A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  ‘Oh God! Eggy! Phoo! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘En vacance, darling; like you, I suppose.’

  ‘No, no.’ Sally scrambled to her feet. ‘No. I live here. Well, not here, exactly, but just along the coast.’

  ‘And you come to this beach to run around like a woman possessed!’ Phoo laughed. ‘Eggy and I almost expected you to leap on to a broomstick and fly away.’

  Sally took the implications of this remark with a pinch of salt.

  ‘How lovely to see you both. Are you staying here in Cagnes-sur-Mer?’

  ‘No, no, darling. We’re in a very chi-chi establishment in St-Tropez. But as we have the car we thought we’d take a spin along the coast to see the rather less salubrious areas.’

  Sally winced. How could anyone even think of this lovely little town as anything less than gorgeous? ‘Will you be here long?’

  ‘Only a few days left of our fortnight, malheureusement. I’m loving it, of course, cos I’ve a cosmopolitan soul. But Eggy’s missing his home comforts, aren’t you, darling?’

  Eggy pulled a hound-dog face. ‘Haven’t had a decent cup of tea since we arrived. And no toast for breakfast for ten whole days. Never seen the point of those crescent things. Bacon, eggs, toast, marmalade and a nice cup of builder’s for me. I’m finding the froggy food insufferable. Yearning to go home and get a proper meal.’

  ‘Oh, Eggy darling, you are so silly. You know you’re enjoying Odile’s food well enough. You practically lick the plate clean. Or are you just hypnotised by her 48 double D?’ Phoo laughed and elbowed Sally in the ribs. ‘Odile is our landlady. Well, she’s an old friend really, I suppose.’ She giggled like a schoolgirl, something strange to see in a woman who must be in her mid-seventies. ‘Men are so transparent, aren’t they? I’ve often said that Eggy’s a bit of a twitcher. He’s always transfixed the moment he sees a pair of great tits looming.’

  ‘A mature man’s hobby.’

  ‘Second childhood, more like.’

  ‘You’re right, of course, Phoo. Nanny did have a pair of big balloons.’

  The three had strolled away from the sands and were now sauntering aimlessly along the seafront.

  ‘But enough of all us, Salzy.’ Phoo turned and stood facing her, hands on hips. ‘You’re being as evasive as ever you ever were. Come along, woman, tell all. You’re living over here – is there a handsome rich chap on the scene? Do you still tread the boards? Or are you wildly, independently rich? Five kids? Run an orphanage? What gives?’

  Sally was desperate to save face in front of these two, who, early on in her career, had intimidated her so cruelly. She was not going to tell them that her restaurant was on the skids. So she told them about La Mosaïque, as it had been in its glorious heyday. How the Hollywood actress Marina Martel had attended the opening night and even offered her a part in her film, but she had been too busy then to accept. How her son Tom ran a very successful art gallery in Vieux Nice and how her daughter was big in finance, working in London – the City – happily betting with other people’s money.

  ‘And you own this restaurant?’

  ‘I have partners. Theresa Simmonds . . .’

  Eggy, not listening or waiting for a reply, raised his hand, pointed it forward, and a distant car bleeped and flashed in response. Sally noticed that it was a very expensive-looking classic BMW convertible.

  ‘I suppose we can’t give you a lift anywhere?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Eggy. Thanks for offering but I’m here in the van.’

  ‘Oh, you do deliveries too, do you?’ said Phoo. ‘Like Pizza Hut.’

  ‘No, actually,’ replied Sally. ‘I’m picking up supplies.’

  ‘Ever the busy little worker bee,’ said Phoo. ‘Do you remember when you were an ASM on that tour we did? Can you recall, Eggy? She was always so earnest while setting the props table. Oh, you did make us laugh.’

  ‘Lovely to see you again, anyhow, Salz,’ said Eggy. ‘Chin up, old girl! Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

  As Sally watched them walk away she felt a rush of relief. She ran back to the van and turned on the engine. She pulled out into the moving stream of traffic, wondering why it was you always bumped into the people you really did not want to see, while those you had lost touch with and missed never came your way.

