by Celia Imrie
TWENTY-SEVEN
In the cold light of morning, the world seemed a different place.
Nowhere was that more true that day than in the little town of Bellevue-sur-Mer.
Theresa opened the front door and took a deep breath of the warm sunny air.
She wondered if she needed a coat at all, took a jacket from the hook and rested it over her arm.
She locked up carefully. She must remember to get someone in to change the locks again.
She crossed the road and walked along the quayside.
Now that the water was still, shiny as a pale-blue plastic sheet, it was hard to believe the terrifying antics of last night had actually happened.
Rather than walk alongside the front of Marcel’s brasserie, Theresa stayed at the water’s edge.
She had no idea where he was, but after telling the coastguards what had happened, she had no doubt he would at least have been taken in by the police for questioning.
The brasserie was all closed up, the shutters pulled across, tables and chairs all inside.
She entered La Mosaïque through the front door.
William and Benjamin were seated with Zoe at one of the tables.
‘Poor Theresa!’ William rose to greet her with a warm embrace. ‘Once you had gone off in that boat, I got talking to Cyril and we realised there had been completely crossed wires between you two. You and your bad French. And his bad English.’
‘When Cyril entered your house he was in a terrible panic,’ said Benjamin.
‘And his English wasn’t up to the crisis,’ added William.
‘Why did he tell me he’d drugged his wife?’ Theresa was winding back the conversation, attempting to make sense of it.
William laughed. ‘He was trying to explain that he and his wife were your friends and that they had given you a gift of their special home-made brownies.’
‘He really wanted to warn you about Marcel,’ said Benjamin, pulling out a chair. ‘He saw your front door open, the lights on, and so grabbed a knife from his van, just in case he needed it, to protect you.’
‘He was so shocked, you see,’ William said. ‘By what he’d just seen in that storeroom of Marcel’s at the Astra.’
‘He took us all up to see it,’ drawled Zoe. ‘Looks like some weird artwork that Tracey Emin might have cooked up.’
‘Anyway,’ continued William, ‘Marcel, I suspect getting the idea from us, has been doing a delivery-style breakfast for the Astra while their kitchen is being renovated this last week. It was meant to be just the normal Continental. But with so many English and Germans staying there, they needed meat: sausages, bacon. So then Marcel phoned Cyril who brought the meats around to the brasserie. But later Marcel remembered he’d forgotten sliced ham, a favourite with the Scandinavians, and asked Cyril to bring it over yesterday afternoon. He thought Cyril would bring it to him at the brasserie. But Cyril thought it would be quicker to go straight to the Hotel Astra. The desk clerk pointed out where Marcel’s storeroom was and . . .’
‘Marcel had that room to himself,’ explained Benjamin, ‘and obviously didn’t think that anyone else would go in there. Why would they?’
‘But Cyril did.’ Theresa felt so sorry for her mistaken belief that it had been Cyril who was up to no good when he was only coming down to warn her. ‘And so did my granddaughters – always poking about where they shouldn’t be.’
‘But anyway,’ Zoe chipped in. ‘Poor you. Having that squelchy oyster mouth of Marcel’s land on you must have been quite a revolting experience.’
Theresa had another worry niggling at her.
‘Roger?’
‘Over and out,’ replied Zoe.
‘He’s not . . . ?’
‘Dead? Oh no. Sorry! Joke!’ said Zoe. ‘That wife of his dived in, fully clothed in her twinset and pearls, like a Home Counties Esther Williams, crawled out there, like Weissmuller, and pulled him to the shore. Gave him the kiss of life and everything. It couldn’t have been more like a movie.’
Carol swept in from the kitchen, bearing a tray with teas, coffees and a basket of Viennoiserie.
‘So anyway! Today’s the day . . .’
‘The day?’ Theresa wondered if she hadn’t forgotten something. ‘The day for what?’
‘When we open the offers.’ William spoke to Theresa as though to a child.
