Thanks to the priceless antique furniture, which the location homeowner was reluctant to let the film crew touch, let alone move, and due to the fraying old carpet, which he said was historic, worth millions, and which he didn’t want anyone stepping on, the set-up of lighting, camera and track for Sally’s worrisome scene took hours. No one had anticipated this delay, which ran across the lunch hour and into the afternoon.
For Sally this was excellent news as it gave her more time to bang the lines into her head.
Eggy turned out to be a most solicitous screen partner. He ran the lines over and over with her, until they both felt confident and easy with the scene.
As a result, when the whole team finally got on to the set in the late afternoon, they were able to sail through, and even to add some sparkling moments. A little game of catch with a prop ‘valuable’ vase got a round of applause from the crew. It also caused a minor episode when the owner of the house mistook it for the real thing and, thinking it was another of his precious antiques about to be smashed, threw a tantrum and was only calmed down when the underside of the prop vase was displayed to him with its ‘Made in Taiwan’ stamp.
Once the scene was complete, both Sally and Eggy returned to the make-up department for the camouflage paint to be thoroughly removed by a series of very comforting hot towels dispensed from Judy’s work microwave oven. They then quickly had to be made up again into their everyday look. After that, they were straight on to the set for a party scene, replete with extras. In this scene they were supposedly casing the joint.
Sally felt so grateful to Eggy for today. It really compensated for yesterday.
At 9 p.m., when the crew wrapped at the end of the day’s work, Eggy popped his head into Sally’s cubicle.
‘Look, darling, I know the day’s over, but we’ve got a late call tomorrow morning . . .’
‘How late?’
‘Would you believe – eleven a.m., pick-up nine!’
‘Wow! A real lie-in.’
‘So, anyway, darling, how about exploring this village? It’s bound to have a rustic square with a bustling bar full of colourful locals. I’ll stand you a drink or two . . . We deserve it.’
Sally felt rather relieved not to have to go straight back to Marianne and be forced to listen to further tales of financial skulduggery.
‘But how will we get home later? Places like this don’t have that many buses, you know.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll treat us to a taxi. You live in Bellevue-sur-Mer, don’t you? That’s where I’m staying.’
‘Taxi prices are really prohibitive here on the Côte d’Azur, you know.’
‘Who cares? Go on, Salz. I know we’d both enjoy a debrief on the film. Phoo’s out to dinner with that monstrous Odile.’
‘I thought you liked her.’
‘You can have too much of a good thing. Anyway, I certainly don’t want to go back to an empty rental flat. So depressing. You’re avoiding your daughter and her tales of the financial times. We can spend a bit of time going through the scenes for tomorrow, if you’d like.’
Sally paused to think. It did sound like a pleasant-enough invitation.
‘Go on, Sally. You know you want to. Why not? Just the two of us? A bonne peaceful boisson à la Française?’
‘And we’re off!’ William appeared at the door, dangling an order between two fingers. ‘Table for one. Boring little man in an ill-fitting wig.’
‘One minute, William, before you head back into the fray . . .’ Carol stepped to the cupboard and took out the box of brownies. ‘What have you to say about these?’
‘Whoops! You got me bang to rights, gov’nor.’ William winced and put his hand to his mouth. ‘Let’s just say Benj and I accidentally ate half the box the night before last. We labelled the box to make sure we didn’t do it again. So there you are, girls. Enjoy!’
As William hopped back into the dining room, Carol took out a brownie and handed it to Theresa.
‘I’ve barely had time to eat today.’ Theresa took a bite. ‘So it’s just as well they left these. Mmmm. Delicious.’
She glanced at the order William had stuck to the board, polished off the rest of the brownie and washed her hands, ready to get back to work.
Benjamin rushed into the kitchen and spun straight out again, leaving himself only time to say, ‘They’re here! They’re here! They’re here!’
‘Is she really such a big deal?’ asked Theresa.
