A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  She had a good hour before she needed to be inside the restaurant. So she phoned her son Tom.

  That was a mistake.

  Tom told her in too much detail about some woman he’d been going out with, who had since dumped him. She was French and local. He loved her, especially as she was a conceptual artist and used her own body and its secretions and excretions as works of art. Feeling quite sick, Sally ended the call, claiming she needed to go to work. It sounded to her as though Tom had had something of a lucky break. She didn’t like to imagine what form those artworks took, but at least now Sally would be spared having to attend an embarrassing private view where she would have to scrape together enough compliments to satisfy the wretched girl. Adieu, and merci!

  The sun went down and suddenly Sally was freezing cold. She saw the restaurant van pulling into the parking space, and watched Carol get out. Sally admired the way Carol always looked so well groomed, and loved how she shook her hair into place whenever she got out of a vehicle.

  Sally followed her into the restaurant. As they turned on the lights, and started work, placing candles on each of the tables, Sally whispered how oddly tranquil both William and Benjamin seemed in the kitchen.

  ‘That’s just as well, dearie,’ Carol replied. ‘I was dreading the day I’d be called to cooking service. I can’t even boil an egg.’

  The phone rang.

  An order for a delivery at 8 p.m.

  ‘Ding-dong!’ said Carol. ‘Let’s hope there are many more of those tonight, as I’ve become quite partial to doing the rounds.’

  ‘Tomorrow is D-Day,’ said Sally.

  ‘D for what? Disaster?’

  ‘I hope not. No. Marcel is going to name his price.’

  ‘I thought he was waiting for everyone to come back?’

  ‘No. He’s telling us the price but we don’t have to reply until we’ve made a unanimous decision.’

  ‘Fine!’ Carol crossed herself. ‘It’s enough to turn one to religion. Oh to be free!’

  She looked around the dining room. ‘Though, candidly, once this is all gone and we’ve all got our money back, I’m not really sure what I’ll do with my time.’

  ‘To tell the truth,’ replied Sally, ‘me neither. But we can’t carry on like this, can we?’

  ‘No, not like this.’ Carol walked from table to table, doling out side plates from a large pile. ‘But I’m going to find a way to lead us back to glory days . . . Jeez, we’ve got to. I’ll never be able to keep up my paradise pad without regular spondulix. You know, hon, Nice is starting to pick up.’ Nudging Sally, Carol winked. ‘The Italians are back and I—’

  The phone interrupted her. Another home-delivery order. This one for just after eight.

  ‘So, Carol, at the busiest time, you’ll be off on the road. Leaving me to it.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be fine, darl. Yesterday was a freak day. Get in, gal – it’ll be gorgeous tonight. You mark my words.’

  ELEVEN

  Theresa sat in Imogen’s office while Mervin, the technology teacher, fiddled about with the smartphone.

  ‘The trouble with these programs,’ said Mervin, pulling on his shaggy beard while shaking his head, ‘is that to communicate you can ask a person to be your friend, but before you can converse they do need to accept. And why is he going to accept you, Mrs Firbank, when you are his ex-head teacher?’

  Imogen let out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘I have an idea that lying, perhaps pretending that you’re one of the kids in his old class, would make it quicker getting through to the lad.’ Mervin sat pushing the ends of his beard up towards his lips with nail-bitten fingers. ‘This social-networking stuff is more their domain, after all.’

  ‘I wonder what I pay you for,’ snapped Imogen. ‘You’re meant to know more than your pupils, not go to them for assistance.’

  Theresa felt the need to save poor Mervin from Imogen’s misguided wrath. ‘Perhaps Neil had a friend in his class who might already be in touch with him.’ Her suggestion obviously made an impression, for Imogen pressed the intercom button and barked to Nadia to bring Frances to her office immediately.

  ‘Can’t you just locate phones these days?’ asked Imogen. ‘I saw a programme once which—’

  ‘That only works if you previously set up a program to find it before you lose it. Neil might well be able to find his own phone,’ Mervin pulled the beard from side to side, ‘or the police could quite likely locate it, but not a mere tech teacher like myself.’

