A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  This was going to be a tricky encounter, to be sure. Theresa walked at the child’s side, rooting in her pockets for the front-door keys. She opened up and let them in.

  ‘I made you some pancakes,’ she said, pointing to the table. ‘Dig in at will.’

  ‘You haven’t told Mum about me coming here, have you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Theresa was pleased that she hadn’t had to lie. ‘This is strictly between you and me.’

  Chloe licked her lips. It was clear that she was nervous and plucking up her courage to say something. Theresa prayed that it would not be anything awful, like announcing that she was pregnant.

  She busied herself with the kettle, hoping it would leave Chloe more free to speak.

  ‘Grandma?’ Chloe said quietly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I have a shower first?’

  Theresa was astonished that this was the thing which had made Chloe so nervous to ask.

  ‘My bathroom is your bathroom,’ she replied, heading for the cupboard and pulling out a clean bath towel. ‘Take as much time as you like.’

  As Chloe disappeared into the bathroom, Theresa regretted adding the last sentence. After all, Imogen had announced that she would be arriving in Bellevue-sur-Mer today. Who knew what time her flight would get in? Once landed she had to make her way from Nice, check in at the hotel and come down here – that was true. But it would certainly be better all round if, when Imogen turned up, Chloe was not here.

  While the child was bathing, Theresa pondered on why, if she was staying in a millionaire’s mansion, she wanted to take a shower?

  Chloe’s response to the suggestion that Roger Muffett lived in a large house somewhere down here certainly indicated that maybe he didn’t. In fact if he did, surely the water would be connected and there would be bathrooms galore? Unless maybe it was one of those collapsed old farmhouses in the middle of being renovated? Perhaps Theresa’s other imagined possibility was correct – that Roger Muffett was living in a hotel and commuting around the area, property-hunting. But, seriously, these days didn’t all hotels have bathrooms?

  Surely they wouldn’t be camping? Or even glamping, as people nowadays did. Glamping – glamorous camping! There was an oxymoron if ever she heard one. And, anyway, even if the Muffetts were on the downmarket side of camping, in France campsites were all very well equipped with showers and even jacuzzis and saunas.

  It was a mystery.

  Theresa wondered whether, when Chloe finally left here to go back to Neil and his dad, she shouldn’t put on a mac and a pair of sunglasses and follow her, try to find out exactly where she was staying.

  She had a last-minute idea to lay out the unsolicited knife and the CD she had received on the tabletop to watch if Chloe reacted to them. She ran round to get one from her bag and the other from the shelves.

  The water stopped. Theresa once more went to the sink to fiddle with the kettle. She smirked at how tired this bit of business was, but it was the only thing she could think of doing which would enable her to turn away and seem insouciant.

  Chloe, dressed and smiling, came in and perched on one of the bar stools.

  ‘What a lovely spread!’ She greedily pounced on the pancakes, drenching them with honey and scattering strawberries on top.

  Theresa watched, fascinated. The girl seemed pretty hungry.

  ‘When you go, would you like to take a sandwich or a slice of cake or anything?’

  Still chewing, Chloe nodded, and Theresa set to work cutting and wrapping pieces of food.

  Then she wondered if giving Chloe food wasn’t a mistake. Wasn’t she enabling her to stay away? But Theresa couldn’t help herself. Food was her business. ‘Shall I put it in your bag?’ she asked.

  Chloe snatched up her bag and held it open. There was another clue. She obviously didn’t want Grandma digging around in there. Theresa was amazed at how easy it was to pick up signs from such little things.

  She just wished she could make sense of them.

  ‘How will you get back, Chloe? Will Neil’s dad pick you up?’

  Chloe laughed. ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘Will you take the train? They’re very cheap down here.’

  ‘I know, Grandma. And the buses are even cheaper.’

  ‘You can go as far as Menton or Cannes for €1.50, you know. Do you have to go far?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Theresa’s mind was racing now. Was Chloe fudging things, or did she really not know? ‘How did you pay for your ticket here?’

  ‘Oh God, Grandma, get off my case.’

