A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  The afternoon sun was dazzling. Not bad for March. She took a deep breath and felt again the sudden delight at the beauty of the bay with its sparkling turquoise water.

  As she strolled along the water’s edge, Marcel from the brasserie gave her a wave. Theresa had always thought him a rather good-looking man. Typical Niçois – lean, small twinkly eyes, swarthy complexion, with a head of dark curls, sprinkled with grey.

  That determined her.

  She crossed the road and took a seat on his terrace.

  ‘Un verre de Côtes de Provence, s’il vous plaît, Marcel,’ she said. ‘Un grand!’

  ‘That bad?’ he asked.

  She nodded and sighed. They spoke in French. Theresa’s was faltering, but at least it was getting better all the time. She seemed to be able to understand much better than she could speak. And she knew her accent was pretty terrible.

  ‘Thank God for you, Marcel. How are things going here?’ she asked.

  ‘The usual,’ Marcel shrugged. ‘Some days busy but, like today, with idiots; other days very quiet with no one here but our regulars.’

  ‘Are you cutting back on the suppliers?’ she asked. ‘We’re not sure where to turn. Your advice would be very valuable to me. You’ve always been very generous with us, Marcel.’

  ‘It’s different for us, with a brasserie.’ Marcel sat down at her table. ‘We make a great deal of money on people who come here to sit and read a paper with a coffee or a glass of wine. If we had to rely only on our food, I think we’d also be in pretty bad trouble.’

  ‘We’re trying to consolidate,’ said Theresa. ‘And then sell up. Voilà!’

  ‘Désolé.’ As Marcel said this – so sorry – he really did look desolate.

  ‘Ah well, that’s life.’ Theresa smiled. ‘It was fun while it lasted. And when it’s all over I will be free to do as I please with my time, which is not such a bad thing.’

  She couldn’t help but notice a slight twinkle appear in Marcel’s eye. His enterprise might be a bar-brasserie, but perhaps, when there was no competing restaurant along the way, his mealtime covers would increase.

  ‘You were very brave to open when you did. The timing was bad luck,’ he said. ‘Who could know . . .’ He left the subject dangling. No one liked to talk about what had happened in Nice a few years back. ‘What will you do next? You’re not leaving Bellevue-sur-Mer?’

  ‘How could I leave you?’ Theresa pointed to the surroundings – the sea, the town, the sky. ‘I was thinking about maybe setting up in a small van and doing stalls at festivals and marketplaces.’

  Marcel pulled a typically Gallic face which indicated lack of faith in the idea.

  Theresa knew that he was right. There was no point in doing anything when you were only doing it as a stopgap. Unless you were full of enthusiasm for a project, how could you expect it to succeed?

  ‘Well, Theresa, I wish you all the luck in the world.’ Marcel started to move away to deal with a customer in the corner.

  ‘You’re adorable to give me your time.’ She raised her glass to him as he went. ‘Thank you, Marcel.’

  After the drink Theresa went home. She sat for half an hour staring out of the window, watching the sea, feeling depressed and rather scared. She was still four years away from getting her pension. Now that La Mosaïque was so deeply in debt, even once they sold up she would be no better off. She was going to have to find some way of staying afloat and supporting herself.

  She got up to turn on the kettle.

  She could hear people moving about in the flat above her. It used to be quiet most of the year, but she realised that the owners, who lived in Paris except during holiday times were letting it out as an Airbnb, whenever they weren’t here themselves.

  She sighed.

  Life was changing in so many ways.

  Maybe she really would have to give up her dream of living here and go back to live in London.

  But now she wouldn’t have a hope of buying anywhere, and where would she get money to pay rent? Would she end up loading shelves at B&Q, along with the other silver stackers? All told, it would be cheaper and easier to stay here and beg in the streets.

  She called and left a message at the old solicitor’s office in Hampstead, where she was once secretary, just to see if there was any work going. No doubt she would hear nothing. She’d been laid off. Why would they want her back now that she was even older?

