Sally’s afternoon went slowly. On every take she was aware of Phoo, lurking behind the camera.
The scene was very wordy. And as the two characters were quarrelling, it was rather physical too, with slaps and hair grabbing.
After the master shot was completed, Sally was taken to one side to have her hair put back into the state it had been at the top of the scene, ready to start again, this time with the camera, over Eggy’s shoulder, on a single close-up shot on her.
‘Who is that peculiar woman lurking among the camera crew?’ asked Judy, as she touched up Sally’s mascara.
‘She’s Eggy’s husband . . .’ Sally laughed. ‘I meant his wife.’
‘Ah, I see!’ replied Judy, with a knowing nod. ‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Judy. ‘I need to do your lips again, can you . . . ?’
Sally presented her lips. Silenced by the make-up brush, she went through it all.
She must not let Phoo’s presence unnerve her. But it was hard.
She took her place and Daniel called, ‘Action’. Every time she started a bit of dialogue she would catch eyes with Phoo. The woman had an uncanny way of moving around and getting into her eyeline.
Did Eggy also seem rather put out, or was she imagining it? He had none of the fire he’d had in earlier scenes. It was almost as though he was holding back.
They finished the quarrel on the beach to Daniel’s satisfaction, although, if everyone hadn’t been so pressed, Sally might have asked for another take just to make it that little bit better.
The next set-up was lower down on the beach, at the water’s edge. A small motorboat was anchored there. She and Eggy, still fighting, balancing the spoils of their robbery, still visible in the beret, had to wade out into the sea, climb aboard and drive the boat away, doing some fancy curls on the water, as though they had no idea how to steer. But this was one of those things like singing. In order to make something look bad you needed to be really good at it.
Eggy was scratching his head. ‘I don’t know . . . I’ve never driven a boat before, I . . .’
‘I’m qualified,’ said Sally, stepping forward. ‘I could take the helm.’
From the crowd, Sally heard Phoo’s sarcastic laugh, clear as a clarion call.
‘Thing is,’ said Eggy, ‘I get sick at the sight of water. I don’t think I can even climb aboard without puking.’
‘I don’t really . . . I mean . . . Who planned this? We’re fighting the light here.’ Daniel was angry. ‘We need to get on with it,’ he roared. As he waded into the waves, he slammed his foot down in fury. ‘Bugger this! Why didn’t somebody book a stunt driver? Since when did bloody actors know how to do anything? Sod it, sod, sod, sod!’
The continuity girl ran forward and whispered something into Daniel’s ear.
‘All right. Apparently there is a boating chap on the way. Didn’t realise that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Typical, though – he’s stuck in traffic. Pity. It would be good to wrap this scene while we still have daylight. Once it’s dark we’ll be wasting our time and I’ll have to reschedule it for late tomorrow, when we’re miles away and we have tons of other stuff to plough through.’
‘I’m not joking, Daniel.’ Sally pressed on. She knew that capturing the light was essential today. ‘I really can drive a boat. I have all the certificates you need for France. I’m a qualified helmswoman, or whatever the word is.’
Phoo stepped forward and took Daniel’s arm, as he shook the water out of his shoes. She was swaying. Clearly much rosé had been consumed.
‘Says the woman who couldn’t even balance a tea tray! I won’t have my husband risking life and limb . . .’
‘There would be no risk to Eggy or anybody, Phoo. I reiterate: I have all the necessary qualifications. If I’d been warned I would have brought them here today to show you . . .’
‘No. Sorry, Sally. You wouldn’t be good enough for this stunt. It’s all a major cock-up.’ Daniel shook his head and turned to the First Assistant. ‘What now?’
The First murmured to Daniel, and Daniel shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said quietly. ‘Apparently, the stunt driver is parking his car. We might still catch the scene . . .’ He squinted at the horizon through a rolled-up hand, then stamped again. ‘But I doubt it. Bloody Frogs!’
‘Daniel. I can do it.’ Sally didn’t know how to make him understand. Why was no one listening to her? ‘I drive a much bigger boat than this all the time.’