Carol shrugged. ‘She’s one of these people who everyone seems to know of, but no one knows what they actually do. Like the Kardashians. Constantly photographed. Owns some pretty important places in St-Trop, beach restaurants, disco clubs where the only regulars seem to be European royalty and pop stars. You know the kind of thing.’
What with the hunger, the relief of Chloe being back and too little sleep, Theresa felt overwhelmed with emotion. She reached out a hand and patted Carol’s arm. ‘Thanks for being so understanding.’
‘Shucks, Theresa!’ said Carol. ‘Don’t get all schmaltzy on me.’
‘Evening all!’ The back door burst open and Zoe stood there in full evening dress. ‘Sorry to be dressed inappropriately, but I was due to be going to some ghastly classical concert up at the Villa Rothschild and the young man who was to accompany me tells me he has caught the flu. A likely story! Probably just loathes Smetana and Rips-Yer-Corsets-Off. But then, who doesn’t? Alas, the result equals the old adage: “All dressed up and nowhere to go.”’
She stepped into the kitchen, swishing her train around as she closed the door behind her. ‘So, my darlings, I thought to myself, where is there a nowhere I could go to without being laughed out of court? And natch, the answer is: here. I don’t think I need to ask whether you have any free tables. As the song has it – I don’t believe in miracles.’
While Zoe was talking, Theresa finished decorating the solitary table’s starter plate.
William darted in with the new orders, which he stuck to the board. He handed one to Carol, a delivery this time, to be distributed to a local home.
Then he took in the sight of Zoe.
‘Oh, God. I should have known that Cruella de Vil would turn up tonight.’ He picked up the starter. ‘Come to ogle the rich and famous, dear?’
‘Rich and famous? Dining in La Mosaïque? Have you forgotten to take your anti-psychotics again, sweetie?’
‘Says the Phantom of the Opera.’
‘I’m only asking to whom you refer, William dear, when you say “rich and famous”?’
‘Odile de la Warr.’
‘No! That old rooster! Here in La Mosaïque? You are kidding me. Oh, this is too funny.’ Zoe pushed past Theresa and Carol and peeped into the dining room. ‘Oof! Someone should have told her to hold back on the filler and the fake tan.’
Theresa glanced at Zoe – bursting pout, eyebrows pulled up so high she could not affect anything but a look of constant surprise – and just managed to stop herself saying, ‘Pot/kettle.’
William went back to work, but not before Zoe had linked her arm in his.
‘I’ll have the table beside theirs, please, darling. And I’ll try to blend in.’
‘Blend in?’ squawked William. ‘What do you think this is? Madame Tussauds?’
As she watched Zoe sailing into the dining room in her sparkling evening gown and glittering tiara, Theresa found herself laughing, holding her sides, rocking back and forth.
Zoe’s arrival had somehow punctured the bubble of tension she’d been experiencing for the last few days, and suddenly she was feeling great again.
She turned to share the joke with Carol, but Carol had left.
Perhaps she too had gone into the dining room, pretending to be an ordinary customer.
Theresa roared with laughter.
When it wasn’t tragic, life was really so funny.
She worked on the starter plates for Odile’s table, chortling to herself.
Carol didn’t come back. Maybe she really was next door, sitting down to dinner with Zoe. Then Theresa remembered that Carol had been given a delivery order and she must be out around the town, driving. Theresa recalled that, while she had been away, Carol had been stranded, the van broken down, but she had got it going herself. Theresa giggled at the thought of her lying under the chassis, blood-red varnished nails and impeccable make-up, sorting out the engine.
Suddenly, William burst into the kitchen, interrupting her fantasy.
‘I can’t witness another creepy fawning moment from my apparent beloved. Much as I am a fan of the opulent Odile, I’m feeling quite sick from the syrupy benevolence pouring out of Benjamin’s every orifice . . . well, not every . . . that would be vile. But you know what I mean, Theresa. And no, before you say it, I can’t afford a divorce.’
He spun around, seized an apron from behind the door and put it on.
‘So, dearest? Where do you want me?’
