by Celia Imrie
William and Benjamin arrived abruptly in the kitchen, waving their mobile phones.
‘Has anyone seen this?’ cried Benjamin. ‘It’ll be that bloody Marcel and his cronies.’
‘A whole batch of one-star reviews on FaveEats!’ William leaned against the countertop. ‘I never read these stupid internet things, but look! Even the burger bar in the garage up on the autoroute now has a higher rating than us.’
‘According to this other foodie site,’ Benjamin swallowed hard before continuing, ‘we are the lowest-rated eating establishment in Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
Zoe grabbed the phone from Benjamin’s hand, and peered down at the screen. ‘Can’t see a thing.’ She looked up and blinked her false eyelashes, not realising that one of them had unhinged itself and fallen across her right eye. ‘It’s gone awfully dark in here. I don’t know how you work in these conditions. Anyone got a magnifying glass?’
‘Does anyone seriously read those star-review things before choosing where to eat?’ Theresa would never consider the opinions of total strangers.
‘Only everyone in the world,’ snapped Benjamin. ‘Nowadays there’s no strolling around looking in at places you fancy. People are like sheep. They rush to the suggestions at the top of the list, and steer well clear of the ones at the bottom. It’s a self-perpetuating load of rubbish.’
‘Couldn’t we get someone to march around the streets with a sandwich board telling them to ignore what’s on the app?’ Zoe looked up. The stray false eyelash finally lost its grip and fluttered to the floor. ‘Hello? Did somebody turn the lights on?’
The restaurant front door slammed and Carol stepped into the kitchen. ‘That doggone van. I love her but . . .’ Carol’s face was streaked with oil and her hands were black. ‘I persuaded the garage to do a patch job, just to get me home,’ she announced. ‘But the darned old girl broke down trying to climb up the hill to get on to the main road. I’ve spent the last three hours jacking her up, lying on my back underneath her, giving her the once-over, and finally she’s on the road again.’
‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ added Zoe.
‘I didn’t think that Mech. Eng. would have been quite your scene,’ said Benjamin, curling his lip at the sight of Carol’s soiled clothes.
‘What do you mean, darling? I’ve always adored engines. I’m fascinated with everything mechanical.’
‘But did you manage to collect the fish and veg?’ William stepped forward, his mind forever practical.
‘I’m not Louis Hamilton.’ Carol threw down the keys. ‘I thought you’d be pleased with me for getting the van back in one piece. Did they find the girl?’
‘What girl?’ asked Zoe.
‘My grandchild. No.’ Theresa moved towards the oven to turn it on, getting ready to start baking some potatoes. ‘But I volunteered to do lunch. This afternoon I have to devote my time to finding Chloe.’
‘I thought we were here to offload this restaurant . . . sorry, I mean this money-disposal unit . . . to the irritating twit next door?’ Zoe boomed.
A sharp rap on the back door, and Marcel walked in.
‘I may be French,’ he said, ‘but I realise that a “twit” is not necessarily a good thing.’ He glanced at the tray of individual pies on the counter. ‘I see you are back, Theresa.’
Theresa forced a smile.
Marcel did not return the gesture. ‘Restaurant sans terrace, trente couverts,’ he said. ‘For a swift sale I will offer you two hundred thousand euros. Final offer.’ He turned towards the door. ‘You have till this time tomorrow; after that the offer is withdrawn.’
‘That’s less than we paid for it.’ Zoe attempted a look of horror, causing her remaining eyelash to tumble down and land on her cheek.
‘It’s an insult!’ screeched Benjamin.
‘If your reviews are anything to go by, overpriced.’
Zoe wiped a finger over her cheek and the eyelash slid down on to her décolletage. ‘Agh! A spider!’ She jumped back. ‘Or is it a cockroach?’
Marcel left.
Sally sat in the make-up chair, going through her lines. She had four scenes to shoot today, and, according to the sides she had been given when she arrived on set this morning at six-thirty, it was only in the last scene that she actually spoke. The other scenes involved: 1. walking out of a front door, 2. going into a boulangerie and coming out with a baguette and 3. coming into a public toilet, where she put on a wig and coat, and going out again. All without a word spoken, which was great.