‘A boat!’ laughed Phoo. ‘Did you know, Daniel, that in her “spare” time Sally works as a waitress in a tired little restaurant in Bellevue-sur-Mer? And now she tells us she owns her own boat!’ She cackled, and glared at Sally, lips pursed, eyes flashing. ‘As if!’
Daniel appraised Sally for a moment, then said, ‘No. ’Fraid I can’t allow it. Too big a risk. Bloody Norah!’ He threw his arms up. ‘OK, folks, that’s a wrap.’
The crew started to pack up their equipment and shuffle off.
‘Sally can easily do it,’ said a firm voice. Everyone turned to see who had spoken. Sally only heard a man with a heavy French accent. He was coming towards her, masked by the lighting boards. ‘I can vouch for her. She is an excellent helmswoman. I trained her myself in sea skills, and I signed her many certificates.’
‘And who are you, exactly?’ asked Daniel, to challenge the new arrival.
‘I’m the stunt driver.’ Holding out his pass, Sally’s friend Jean-Philippe emerged from the throng. She had rarely felt so delighted to see anyone in her life. Jean-Philippe had not only taught her seamanship but had often hired her to reposition boats for him when he was unavailable.
‘You may need to replace the Englishman. I could wear his costume . . . But, whatever, I think that Sally should drive.’
Theresa’s day was hell. Imogen, of course, under the circumstances and understandably, had raged and ranted at her for at least two hours before she could escape by the necessity of heading off to work. Theresa, on the defensive, accidentally repeated the phrase which had infuriated Imogen before: ‘Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey’.
‘No, Mother. I’ll tell you exactly what will “catchee monkey”, and that’s a bit of discipline and co-operation between us. We are supposed to be the adults, and Chloe the child. You are sixty, Mother. Not sixteen.’
Theresa wondered how soon before she was put into detention.
Just as she was walking out of the door to head for the restaurant to start the lunch service, she heard Imogen’s phone bleep. Imogen glanced at the screen. ‘Attagirl!’ She looked across at Theresa. ‘My secretary has been rummaging away and finally we now have the current mobile-phone number of Mr Roger Muffett. Excuse me one moment.’ Imogen stabbed at the phone, then walked towards the front window and gazed out, her back to Theresa. ‘Good afternoon. Am I speaking to Roger Muffett?’
Theresa could not hear the other side of the conversation, but as Imogen continued the call she understood that the reply was in the affirmative.
‘I am Neil’s former headmistress. That’s right, Mrs Firbank. Well, obviously what you do with your own child is your own business, although I should point out to you that it is illegal both in England and in France to keep a fifteen-year-old out of school.’
Roger spoke.
‘Ah. Neil is receiving home schooling, is he? From you? I see. And you are qualified in which subjects exactly?’
Roger spoke again.
Theresa knew she must go to work, but could not bear to miss the results of this call.
‘Hmm. Be that as it may, Mr Muffett, I feel sure that Neil could better profit from being taught the normal curriculum rather than that of the “School of Life” as you put it. But that aside, I am quite keen to prosecute you for another matter.’
Theresa understood from Imogen’s face that Roger let forth some nasty language.
‘Excuse me. You are holding another minor, thus preventing her from returning to her parents and her school. Therefore, while we’re at it, I will be informing the local police force, as well as the Met, Scotland Yard and Interpol, and anyone else who might be interested, that you currently are detaining a fifteen-year-old girl in your presence. A fifteen-year-old girl who should be at home with her mother in London. We might even call it kidnapping, Mr Muffett, which entails a hefty prison sentence . . .’
A brief diatribe from Roger.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Roger spoke again. His voice was clearly extremely agitated. It had risen in pitch, speed and volume, so that now even Theresa could hear the odd word.
‘I’m talking about Chloe Firbank. Yes, Mr Muffett. That is my daughter, Chloe. And she is fifteen years of age.’
Another rant down the line.
‘What do you mean, you have never even set eyes on Chloe? She is staying with you and Neil in your mansion or whatever it is you possess down here . . .’
To Theresa’s ear, Roger sounded so distraught and angry that it seemed as though he might be about to pop a blood vessel.
She actually heard the next sentences quite clearly:
‘It’s not a fucking mansion. It’s a bloody boat. The bitch got the fucking house, the fucking car, the lot. I’m living on a bloody boat!’