‘I hope we’re not accepting any offers from Marcel.’ Theresa recoiled at the very thought of the man.
‘God, no! Over my dead body,’ said Zoe, crossing herself, and whispering a prayer towards the ceiling.
‘Where’s Sally? Shouldn’t Sally be here?’
‘I am here.’ Sally slammed in through the front door, pulling off her coat and grabbing a seat at the table with the others. She looked at her watch. ‘I’m not late, am I?’
‘Just totally absent for a bloody week,’ murmured Zoe into her polo neck.
‘Oh, and, Carol, I’ve a bone to pick with you.’ Sally gave Carol the evil eye. ‘But later!’
‘Come along, everyone. The candidates should be here shortly.’ William took an official tone to start the meeting. ‘But we have two sealed offers before us. As you know, there was a reserve price set, so no more joke offers like Marcel’s.’
‘Good,’ replied Theresa. ‘No more anything from Marcel, thank you.’
‘So let’s open them.’ Benjamin folded his arms, ready for battle.
‘Who wants the honour?’ William held up two coloured envelopes.
‘It should be Sally and Theresa.’
‘The two women who deserted their posts,’ muttered Zoe.
‘I agree.’ Carol’s low voice drowned out Zoe’s remark. ‘They’ve both been through the mill, so . . .’
‘And opening an envelope is going to make it all better?’
Carol shot Zoe such a look that she was silenced.
William handed the pink envelope to Theresa and the blue one to Sally.
They both tore them open, pulled out the pieces of paper and held them up, displaying numbers, in euros.
Both numbers were well within the price range which would bail them out, and one even gave them all a little profit.
William glanced from pink to blue and back.
‘The pink wins.’
They turned to one another and embraced, smiling and laughing.
William twisted to face Zoe who seemed not to be as delighted as the others. ‘Smile, won’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Her face did not move. ‘I am smiling.’
‘Oh darling,’ said Theresa, flopping back in her chair with relief. ‘If that’s a genuine offer, it’s saved our old bacon. What would we say here in France? Saved our lardon. No, that sounds too like—’
‘What’s that?’ William shut her up. ‘Someone’s knocking at the back door?’
Carol jumped to her feet and ran through the kitchen to open it.
Simultaneously there was a demanding rap on the front door.
‘The warring parties, the pink and the blue, make their entrances from different sides of the stage,’ whispered Sally. ‘How fitting.’
‘It’s open,’ called Benjamin.
The tinkling sound heralded the arrival of Odile de la Warr who stepped forward and stood proudly on the threshold. ‘So . . . when do I get the keys?’ She jangled her bracelets, and swayed, hands on hips.
Carol came back from the kitchen, leading Roger and Cynthia Muffett.
William stood up and brusquely handed the blue note back to Madame de la Warr.
‘No deal, Odile.’
‘You mean we got it?’ Cynthia swirled around and kissed her husband on the cheek.
‘That’s fine with me,’ said Odile, already on her way out. ‘Yesterday afternoon I bought next door from that pervert who’s now up at the police station. It’s going to be the biggest Italian trattoria this side of Genoa.’
And she was gone.
Cynthia stepped forward.
‘Not only that, bu
t you should be the first to know: we’ve decided to remarry. We’re getting married tomorrow at the Salle des Mariages in Menton and you’re all invited.’
‘Will there be a reception?’ asked Zoe.
‘We didn’t know where?’
‘Why not in here?’
The restaurant front door swung open again.
‘Oh God, I hope it’s not Cruella de Vil, back to put a spell on us all,’ whispered William.
‘That would be Maleficent, actually,’ corrected Benjamin. ‘Cruella would want us to serve dog stew.’
But it was Imogen, with her three children and Neil Muffett, who ran across the room to join his parents.
‘I gather, from the departing party, that you got your price,’ said Imogen. ‘Congratulations!’
‘I think we all need to get up to a notary and sign some papers,’ said William, rising. ‘I think we can put the Closed sign up today.’