  Her mind went back over the three times she had worked with the Markhams – that early stage-manager job where they mocked her incessantly for taking her duties too seriously, but the one night when she placed the letter in the wrong corner of the table, they reported her to the company manager and almost got her sacked; then the TV job where she played their dimwit maid, and off camera they treated her as though she really was their dimwit maid; and, finally, the show where she was queen, Ssssaturday Ssssslamerama!, in which (as she did to everyone who came on the show, be they rock stars, movie stars or royalty), she glooped them. Everyone had to answer questions about themselves, and if they went wrong or hesitated, a bucketful of brightly coloured gloop landed on their head. But the Markhams did not take their glooping with the grace displayed by everyone else. They all knew beforehand that glooping was an inevitable part of the show. But not the Markhams. Oh, no. After the live transmission they behaved as though she had glooped them spitefully, just to mock them and have her revenge on them for reporting her when she was ASM. But they surely knew that being mocked was the entire point of the programme, so if they hadn’t wanted to be glooped/mocked, why had they agreed to come on the show at all? She knew why, of course. They had a tour to promote, and Ssssaturday Ssssslamerama! was top of the ratings, so at that moment they needed her more than she needed them.

  But they couldn’t possibly admit that.

  And then, stupidly, still intimidated, at the after-show drinks, out of mere habit, Sally had felt obliged to apologise over and over.

  As she sped along the autoroute she could feel her face getting hot with fury and embarrassment. Why on earth should things which happened so long ago still cause her to feel so low?

  Anyway, so what? She’d bumped into them today, and now, with any luck, that sharp dose of the Markhams was over and done with, forever.

  Sally was almost home before she realised she had not actually bought any fish and now had nothing to contribute to tonight’s dinner.

  She hastily turned back towards Nice and drove to the large hypermarket to buy some fish there.

  After getting the fish, she wandered up to the back of the vast shop and put two luscious-looking gateaux into her shopping basket. Eggy might go for English stuff, but for Sally nothing bettered French patisserie for comfort food. Quite unnecessary, really, but a huge chocolate cake was just what she needed as an antidote to her chance meeting with the monstrous Markhams.

  THREE

  Even to Theresa, who was used to lawyers’ meetings, the evening’s discussion felt as though it went on for ever. As they discussed all the possibilities left to the owning partners with regard to La Mosaïque, she found herself engaged one moment and the next gazing out of the window at the sea: deep blue, sparkling and tempting. She felt utterly trapped.

  She and William had sat in her flat and thrashed everything out all day, with paper, pencils and a calculator. Even as they ate their sandwich lunch, they were noting down figures and drawing up columns of numbers. All day they had dealt only in facts – bank balances, debts, income, tax, licences, gross expenses, net profits.

  It was a horrible day. And once all the team were gathered at Sally’s home, suddenly mathematical reality went up in smoke and emotions took over, for Theresa as much as for the others. Carol and Benjamin were still dreaming of a revival, full of hope and future success. Zoe nodded off, then woke up and demanded answers to questions which they had dealt with in minute detail while she was asleep; while Sally seemed to be mentally absent. Theresa had simply hoped that someone might have been able to come up with a magic answer. But that was folly. And this was reality.

  So far, the ideas present
ed had all been idealistic, pie in the sky, mostly depending on a great imagined upsurge of custom, despite the fact that it was already early March, the height of the slow season, with the post-Christmas tightening of the belts in the run-up to Easter.

  For what felt like the twentieth time, William laid out the options: ‘One: we sell up the premises and the business as one and move on. Two: we struggle on, hoping for a reprieve. Three: we cut our costs, dramatically. We work without pay and employ no covers until we are out of the red. Four: we reduce the quality and style of our menu, replacing top-end products with cheap and quick convenience food.’

  Carol let out another heartfelt sigh. ‘I just want it to be like it was before . . .’

  William groaned and lowered his face into his hands, while Theresa had to stop herself throwing up her arms and yelling at Carol to shut up.

  ‘Sally? What are your opinions?’ William leaned his elbows on the table and scrutinised her face.