  As Theresa poured her tea, she decided to phone home. Perhaps talking to her daughter would help.

  Imogen picked up.

  ‘Hello?’ She sounded stressed. Instantly Theresa realised it was not great timing. With the hour difference, Imogen would have only just got home from work.

  ‘Hi, darling. Just phoning to say hello.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. Hi.’ Theresa picked up her lack of interest. ‘Look . . . I’m a bit pressed at the moment. Only just walked through the door. Here. Speak to Chloe.’

  Chloe was Theresa’s eldest grandchild.

  ‘Hi, Gran. How’s sunny France?’

  Theresa waffled on for a while. She could hardly ask a fifteen-year-old for career and life-choice advice!

  ‘Gran, I was wondering . . . ?’ Chloe left the phrase dangling.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Bellevue-sur-Mer near the French Riviera?’

  ‘Bellevue-sur-Mer is the French Riviera.’ Theresa laughed. ‘The Riviera is just an English phrase which means the coast of south-eastern France, the whole coast along here, around Bellevue-sur-Mer.’

  ‘So you live in the French Riviera?’

  ‘Well, yes. But over here it’s called the Côte d’Azur – the blue coast. Is this for a geography class or something?’

  ‘Something like that. Here’s Lola. Talk some sense into her.’

  Theresa was amused that Chloe was picking up her mother’s way of talking.

  Lola wanted Theresa to look out and send her a copy of the photo she had taken of her and her two sisters by the wall plaque of Catherine Ségurane, the sixteenth-century Niçoise heroine who had saved the city by baring her backside to the fleeing hordes. ‘I’m writing a project about women soldiers,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to say that she won the war by showing the enemy her bottom.’

  Theresa looked across the room at the bookshelf. She could see the orange spine of her photo album at the end of the row of art books. She promised she would do it right away, laughing at how fixated children always were with bottoms.

  Theresa spoke briefly to her third and youngest granddaughter Cressida then ended the call.

  Almost instantly the phone rang again. She picked it up, hoping it would be Imogen to continue where Cressida had left off. But there was just a silence. She must have done that thing where you put the phone down too violently and it rings the bell.

  She laid the receiver carefully back and looked out across the road at the sea.

  The gloom was still upon her. The physical gloom outside, as the sun set, did not help.

  It was almost time to go back to work. Time to face the sombre music. Time to prepare the dinner service.

  After Sally had driven back and forth all afternoon doing the usual restaurant shopping, picking up ingredients from Theresa’s list at the huge cash and carry, she had barely a few minutes before she was on the road again, this time making the evening home deliveries.

  This afternoon had been problematic. What with the stupid shenanigans of Shore to Ship she had lost the vital morning time when the markets were open. Instead she had to rush about sourcing fresh things from more dubious outlets.

  Luckily most of the dinner home deliveries so far this evening were in Bellevue-sur-Mer; only one was outside the town, a few miles along the coast in Nice itself.

  She motored along in the dark, the passenger seat and footwell loaded with the boxes of dinner all tied with a pink ribbon within their insulated bags. The van laboured up the hill. It was badly in need of a service. She wondered how long this situation could last, with eve
ryone working all hours, just to try to scrimp a bigger profit and earn some good reviews on the online sites.

  She was dog-tired. Or was she simply depressed?

  The traffic signal turned green and the van lurched forward, on the descent into Nice – the yellow horseshoe of street lamps lining the curve of the bay, the distant multicoloured twinkling lights of the airport.

  The atmosphere in the restaurant itself was so horrible that she was glad she was out on the road doing deliveries.

  If this was how it felt after a day, what would they be like in a week, a month?

  She pulled up at another traffic light, and watched the flashing sign for a fast-food joint near the port. She knew that businesses around here had had a triple whammy as they had also been disturbed by work on the new tramway. Once the tram was running, business here should not only pick up, but multiply.

  Back in Bellevue-sur-Mer they had no such hope.

  Damn that Picasso!