‘We’re going to be bridesmaids,’ said Lola. ‘In the room with fantastic walls.’
‘There’s a flying horse, and angels juggling.’ Cressida was very excited. ‘A man whose eye is a fish because he’s a fisherman.’
Zoe leaned in and added, ‘And some man on that same wall is going to hit the husband over the head with a club because he didn’t marry his ugly sister.’
Theresa pulled a face in Zoe’s direction.
‘Why are you rolling your eyes like that, Theresa?’ asked Zoe, all innocence. ‘You’re not a slot machine.’
‘Will Neil be pageboy?’ asked Theresa, anxious to change the subject.
Neil squirmed. ‘That would be just too weird,’ he said.
Lola edged up to Sally. ‘There was a picture of your daughter on the walls there too.’
Theresa was aghast. Not the whole Marcel saga over again, but this time with Sally’s daughter.
‘Frances told me it was a picture of Marianne,’ Lola confided. ‘But it didn’t look a bit like her. And she is the cymbal of France. But I play cymbal in percussion band and frankly the painter made a mistake because there was no cymbal.’
‘Come along!’ William was already at the door, ushering everyone out.
The gaggle continued to talk among themselves as they climbed the hill to the notary’s office.
Sally, lagging behind with Theresa, noticed Eggy and Phoo coming down the stairs of their flat, carrying their suitcases.
Marianne, who had been keeping her eyes on the English newspapers, had shown Sally the photos of Phoo in this morning’s edition. She wondered if the Markhams had seen them? Maybe by the time they got home to London the storm would have blown over, and, to use the old term, become today’s fish and chip wrapper.
‘That’s us off home to Blighty,’ called Eggy.
Phoo stepped forward to speak to Sally. ‘Edgar tells me you saved his life last night. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I really don’t know how I could go on without him. He’s my best friend, you know.’ Phoo dropped her suitcase into the boot of the BMW and took Sally by the hand. ‘And I realise I’ve been cruel and insensitive towards you. You were a sweet kid, really. Still are.’
She climbed into the passenger seat, then wound down the window and called back to Sally: ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday!’
As Eggy pulled open the driver’s door, he turned and gave Sally a wink. ‘We’re going to take the drive very slowly. Stay in some little French hotels en route. In a week or so I’ll be in front of the telly with a nice cup of tea.’
Eggy had been so desperate to get home that Sally knew that he must have seen the news about his wife and was not going to let her get back to London until the storm in a teacup had calmed down.
With a feeling of melancholy Sally watched the car speed off up the hill, tooting as it passed the straggling gang from La Mosaïque, both past and future.
‘We mustn’t fall out again, darling,’ said Sally to Theresa. ‘We’ve been through so much recently, both together and apart. And there are some things which only we two understand.’
A tear filled Theresa’s eye as she replied, ‘How about we do all this signing stuff, and then head off somewhere lovely for lunch?’
Sally thrust out a hand to shake.
‘Deal!’
Postscript
Marcel was found guilty of assault and attempted rape (of Theresa) and of actual bodily harm (to Roger Muffett). At his trial it came out that not only had he taken Theresa’s photo album, he had also ‘borrowed’ her keys from their peg in the cellar cupboard. Once inside her flat, he had fiddled with the answering machine, setting up a remote code by which he could listen to and even erase her incoming messages. His cell phone was found to be filled with images of Theresa, including a few of her standing in the dark at her own back door, wearing a nightie. When he knew Theresa was expecting to hear from her missing granddaughter, Marcel had lured her to Nice to sit alone in a café so that he could watch her for a whole afternoon. He is serving a seven-year prison sentence.
After her mini-scandal died down, Sally’s daughter, Marianne, went back to London. She will never forgive Cynthia Muffett for showing her husband the article in the British tabloid in which her huge financial gaffe was exposed. But the City has a short memory, and Marianne has just landed another prestigious job in Canary Wharf. On the office wall she has a photo of her mother standing beside Marina Martel taken outside the Grand Hotel Astor, Monte Carlo.
