by Celia Imrie
She looked across. Their oar was touching the rocks.
‘And on a count of three – heave away. Push with all your might!’
The others gripped their oar which now lay parallel to Sally’s.
‘One, two, three – and heave!’
They pushed hard enough to edge the RIB away from the wreckage.
It moved off with the sea, bucking on the waves like a horse at a rodeo.
‘Put the oar inside the boat now. Sit low on the floor and grab hold of those ropes on the side. Huddle up, but – do NOT let go.’
Sally returned to the console.
She prayed that the engine had simply been flooded and that by now it might engage.
A great wave hit them and swept them further out. Another wave followed in its wake and broke on top of them, drenching them all.
The RIB took on a lot of water.
Sally turned the key – a splutter.
She shouted down at Neil. ‘Get the hat off Eggy. Empty it over that side . . .’ she pointed to the leeward side ‘ . . . then use it to collect as much water as you can from the floor of the boat.’
‘Look!’
As Neil turned back to face Eggy, Chloe gasped.
‘The boat we were on . . .’
The wave which had inundated them had scooped up the prow of The Bitch Got The House.
The whole boat was now nothing but a mess of broken white pieces, floating on the waves. Before their eyes the largest remaining portion sank down into the depths. All that was left was the name, bobbing on the water, slamming itself against the rugged crags.
Sally counted to three and once more turned the key.
Theresa pulled away from Marcel.
He had managed to tumble her down on to the duvet. She struggled to sit up. There was no floor to stand on; the entire tiny cabin area was filled with bed. On all fours, Theresa crawled across the heart-shaped cushions, her head scraping the ceiling, trying to reach the little hatchway out.
Marcel grabbed her by the ankle. She was amazed how strong his grip was. She thrashed around like a floundering fish, pulling herself forward inch by inch. His hand moved up under her skirt.
‘I know you love me, Theresa. You let me know all the time, my darling. And when I heard you might go back to London I panicked.’
Theresa couldn’t remember saying she was going back to London, except to look for Chloe.
‘There was that message on your answering machine. An office in Hampstead . . .’ He was up beside her now, face to face. ‘When the others say cruel things you are always the one to soften their words with your sweet loving heart.’
Theresa cursed the day she had ever tried to be the peacemaker.
‘Soon we can be together all the time. We can anywhere, together. You said once you were free of the restaurant you could spend lots of time with me. And so you can. For I will be free too and have money. You will have anything you desire.’
Theresa twisted her head around to make sure she was looking him in the eye as she said, ‘Marcel – I did not mean any of that personally. You have misunderstood me. I have no feelings for you. None. As for the restaurant . . . it was all just . . . the things people say and don’t really mean . . .’
‘You do mean them. And you love me. You know you do! You told me so many times. Je t’aime. Je t’adore. You’ve said it.’
‘Never! Never have I said those things.’ But even as the denial came out of her mouth, she wondered whether, when reaching for a compliment in her basic French, she might have accidentally said, ‘Je t’aime, je t’adore’ when she really meant Je l’aime, je l’adore. I love IT, I adore IT.
‘You give me signs, Theresa. All the time you give me signs. You left the book for me. All those lovely photos of yourself. You felt sexy with me.’ With some horror Theresa realised she must have made the elementary error of saying ‘Je suis chaud’ – ‘I feel sexy’ – when she meant ‘J’ai chaud’ – ‘I am hot’. Marcel was still speaking: ‘You are a lonely woman; I am a lonely man.’
As Theresa stretched forward, trying to push open the hatch, Marcel once again launched himself towards her, his hands fumbling clumsily at her breasts.
His face was close to hers now. He rolled on top of her.
She tried to escape his kiss but, as she rolled and tumbled through the mess of bedding, still aiming for the doorway, Marcel’s wet, cold lips slithered over her ear.
Simultaneously he caught hold of the edge of her blouse and yanked at it. She heard the fabric rip. Buttons flew off.
She attempted to cover up her flabby body and too-tight bra. But Marcel’s hands seemed to be everywhere, palpating at her flesh.