  If they hadn’t had that expectation of an unearned fortune, they might have thought more clearly, and thrown in the towel while there was still a chance of making good for themselves.

  Now the weight of everyone’s disappointment was too heavy to bear.

  Sally prayed that they would find a buyer for La Mosaïque soon, offload the premises, dissolve the partnership and save their friendships. The strain was already showing. Theresa had been short with her, and she with Theresa. William was even more bossy than usual, if that was possible. Benjamin was as likely as she was to go off the rails, and as for Carol …

  Their friendships had been so strong before this restaurant fiasco.

  Though, to be honest, after La Mosaïque was gone, she had no idea what she would do with her days.

  If she could even get back her investment, or even the better part of it, she should be OK. But she realised she had got so used to being busy that an everlasting spread of long days of nothing to do held no great fascination for her, especially now that she was living with these thoughts of being old and, inevitably, death.

  The phone rang. Carol again. While Sally was delivering in Nice could she please pick up some things for the restaurant.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘More takeaway tin trays, and large cans of tomatoes?’

  Sally glanced at the clock. Somewhere in the city there should still be a supermarket open this late.

  Carol said she’d send the complete list by text.

  Once Sally had delivered the last dinner, she promised to go to the big hypermarket near the Riquier station.

  The clients this evening, unlike those in this morning’s fiasco, seemed genuinely delighted with their food boxes. Life was looking up.

  The supermarket was insanely bright. The lighting had that neon white which made everyone look utterly washed out.

  She was exhausted and dreaded to think what she must look like.

  Taking out her phone, Sally scrolled through the list while she fumbled about in her pockets for a coin to release a trolley.

  Nothing.

  She stood for some time in a queue at customer services and was eventually provided with a plastic token.

  This shop sold everything from potato crisps and wine to top-end televisions, bicycles and garden trellis.

  As Carol had not written the shopping list in any particular order, this meant Sally had to traverse the same departments over and over. She was too tired now to think clearly and was in no mood to walk a marathon in the shopping aisles. She leaned on the trolley and suppressed a yawn. Her petit pause was interrupted by a siren, warning all shoppers that the shop would soon be closing and that as soon as possible they should make their way to a checkout.

  Sally bent over and went through the contents of the trolley, checking everything off against the text, then she joined what looked like the shortest queue, only to discover it was restricted to customers with a specialist loyalty card which she did not possess.

  She spun the trolley round and shoved it along, diving towards the next shortish line before more people arrived.

  ‘Attention!’ called a woman with a high-pitched, affected French accent.

  Scraping her hair out of her eyes, Sally turned to apologise, only to find herself face to face with Phoo Taylor-Markham.

  ‘Salzy! Of course it had to be you crashing into me. You were never the greatest driver.’

  Phoo held out her shopping basket. ‘I suppose I couldn’t squeeze in front? I’ve only a few paltry items.’

  Reluctantly Sally agreed, knowing that now she would have to spend a few minutes in polite conversation.

  ‘Eggy and I were laughing this morning, remembering how clumsy you always were. And all those problems with biscuits! Don’t you remember? Trying to charge us for all those expensive biscuits? And it was so clear to us that you were a secret biscuit binger. In those days you were rather large, weren’t you? Well done, by the way, getting all that flab off. You’re not nearly so fat these days. Must be the famed Mediterranean diet that everyone’s always going on about.’

  Sally tried to find the conversation amusing, but found it difficult to crack a smile. Why did Phoo have to remind her of her nervous start in the business? Why bring any of it up now, so many years later? Sally thanked her stars that the merry theatrical couple were only here on a two-week holiday.

  ‘Making the most of your last few days?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry?’ Phoo looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Didn’t you say you were going back to London at the weekend?’

  ‘Oh lord, no. Well, yes. We were meant to be going back on Saturday. But it’s all change now, I’m afraid. We’re staying on because Eggy and I . . .’

  ‘Phoebe!’