Odile de la Warr opened her Italian trattoria on the seafront at Bellevue-sur-Mer. It bore the name, in letters of green, white and red, Il Gatto e la Volpe. The locals have not decided whether Odile is the Cat or the Fox. Quite possibly she is both. All summer the terraces echo with Italian-speaking tourists. The customer numbers have been swelled hugely by the locals and visitors, plus the occasional outpouring from a passing cruise ship. The menu has recently been altered to reflect the reality of the clientele and now includes Hamburger Italienne with fries.
Cyril and his wife continue to live happily in Bellevue-sur-Mer. They both still enjoy making gifts of slightly illegal chocolate brownies to friends who appear un peu stressé.
Roger and Cynthia Muffett remarried in a delightfully opulent yet romantic ceremony at the Salle des Mariages in Menton. They live together in the big house in Streatham (previously owned by ‘The Bitch’). Roger is having a pool installed in the garden, where Cynthia will teach her husband how to swim. While their new brasserie, renamed Folie à Deux, is being decorated and expanded, they commute to Nice for business meetings. They hope to open to the public very soon, in time for the summer rush. They are seeking out a flat to buy near to the restaurant. While Neil is still at school, they plan to spend all their holidays on the Côte d’Azur. They have offered William and Benjamin the job of the hands-on management of the restaurant on a permanent basis; the two are considering the offer.
For the next school play, Frances, the drama teacher, has chosen The Way of the World. Mervin, the tech guy, is providing state-of-the-art lighting and a musical score.
After their Côte d’Azur adventures, Chloe and Neil are both happy to be back together at school in London. They will be starring as Millament and Mirabell in The Way of the World. Recently the kind father of a mutual school-friend invited them to join the family for a weekend on his white motor cruiser moored on the River Thames near Maidenhead. They politely declined.
Lola and Cressida were proud and excited bridesmaids at the Muffetts’ wedding. Three weeks later they were both given detentions and suspended after having been found responsible for painting huge psychedelic eyes on the inside walls of all the school lavatories. The sisters later explained to their mother/headmistress that it was only what the famous French painter called John Cockatoo would have done. He hated a blank wall.
Despite their ever-increasing ages, Phoebe Taylor and Edgar Markham continue to delight British audiences. They are currently rehearsing a new TV sitcom, written especially for them. They play a married couple divided on how they treat their ditz
y housekeeper. The role of housekeeper was offered to Sally.
She turned it down.
They have no idea why she didn’t want the part.
Carol has promised Sally that she will no longer be judge and jury on married men who have the audacity to flirt with her.
William and Benjamin have opened a small antique shop in the town. They hope that if they take up the job at Folie à Deux, they can manage to do both things at once.
Zoe is in two minds about her favourite Swiss plastic-surgery clinic, now that it has just opened a branch in nearby Nice. The week’s ‘holiday’ in Switzerland provided her a far better excuse to cover for her escapades with Botox and fillers.
Sally has a new London acting agent. She continues to live on the hill in Bellevue-sur-Mer, occasionally popping over to London for meetings and to film the odd TV role or commercial. She has been invited to the Hollywood premiere of her and Marina Martel’s new movie, Côte d’Azur Capers, early next year. She has already packed her case.
Among the messages left on Theresa’s phone, but wiped out by Marcel, was a job offer. Her old office asked if she would like to return to London and take up the position she had been retired from a few years back. Her replacement, a much younger woman, is going on a year’s pregnancy leave. They desperately need someone to fill in. Theresa turned them down.
But she is not pining. She has teamed up with Carol to do a home-delivery service. It gives them both a bit of income and is something which they can do from their own flats.
In order to improve her French, and to avoid further misunderstandings, Theresa has taken up a course at Alliance Française in Nice. She now knows well to avoid saying ‘je t’aime’ when you mean ‘je l’aime’, and NEVER EVER to say ‘Je suis chaud’.