bathrooms?
Surely they wouldn’t be camping? Or even glamping, as people nowadays did. Glamping – glamorous camping! There was an oxymoron if ever she heard one. And, anyway, even if the Muffetts were on the downmarket side of camping, in France campsites were all very well equipped with showers and even jacuzzis and saunas.
It was a mystery.
Theresa wondered whether, when Chloe finally left here to go back to Neil and his dad, she shouldn’t put on a mac and a pair of sunglasses and follow her, try to find out exactly where she was staying.
She had a last-minute idea to lay out the unsolicited knife and the CD she had received on the tabletop to watch if Chloe reacted to them. She ran round to get one from her bag and the other from the shelves.
The water stopped. Theresa once more went to the sink to fiddle with the kettle. She smirked at how tired this bit of business was, but it was the only thing she could think of doing which would enable her to turn away and seem insouciant.
Chloe, dressed and smiling, came in and perched on one of the bar stools.
‘What a lovely spread!’ She greedily pounced on the pancakes, drenching them with honey and scattering strawberries on top.
Theresa watched, fascinated. The girl seemed pretty hungry.
‘When you go, would you like to take a sandwich or a slice of cake or anything?’
Still chewing, Chloe nodded, and Theresa set to work cutting and wrapping pieces of food.
Then she wondered if giving Chloe food wasn’t a mistake. Wasn’t she enabling her to stay away? But Theresa couldn’t help herself. Food was her business. ‘Shall I put it in your bag?’ she asked.
Chloe snatched up her bag and held it open. There was another clue. She obviously didn’t want Grandma digging around in there. Theresa was amazed at how easy it was to pick up signs from such little things.
She just wished she could make sense of them.
‘How will you get back, Chloe? Will Neil’s dad pick you up?’
Chloe laughed. ‘Absolutely not!’
‘Will you take the train? They’re very cheap down here.’
‘I know, Grandma. And the buses are even cheaper.’
‘You can go as far as Menton or Cannes for €1.50, you know. Do you have to go far?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Theresa’s mind was racing now. Was Chloe fudging things, or did she really not know? ‘How did you pay for your ticket here?’
‘Oh God, Grandma, get off my case.’
Theresa retreated. She wished she hadn’t said anything about the money now. ‘Neil will call you, I suppose?’
‘That’s right.’ Chloe fastened her bag, food safely stowed, and rested it down on the floor. ‘Let’s not talk about me, hey? What time do you have to go to work? Can I stay here, or should I come with you to the restaurant?’
‘Whichever you like.’
‘I’d like to come to the restaurant. I like your friends.’
Theresa was overwhelmed at how well this encounter was going.
‘That’s some knife, Grandma.’ Chloe had picked up the knife and laid it down again. She ignored the Ravel CD, even though her name was part of the title. It didn’t look as though she had had anything to do with the mystery gifts.
‘It’s lovely here, Gran.’
Theresa knew this easy chat was a good sign. Now she must make it relaxed enough for Chloe to want to come back. ‘I’ll get you my spare key, darling. Just in case. You never know.’ As she opened the drawer next to the back door, she glanced out into the courtyard, and remembered the ghostly voice calling out Theresa. How different it all seemed in daylight.
She wondered …
‘Last night . . . You and Neil weren’t staying in the Hotel Astra, were you?’
‘No.’ Chloe used that upwards inflection which indicated that it was a stupid question not deserving a sensible answer. ‘I haven’t been in any hotels since I got here.’
As Theresa handed Chloe the key, she noticed somebody walk past the front window, for a second blocking out the sun.
Even before the doorbell rang she knew exactly who it was.
Imogen.
And she also saw that Chloe had seen her.
How to avoid this situation? There was no way. There would be an inevitable clash and she realised at this second she had totally lost Chloe’s trust.
‘You’re a liar, Gran. A big fat liar. You bitch! How could you do this to me?’
‘I thought she would arrive much later, Chloe.’ Theresa tried to reason as best she could in the few seconds she had. ‘I wanted to meet you alone. We’re all desperately worried about you, darling. Especially your mother.’
‘Is there another way out of here?’ Chloe darted to the back door; then, seeing it was a dead end, ran back.
Theresa opened the front door to Imogen.
Chloe rushed past her. But Imogen was too quick. On the doorstep mother and daughter wrestled, Imogen pulling and tugging at Chloe’s clothing and wrists. Chloe wriggled and bit her mother’s arm, trying to free herself. Then, tearing herself away, Chloe ran off up the hill.
Theresa feared that that could be the last either she or Imogen would see or hear of Chloe for some time.
Imogen chased up the hill after her, but Chloe was young and fit and she soon disappeared into the dark, narrow alleyways of the Old Town.