She kicked against the hull and tried to use the solid surface to lever herself forward, but with his dead weight on top of her it was impossible to get anywhere.
To make matters even worse, the little boat had started rocking violently from side to side.
Every time Theresa thought she was making progress, she would lose her balance and roll away from the hatch.
Marcel was now tugging at her skirt, trying to pull it up, stroking the naked flesh of her legs.
The boat started jerking up and down while still rolling.
Was it sinking? What was going on? Had they been sucked into a whirlpool? Would she now drown, going down with the ship, like Rebecca in that book?
Marcel was no longer trying to grope her. She looked down and could see why. He was fumbling at his fly buttons.
Twisting her body, Theresa curled into a foetal position, then suddenly stretched out and kicked the hatch open. She turned around once more and squeezed herself through the hole leading to the open air. On hands and knees, she scrambled up the step on to the deck. She lay panting for a second; then, pulling down her clothing, she clambered to her feet. Using the wheel to get herself upright, Theresa came face to face with two men.
‘Madame? Avez-vous besoin de notre aide?’
Two burly, helmeted coastguards stood on the rocking deck of Marcel’s craft.
Theresa saw the slanting French flag on the grey side of the lifeboat. She looked up. The rest of the brigade who’d come to save her were standing ready with a ladder.
‘Oui.’ Theresa collapsed into their arms. ‘Oui! Please, please help me. S’il vous plaît.’
TWENTY-SIX
Sally’s boat, complete with three passengers, limped towards the shore. A welcoming party was waiting on the beach. The whole team was running towards them, bearing gold emergency blankets, hand warmers and hot drinks.
Sally saw the whirring blue lights of an ambulance waiting on the road above the shore.
‘The poor old boy has been so ill,’ she told one of the paramedics who came down to meet them.
Face white as paper, Eggy climbed out of the boat and the paramedic steered him up towards the ambulance.
Other paramedics rushed down to check out the two shivering children.
While they were rowing against the raging sea, with intermittent help from a spluttering outboard motor, the kids had told Sally that neither of them had a desire ever to run away again. All they wanted now was the warmth of a house, a home. They even told Sally, who kept them talking all the way as a protection against hypothermia, that if they had the liberty to see each other from time to time, they’d be good and go back to school in London.
Job well done, thought Sally.
More than this, Neil told her that he was going to write to the judge who saw to his parents’ divorce and tell him that he had made a mistake because he really wanted to live in London, not on a boat. Never again on a boat.
Although exhausted, as Sally trudged up the shingle, while wardrobe staff surrounded her, pulling off the costume jewellery and throwing warm blankets over her wet evening dress, something about tonight’s escapade made her want to dance and sing.
‘Hope there wasn’t a hair in the gate,’ she called out as she passed the camera operator. ‘Call me unprofessional, but I’m
not willing to do a second take on that one. And if you don’t like it you can sue me!’
‘I take my hat off to you, Sally,’ he replied as he started packing up his equipment. ‘We caught most of what happened on a zoom lens. We’d stopped rolling, but I assure you that we never let you out of our sight.’
‘You are quite the heroine,’ added the First Assistant. ‘Talk about sangfroid.’
‘I could have done with having some way of communicating with you, actually,’ she replied. ‘It wasn’t a good idea to let us go out there willy-nilly.’
‘My bad!’ Daniel, apologetic and hunched, scampered to Sally’s side. ‘They all wanted to give you a walkie-talkie or something, Sandy—’
‘Sally!’
‘I thought it might show, or you’d start using it too early and it might ruin the scene or . . . it would take away from the authenticity . . .’
Sally threw him a glance in disbelief.
There were no words.
‘It’s lucky for you, Daniel, that I know how to use a ship’s radio. At least I could call in for emergency help, even if I did manage to save us before they reached us. Oh. Yes. Someone better phone them and say we’ve made it to land.’
Sally noticed that other members of the crew had started looking out to sea once more.
‘Looks like they’ve got here.’ The First pointed out into the bay, where a large grey lifeboat, searchlights scanning the water, was thundering in their direction.
Someone from the boat was talking through a loudspeaker.