Last night – or, rather, earlier this morning – after she had hung up the call from Los Angeles, Sally had wanted to sleep, but was too excited, so that when the car drew up outside her front door at 5 a.m., she was already waiting, fully dressed, having barely slept at all.
The make-up wagon was parked up, jammed among all the other movie vehicles in an open car park on the outskirts of Monaco.
Judy, the make-up girl, was charming, and immediately arranged with the Third Assistant to get a cup of tea and some pastries brought in for Sally.
While Judy applied Sally’s make-up base, Sally asked her a bit about the film. The current fashion was always to keep actors in the dark – only give them the pages they were featured in – so it was difficult to get a sense of the whole story.
‘Wish I could help,’ said Judy. ‘I only started today too, I’m afraid, Sally, and everyone else is off with the main unit, which is doing some car stuff up on a high road where Princess Grace Kelly shot some movie with Cary Grant and later died in a crash. Frankly I’m glad to be down here. IMO sounds like an unlucky place to shoot.’
‘You don’t have a cast list on you, do you, Judy?’
‘Sorry, Sally. Please could you stop talking for a moment. I need to concentrate on your lips.’
As Judy applied the lip brush, Sally mentally went over her lines again for the scene this afternoon. It was an exchange with a man named Gilbert, a scene which ended in a snog. Lord. She had forgotten this unpleasant side of showbiz. A roomful of people staring at you from every possible angle while some total stranger had his tongue down your throat. The glamorous life!
The caravan bounced a few times as someone came up the steps.
‘Sally Doyle!’ A tall man in a sheepskin-collared leather jacket held out his hand. ‘Daniel Sullivan. I’m the director of this little caper. So pleased you’re joining us. Marina is producing from LA, the London casting director’s gone into premature labour, and, well, you don’t want to hear about our problems. But the upshot is, at the eleventh hour, in total desperation, we’ve got you here with us, and . . . hoorah.’
Sally wasn’t sure whether the young man was aware how rude he had been, but she smiled as best she could manage without moving her lips for Judy.
‘So, anyway . . .’ He glanced down at a clipboard in his right hand. ‘We’re off to a flying start with a few scenes from towards the end of the movie, on the day of the heist.’
‘It’s a heist movie?’
‘What other kind of movie gets shot in Monte Carlo?’
The Red Shoes? thought Sally. Grand Prix?
‘So far we’ve had terribly bad luck. Bloke originally playing Gilbert, your husband, caught mumps and had to pull out a week after we started rolling. Who gets mumps in this day and age? We’d already shot some of his scenes, but on the last day he looked less like a suave Englishman and more like a pantomime Mr Toad, so . . .’ Daniel kicked his foot out. ‘Order of the boot for him. New fellow has some relationship with the pregnant casting director, and managed to squeeze himself into the role as replacement. Then Lia, the silly cow, whose plum part of Louise you’ve managed to snitch, decides, contrary to clearly stipulated contractual rules against such Eddie the Eagle recreations, that she’s a downhill racer and—’
‘Will I get a full script at all, Daniel? Only I’m a bit in the dark about the story.’
‘I’ll get all your sides printed out and delivered to your hotel room . . .’
&n
bsp; ‘I’m actually coming in each morning from my home in Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
‘Ooooh la la!’ Daniel said. ‘A proper little vedette! We’re all staying at a frightfully posh place here in Monte Carlo. The Grand Hotel Astor. All mod cons, gym, 24-hour room service, ravishing views of the Med, swimming pool, bar, four-star restaurant. But I suppose your own place must beat that.’
Sally hated the way everyone assumed that if you lived down here you owned a moated palace. But she had more pressing worries than correcting his presumption. ‘And the story?’
‘Blah-blah-blah, really. All you need to know is that you are playing one of a cameo couple of amateur burglars, who accidentally ruin things for the main characters who are pros at the burglary business. They of course are being played by Marina Martel and Steve Baxter, real stars, who arrive over here in a few days, by which time hopefully you’ll be gone and out of our hair . . .’