  Sally sat to attention. ‘Um. Well, er . . . I . . .’

  ‘Are we boring you?’ William pursed his lips. He was in for the kill. ‘For the last hour you’ve been in another world.’

  Sally apologised. In truth her head was back on the beach at Cagnes-sur-Mer and those preposterous Markhams.

  ‘We’ve been going around and around in circles for hours now.’ Theresa stood up, her chair scraping on the parquet floor with a high squeak. ‘For God’s sake, let’s eat. And, Benjamin, open a bottle of something alcoholic.’

  ‘There must be a way we can get more people in to La Mosaïque.’ Carol beamed, as though she had had divine inspiration. ‘Couldn’t I walk around with a sandwich board, handing out leaflets?’

  ‘No.’ William banged his forehead on the table. ‘No, Carol. You cannot. This isn’t Coney Island. Yes, we need more customers. And, yes, we also need more time. But our debtors are pressing and, to be frank, since the dreadful events of the summer before last, we have all been living in cloud-cuckoo-land. That bloody stupid work of art gave us false hope, and an imprudent sense of security. If it hadn’t been for that bloody medallion, we’d have called it a day long ago.’

  ‘How about if we—’

  ‘Nooooo!’ shouted William. ‘Don’t you see, Carol. It’s all over.’

  Theresa moved to the window and looked out, wishing she was anywhere but in this room. The birds were gathering over the dark sea, as the evening drew in. She watched them swooping and whirling up again from the teal-blue waters. ‘Everybody has to eat,’ she murmured.

  ‘Including us,’ said Sally, clearing the papers and pens from the table and bustling towards the kitchen. ‘Carol, lay out that salad and bread, while I get the fish going.’

  In silence they prepared the food and laid the table. Benjamin handed everyone a glass of rosé, and flopped into an armchair.

  ‘Perhaps we should all run away to sea,’ he said. ‘And Sally can drive us.’

  ‘On what?’ said Zoe, already topping up her glass. ‘The raft of the Medusa?’

  ‘At least none of them had to pay meat suppliers,’ replied Benjamin.

  ‘No.’ Theresa downed her glass of wine and slumped down at the table. ‘They ate one another.’

  By ten o’clock they were all well fed and rather tipsy. Sally put on the latest album by French superstar Calogero, and they sprawled out on the sofas while the music played.

  They had unanimously raised their hands to approve the vote that, from now on, they would work twice as hard, adding extramural activities, like home deliveries, to their restaurant schedule. That way they hoped to keep the place afloat. The aim was to make the restaurant seem as attractive as possible to potential buyers. Then, as soon as the time was ripe, and the websites were full of recommendations, they would sell up and go their separate ways.

  It was disappointing but at least there was a tiny glimmer of hope. Theresa put her faith in this new optimism.

  Meanwhile they tried to think of ways to enhance the restaurant’s profile, and at the same time to make more money through it. Priority number one was to get more five-star reviews on the FaveEats website. They already had many, but, obviously, the more the merrier. By branching out into out-of-house catering, they hoped to fill the financial gap which had been caused by the drop in tourism.

  As people fired more ideas into the air, Benjamin uncorked another bottle.

  Even William was now laughing at the wild suggestions proffered by Carol.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ she grabbed one of the petits fours and ate it with flair. ‘Even when we offload the property, we must be able to find a way to make a living out of something related to hospitality. We have the equipment and the expertise.’

  ‘Equipment?’

  ‘Pots and pans. Spoons. You know what I mean.’

  ‘And what expertise do you have, exactly, Carol?’

  Carol ignored William’s remark and took another sip of wine.

  ‘You could always go on the game, Carol,’ quipped Benjamin.

  ‘You, too, for that matter, sweetie,’ she replied with a tart smile.

  ‘Poke and Rogers,’ said Theresa, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. ‘You’ve certainly got the right names for it.’

  ‘I’ll buy fifty per cent of the shares in that one,’ said Zoe, trying to grin through her latest application of Botox. ‘I’m in!’ She pulled out her chequebook. ‘Seriously. I am in. When does the brothel open?’