Despite the barrage of swear words Imogen was seemingly unruffled. ‘I don’t care if you’re living on board the wreck of the Hesperus, Mr Muffett, you will locate my daughter and you will return her to me in Bellevue-sur-Mer by seven o’clock this evening. You can bring her to the Hotel Astra, where I am staying. If she doesn’t arrive here by that time, I will have no other option but to call the police and have you arrested.’ She stabbed the call to an end and dropped the phone in her handbag. ‘And that, Mother, is how you deal with a runaway child.’
‘A boat.’ Theresa looked out at the harbour. She was full of misgivings. From what she gleaned from the call, Roger Muffett didn’t even know Chloe was actually staying with Neil. ‘And the father didn’t realise she was on board?’
‘So he claims. But he would be quite capable of lying about that, I’d think.’
For Theresa things started to fall into place. It would certainly explain both Chloe’s hunger and her desire for a shower this morning.
‘I really do think he might not have known, Imogen. When Chloe arrived here earlier, she was hungry, she had no money and she wanted a shower. If she had come from that boat . . .’
‘I don’t imagine his boat is big enough for it to be impossible for him to find Chloe. She’s not a Lilliputian, and his boat can hardly be the Queen Mary 2.’
‘She’s not on board now, though, is she?’
‘But Neil must know she’s there. He made his siren call and Chloe came running.’
‘And I suppose poor Neil is now with his father, getting an ear-bashing.’
‘Believe me, Mum, Chloe’s a headstrong and wily individual and, if you’re right, I’m sure being a stowaway would be a wonderful adventure for her. But now that their little game is exploded, I presume Neil will have to give way to his papa and come clean. She’ll be back here tonight.’
Theresa hoped that Imogen was right. ‘You’d better take my key and get one cut.’ She unhooked the flat key from her key ring and handed it to Imogen. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Imogen took the key and said, ‘I doubt I’ll use it, actually. I will advise the people at the hotel to be on the lookout for a dishevelled and smelly teenage girl.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d say Chloe will be with us before darkness falls. Roger Muffett certainly meant business.’
When Theresa arrived at the restaurant she found Benjamin hopping enthusiastically from foot to foot.
‘Total excitement, dear.’ He picked up the bookings ledger and displayed it. ‘We have celebs for dinner tomorrow. It seems unbelievable after the last time, but Odile de la Warr is making a return visit.’
Theresa had no idea what he was talking about.
‘Odile! The Odile! Oh lord, Theresa! Catch up! You were here last time, weren’t you? Oh no. You were in London. Well, anyhow Odile is huge and she’s coming back here to dine. Don’t you read OK! magazine? Paris Match? She’s the Queen of St-Tropez. With customers like Odile as regulars we could easily survive. Plus . . . she’s bringing a famous English actress from London.’
‘An English actress? Would I have heard of her?’
‘You’re certainly old enough to remember her.’ Benjamin put the book down and sashayed off in the direction of the kitchen. ‘William tells me she was in all those sitcoms in the 70s and 80s.’
Theresa remembered the name Phoebe Taylor, and would surely recall the face. Although she had never been a fan of sitcoms she did remember Paddy and Pat, a particularly poignant comedy series, in which Phoebe Taylor starred opposite Dermott Presley, a suave Irish comedian who had recently died. In the show Phoebe had played a bossy, posh Englishwoman who was on her uppers, but always at war with her neighbour, a working-class Irishman who had recently won the pools. The role was played vigorously by Dermott Presley, a beloved star.
‘William says that, in her day, Phoebe Taylor was a legend. She was here the other night with Odile, actually. They obviously like the place, despite Sally being rude to them.’
‘Sally being rude?’
‘You’d better believe it. She was a monster that night. IMHO, it’s one of the reasons she hopped off.’
Theresa didn’t understand about Sally, though. Upsetting diners wasn’t her usual way. When serving at table she was always so bright and charming. Theresa wondered whether the stress of the Picasso episode hadn’t slightly unhinged her. Doing a disappearing act was hardly in the spirit of things. Less the Blitz spirit than out and out surrender. Perhaps the situation and worry had all got too much for her. Otherwise why be a rat and desert the sinking ship?