  Within a few minutes Frances put her head round the door. ‘Can I help, Imogen?’

  ‘Did Neil Muffett have any particular friends?’

  ‘Mmmmm . . . Not that I recall.’ Frances screwed up her face into a thinking mode. ‘He was a bit of a loner, actually. Sat on his own in the corner writing poetry. He was excellent as Friar Laurence in—’

  ‘Yes, yes, Frances, we know all about that. I just need to find someone who might have been in contact with him since he left this establishment.’

  Frances’s face brightened. ‘Oh, but I’m in touch with him. I needed to communicate about rehearsal times, and notes on the show. And since he left I’ve kept in touch.’

  ‘You what?’ Imogen got up from her desk, thrusting out her hand. ‘Give me your phone.’

  Frances took a step back. ‘But, I—’

  ‘I need your phone, Frances. Neil Muffett has run off with my daughter Chloe.’

  ‘That’s highly unlikely, Imogen.’ Frances rooted about in her handbag for her phone. ‘You see, at the moment, Neil is in the South of France.’

  ‘Whereabouts in the South of France?’ Theresa rose from her seat. ‘Which part?’

  ‘The Riviera, of course.’

  ‘Saying “the Riviera” is exactly the same as saying “the South of France”. Can’t you be more specific?’

  Frances opened her phone and swiped her fingers across the screen, opening a messaging program. She peered down and read: ‘The last stop he told me was somewhere called Roquebrune-Cap-Martin. Reading between the lines, I believe Neil was feeling unhappy with his father. And also feeling rather lonely and sorry for himself.’

  ‘Cap-Martin! That’s just along the coast from me,’ said Theresa. ‘When was Neil there?’

  ‘Um . . . yesterday,’ said Frances.

  ‘Why do you say “the last stop”?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘He’s touring with his father. As far as I can see they seem to be staying in a new place every day. Three weeks ago they were in Olbia.’

  ‘Sardinia,’ whispered Imogen.

  ‘Where was he last?’ Theresa wondered which direction they were taking. ‘Day before yesterday, before Cap-Martin? Which town?’

  ‘Somewhere called Cagnes-sur-Mer. And before that, Antibes, Cannes and Saint-Raphael.’

  Theresa realised that they must be heading towards Italy. ‘So perhaps next stop Ventimiglia or Bordighera?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Frances. ‘Their path does seem rather random. They were in Italy only last week. In San Remo for lunch on market day.’

  Despite the variations towards the east and west, Theresa could see a pattern emerging. When she thought about it, most towns Frances had named were within a few hours’ driving distance from Nice.

  ‘If she has indeed run away to join this boy Neil in the South of France, I should get back there right away.’ Theresa stood and turned to Imogen. ‘I’ll leave now. Please come out and join me, Imogen, whenever you like, but meanwhile keep me up to speed with any developments.’

  As Theresa reached the door Mervin suddenly shouted, ‘I have a ping back!’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’ Imogen loomed over him.

  ‘He’s acknowledged me. Only it wasn’t me, “Mervin”, you see. I chose a female name. I called myself “Theresa” after you.’

  ‘So what happens next?’ asked Imogen. ‘Can we speak to Neil directly?’

  ‘As Theresa, yes. And when you say “speak”,
you realise we actually don’t physically use our voices, just our thumbs.’

  ‘Anything you like, Mervin.’ Imogen looked up at Theresa. ‘Can you continue this? I’m not sure if you have the technical know-how, Mum.’

  ‘But why me?’ Theresa didn’t like the thought of being the only person responsible for communicating with Neil. ‘Won’t he immediately assume that I am in touch with Imogen and therefore am the enemy?’

  ‘I am hardly the enemy.’ Imogen glared at her mother.

  ‘He knows you live in the South of France, Theresa,’ said Mervin, trying to alleviate the tension. ‘And therefore you are a potential refuge there.’

  Imogen sighed. ‘So, Mum, are you up to it?’

  ‘I know how to text, Imogen.’ Theresa wondered why her daughter imagined she was so out of touch. She turned to Mervin. ‘Is it Messenger or—’

  ‘No,’ said Mervin, without looking up from the tiny screen. ‘If you hand me your phone, I’ll install the app and sign you in as Theresa, then once you arrive in France you can take over.’