Judy coughed, and threw a glance at Daniel.
‘So, anyway, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Janey, here . . .’
‘Judy.’
‘Judy! Yes, that’s right. Sorry about that.’ He banged his forehead. ‘Judy! Judy! Judy! Isn’t that a quote in some ancient, long-forgotten film? Anyway, as you gather, we’re picking up all the scenes we’d already shot with the queen of off-piste slalom, and we’ve a hell of a lot to cram into the scant hours of daylight, aujourd’hui, so “one-take wonders” are the order of the day, lady.’ Daniel raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve gathered you’re an old pro at the game, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. I usually find veteran actresses very efficient.’ He ran his fingers through his hair and held a pose for a moment. Sally wondered if he was about to vogue down the steps. But instead he inspected his clipboard. ‘See you down on set, erm, Sally. We have a rather fancy bakery for you to enter, but I can’t attest to the public conveniences, and as for the door . . . Well, as Shakespeare once said: a door is a door is a door.’
If Marina Martel had chosen this man as director, Sally presumed that he had to be good at his job, even if his social skills had certainly not been nurtured in the Barbara Cartland charm school.
Daniel’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered.
‘Who?’
As the voice at the other end spoke, Daniel rolled his eyes in the direction of Judy and Sally and continued: ‘Not that old bag again. Doesn’t she understand English? The role is cast, cast, cast, and, no, I do not want to see either her CV or a show reel . . . Yes, I’m sure she knows quite a few important people in the business . . . No, no, no. Tell her under no circumstances should she fly out to the set to meet me.’ Resuming the conversation at the top of his voice, Daniel turned on his heels.
‘Now, Sally,’ said Judy as Daniel bounced away down the stairs, rocking the make-up wagon so that Sally’s seat felt as though it was on a trampoline, ‘before I start on the hair, I’m just going to try out a few wigs for scene 102.’
Sally sat back. She mustn’t let her nervousness get in the way of this opportunity. Nor must she become obsessed with the idea that she was totally out of touch with the business, just because she had been living in France for so long. She might not be so young any more, and could even qualify as a ‘veteran’ performer, as Daniel had so keenly reminded her, but Sally felt she was still au courant.
Judy advanced with an auburn fringed wig with flick-ups. She hovered behind Sally, then pressed the wig down on her head.
‘Oh. I say!’ Looking at herself in the mirror Sally laughed. ‘Very Mary Tyler Moore.’
‘Who?’ said Judy.
FOURTEEN
Theresa started to take her apron off. What if Chloe had been ringing on her home telephone? She had an urgent desire to be in two places at once. To keep her promise to her friends and her business but also to be available should Chloe make contact. She knew she had to sneak out and check.
Benjamin entered the kitchen. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve prepared the lunch service, Benjamin, but I really do need a breather now.’
‘But we’re supposed to be having a meeting about the insulting offer from Marcel. We need you to take part in the discussion.’
‘Frankly what is there to discuss? We just say no and tell him to come back with a sane and genuine price. Why should we gift him the building along with all our hard work? We had a good reputation.’
‘Had being the relevant word . . .’
‘I’ve told you my opinion.’ Theresa pulled her phone out of her handbag and walked past Benjamin and out through the dining room.
She was very relieved to be in the open air. The sun was shining, but this afternoon the royal-blue sea was topped with white horses. A fierce wind blew in, whipping up Theresa’s hair and catching her scarf. As the long strip of cashmere flew off along the quay, Theresa ran after it, stamping like a Spanish dancer every time it came near to touching down on the pavement.
Once she had snatched it and wound it back around her neck, this time with a solid knot, she had passed the moored multicoloured rowing boats and little white fishers, bobbing on the swaying sea.
As she put her key into the front door, she felt the phone buzz. She glanced down at the screen.
One missed call. When had that come in?
An unknown number, but it looked like an English mobile phone.
Hoping it might be Neil, while walking into the flat, she immediately redialled the number.