Hopefully tonight’s booking was good news for the remaining team, at last. Benjamin must know what he was talking about and it was certainly a grain of good fortune in a bucket of trouble.
But today it wouldn’t be an easy ride. She still had other things to worry about, like the potential return of Chloe with Roger Muffett. It would be interesting to see the husband of the ex-wife who she had already encountered.
First she must get the luncheon service over. Then she could go up and join her daughter at the Hotel Astra and concentrate on the return of her granddaughter.
Theresa rolled up her sleeves.
‘Oh . . .’ Benjamin spun round and pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘Someone left this for you. Another of your many fans, I presume. These days simply the whole world is sending you gifts.’
The envelope was covered in red hearts surrounding Theresa’s name.
She ripped it open.
Inside was another photo taken from her photo album. In it she was standing, smiling, next to her ex-husband, who had his arm casually around her shoulder.
But someone had scribbled over Peter Simmonds’s body with a black felt-tip pen and had scored away his face with a sharp knife. And on Theresa’s chest they had drawn another bright red heart, this time with a sword through it.
Sally accomplished the tricky boat-stunt scene very fast. With Jean-Philippe at her side things were a lot easier. They communicated in French, making things clearer between them and at the same time foxing the sound crew, who were picking up everything they said from the mic fastened to the dashboard.
There were no lines to remember, but the mic was there to capture an excited squeal which Sally had to make as the boat roared off. She then had to continue making noises while the boat appeared to go out of control.
The scene later involved Sally falling out of the boat, and being hauled back in by Eggy’s character, now being played by Jean-Philippe, before they thundered away and disappeared into the sunset.
As the boat pulled out for the final part of the scene, Sally, dripping from head to toe, took her place at Jean-Philippe’s side. They both laughed.
‘I think I should drive you home to Bellevue-sur-Mer,’ he murmured. ‘Leave them all behind.’
They heard Daniel’s final: ‘Cut. Check that. If it’s OK, that’s a wrap, folks. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. See you tomorrow.’
‘Seriously . . . want a lift? I do have to drive past Bellevue-sur-Mer. We could have a drink?’
As she was due to share the car back with Eggy, which obviously now meant Phoo as well, Sally was delighted to accept Jean-Philippe’s offer of a lift home, though she declined the drink. She had a lot to learn for tomorrow.
Jean-Philippe swung the boat round and sped back to the shore, where the wardrobe team held out warm towels for Sally.
Later, outside her house, by now in the dark, she climbed out of his sports car and paused on the pavement waving him off. She stood for a moment, watching his tail lights disappear up the hill.
Having declined the drink, she had arranged to have dinner with him the next possible evening when she had no early filming the following day.
What fabulous luck to have had Jean-Philippe on set! But then she supposed there weren’t that many qualified boat teachers around the area who’d have been available for a shoot.
As she turned the key in the lock, someone ran down the hill towards her.
‘Where on earth have you been? I’ve been waiting here for hours. I went to the restaurant but they claimed they had no idea where you were, so I ended up having an early supper there, rather than sitting on your doorstep all evening. They’re furious with you, by the way!’
‘Marianne? Was I . . . ? I don’t remember your saying you’d be coming here?’
‘Just open the door, Mum. Why are you all caked with make-up? And who was that bearded bloke in the Renault? And, eurgh, your hair’s all wet and sandy? You haven’t been naked night-swimming together, have you? Please don’t let me keep that image in my head.’
Sally burbled some answers, but she realised that Marianne wasn’t listening.
‘You should have warned me, darling. I’d have arranged a key for you.’
‘It never occurred to me, Mum, that you would have turned into a lady of the night. I just thought you’d be there at the restaurant as usual, or in your little van, or here.’
‘You still haven’t explained why you’ve arrived at such short notice – well, let’s be frank: absolutely no notice whatsoever.’
‘I’ve been told to get out of the office and advised to lie low for a week. And I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.’
Sally imagined that on her daughter’s City pay there might be quite a few places she could have gone. But Marianne was still carrying on, while Sally hung up her coat.