Theresa was coping perfectly so didn’t really want William in here at all.
‘Isn’t Carol off on a delivery?’ she suggested. ‘Will Benjamin be able to manage without you?’
‘He’ll bloody well have to, the sycophantic little crawler.’ William grabbed a spoon and started pointlessly stirring a pan of stewed apples. ‘The smarmy, toadying creep can certainly manage three tables on his own.’
‘How’s Zoe doing?’
William gave an exasperated groan. ‘She only went up to Odile and said, “Good evening, you old slapper!” I could have died on the spot.’
‘She gave Zoe the up and down and replied, “From an old broad like yourself I take that as a sublime compliment.”’
‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Theresa laughed. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t. Not only that, but the dusty little man in the corner is being quite demanding, when all we need to do is keep Odile happy.’ He rubbed his chin and screwed up his eyes. ‘I have an idea. How far on are you with everything in here?’
‘Only dessert to go, and they’re practically ready.’
He took Theresa by the shoulders and twisted her round till she was facing the dining room.
‘Don’t do that, William.’ Theresa balanced herself by clutching the edge of the counter. ‘You’re making me feel quite dizzy.’
He untied the knot of her apron, then fluffed up her hair.
‘Now, elegant Mrs Simmonds, you are going out to join Zoe at the table. Your duty tonight will be to keep Zoe under control. And, while you’re at it, you can edge my “other half” away from Odile. There’s nothing like overkill for ruining a good thing.’
‘But, I . . .’
‘Go on.’ He pushed Theresa towards the door. ‘Go out there and make your country proud!’
As she stepped into the dining room, Theresa staggered a little. She felt pleasantly exhausted. She was looking forward to sitting down, maybe taking a little bite.
Zoe was seated at a table for two. Theresa took the seat opposite her.
‘Oh, hello, darling. I was just telling these two how you and Sally are partners. Odile was sharing with us all the details of her new disco-bar in St-Trop. The Cockatoo.’
‘No need to show off, Odile, dear. We all understand French.’ Zoe leaned forward and, inclining her head in the direction of Odile and Phoebe Taylor, whispered to Theresa, ‘This conversation is classic. Wish I had a pen.’
‘As I always say,’ Phoebe blotted her lips with her linen napkin, ‘there is no gathering which cannot be uplifted by a cock or two.’
Theresa blinked in disbelief as, deadpan, Phoebe Taylor ladled another forkful of food into her mouth. ‘Tell you what I miss over here. You never see it in restaurants any more. But when I was in France at finishing school, it was everywhere. And that is coq au vin. No other way to travel.’ She pushed her plate away and spluttered with laughter.
Theresa giggled.
Benjamin oozed forward, bearing dessert menus. ‘Terminez, mesdames?’
Odile nodded and waved at the plates as though she desired them to vanish instantly.
Benjamin laid down the menus, swiped up the plates, took the orders and briskly minced away.
‘So, yes, Theresa,’ Odile leaned across the aisle between their tables, bracelets clinking, ‘as you all know, in the hospitality trade, things have been a little tricky for the last couple of years. Takings down everywhere after the . . . event. But it will get better. At least the Italians are back.’
‘Much good that is for us,’ said Zoe. ‘Italians only eat at Italian restaurants, preferably those owned by Italians. This place is Anglo-Provençal.’
‘True. But as I was saying, I’m opening Les Cacatoès next week. Then I’m putting my feelers out for somewhere new along the coast. A little nearer to Nice and the airport.’ She looked around at La Mosaïque’s dining room. ‘Somewhere smaller. Cosier. More intime.’
Under the table, Zoe kicked Theresa’s ankle.
‘Ouch!’ Theresa tried to cover her exclamation with a serene smile.
The wiry man in the corner put a hand in the air. When he failed to catch Benjamin’s eye, he said aloud, ‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît!’
Benjamin turned briefly to acknowledge him before vanishing into the kitchen.