  Theresa fumbled about in her bag for her phone.

  ‘To keep continuity I’d suggest that for the rest of the day I will pretend to be you, Mrs Simmonds. And we can communicate; then when you want to take over . . .’

  Theresa looked to Imogen, who nodded agreement.

  ‘What’s the plan, Imogen? What should Mervin say to Neil?’

  ‘Once they’re chatting, Mervin – as Theresa – will invite Neil over to see you in Bellevue-sur-Mer. To your restaurant or something. With or without the father.’

  ‘I’ll keep my eye on the app,’ said Mervin. ‘Then if Neil is responding and you don’t appear to be on the ball, I’ll pick it up, OK?’

  Theresa wondered why this bearded man would expect her to not be on the ball.

  After a brief demo with Mervin, Theresa stowed her phone away, kissed her daughter goodbye, left the school and headed for the Tube. While the trains were still running in the open and she still had a decent signal, she bought her ticket to Nice airport. She was booked on a flight at half past eight. She’d touch down just before midnight.

  After Sally had given the first table their menus, she went into the kitchen to check on Carol, who was packing up the thermal boxes with the first batch of the evening’s deliveries.

  ‘Frankly, Sally,’ Carol drawled, ‘once we relinquish this place we should set up a full-time home-delivery service. This restaurant may be on its last legs. But the delivery joint is jumping. We could easily do it from home.’

  Over at the range, Benjamin threw some panisse into the fat fryer which emitted a loud hiss.

  Carol zipped up the last bag, and strode out through the back door.

  William and Benjamin turned to Sally and smiled beatifically.

  She was starting to wonder if they weren’t both on drugs. She’d never seen them so merry, quiet and content. Normally, wherever they were, they could be heard squabbling and sniping at one another. Maybe it was the simple act of cooking which had calmed them. Kitchen life obviously had a tranquillising effect for some people.

  Sally pushed back into the dining room to take first orders.

  Another table had arrived and seated themselves.

  Strange, she had not heard the bell. But maybe it had pinged when Carol was talking. Her voice was sometimes loud enough to drown out a thunderclap.

  A woman was standing, glaring, near the desk. She spoke in French: ‘As no one was here to welcome us, I sat my guests at the corner table.’

  Sally felt as though she had seen this woman before somewhere but couldn’t exactly place her. She was a typical Côte d’Azur beach-woman – flashily dressed, tanned, blonde, her stretched forehead shiny from Botox, her pale-pink glistening lips bursting with filler.

  Sally moved to the desk to mark off the table on the plan.

  ‘Madame de la Warr?’ she asked.

  ‘Exacte!’ spat the woman. ‘Odile de la Warr.’

  Again, the name sounded familiar to Sally.

  Bearing three menus, she walked Madame de la Warr to her table, where, rather rudely in Sally’s opinion, the other two had already seated themselves.

  As Sally pulled out a chair her eyes caught those of one of the diners at Madame de la Warr’s table.

  ‘Salzy, darling! Bet you didn’t think you’d see us again so soon, did you, poppet?’ It was Eggy Markham.

  ‘Erm no, I suppose I . . . What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, what with one thing and another, we’ve decided to stay a little longer and we thought we’d surprise you!’

  ‘One had no idea you were the waitress here, darling,’ said Phoo, putting on her spectacles as she picked up the menu. ‘The way you spoke to us about the place, we imagined you owned it or something.’

  Sally’s spit dried up.

  Through her shock she managed to stammer out: ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Name on the van you were driving, old gal. “La Mosaïque” writ large. Quaint foreign spelling and all that. Then when we saw the place in the flesh, as it were, while passing through the village, we decided we must pay you a visit toot sweet.’

  Sally wondered how anyone would ‘pass through’ Bellevue-sur-Mer. It was away from the main road, and you could only really get down as far as La Mosaïque if you were coming expressly to the bay and in fact to La Mosaïque itself. The only thing beyond it was the port de plaisance. The Markhams must have come here deliberately searching her out.