‘Then I thought, you know, if I hopped it to the Maldives or somewhere, it would look so awful. But coming home to see your mother. Well . . . I knew that one would look fine.’
Sally gulped. This did not sound good. ‘Marianne? What have you done exactly?’
‘I just lost so much money in a deal, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s practically a Lehman Brothers situation. So I’m in hiding. And to warn you – if the press arrive on the doorstep, I’m not here.’
Press! Oh lord. Sally really couldn’t cope with this.
She needed to be alone and quiet. She had so many lines to learn for tomorrow and, on top of that, a five o’clock start. She mumbled her excuses: ‘I have to go to bed, darling.’
‘No, Mum. Seriously, I’ve got to tell you all about it.’ Marianne glanced at her watch. ‘Anyway, since when did you go to bed at nine-thirty?’
She yawned.
Even if he had not bellowed his name at the girl behind the reception desk of the Hotel Astra, Theresa would have known Roger Muffett the moment he entered the cramped lobby. Tanned, with a crumpled white linen suit and panama hat, he had the look of a man who might be wearing a medallion.
Theresa had waited, with her daughter, in this entrance hall since around three-thirty. They sat in two faux-leather armchairs either side of a table laid out with brochures advertising local attractions. Theresa had suggested waiting in Imogen’s room and relying on the hotel staff to alert her of their arrival, but now Imogen would have nothing of it. She wanted to be there on the spot when Chloe arrived. And it was earlier than they expected.
Imogen leaped to her feet and strode up to Roger. ‘Where is my daughter?’
For such a confident and burly man, Theresa was surprised to see him flinch at her daughter’s challenge.
‘Now look, Mrs Firbank . . .’ He held his hands up in front of his torso in a gesture of self-defence. ‘Honest Injun, I knew nothing about this . . . I . . .’
‘You had no idea that your own son was living with my daughter in your little boat . . .’
‘It’s not such a little boat, actually, but no. I didn’t have a bloody clue. They’ve both been very duplicitous. Is that the right word? What I really mean is they’re lying scum . . .’
‘Enough excuses.’ Imogen shot him a dangerous look. ‘Where is she?’
‘I rented a car and drove them here.’ Roger warily lifted an arm and pointed towards the front door.
Imogen strode past him out into the street, Theresa trotted along at her heels.
Chloe was sitting in the back seat, next to a young boy who Theresa presumed had to be Neil.
‘I did put on the child locks,’ Roger Muffett added timidly, holding up a hairy hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.
‘Open up!’ Imogen commanded.
Roger obeyed.
Cringing, Chloe edged herself out of the car. Imogen grabbed her arm and marched her inside, leaving Theresa in the street.
‘It’s been a difficult time,’ Theresa said to Roger. ‘We had no idea . . .’
‘Nor me. Once I knew, I even contemplated handcuffs. But Jack the Lad in there won’t be free to wander for many weeks, and to be honest I have sent for his mother. She was always better at handling him. So she’s coming over to take him in hand.’
Theresa thought back to the morning when she met the inebriated Cynthia Muffett. If Roger Muffett had no control over their son, she wondered how on earth Cynthia would fare any better.
She stooped to look in at Neil.
Poor boy! He was just a kid. Theresa couldn’t fathom why she was so shocked to see how puny and young he looked. She had always known that he was only fifteen, but in the flesh he appeared so much younger than Chloe, and with half the confidence.
‘Hello, Neil,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Very silly idea, I’m afraid. You do realise it couldn’t have gone on for much longer.’
He looked up, right into her eyes.
‘Are you Theresa?’
Theresa nodded.
‘I’ve only ever heard very good things about you.’ He fidgeted with his jacket buttons. ‘You’re a cook, aren’t you? Please don’t be cross with me. I did try to contact you . . . I ordered food from La Mosaïque . . .’
Theresa felt rather cruel now to be taking Chloe away from the boy. He looked devastated, and who wouldn’t? His fate now was to spend his time between a brassy, loud father, who obviously wanted to be half his own age with no responsibilities, and a mother, who had turned to the bottle to assuage her loneliness. What a future!
She turned back to Roger, who was fumbling in his pockets for his sunglasses.
‘You’ll be sailing off to sea again tonight, I suppose?’