‘Hello?’ A female voice. ‘Is that you, Grandma?’
‘Chloe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, God. Are you safe?’ Still wearing her coat, Theresa flopped down on to her armchair, cradling the phone close to her ear. ‘Please tell me you are all right.’
‘Yes.’ Chloe spoke very softly. ‘I’m fine and I’m happy.’
‘Is this your new phone number?’ Theresa intended to store it immediately the call was over, so that, when necessary, she could phone her back.
‘No. Neil lent me his phone. I knew people would be worried by now. But this call is to let you know that everything’s all right and not to bother looking for me.’
Theresa stopped herself from replying. She was quite aware that, whatever Chloe thought, the situation was not ‘all right’. Far from it. A fifteen-year-old girl should be in school, not gallivanting around the Côte d’Azur with a fellow truant. She was committing a criminal offence, for heaven’s sake.
‘Neil wants to know if you’re the strange woman called Theresa who keeps buzzing him on Instatalk, and writing in a creepy way that sounds like some weirdo pretending to be young?’
‘I’m so sorry, Chloe. That was someone from your school trying to find you.’
‘Please don’t tell me it’s Mum?’
‘No. A teacher going by the name Mervin.’
‘Oh, that freak.’ Chloe laughed. ‘He’s a real perv, Grandma. And he smells.’
‘To be truthful, Chloe, I didn’t get close enough. But he was doing his best to help us.’
‘You were in London?’
‘Yes. But I’m back home now in Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
Theresa was not sure how to get the best out of this call. The most important thing was not to make a thing of it and scare Chloe away. She had to be sure that Chloe kept in contact. She didn’t want to spell out the panic which had taken up the best part of her last forty-eight hours.
‘I was wondering where you were, darling. Someone said that they thought you were in the South of France, somewhere near me.’
There was a silence. Chloe did not take the bait.
Theresa pressed on. ‘And, if you are, why don’t I treat both Neil and you to lunch?’
‘Is this a trap?’
‘No, darling. Of course, it isn’t. But, as you know, I love cooking. And it would be good to see you. And I can advise you about some interesting local places to visit.’
‘I’m not on holiday, Grandma.’ Chloe sounded determined. ‘This is my new life. Being with Neil.�
�
Theresa had to grab the conversation back from this dangerous topic, grab it back to the merely casual.
‘You could come to the restaurant, or to some neutral space, a café or somewhere, or perhaps to my flat, whichever you like. Are you in Nice?’
‘No,’ Chloe replied.
‘Somewhere nearby, though?’
‘I’m not really sure where we are, to be honest. Nor is Neil. But it’s very windy here. I can barely stand up.’
As Theresa had walked here, she had almost been blown over by the wind. She wondered how far these weather conditions might stretch. Could it be that the two kids were only a few miles up the road, or were they well along the coast in San Remo or Saint-Raphael?
‘You’re warm and have somewhere to sleep and eat, I hope?’
‘Really, Grandma, stop worrying. Neil’s dad is a very generous person and I’ve got a lovely bedroom, so it’s all fine. I think he’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met. He’s such fun.’
‘Is that Neil or his dad?’
‘Oh, I meant his dad. But Neil is even better.’
So, she had got some information out of the child. Now to press on.
‘Well, if you have a little think, conflab with Neil, then name the day and pop over to Bellevue-sur-Mer and I’ll cook you some of your favourite things.’
‘Can we have tiffin, Grandma? I’ve told Neil about it.’
Theresa heard a low voice in the background. Could this be Neil or was it the father?
‘I have to go now, Grandma. Love you!’
And she was gone.
Theresa thought about redialling but decided against it. She put the phone back into her pocket.
The dilemma now was how much to tell Imogen? If she didn’t tell her daughter that Chloe had phoned and then Imogen found out, all hell would break loose. But Theresa did feel that she had Chloe tentatively hooked. They were joined each end of a thread, even if that thread was made of the most fragile silk. One false move and Chloe could truly disappear. But if she kept hold she might be able to reel her in.