  Theresa retreated. She wished she hadn’t said anything about the money now. ‘Neil will call you, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Chloe fastened her bag, food safely stowed, and rested it down on the floor. ‘Let’s not talk about me, hey? What time do you have to go to work? Can I stay here, or should I come with you to the restaurant?’

  ‘Whichever you like.’

  ‘I’d like to come to the restaurant. I like your friends.’

  Theresa was overwhelmed at how well this encounter was going.

  ‘That’s some knife, Grandma.’ Chloe had picked up the knife and laid it down again. She ignored the Ravel CD, even though her name was part of the title. It didn’t look as though she had had anything to do with the mystery gifts.

  ‘It’s lovely here, Gran.’

  Theresa knew this easy chat was a good sign. Now she must make it relaxed enough for Chloe to want to come back. ‘I’ll get you my spare key, darling. Just in case. You never know.’ As she opened the drawer next to the back door, she glanced out into the courtyard, and remembered the ghostly voice calling out Theresa. How different it all seemed in daylight.

  She wondered …

  ‘Last night . . . You and Neil weren’t staying in the Hotel Astra, were you?’

  ‘No.’ Chloe used that upwards inflection which indicated that it was a stupid question not deserving a sensible answer. ‘I haven’t been in any hotels since I got here.’

  As Theresa handed Chloe the key, she noticed somebody walk past the front window, for a second blocking out the sun.

  Even before the doorbell rang she knew exactly who it was.

  Imogen.

  And she also saw that Chloe had seen her.

  How to avoid this situation? There was no way. There would be an inevitable clash and she realised at this second she had totally lost Chloe’s trust.

  ‘You’re a liar, Gran. A big fat liar. You bitch! How could you do this to me?’

  ‘I thought she would arrive much later, Chloe.’ Theresa tried to reason as best she could in the few seconds she had. ‘I wanted to meet you alone. We’re all desperately worried about you, darling. Especially your mother.’

  ‘Is there another way out of here?’ Chloe darted to the back door; then, seeing it was a dead end, ran back.

  Theresa opened the front door to Imogen.

  Chloe rushed past her. But Imogen was too quick. On the doorstep mother and daughter wrestled, Imogen pulling and tugging at Chloe’s clothing and wrists. Chloe wriggled and bit her mother’s arm, trying to free herself. Then, tearing herself away, Chloe ran off up the hill.

  Theresa feared that that could be the last either she or Imogen would see or hear of Chloe for some time.

  Imogen chased up the hill after her, but Chloe was young and fit and she soon disappeared into the dark, narrow alleyways of the Old Town.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sally’s afternoon went slowly. On every take she was aware of Phoo, lurking behind the camera.

  The scene was very wordy. And as the two characters were quarrelling, it was rather physical too, with slaps and hair grabbing.

  After the master shot was completed, Sally was taken to one side to have her hair put back into the state it had been at the top of the scene, ready to start again, this time with the camera, over Eggy’s shoulder, on a single close-up shot on her.

  ‘Who is that peculiar w
oman lurking among the camera crew?’ asked Judy, as she touched up Sally’s mascara.

  ‘She’s Eggy’s husband . . .’ Sally laughed. ‘I meant his wife.’

  ‘Ah, I see!’ replied Judy, with a knowing nod. ‘That explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Judy. ‘I need to do your lips again, can you . . . ?’

  Sally presented her lips. Silenced by the make-up brush, she went through it all.

  She must not let Phoo’s presence unnerve her. But it was hard.

  She took her place and Daniel called, ‘Action’. Every time she started a bit of dialogue she would catch eyes with Phoo. The woman had an uncanny way of moving around and getting into her eyeline.

  Did Eggy also seem rather put out, or was she imagining it? He had none of the fire he’d had in earlier scenes. It was almost as though he was holding back.

  They finished the quarrel on the beach to Daniel’s satisfaction, although, if everyone hadn’t been so pressed, Sally might have asked for another take just to make it that little bit better.

  The next set-up was lower down on the beach, at the water’s edge. A small motorboat was anchored there. She and Eggy, still fighting, balancing the spoils of their robbery, still visible in the beret, had to wade out into the sea, climb aboard and drive the boat away, doing some fancy curls on the water, as though they had no idea how to steer. But this was one of those things like singing. In order to make something look bad you needed to be really good at it.

