Early next morning Imogen phoned Theresa to tell her that she was taking Chloe and the other two children directly to the airport and heading back to London. She had seen Neil hanging about the hotel, she said, and didn’t want to allow any complications to develop.
Theresa suggested she might come up to say goodbye, but Imogen told her that they were all already sitting in the taxi, simply waiting for Frances to pick up her bill, so it would be pointless.
Theresa was quite upset. She had a slight headache. A ravenous hunger had also come upon her, but there was little in the cupboard, except the box of brownies, and she didn’t much fancy them for breakfast. So, as a treat, to cheer herself up, she went along the road to Marcel’s brasserie.
The morning was chilly, with no sun. An easterly wind was picking up dust and stray leaves and dancing them along the pavement. The brasserie terrace was deserted, but indoors the place was bustling.
At a table for two near the window she saw Roger Muffett, eating breakfast with Neil. He looked up, waved at Theresa and called to her across the room: ‘Come and join us.’
‘So you’re still here,’ she said, leaning against the back of a chair. ‘I gather Imogen has taken Chloe back to London.’
Neil’s face was the picture of misery.
‘Little fellow’s not very happy about that.’
‘Good morning, Theresa.’ Marcel came up and pulled out her chair. ‘It’s a rare day that you pay us a visit this early.’
‘I’m lucky, Marcel. I am among friends.’
‘And what can I get you?’
‘Un café crème, et une brioche, s’il vous plaît, Marcel.’
Marcel lingered a little before moving off. Theresa wondered whether he was thinking of saying something else. Perhaps he wanted to try and sway her to make the others accept his pitiful offer for the restaurant. But after a moment he turned away, went into the kitchen and came back with her breakfast.
‘What’s that?’ Neil pointed at her sugar-speckled bread.
‘A brioche. Would you like to taste?’ She pulled off a lump and put it on to Neil’s plate.
‘I suppose you must be thinking of getting back on the boat again now, Roger, and heading off into the great unknown? What an adventure it must be!’
‘Really?’ Roger sighed and topped up his coffee from the pot on the table. ‘Must I?’
‘It’s dull today, I know. But don’t let a spot of rain get you down. Usually the weather here is lovely. In the winter it’s hot at midday and freezing at night. But at least most days we do get the sun. I think it would be gorgeous to go drifting out on to the Med. Even on a cloudy day.’
‘Hmm. Good for you,’ growled Roger. ‘You’re welcome to it.’
‘My friend Sally drives a boat.’ Theresa spread her brioche with apricot jam, then took a sip of the lovely strong coffee. ‘I’m afraid I only go as far as driving a car.’
‘I couldn’t be more bored with the boat. Once upon a time it all seemed like such a good idea. But a life like this isn’t at all as it looks in the adverts.’
‘Excuse me.’ Roger laid down his napkin and rose, looking for the lavatories. ‘Neil, please could you entertain Mrs Simmonds while I visit the little boys’ room.’
Roger weaved through the tables to a door near the back of the café. Neil leaned in to Theresa. ‘Poor Dad. He had all these horrible girlfriends, but they didn’t like it on the boat either. They all went home. I got the idea that they thought because Dad lived on a yacht that he was a millionaire. They didn’t understand that we live on a boat just because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.’
‘How do you feel about it all?’
‘I’d like to live in a house again.’
‘In France or England?’
‘You know, I really miss my mum. And, honestly, I miss my old home too. I even miss school.’
Theresa handed Neil another piece of brioche. Poor boy. In fact, Roger had looked so beaten she felt sorry for the pair of them. What a mess.
Marcel was back. ‘I hear you took your coffee in the market in Nice a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘Were you trying to avoid me? You usually come here.’
‘Are you spying on me, Marcel?’ Theresa looked him in the eye.
‘No. Cyril told me he saw you there. He was taking photographs or something. I just thought that after our recent discussion about the price of your restaurant you might be . . .’ He started fiddling with the table. ‘The other gentleman is gone away?’
‘Only for a minute.’
‘I wanted to talk to you about La Mosaïque . . .’
At this moment, to Theresa’s great relief, Roger emerged from the gents. She had no desire to be cornered by Marcel to talk money without anyone from the restaurant team to back her up. She was frightened she might say something in her poor French which Marcel would take as her agreeing to another minuscule offer. This was the problem when you spoke a language in the most basic of fashions. You might say something which actually meant something very different – like all those badly translated menus where Crudités Variées became Various Crudenesses, and Gratin d’Avocat – or avocado with grilled cheese – appeared as Cheesy Lawyer.