The First Assistant grabbed his megaphone and replied in French. ‘The two children are safe. They are here with the SAMU. Their boat is destroyed. Over.’
‘Their grandmother is here with us, on board,’ called the lifeboat. ‘She wants to come ashore. Can you assist? Over.’
The First Assistant grouped as many of the crew together as he could, and they waded out to pull in the small tender, which a few minutes later carried Theresa to the shore.
Hearing the interchange, Sally turned and rushed down to the water’s edge to join them, torn evening dress twinkling in the reflection of the searchlights.
‘Come along, darling!’ Sally looked at Theresa’s clothing, which was also ripped and ruined. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Long story,’ Theresa panted. ‘Where are they?’
Hand in hand, the two women scrambled up the beach to the ambulance, where, wrapped in gold foil blankets, Chloe and Neil sat sipping warm drinks.
‘Thank God,’ cried Theresa.
Chloe jumped up and ran into her arms. ‘Oh Gran! I’m so sorry.’
The two stood hugging one another for a long time.
‘I’m sorry too, Mrs Simmonds.’ Neil crept forward. ‘My dad is going to kill me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We sunk his boat.’
Theresa put out her other arm and wrapped it around Neil, at the same time hoping Roger was all right.
Sally backed slowly away. But not before overhearing the strangest snippet of conversation: ‘The chocolate brownies which you took from my kitchen?’
‘We didn’t have time to save them. They went down with the ship before we even tasted them.’
‘Thank God for that!’
Mystified, Sally moved over to the nearby seat where Eggy sprawled, exhausted, but at least displaying some colour back in his cheeks. He sat up and shot her an embarrassed smile. ‘I’m so sorry, darling.’ He stood and spoke to the paramedic who had been helping him. ‘May I?’
The paramedic indicated that it was fine for him to go.
‘I have to say, Salz, that that was one of the worst days of my whole life.’ Tottering slightly, he limped along at Sally’s side. ‘But in the end it was worth it. Because I witnessed you being so brave and so calm. Thank you.’
‘I’ve got to go to Wardrobe and get out of this dress.’ Sally pushed her damp hair out of her face. ‘And while we walk, you can tell me now why you were late on set today.’
‘Oh dear,’ Eggy grunted. ‘You may recall I told you I had a hot lunch date.’
Sally lowered her voice to say: ‘Don’t tell me it was with Theresa?’
‘Theresa? No! Whatever gave you that idea? It was a woman I had met on the seafront in Bellevue-sur-Mer. I invited her to lunch. I thought we would have some fun.’
‘By the sound of it much too much fun.’
‘She told me she had a hotel room waiting, and . . . well, I’m just a man, Sally . . .’
Sally sighed. The same old story.
‘But it seems that the woman had some axe to grind with me. She’s the one who came up to rescue us from that village. Actually I don’t remember a thing about it.’
‘Carol?’
‘Yes. Carol. She had got it into her head that I was casting my favours around a little too liberally and decided to teach me a lesson by tempting me to a hotel room, where she told me she’d give me a massage . . .’
‘Oh Eggy!’ Sally didn’t know which of them she was most cross with . . . or disappointed by.
The two actors climbed the steps of the wardrobe van.
‘So, anyway, I undressed and lay, face down, on the bed. She knelt behind me, and I really thought she was going to give my shoulders a nice rub. But she tied my wrists. I tried to struggle but, believe me, that is one strong woman.’
Sally knew this, but now was not the moment to explain why.
‘Then, once I was tied, she calmly left the room, taking all my clothing with her, and told the hotel desk that if they heard shouting coming from the room, it was just me practising my lines.’
Bloody Carol! Since when did she become the avenging angel?
Sophie emerged from the rows of costumes at the back of the wardrobe wagon door. ‘Who’s first? Sally?’
‘Let Eggy go first.’ Sally stood outside, making the most of the warm air blowing from the wardrobe caravan’s fan heater.
‘Don’t make a fuss, will you?’ called Eggy through the billowing fabric which covered the door. ‘I asked for it, really.’
Sally heard Eggy sigh. ‘I’m just a silly old fool.’