‘I’m also fond of sausage.’ Phoebe blinked and looked up as though resuming a continuing conversation. ‘Aren’t you? Not bothered whether it’s German, English or Italian. I like it fat, long and spicy.’
Theresa started to laugh aloud, and could not stop herself.
Benjamin rushed from the kitchen bearing dessert plates. He plonked them down and made a goggle-eyed face at Theresa.
She couldn’t make out what on earth he was signalling her to do. He looked as though he was on that ancient TV programme Give Us a Clue. She was tempted to sign back: ‘Book and Film?’
Tonight everything seemed so funny.
She really had the giggles, in the same uncontrollable way she had had at school, sometimes in church or roll call.
Zoe was also now pulling a face at her, nudging her shoes.
To Theresa both Zoe and Benjamin looked like cartoon characters. She couldn’t believe that everyone else wasn’t laughing at them, and at Phoebe Taylor with all her double entendres.
Benjamin moved rapidly to the man in the corner and took his payment.
The man walked slowly from the restaurant.
As he passed her table, Odile smiled and wished him a very good night.
Phoebe leaned forward and squinted down at her plate of fruit. She thrust in a spoon and held it out in Theresa’s direction. ‘Kumquat?’
Theresa exploded with laughter.
‘Cockatoo! I love birds.’
‘Oh, so you are gay? I was wondering.’ Phoo peered at Theresa as though inspecting a sweater and looking for moth holes. ‘Sally talked about her “partner” Theresa, but I didn’t realise . . . I always picture her falling for some great big muscly chap. But I suppose “needs must when the devil drives”. She was always a bit of a goer, that Sally. We all knew her as the Birmingham Rep bike.’
Benjamin was at Theresa’s shoulder, trying to edge her to her feet.
‘What are you doing, Benjamin? Can’t you see I’m enjoying myself?’
‘Theresa!’ He was whispering, tugging at her dress.
‘Sally’s playing my part, you know, in some film opposite my husband Edgar. They offered it to me first. But I turned it down, of course. Not meaty enough for me. Less the filet-mignon role than a lump of old corned beef. But, bless! Someone has to take these tired little cough-and-spit parts. And as an actress Sally Doyle always was bloody hopeless.’
‘I heard she was rather good,’ said Zoe.
‘Nonsense.’ Phoebe slammed her hand down on the table. ‘Sally had unwarranted and undeserved success.’
Theresa now didn’t know what everyone was going on about.
She sat back, smiling at the room.
‘Theresa? Are you feeling quite all right?’ Zoe was scrutinising her face. ‘You’re looking very pale.’
‘I’m just tired. And relieved after all the recent upheaval.’ She sighed with contentment. It was odd – even after having eaten, she still felt starving. When she got home she thought she might rustle up a croque-monsieur.
‘Croque-monsieur . . .’ she said aloud, with a raucous guffaw.
The little hilltop village certainly was picturesque. Winding cobbled streets, lined with small old houses painted in various shades of terracotta and ochre, led up to the square. Shaded by plane trees, the centre of the square was set up for pétanque. There were only a few shops – a clothing boutique, an artisanal jeweller, a gallery, a garage and a bike-repair station.
The sun had gone down, and the temperature dropped. Sally’s clothes weren’t nearly warm enough to handle it. As she walked along, peering into windows, deciding which of the two bars to patronise, she shivered.
‘Can’t have my wife catching cold the night before our big scene.’ Eggy took off his jacket and draped it around Sally’s shoulders.
They decided on the bar which did not have a loud sports television, blaring out a rugby match.
This one was quiet, with a few workmen gathered round a table playing cards.
They chose a red faux-leather corner banquette and on Sally’s advice ordered a basket of panisse chips to go with their bottle of Bandol.
‘We’ve not had time for you to fill me in on all the years between,’ said Eggy. ‘You must have had many adventures.’
‘Not really.’ Sally didn’t want to go into a tedious spiel explaining how she’d landed up here. She just wanted to relax and be quiet after a long day’s work.