‘Oh look. Here comes Roger.’
Marcel moved off. Roger sat.
‘You know what, Theresa, I’ve had it with all the fancy French food, the wine, the coffee, the so-called “good life”. I just want to slump down on the sofa with a football match and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.’
‘Followed by beans on toast,’ added Neil. ‘And a burger.’
‘And chips, with tons of ketchup, and a fried egg.’
‘Sausages.’
‘Bacon.’
The way these two males were waxing on about English food reminded Theresa of the opening song from the musical Oliver! She half-expected them to put their hands to their chests, gripping imaginary braces, and start hopping from foot to foot in imitation of a Victorian street dance, all the while warbling manfully on the subject of shepherd’s pie and mustard, fried-egg roll, toad-in-the-hole and jam roly-poly with custard.
‘Have you got a busy day laid on, boys?’
‘If only,’ said Roger with a sigh, gazing out to the grey sea.
‘I don’t know whether this is an idea which would appeal to either of you, but Monaco is only just up the road. There’s meant to be a wonderful museum . . .’
‘Oh, not art. Please not. Or history. I left school thirty years ago, Mrs Simmonds.’
‘No. It’s motor cars. Race cars mainly.’
She noticed that Neil had looked up, his eyes gazing sheepishly at his father.
‘You fancy that, nipper?’
Neil nodded.
‘Right ho. Monaco it is.’ He stood up. ‘Breakfast is on me, Mrs Simmonds. See you around.’
Rather than stay there like a sitting duck to have Marcel explaining why she should take his offer, Theresa crammed the remains of her brioche into her mouth and left with the others. On the doorstep, Roger kissed her on the cheek and once again thanked her for her understanding.
She left the brasserie terrace, nipped round the back alleyway and went straight into La Mosaïque kitchen.
‘Morning, old girl!’ Carol was already inside, hanging up her coat. ‘Letter came for you.’
‘What’s all this mess?’ Theresa looked around at the countertops, which were cluttered with jars and utensils.
‘Ugh. The boys never tidy up properly. Remember, you only did the beginning of the service last night. William was on his own at the end.’
Theresa realised that she had absolutely no memory of anything which had happened here the night before.
Carol sat on the countertop while Theresa put a jar of sugar back into the larder. ‘So, anyway, darling, about last night. The hills were alive, not with the sound of music but with Sally, out drinking with some drunken Lothario.’
‘How on earth do you know these things, Carol? Do you have CCTV on us all?’
‘Caught them at it!’ Carol smirked. ‘In the deep of night my driving skills were requested, cos they got themselves stranded, stuck in some run-down bar in a no-taxi, desolate, long-forgotten, non-touristic, hilltop village.’
‘What on earth were they doing there?’
‘My guess is trying not to be seen by anyone. But, hard Cheddar, old beans. Sherlock Rogers came to the rescue.’
Worktops cleared, Theresa hung her jacket on top of Carol’s coat and ripped open the letter.
‘Why would Sally care about being seen by us? She’s a free woman and over twenty-one.’
Theresa unfolded a piece of A4 paper and looked at it.
At first, she couldn’t really work out what it was: a grainy picture of a sunny café terrace, people sipping coffee and wine, reading newspapers, chattering among themselves.
Why had someone sent her this?
Then she realised that the photo had been taken in front of the terrace of Le Chat Bleu in Nice.
And seated in the corner, there she was: herself, Theresa Simmonds, all alone, nursing an espresso cup, looking straight at the camera.
Why would anyone want to lure her to a café simply to take a photo of her, then print it out and put it in the post to her at the restaurant? You’d have to be deranged to go to all that trouble. And for what? At the end of it all what on earth had you achieved?
‘You’ve gone all quiet and pale again, Theresa.’ Carol jumped down from the counter. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
Theresa held out the paper.
Carol squinted down. All she saw was a photo of Theresa sitting on the terrace of a café.
‘Well? You’d better explain.’
Theresa told her how she’d been lured into the café in Nice the day before yesterday, how she’d thought the text came from Chloe, how she sat there all afternoon waiting for no one.
‘I have no idea.’ Theresa snatched the paper back from Carol and crumpled it up in the palms of her hands. ‘But I’m beginning to get really scared. And I have an idea I know who’s behind it all.’
‘You mean by “it all” – the photos, the gifts, the roses and all that stuff?’ Carol stared at her, goggle-eyed. ‘Who?’
‘I think it’s Cyril.’
‘Cyril? The butcher?’