Sophie asked him: ‘Where is the top hat?’
Before he could reply Sally called out. ‘Ruined, I’m afraid, Sophie. We had to use it to bail out the boat when we were inundated.’
‘I made such a fool of myself, over and over, today, didn’t I?’
Sally remained silent.
‘I am such a stereotypical Englishman,’ he said. ‘It’s too embarrassing.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘As you know, I love Marmite, I can’t live without my marmalade, or a nice cup of tea. But I am English, Sally, and you know it is every Englishman’s duty to be seasick.’
The Third Assistant came up to Sally. ‘While you’re waiting, why not get your make-up off? It’s very warm in the wagon.’
Sally trudged up the hill.
Daniel, phone stuck to his ear as normal, was lurking near the make-up van door.
‘Sally!’ He put the phone away so quickly that Sally wondered if there had been anyone on the line at all. ‘I just have to reiterate how sorry we are and . . . if there’s anything . . .’
Same old claptrap.
She wondered if she asked for a Steinway grand piano, would he come up with it? Actually she felt like slapping his face, but instead she turned and said, ‘Thank you, Daniel, I’d like a whisky, please. Laphroaig, one ice cube.’
‘Right. Whisky. Laphroaig. Fine. I’m on it.’ Two steps of darting forward, then Daniel stopped in his tracks.
Sally knew there would be a catch, even to this simple request.
Suddenly Daniel went into something like a Uriah Heep-type grovelling bow, and his voice took on an irritating unctuous quality. ‘We are so flattered . . .’
Sally looked up to see what or whom had so vividly caught his attention.
Wearing a cashmere coat, with silk scarf, slacks and trainers, walking down the slope which led to the
film unit, came Marina Martel. She looked every inch the world-famous movie star that she was.
‘Sally! My sweet! Look at you!’ Marina raised her hands as she beheld the sight of Sally: ripped evening gown, littered with grit and seaweed; make-up smeared down her face; hair as unkempt as Struwwelpeter’s. ‘Oh, Sally, it’s as though you were back on Ssssaturday Ssssslamerama!’
‘Except tonight we’ve reversed roles,’ laughed Sally. ‘Oh, Marina, please forgive me. I’m so sorry I shouted at you earlier. I thought you were—’
‘Your daughter, Marianne.’ With a wave of a hand, Marina brushed away any idea that Sally had insulted her. ‘They explained that to me. I was only calling you because I didn’t want you running away the minute you were wrapped, without us having a chance to catch up. I wanted to invite you to dinner right after the shoot. But after what happened tonight, it doesn’t look like such a brilliant idea, so I suppose that’s it.’
Despite the anguish and danger she had gone through, Sally felt exhilarated.
The principal thought in her mind was jubilation that she had survived.
They all had survived.
It was something to be celebrated.
‘Do you know, Marina,’ she replied. ‘If you’re still up for it, it won’t take me ten minutes to smarten up. But I have to warn you – I could eat a horse.’
‘They do that in France?’ asked Marina.
Sally nodded. ‘But, frankly, I’d prefer a pizza!’
PART SIX
MACARONI NIÇOISE
Serves 4.
small packet of macaroni (or ziti, bucatini or spaghetti)
1 onion, peeled and chopped
olive oil
1 aubergine, chopped
1 red pepper, deseeded and chopped
1 courgette, chopped
4 cloves of garlic, crushed
handful of black olives
large tin of tomatoes
squeeze of tomato puree
½ teaspoon herbes de Provence
salt and pepper
Parmesan or Sbrinz cheese, grated
fresh basil
Boil the pasta in a large pan of salted water until al dente, then drain and set aside. Meanwhile, in a large frying pan, fry the onion in a good glug of olive oil until tender. Add the aubergine and red pepper and, once they are softening, drop in the courgettes. When all is nicely cooked, add the garlic, then the olives and tomatoes. Finally add the tomato puree and herbes de Provence, with salt and pepper to taste. Put the pasta into the sauce and stir over heat. Serve topped with Parmesan or Sbrinz and a leaf of basil.