‘Santé!’ She raised her glass.
‘Cheers!’ He raised his and they chinked.
Looking at him this evening, Sally felt sorry she had put him in the same bag as his wife. On his own, he was actually rather kind.
‘You know, I really like a glass of wine,’ said Eggy, knocking it back in one slurp. ‘But what I’d really kill for is a cup of builder’s.’
‘When we next get some time off, you could pop over to my place in Bellevue-sur-Mer and I’ll brew you a whole pot. How about the day after tomorrow?’
‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid.’ Eggy nudged Sally in the ribs. ‘I told you. Got a hot date in Nice.’
Sally recalled Eggy mentioning this before but had actually thought he was joking.
‘Someone on the film crew?’ she asked, intrigued at how, with his wife breathing over his shoulder, he could manage to fix up a date.
‘No. Local. Lovely-looking woman, very striking. A random encounter.’
‘When you were in St-Tropez?’
‘No. Near you. We’ve rented a place in BSM, as it happens. A little first-floor flat, down on the seafront. Easier for the filming, you know. They offered me a hotel room, but I couldn’t leave old Phoo on her own. And St-Tropez is all very well but it’s quite a schlep.’
Sally worked out that the only possible place he and Phoo could be staying must be in the rental flat above Theresa.
Eggy gazed down into his empty glass, then mournfully picked up the bottle and refilled it.
‘I feel rather badly about everything so far, you know, Sally. And I think it would be a decent gesture to ask you, please give us a second chance. And perhaps I could offer you and a friend – maybe that sailor chappie, or the nice lady you own the restaurant with – a little treat: dinner or drinks, somewhere really nice, to make all good. What do you say?’
To be truthful, another evening with Phoo wasn’t exactly on Sally’s bucket list, but she realised that there was no way she could refuse this invitation without seeming churlish.
‘Drinks sounds like the better idea. After work one evening.’
‘Why not tomorrow? It’s good to wind down after filming.’ Eggy took another swig of wine. ‘Where’s the poshest place for a drink around these parts?’ he asked.
‘Le Negresco,’ Sally replied. ‘It’s in Nice.’
‘Drinks at Le Negresco it is.’
Eggy once more lifted his glass to clink with Sally.
It was decided. Tomorrow she would go for drinks with Eggy and Phoo. Sally hoped she could contact Jean-Philippe and that he would be free.
After a slightly uncomfortable silence they got to chatting about mutual friends: actors and directors from Sally’s past, some still working, others dead or retired.
Eventually the subject came back to the film of the moment.
‘So, after so many years out, how did you get into this movie, Salz? Local contact?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Complicated?’
Sally wished she hadn’t used that word. How she was in the film couldn’t be nearly as complicated as the way Eggy got the part. She decided that honesty was the best policy: ‘I was asked by the producer.’
‘Marina Martel?’
Sally nodded, hoping she didn’t sound too grand.
‘Wow!’ Eggy gave a whistle of approval. ‘For me, I’m just close to the casting director and she knew I was staying down here, and so, well, when the other bloke dropped out . . .’
‘Close to the casting director? Really?’ asked Sally, scrutinising his face for telltale tics.
‘Yes, yes.’ He waved his hand. ‘You know how it goes. We’ve known one another for ages. Over the years I’ve had a lot of work through her.’
‘I suppose she suggested Phoo for my part?’
‘Erm . . . no.’ Eggy blushed a deep red. ‘No. Not at all.’ He topped up his glass and took a gulp. ‘Quite the reverse in fact.’
He really did seem profoundly uncomfortable. Sally knew that Phoo had pressed for her role and that Eggy had opposed it. But from the shade of aubergine flooding Eggy’s countenance, Sally suspected there was a lot more going on than that. Something perhaps to do with a certain casting director’s pregnancy?
Eggy raised his hand to attract the waiter. He pointed to the bottle, which Sally realised was almost empty, though she had only had two glasses.