‘I’d temporarily forgotten his occupation. Thanks for reminding me, Carol. Now I’m really scared.’
‘But what makes you think it’s him?’
‘Marcel just told me Cyril had said he’d been in the market the day before yesterday, taking photos. And haven’t you noticed how recently he seems to make his presence felt much more in here when he comes with deliveries?’
‘Mmmm.’ Carol held her chin in a pensive mode. ‘Now that you mention it . . .’
‘But why would Cyril do this to me? What does he want?’
‘You tell me? It’s obviously an obsession. Have you never got a sudden crush on someone? He’s clearly infatuated with you. I think he may be angry with you too.’
‘But why? What did I ever do to him?’
‘Who knows? Sometimes people perceive a slight when none is intended. Or get jealous that you seem to spend more time on someone else.’
‘But he’s married to that lovely woman with the wonderful laugh.’
‘Men are a law unto themselves. Being married doesn’t seem to stop them these days. Look at Sally’s friend.’
‘But why me? Why now?’
‘Love is a mystery and all that guff. Such things happen. You read about these stalkery obsessives all the time in newspapers. Usually when it’s too late.’
‘Oh my God, Carol, don’t say that.’ Theresa reached out and tapped a wooden spoon. ‘You don’t think it’s to do with the restaurant and us reducing his order?’
‘I think that when people get a fix on someone, logic flies out the window.’
Theresa’s phone, lying on the counter, rang and she sprang away from it.
‘Jumpy!’ Carol held out her hand to pick it up. ‘Shall I answer it? Just in case?’
Theresa nodded.
Carol put the phone to her ear. ‘No . . . I’m afraid she’s stepped away from her phone at this instant . . . I see . . . Really? Thank you. I will pass on that message.’
She handed the phone to Theresa.
‘Well?’
‘It was your daughter Imogen. I gathered that she thinks the airline people are a totally inconsiderate bunch of grasping charlatans who desired her to take out a mortgage in order to change her tickets and, consequently, for the rest of the week, they are all returning to Bellevue-sur-Mer and staying at the Hotel Astra, because even four nights in that fleapit are cheaper than changing five seats on that two-bit airline.’
William came through from the restaurant.
‘I’m not sure whether I’m talking to you today.’ He stood for a second and glared at Theresa. ‘However, I need to tell you the new plan. Zoe’s idea, actually, and it’s a good one. Like in Scotland, or so she tells me. We’re putting out to tender. We have a set rock-bottom reserve price, one which won’t leave us out of pocket but won’t make us a profit. And we call for offers – sealed bids to be delivered in envelopes by a fixed date. The word is out.’
‘Well, that’s good, I suppose. Good on Zoe.’
‘Anyway,’ William continued. ‘We have two tables booked tonight. Hardly a sell-out.’
‘There’ll be door trade.’
‘We hope.’
‘You don’t sound as thrilled with the clientele as you were last night,’ said Theresa, amused by how William was like a weathercock of moods.
‘No stars of Paris Match or British TV, I gather?’ asked Carol.
‘I don’t know why we bother.’ William pursed his lips and hunched his shoulders. ‘Instead of carrying on this masquerade, perhaps we should give ourselves a night off and just ask them round to our place for dinner.’
‘I gather they’re friends of ours,’ drawled Carol, throwing a wink at Theresa. ‘Not worth bothering about?’
‘Sadly, yes, or is that no?’ William pulled a pile of linen cloths from the cupboard by the door, ready to take them next door to dress the tables. ‘Zoe – table for one. And a table for two for Cyril.’
Sally had had a better afternoon than Eggy. She was on top of her lines and, when he dried, fumbled about or came in on the wrong cue, she tried as best she could to cover for him.
She had hoped that, after the drunken state he had been in the night before, he might have forgotten his offer of drinks at the Negresco for tonight, but no.
‘Phoo is very excited about our soirée,’ he said, while they were being touched up between takes. ‘I phoned and reserved us a table in the famous bar where the Beatles and Elizabeth Taylor drank.’
Sally felt pretty sure that the Beatles and Elizabeth Taylor might have stayed in the hotel but couldn’t imagine any of them nipping down to the public bar for a quickie, while fans screamed outside on the Promenade des Anglais.
Just thinking about crowds on the Promenade at night caused her spit to dry up. She realised that, if she went to the Negresco with the others, it would be her first time walking along the Promenade in the dark since that terrible evening when the terrorist attacked in his speeding lorry.
She had to make sure she was not alone.