  Eggy was scratching his head. ‘I don’t know . . . I’ve never driven a boat before, I . . .’

  ‘I’m qualified,’ said Sally, stepping forward. ‘I could take the helm.’

  From the crowd, Sally heard Phoo’s sarcastic laugh, clear as a clarion call.

  ‘Thing is,’ said Eggy, ‘I get sick at the sight of water. I don’t think I can even climb aboard without puking.’

  ‘I don’t really . . . I mean . . . Who planned this? We’re fighting the light here.’ Daniel was angry. ‘We need to get on with it,’ he roared. As he waded into the waves, he slammed his foot down in fury. ‘Bugger this! Why didn’t somebody book a stunt driver? Since when did bloody actors know how to do anything? Sod it, sod, sod, sod!’

  The continuity girl ran forward and whispered something into Daniel’s ear.

  ‘All right. Apparently there is a boating chap on the way. Didn’t realise that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Typical, though – he’s stuck in traffic. Pity. It would be good to wrap this scene while we still have daylight. Once it’s dark we’ll be wasting our time and I’ll have to reschedule it for late tomorrow, when we’re miles away and we have tons of other stuff to plough through.’

  ‘I’m not joking, Daniel.’ Sally pressed on. She knew that capturing the light was essential today. ‘I really can drive a boat. I have all the certificates you need for France. I’m a qualified helmswoman, or whatever the word is.’

  Phoo stepped forward and took Daniel’s arm, as he shook the water out of his shoes. She was swaying. Clearly much rosé had been consumed.

  ‘Says the woman who couldn’t even balance a tea tray! I won’t have my husband risking life and limb . . .’

  ‘There would be no risk to Eggy or anybody, Phoo. I reiterate: I have all the necessary qualifications. If I’d been warned I would have brought them here today to show you . . .’

  ‘No. Sorry, Sally. You wouldn’t be good enough for this stunt. It’s all a major cock-up.’ Daniel shook his head and turned to the First Assistant. ‘What now?’

  The First murmured to Daniel, and Daniel shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said quietly. ‘Apparently, the stunt driver is parking his car. We might still catch the scene . . .’ He squinted at the horizon through a rolled-up hand, then stamped again. ‘But I doubt it. Bloody Frogs!’

  ‘Daniel. I can do it.’ Sally didn’t know how to make him understand. Why was no one listening to her? ‘I drive a much bigger boat than this all the time.’

  ‘A boat!’ laughed Phoo. ‘Did you know, Daniel, that in her “spare” time Sally works as a waitress in a tired little restaurant in Bellevue-sur-Mer? And now she tells us she owns her own boat!’ She cackled, and glared at Sally, lips pursed, eyes flashing. ‘As if!’

  Daniel appraised Sally for a moment, then said, ‘No.’Fraid I can’t allow it. Too big a risk. Bloody Norah!’ He threw his arms up. ‘OK, folks, that’s a wrap.’

  The crew started to pack up their equipment and shuffle off.

  ‘Sally can easily do it,’ said a firm voice. Everyone turned to see who had spoken. Sally only heard a man with a heavy French accent. He was coming towards her, masked by the lighting boards. ‘I can vouch for her. She is an excellent helmswoman. I trained her myself in sea skills, and I signed her many certificates.’

  ‘And who are you, exactly?’ asked Daniel, to challenge the new arrival.

  ‘I’m the stunt driver.’ Holding out his pass, Sally’s friend Jean-Philippe emerged from the throng. She had rarely felt so delighted to see anyone in her life. Jean-Philippe had not only taught her seamanship but had often hired her to reposition boats for him when he was unavailable.

  ‘You may need to replace the Englishman. I could wear his costume . . . But, whatever, I think that Sally should drive.’

  Theresa’s day was hell. Imogen, of course, under the circumstances and understandably, had raged and ranted at her for at least two hours before she could escape by the necessity of heading off to work. Theresa, on the defensive, accidentally repeated the phrase which had infuriated Imogen before: ‘Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey’.