She ordered a cheese platter and a plate of charcuterie to absorb some of the alcohol. Eggy was really knocking it back. At this rate he’d still be drunk by the time they were filming their scenes tomorrow. He was already moving into the maudlin stage of inebriation.
‘Just make it two glasses, please.’ Sally spoke to the waiter in French. Eggy wouldn’t notice if another bottle didn’t materialise.
While picking at the salami, his eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s hard work, you know, being married.’
Thinking about Phoo, Sally could certainly see Eggy’s point, but also knew she was in no position to say anything. Those two had been married since Sally was in her teens, were still married, and tomorrow Eggy would be sober.
The two glasses of wine arrived. Eggy knocked his straight back.
‘Everything in life is hard,’ Sally said. A reply anodyne enough to mean absolutely nothing.
‘Believe me. Marriage is the hardest.’ Eggy’s lower lip quivered. He stilled it by picking up his empty glass, pretending to sip at nothing.
‘Are you not in love any more?’ Sally threw all caution to the wind. Why not ask straight out? ‘Is that it?’
Eggy didn’t say anything. He just hung his head. The silence spoke volumes.
‘If you really think like that, Eggy, perhaps you should consider separating.’
He turned to her, horror spread across his face. ‘We can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . because . . . because we’re us.’ Eggy looked at Sally with a childlike bewilderment. ‘We’re famous for being married. The Magical Markhams! That’s us. Divorce? Can you imagine? No. No. Can’t be done. Not now, anyway. Much too difficult all round.’
Sally felt very uncomfortable at having wheedled out this confession. What could she say? Better to appear disinterested, impartial. Though it all seemed tragic.
‘Anyway,’ Eggy hiccuped as he continued, ‘poor Phoo has had a few setbacks recently. She is still my best friend. We rub along, you know. We both know about the business and how it works. Imagine trying to explain the days when you can’t go to your wife’s birthday party because you’re filming in Monaco! She knows about all that stuff because it’s the same for her. Plus – most important of all – we make each other laugh.’
Each to his own, Sally thought.
She imagined there might be better reasons for living with a person. But there you are.
Chacun à son goût.
She glanced at the clock. It was getting late. Almost eleven. She got the bill and asked the waiter if he could call them a taxi.
The waiter explained that there was only one cab service in the village, but he was an old man and he never worked after nine at night or before nine in the morning.
Sally asked for the time of the first bus.
‘There are only four buses a day which pass through here. The first at nine-thirty,’ he replied. ‘And it takes about an hour to get to Nice centre ville.’
Well, that was a blow!
She turned back to Eggy. ‘There are no cabs, Eggy.’
But it was as though he had not understood what she’d said.
‘Very impressive, Salz, the way you just spin off into French without so much as a by-your-leave.’
As the waiter moved back behind the bar and started washing their glasses, Eggy rested his head on Sally’s shoulder.
‘It’s a devil’s life, sometimes, living with Phoo, you know. But, remember, we said “for better for worse”, so there we are. We just have to grin and bear it, dontcha know. But I also think she’s very misunderstood.’
Sally wasn’t in the mood for marital confessions. Or for explanations of Phoo’s foul behaviour.
The only thing on her mind was how the hell were they going to get back to Bellevue-sur-Mer.
They both had a company car picking them up at nine in the morning. They were due to go to Make-up and be ready to go on set at the location by eleven.
If the worst came to the very worst, Sally supposed they could take rooms somewhere in this village and phone the production company to see if they could get picked up from here.
She called the waiter over again and asked if there was a hotel nearby. He told her there was one, and it had one room available. He said it was owned by the bar – a kind of inn.
‘Sally?’ Eggy pulled his head up. He was starting to slur. He turned laboriously to face her. ‘You know, I’ve always thought you were a very attractive woman . . .’
‘Do you want to take the room?’ the waiter asked them, in French.
Eggy returned his head to Sally’s shoulder. Simultaneously his hand landed on her thigh and his plump fingers started squeezing at her flesh.