  ‘Well, then? Are you going to stand there gaping like a fish?’ pressed Odile. ‘Might you take our orders before we die of famine?’

  Sally caught a brief exchange between the two women: Odile rolling her eyes, and Phoo pursing her lips in reply.

  ‘Of course.’ She poised her stylus over the order pad. ‘What can I get you?’

  Having taken the orders, Sally returned to the kitchen. She didn’t think she would be able to put up with a whole night of this.

  ‘I need to swap places with somebody. One of you will have to take the service. I can’t do it.’

  ‘So now you see what we had to deal with last night.’

  ‘No, William, this is quite different. These are people I know from way back. They didn’t like me then, and they don’t like me now. And while we’re at it I have to confess that I don’t like them either. It’s personal.’

  ‘You’re an actress, aren’t you, Sally?’ William gave her a cold glance. ‘So act. There is little difference, surely, serving at table or performing on stage.’

  Sally thought she would like to brain William with the order pad.

  ‘Really? Sally?’ Benjamin took a step back and gave her a wry look. ‘You’re old friends with Odile de la Warr?’

  ‘Not her. No. I never saw her before in my life. Well, that’s not exactly true. I met her once in a supermarket queue. How do you know her?’

  Both William and Benjamin threw back their heads and made goggle eyes.

  ‘She’s famous, dear. Fay-mous. Très célèbre! She’s always posing in those glossy mags, in backless dresses or see-through blouses, standing next to French pop singers and models at parties. “Glamorous Odile and friend” kind of thing. When we knew that she was coming here we were both rather excited.’

  ‘Odile de la Warr, Sally, is the Queen of St-Tropez,’ added Benjamin, exasperated. ‘Or should I say the original Tarte Tropézienne.’ He laughed loudly at his own joke.

  ‘Chop-chop, Sally. What are they eating? Madame de la Warr is an extremely demanding creature. And she has a big mouth.’

  ‘Well, perhaps she shouldn’t have injected her lips with so much filler—’

  ‘I mean, Sally dear, that Odile’s opinion really counts.’

  Sally took a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Benjamin. Thank you, indeed. That’s all I need.’ She reeled off the orders; then, as she returned to the dining room, said under her breath, ‘The sooner this place is sold, the better.’

  Both William and Benj
amin laughed aloud.

  But Sally knew that the entire evening service was going to be hell.

  The other tables slowly filled up with passing trade. Carol did not come back from her delivery round. Sally really could have done with some help. She tried to get through to Carol a few times, but the phone went straight to answer. She presumed today’s deliveries must be in distant valleys or people who lived in tunnels or something. She left a message begging Carol to return soon.

  Odile de la Warr sent three dishes back: one too cold, one too salty, one because she had changed her mind about what she fancied.

  To make matters worse, Sally kept dropping things, and once even tripped over someone’s handbag, which was lying on the floor by their seat, and upturned a whole trayful of desserts, which had to be remade.

  Towards the end of service a family of six, all dressed in matching shell suits, arrived at the door.

  The man of the family spoke in English and made no attempt to try even a ‘Bonsoir’ in French. His opening gambit was: ‘We need a drink of water.’

  ‘Not in here, I’m afraid,’ said Sally, as quietly as possible. ‘This is a restaurant. If you want a drink, you could try the bar-brasserie next door.’

  ‘Did I say a drink?’ The man pushed forward. ‘I said we want a drink of water.’ He said the word ‘water’ in a loud and aggressive way. ‘My family is thirsty.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, monsieur,’ said Sally calmly. ‘This is a restaurant.’

  ‘So you won’t give us a glass of water?’

  ‘If you have a meal, of course we serve water. But this is not a bar. We don’t serve drinks alone.’

  ‘All right. Have it your way.’ The man took another step forward, scanning the dining room. ‘Do you have a table for six?’

  ‘You’re lucky, monsieur. It’s the last one.’ Sally escorted them to the only remaining table, which was right next to the Markhams. She handed out six menus.

  ‘Do you have a toilet?’ asked the woman, who Sally presumed was the man’s wife.