He slipped the glasses on, and they immediately slid down to the end of his nose.
‘Maybe. Maybe not. The world’s my lobster.’ He pushed the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. ‘Entre nous, I prefer a good old cod and chips.’
A typical Englishman abroad.
Theresa tried not to smile.
‘This is a very pretty place,’ he said, glancing at blue sky, the stone walls spread with pink bougainvillea. ‘Perhaps I’ll settle down somewhere round here. Property prices aren’t too bad. Better than London, anyway.’
‘Make sure it’s what you really want, though,’ said Theresa. ‘My friends in London all think that to live somewhere like this means you lead a life totally without care. The thing is, if you’re running away from yourself, no matter where you go, you always bring it with you.’ She laughed at her own chocolate-box analysis. ‘What I mean is that you need to have an aim. Something to do.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’ Roger gripped the handle of the hire car. ‘Doing nothing is a pain in the arse.’ He held the driver’s door open, but before attempting to get in he said, ‘Perhaps I’ll go and sail the boat round here. I have to stick around a bit, while we’re waiting for my ex-wife to turn up. Would you recommend this hotel?’
‘Well . . .’ Theresa glanced into the car and she saw Neil’s eyes light up. ‘Actually there is no other hotel in the town, unless you go up to the top of the hill on the main road into Nice. There are many along that route. But it’s not very nice up there.’
‘It’s not expensive?’
Theresa shook her head.
Roger bent to talk to Neil. ‘If we stay here, on land, you promise to behave? No more lies. And no disappearing tricks?’
Neil nodded.
‘OK.’ Roger settled behind the wheel. ‘Maybe see you later, Theresa.’ He wound down the window. ‘Neil tells me you have a restaurant.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Great.’
With a loud rev, Roger pulled out.
As the car disappeared up the hill, Theresa waved then went inside and up to Imogen’s room.
Chloe sat, forlorn, on the end of the bed.
Imogen made a face of exasperation at Theresa.
‘Where are the other two girls?’ Theresa asked, hoping that it might soften the anguish if Chloe was with her sisters. She knew from her own experience that having the spotlight thrown on you while you were alone only exaggerated the blow of the loss.
‘Frances has taken them off on the train to Menton to see the Cocteau Museum and a weird place called the Salle des Mariages, though I rather suspect things like that will be of more interest to her than to them. They’ll probably be bored out of their skulls.’
Theresa walked across to the window and looked out. She was amazed that from here you could see the sea. She had imagined that her own building and the flat above it would obscure the view. She glanced down. She could see her own little courtyard, basking in the single hour of late-afternoon sunlight it got during the winter months. The buildings either side of her own were in shadow so that the panes of the windows seemed more like mirrors, reflecting only the walls of the hotel.
But she could see quite clearly through the windows of the flat above hers. A woman sat there, perched at the end of the double bed. She was talking on the phone. She looked very demure and not at all the Fifty Shades type. Theresa started to think that she might have a rather overdeveloped imagination, making dramas out of nothing.
Naturally Theresa couldn’t hear the woman’s conversation. But it got her to wondering whether the male voice she thought she had heard might simply have been her mind going wild. Why would a resident of the hotel open the window on a cold night and call out her name? Or might it just have been a coincidence? Someone calling for his wife or girlfriend. Theresa was hardly the most unusual of names.
‘ . . . wouldn’t you, Mum?’
Theresa realised that her daughter had been talking and that she had not been listening. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I was just admiring the view.’
‘If we all stay for the rest of half-term, you’d take the kids off for a treat, wouldn’t you?’
Theresa nodded eagerly, though at the moment she had no idea of a treat big enough to divert a love-struck teenager’s mind from her thwarted romantic plans.
‘They could come down to my flat, and I’ll have a cooking afternoon with them all.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m late. Would you all like to come down to the restaurant for dinner tonight?’
‘No treats for runaways, I’m afraid.’ Imogen grimaced at Theresa. ‘We’ll both stay in the room and when Frances and the other two come back, they can go out and get us some sandwiches.’
‘But, Mum . . .’
‘No buts, miss. You’re grounded.’
‘Ah well.’ Theresa shrugged. ‘You know where to find me.’