When she got back to her trailer to change costume for the next scene, she quickly phoned Jean-Philippe to invite him along. It wasn’t simply that she couldn’t face another night with Eggy’s wife, but she doubted she could face the horror of revisiting her own trauma alone. After a number of rings, Jean-Philippe’s voicemail kicked in. With a sinking heart, she left a message, now wishing she had asked him earlier. She knew his routines and, if he wasn’t answering, the likelihood was that he was out at sea, either repositioning someone’s yacht or giving lessons. He might be miles away, far along the coast, and, when he got home, no doubt his only desire would be to open a beer and lie on a sofa in front of the TV.
She flicked through her phone wondering who else she might invite. There was always Marianne, but the very thought of having her daughter there alongside Phoo chilled her. If Phoo went off on one of her rants, she couldn’t face Marianne being a witness. Especially as she would quite likely spoil for a fight.
Everyone at the restaurant would be working tonight, though possibly Carol could manage to skive off, while ostensibly doing a delivery.
Or there was Zoe …
Sally’s immediate reaction to that was NO.
A sharp rap on her door shook her out of the planning for this evening.
‘Miss Doyle. We’re ready for you on set now!’
While they both shuffled about, shifting positions between takes, Eggy kept whispering to her.
‘Got your date arranged yet, Salz? We’re quite open-minded, you know.’
Sally had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps it was because Jean-Philippe was a lot younger than her. But he was only her good friend and companion. She opened her mouth then realised she couldn’t be bothered to start explaining.
Another time Eggy leaned forward and said, ‘Phoo is thrilled about tonight. She’s never been to the Negresco before. It has quite a reputation. And, of course, she wants to stroll along the famous Promenade des Anglais . . .’
Again, at the very mention of that road, Sally felt her heart skip a beat.
It might have been a few years back now, but the memory of the fright always lurked beneath the surface.
As action was called, Sally realised that her mouth was dry. Her words came out fuzzy. She wondered whether she might not be able to pull out of this evening without being rude. But as Eggy was standing right here beside her it was obvious she couldn’t throw a sickie.
Once the pair of them were wrapped for the day, Eggy walked her back to the trailers.
‘Lucky we did that so efficiently. We’ve got a good long time to go home and get into our glad rags. It’s all jackets and ties, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll scrub up nicely. You always did.’
Inside the trailer Sally dialled Jean-Philippe again. No reply. This was horrible. She flicked through her address book. The only people she could come up with were Cyril or Marcel, but as they had little English, that wouldn’t work at all.
If only the drinks were scheduled for tomorrow – the weekly day off at La Mosaïque – then she could have asked Theresa. Theresa was always reliable and oozed good manners. And she had been with her on that tragic night, so at least she would have someone with her who knew exactly …
During the drive back to Bellevue-sur-Mer, Eggy and Sally made arrangements about how they would get there, and eventually agreed they would go in Sally’s car. At least that left her in control. And at the end of the evening she would be the one who would decide when they left.
It also meant she would have an excuse to have only one drink, which suited her fine.
Back home she alternated taking pieces of clothing from her wardrobe and phoning Jean-Philippe with no luck.
She squeezed herself into her black cocktail dress.
The front door opened. Marianne was home.
Again Sally toyed briefly with the idea of asking her, then imagined the conversation. She really could not have her daughter hearing all the spiteful things Phoo might come up with.
‘Mum?’ Marianne called up.
Clutching her mobile phone, Sally came down.
‘Look!’ Marianne displayed the screen of her phone. ‘I’ve made the papers. Five lines on page thirteen but it does mean I was right to run here and lie low.’
Sally squinted at the article. ‘You made a record loss. Isn’t that the whole game of money? Like they say so quickly at the end of adverts, “Your investment may go down as well as up.”’
‘This time it just went down rather faster than usual.’ She pointed at Sally’s dress. ‘Where are you going, all dolled up?’
‘It’s an actor thing. You know. Just the kind of thing you hate.’
‘Somewhere posh, by the look of that dress.’
‘Negresco.’
‘No! I don’t believe it. That’s where I’m going.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve met this rather dishy English bloke at the café. He’s looking for financial advice.’
‘In the light of what has just happened, Marianne, are you sure that you’re the right person to be giving it?’
‘Oh, Mum. To quote yourself, “Investment may go down as well as up.” I’m only helping him consolidate his assets after a very nasty divorce. And, anyway, look, I only cocked up once.’
Sally realised that this news made her situation even worse. If her daughter was going to be there in the bar, sitting in another corner, coaxing a potential client, she really did have to find somebody to take with her to dilute the evening, even if only a little.