  Phoo was interrupted by the shrill call of a heavily tanned woman, with hair dyed so blonde it was almost white. The woman was skimpily dressed for the season, but Eggy who marched doggedly at her side was bearing a huge fur coat which no doubt belonged to the blonde.

  ‘Let the peasants form the long lines. I ’ave the special card for the short queue. Come with me, Phoebe.’ The blonde clicked her pearly-pink taloned fingers in the air; a collection of bracelets on her bronzed arm jingled. ‘You are now shopping with Odile de la Warr!’

  Odile dragged Phoo away to the special priority queue.

  ‘Oh, ye gods! Sal, old girl!’ exclaimed Eggy. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Shopping?’ she suggested. ‘Rather like you.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I presume the fur coat is not your own?’

  ‘It might suit me rather well,’ Eggy pulled a face, ‘if I was playing a character in Game of Thrones – I should be so lucky . . . But no. It’s Odile’s. I am her mere slave boy.’

  ‘I hear you’re staying on for a while. That’ll be nice for you.’

  Eggy seemed to ignore her remark.

  ‘Odile’s quite splendid, don’t you think?’ He cast his eyes back in her direction. ‘My idea of the perfect ultimate Frenchwoman.’

  Sally squinted along the rows at the loud woman with her mahogany skin, scraped-back hair and surgically enhanced breasts and lips. In her own opinion she thought a perfect idea of a Frenchwoman would be something more along the lines of Simone Signoret or Jeanne Moreau.

  She remained silent.

  ‘Would you like to join us for a drink, Salz, old girl, once we’ve put the shopping in the Beamer?’ Eggy looked around. ‘God knows where the exit is to this place, but there must be something resembling a bar nearby. After all, this is France.’

  ‘I don’t think I can manage tonight, Eggy. I have to get all this back to the restaurant.’

  ‘Which restaurant? We could all go there, perhaps, for supper?’

  Sally started to panic now. She looked at her watch. Ten p.m. She was relieved to see that it was the deadline for last orders.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Eggy. It’s miles away. We’ll be too late, tonight. Maybe another day.’ She to
ok a few steps forward and was now nearly at the till. ‘How long will you be here?’

  ‘In this shop?’

  ‘No. I mean when do you go back to England?’

  Eggy gave an enormous sigh. ‘That, my dear Sally, is in the lap of the gods. Things have popped up and we are both going to be around for quite a bit longer.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ Sally didn’t really care, but could see that Eggy was leaning out to be asked.

  He gave her a coy smile. ‘Can’t say, I’m afraid, Salzy.’ He looked around then knocked his own head. ‘Superstitious, you know. Touch wood.’

  Sally had now reached the cashier. She started unloading the contents of her trolley on to the conveyor belt.

  Moving away, Eggy made a mime of a telephone with his fingers.

  ‘We’ll meet up soon. When I have a better idea of what’s what. Ta-ta, old girl.’ He turned away and twisted back. ‘Did Phoo tell you how we were all laughing with Odile the other day talking about how hopeless you were as an assistant stage manager? Oh, how we howled. I bet you’re glad to be out of all that showbiz stuff, Salzy, and being over here, on easy street.’

  Sally gave a wan smile and nodded. ‘Sure.’

  While she was paying, Eggy was summoned by a cry from Odile, who needed her coat. He obediently trotted away, leaving Sally to stack the paid-for items neatly back in the trolley. Then, grinding her teeth in fury and dismay, she shunted it down the ramp to the car park.

  She wasn’t a useless actress. She had had quite a success, in her day. But when she thought of the reality of the present, with the restaurant and all its problems, that didn’t polish up so brilliantly.

  Eggy was right. She was a failure.

  She felt desolate and dreaded the promised call where she would have to put up with more humiliation.

  It was only when she was in the lower car park, steering the trolley towards the van, that she realised with enormous delight that Eggy didn’t actually have her phone number.

  SIX

  Theresa had woken later than she planned and it was only when she was closing the front door that she remembered she had promised to send Lola the photo of herself with her sisters, posing next to Catherine Ségurane’s wall plaque in Nice.