  ‘No, Mother. I’ll tell you exactly what will “catchee monkey”, and that’s a bit of discipline and co-operation between us. We are supposed to be the adults, and Chloe the child. You are sixty, Mother. Not sixteen.’

  Theresa wondered how soon before she was put into detention.

  Just as she was walking out of the door to head for the restaurant to start the lunch service, she heard Imogen’s phone bleep. Imogen glanced at the screen. ‘Attagirl!’ She looked across at Theresa. ‘My secretary has been rummaging away and finally we now have the current mobile-phone number of Mr Roger Muffett. Excuse me one moment.’ Imogen stabbed at the phone, then walked towards the front window and gazed out, her back to Theresa. ‘Good afternoon. Am I speaking to Roger Muffett?’

  Theresa could not hear the other side of the conversation, but as Imogen continued the call she understood that the reply was in the affirmative.

  ‘I am Neil’s former headmistress. That’s right, Mrs Firbank. Well, obviously what you do with your own child is your own business, although I should point out to you that it is illegal both in England and in France to keep a fifteen-year-old out of school.’

  Roger spoke.

  ‘Ah. Neil is receiving home schooling, is he? From you? I see. And you are qualified in which subjects exactly?’

  Roger spoke again.

  Theresa knew she must go to work, but could not bear to miss the results of this call.

  ‘Hmm. Be that as it may, Mr Muffett, I feel sure that Neil could better profit from being taught the normal curriculum rather than that of the “School of Life” as you put it. But that aside, I am quite keen to prosecute you for another matter.’

  Theresa understood from Imogen’s face that Roger let forth some nasty language.

  ‘Excuse me. You are holding another minor, thus preventing her from returning to her parents and her school. Therefore, while we’re at it, I will be informing the local police force, as well as the Met, Scotland Yard and Interpol, and anyone else who might be interested, that you currently are detaining a fifteen-year-old girl in your presence. A fifteen-year-old girl who should be at home with her mother in London. We might even call it kidnapping, Mr Muffett, which entails a hefty prison sentence . . .’

  A brief diatribe from Roger.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Roger spoke again. His voice was clearly extremely ag
itated. It had risen in pitch, speed and volume, so that now even Theresa could hear the odd word.

  ‘I’m talking about Chloe Firbank. Yes, Mr Muffett. That is my daughter, Chloe. And she is fifteen years of age.’

  Another rant down the line.

  ‘What do you mean, you have never even set eyes on Chloe? She is staying with you and Neil in your mansion or whatever it is you possess down here . . .’

  To Theresa’s ear, Roger sounded so distraught and angry that it seemed as though he might be about to pop a blood vessel.

  She actually heard the next sentences quite clearly:

  ‘It’s not a fucking mansion. It’s a bloody boat. The bitch got the fucking house, the fucking car, the lot. I’m living on a bloody boat!’

  Despite the barrage of swear words Imogen was seemingly unruffled. ‘I don’t care if you’re living on board the wreck of the Hesperus, Mr Muffett, you will locate my daughter and you will return her to me in Bellevue-sur-Mer by seven o’clock this evening. You can bring her to the Hotel Astra, where I am staying. If she doesn’t arrive here by that time, I will have no other option but to call the police and have you arrested.’ She stabbed the call to an end and dropped the phone in her handbag. ‘And that, Mother, is how you deal with a runaway child.’

  ‘A boat.’ Theresa looked out at the harbour. She was full of misgivings. From what she gleaned from the call, Roger Muffett didn’t even know Chloe was actually staying with Neil. ‘And the father didn’t realise she was on board?’

  ‘So he claims. But he would be quite capable of lying about that, I’d think.’

  For Theresa things started to fall into place. It would certainly explain both Chloe’s hunger and her desire for a shower this morning.

  ‘I really do think he might not have known, Imogen. When Chloe arrived here earlier, she was hungry, she had no money and she wanted a shower. If she had come from that boat . . .’

  ‘I don’t imagine his boat is big enough for it to be impossible for him to find Chloe. She’s not a Lilliputian, and his boat can hardly be the Queen Mary 2.’

  ‘She’s not on board now, though, is she?’