  ‘Rogers and Poke sounds better,’ said Theresa, earnestly repeating the name to herself. ‘Rogers and Poke.’

  ‘We could do sailors.’ Sally sank down on to a leather pouf, her back banging against the wall. ‘Sailors Are Us.’

  ‘I’m astonished at you, Sally,’ said William. ‘I thought that you, of all people, would take this matter more seriously.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be Sailors Are We?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘I am taking it sherioushly,’ Sally slurred and blinked her eyes a few times. ‘As sherioushly as anything. What I meant was – we could make packed lunches, cater for dinner parties, picnics, all that jazz, for all those vishiting those horrible big gin palaces. I doubt they want to cook themselves. So it would be a sort of meals on wheels . . . only without the wheels.’

  ‘Mulls on hulls?’ said Zoe. ‘Mails under sails?’

  ‘But, look, I’ve got the little boat. You lot can cook and pack and I’ll ship it out to them, direct to their boats.’

  ‘Shore to ship, rather than ship to shore.’ Theresa grabbed a chocolate and popped it in her mouth, savouring every morsel of flavour. ‘That’s a good idea. It could work.’

  ‘While we’re at it we could all dress up as French maids,’ said Benjamin. ‘They’d love that.’

  Theresa snatched the pad which lay in the centre of the table and added ‘Shore-to-Ship Catering’ to the list.

  ‘Obviously we’ll have to put in extra man-hours in the mornings – I imagine people going out on boats for day trips will need the provisions delivered early. And we’ll have to take someone out of the dining room to pack up the home deliveries during the evening service.’

  Benjamin, Carol and Sally raised their hands.

  ‘A little too keen to wiggle out of dealing with the public, I think.’ William’s face was as pinched as his tone.

  ‘On the whole, William, as you well know, the public are pure hell.’ Benjamin raised a challenging eyebrow.

  ‘The customer is always right.’

  ‘The customer is usually wrong, and not only that but ignorant and rude.’

  ‘I always drive the van. So I can drive the van and the boat to do the deliveries.’ Sally could see that this was quite a clever way of edging out of the actual restaurant while still being part of the team and doing her bit.

  William gazed at her for a few seconds, then agreed that that was a good plan.

  Theresa felt rather pleased that she would be in the kitchen, doing what she always did, even though she would be having to provide twice or three times a
s much.

  She was keen to get on, to move things along.

  Yawning, she glanced at her watch. ‘Almost the witching hour. Come along, folks. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow to get all these plans started, so I, for one, am heading home to bed. See you early in La Mosaïque.’

  FOUR

  The more Sally knew she had to get up, the more she wanted to remain snuggled up in bed, watching the clouds as they cast navy-blue shadows on the turquoise sea.

  The whole atmosphere of doom had got Sally thinking. She thought about her dead mother, and how much she missed her. She thought how lucky she was to be alive after the atrocities of the terror attack of 14th July. She added up her years and realised that if she was lucky she’d have at most fifteen good years ahead. She recalled the past and felt disheartened by how much time she had wasted over trivia: the years spent pining after her no-good husband, wishing she’d kept her career going after she married, wondering why she hadn’t held on to her self-respect when her husband’s infidelities ground her down, regretting the hours she’d spent worrying over her kids.

  Sally turned over and pulled up the covers.

  It was all too depressing.

  Then the phone rang.

  She answered it.

  ‘Hmmmmm?’

  ‘Hangover?’ It was William. ‘No excuses. We have our first Shore-to-Ship order.’

  ‘How come? We only came up with the idea last night?’

  ‘No idea. Perhaps it was the advert Carol craftily managed to drop when she phoned in to the English-speaking radio station this morning, pretending to answer some quiz question.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sally wasn’t sure why she felt so disappointed that things were already so quickly on the move.

  ‘Chop-chop! You’d better get that brigantine of yours bobbing along on the bubbling briny asap. Theresa is already in the kitchen, and Carol is tying everything up in pink ribbons. All we need is Able Seaman Sally to climb out of her pit and get behind the steering wheel of that boat of yours.’