‘No thanks,’ she replied, briskly removing his hand. ‘We have to get back to Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
How she could achieve this she had no idea.
‘You know, I’ve not told anyone this, but Phoo and I, well, we’ve not lived together as, well, as husband and wife, for about forty years now.’
Sally realised he must be so drunk he was getting things muddled. They’d only been married for fifty years.
‘Come on, Eggy,’ she said, standing up and thereby shaking him off. ‘Time to go home.’
As they made their way to the door, Eggy raised his hand and pointed at the WC sign.
While he was in the gents, Sally had a brainwave.
She phoned Carol and in as few words as possible explained the situation. Carol laughed and said she’d be right there.
Sally used the time waiting for the van to appear trying to get Eggy a bit sobered up. She took him out of the bar and walked him round the square, but he kept slipping down to the ground. He was very heavy to lift back to his feet. He must be all of six foot tall, and these days had quite a paunch on him.
In the darkness she pushed his arm over her shoulder and led Eggy down through winding alleyways to the main road which led up into the village. As they staggered along, Eggy continued trying to grope her.
‘You don’t want to do that, Eggy.’ Each time she firmly shoved him away. ‘We’re working together tomorrow. You’ll be embarrassed.’
A car turned around the sharp bend coming up the hill. The headlights lit them, blinding them both. Eggy’s face slumped once more into Sally’s shoulder.
As the van pulled up, Sally bent low to the driver’s window to explain a bit more to Carol.
‘He’s totally plastered. We’ll have to squeeze him into the front seat.’
Sally dragged Eggy round the bonnet and shoved him into the van.
Carol glanced at him, then did a double take.
Sally edged in, shunting Eggy along, and slammed the door.
Carol turned the engine over.
‘Let’s get you both home, eh? So, Sally, how do you know this old soak? New romance? Been keeping him a big secret from us?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ Sally reached for the centre seat belt and strapped Eggy in, before clicking her own in place. ‘I’ve known him for years and years. When I was starting out in the business I was a junior in a theatre company with him and his wife. You recognised him?’
‘Oh yes.’ Carol’s voice carried a dark determination. ‘So, you sneaked off for a secret date together?’
‘No. No, Carol. We’re working on the same project. Filming. It was a very long and tricky day and we decided afterwards to go for a drink. Who knew that this place was so utterly cut off? It was a mistake. He went on and on about his wife, who’s staying in town with him. To be frank, it was grim. I should have gone straight home.’
‘He’s not divorced then?’
‘Oh God, no. Very much still together with the wife.’
‘At the very least I would have expected him to be a widower.’
‘He’s half of Theatreland’s golden couple.’ Sally’s mind flitted to the conversation she had overheard with the casting director and she stammered out: ‘They both came to supper at La Mosaïque a few nights ago. Don’t you remember them? Eggy and Phoebe Markham.’
‘Phoebe Taylor. Good lord. I rather believe that while you were canoodling up here with this old boy, down in La Mosaïque his wife was getting plastered with that blown-up doll, Odile de la Warr. Now I see why.’
‘Well, there we are.’ Carol’s line was starting to annoy Sally. She’d done nothing, after all, except lend an ear. ‘But, I must assure you, my relationship with Eggy is strictly professional.’ Sally laughed away the notion which Carol had obviously picked up that she was up here in the middle of nowhere having a romantic tryst with Eggy Markham. ‘Really, Carol. I wouldn’t touch him with a pair of ten-foot tongs.’
‘Hmmmmmm.’ Carol was tight-lipped. ‘Whatever.’
Eggy snorted and shifted in his seat.
‘He’s flat out.’ Sally sighed. ‘I wonder how his wife will take to him coming back unconscious?’
But Carol did not respond.
This was not how Sally expected going with Eggy for a little drink to end up. Carol, already disgruntled that she had flown off to do this acting job, was now also judging her as a cheat and a man-eater.
Sally knew that the more she tried to explain things, the worse it would get.
For the rest of the journey she and Carol barely spoke a word.