by Celia Imrie
Nice Work
(If You Can Get It)
Celia Imrie
Dedicated to all my friends in the South of France
Contents
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Part Two
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Part Three
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Part Four
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Part Five
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Part Six
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Acknowledgements
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Also available by Celia Imrie
Part One
RATATOUILLE
Traditionally, a ratatouille has six ingredients:
tomatoes
courgettes
onions
aubergines
garlic
red peppers
These are chopped and dropped into a pan with some hot olive oil, then stirred, covered with a lid and left to simmer until everything joins into one tasty, thick dish.
1
The small town of Bellevue-Sur-Mer nestles in a neat inlet on the Mediterranean, in that south-east corner of France known to the British as the French Riviera and to the natives as the Côte d’Azur. A few miles from Nice, these days Bellevue-Sur-Mer is quite self-sufficient, although it was once, and not so long ago, a sleepy fishing village. There are cafés galore, little art galleries, a small casino, beaches, both private and public, chic clothing boutiques and many mini-marts, open all hours and selling everything from fresh fruit to chocolate bars and fishing rods. There is also a port de plaisance, where small fishing boats moor alongside pleasure boats. The pleasure boats come in all sizes, from tiny canoes to the gigantic white gin palaces so popular in Mediterranean holiday towns.
The picturesque old houses of the town, mainly small, have little windows protected by colourful shutters that serve two purposes: to keep out the glaring light of the sun in summer and to keep the inside warm in winter. These houses perch along the steep roads and lanes that wind their way, zigzagging up from the sea to the foothills of the Alpes-Maritimes.
Behind everything, mountains, snow-capped for many months of the year, provide a shelter against the north wind and contribute to the wonderful microclimate of the French Riviera.
The major roads above the town – the Highway of the Sun and the Corniche – have been carved through the hills and span the valleys on tall bridges. Branching from the main thoroughfares, smaller roads, busy with shops, lead down to dark alleyways, and vertiginous flights of stone steps take visitors and locals from the bus stops, high in the town, to the bustling shoreline, with its railway station, souvenir shops, brasseries and small pebbly beach.
In winter Bellevue-Sur-Mer is a quiet sort of place.
In summer it buzzes.
And during those times in between . . . well, that all depends . . .
Festivals and conferences bring people into the area, cruise ships regularly dump thousands of tourists on the shore for the daylight hours of a single day, filling the lanes with dawdling gawpers. Occasionally a huge celebrity visits here, and with them come their entourage, the paparazzi and the fans. Madonna is known to have hired a villa once for the summer vacation, and a single member of One Direction is believed to have briefly rented a place at the top of the town for some weeks after Christmas.
But celebrities are not the only English-speaking inhabitants of Bellevue-Sur-Mer. Like all the beautiful places of the world, from Spain, Italy and France to Australia and Canada, Bellevue-Sur-Mer is home to British and American expatriates: retirees, people on the run from their families or their past, and those who have simply come to escape the dreary, rainy winters. Many are attracted to the warm weather or the food and continental way of life, or seek to follow in the famed footsteps of so many painters, writers and members of royalty, from the Russian tsars to the kings of the Belgians, Henri Matisse to Pablo Picasso and Anton Chekhov to Somerset Maugham.
The South of France has always been very kind to the Anglophone invader. After all, the British, led by Queen Victoria, invented the Riviera as a holiday destination. As a result, there are English newspapers and local radio stations that broadcast in English, telling of cinema screenings, coffee mornings and evening dances.
Wherever they live, many English-speaking residents have satellite dishes beaming in regular doses of Coronation Street and EastEnders, keeping the roots attaching them to home. There are even a few shops devoted to all things British – these establishments have paintings of Coldstream Guards, Union Jacks and red phone boxes on their doors. One even has a genuine red double-decker bus parked on the forecourt. In these jolly little shops, chino-wearing men, and women in potter’s smocks stock up on teabags and marmalade, Marmite and baked beans.
Like expats the world over, the English speakers of Bellevue-Sur-Mer tend to gather.
Straddling the expat community, our particular small band of friends eschew the English way of life, but still spend time with each other.
* * *
Beside the Gare Maritime, right down on the seafront, Theresa Simmonds, a relative newcomer to the town, lives in a small ground-floor apartment; William and his younger partner Benjamin occupy a house up a bit from her. Zoe, an eccentric ex-1960s King’s Road dolly-bird, now in her late seventies (or is it more?), has a place a few doors away. Sally Connor, once a celebrity herself, lives in a little house not far from Zoe. And their American friend Carol is staying, for the moment, in the home she had shared with her soon-to-be-ex-husband, who had recently returned to live in the States.
Their French-speaking skills are varied. William, Zoe and Sally, having lived here for many years, are fluent. The others are trying hard to get better, attending classes or avidly watching French TV and listening to local radio.
The sun was out that morning and Theresa slumped into her armchair with a cup of coffee.
She sighed with happiness. Theresa had moved from London to Bellevue-Sur-Mer five months ago. It may have been a short while, but it had certainly been an eventful one, and Theresa was still nursing the remnants of a black eye from an encounter with a burglar a few days ago. Her eye was now an unseemly shade of ochre.
But things were looking up.
Theresa was living here in the South of France after an unwelcome blow from her London boss had put her into early retirement. Although she had received the news of her dismissal only a few months away from her sixtieth birthday, Theresa felt short-changed. These days, didn’t people go on working much longer? Old-age pensions didn’t start being doled out till you were older, so why were you expected to give it all up? Nonetheless Theresa had found herself out of work and out of luck. She had sold her Highgate house, cashed in her savings and moved to the Côte d’Azur. But now that she was here, just because Theresa was entering her sixtieth year, she didn’t want to turn into a couch potato. She wanted to keep active, to be busy. She wanted a purpose, something to strive for, something to keep her stimulated in mind and body. Her vision
of moving into old age had never consisted of sitting in a deckchair, sleeping, going on cruises or pottering around in the garden. She wanted to look forward and, as the song goes, ‘Open a new window . . . every day’. Just because you were over sixty didn’t mean you couldn’t still have ambitions.
Three of Theresa’s neighbours had big schemes for the future. The whole idea had hatched at a recent party, where she’d got talking to them, and they had discussed starting work on a project together, based here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer.
The plan was to open a small bistro-style restaurant, with Theresa volunteering herself, naturally, as head chef.
On the bus home from the party three of the five had shaken hands on it.
Theresa loved food and cooking and even sitting reading old cookery books, but, she wondered, was this project the right one for her?
For a start it was a hell of a risk and would take up all of her money, including the better part of her recent windfall, and all of her time. If she signed up, there would be no more mornings sitting here, gazing out of the window, sipping coffee. She would be committed to working a six-day week, with late hours, for the foreseeable future.
Theresa was in a quandary – to join or not to join?
She was not alone. Sally, their mutual friend, was also sitting on the fence.
So far, it was suggested that William would supervise the wine, the business affairs and the welcome, and, with his boyfriend Benjamin, he would also oversee the fetching and carrying. Benjamin would work on advertising with Carol. Carol meanwhile would manage the internal ambience – the décor, music, lighting, tableware, etcetera – as well as being in charge of public relations.
Once they opened, William, Carol and Benjamin would run the front of house, acting as maître d’ and waiters.
If she did join them, Theresa would be expected to be the obvious chef-in-residence, as she had offered at the outset. If Sally came in with them she had a choice: she could work in the kitchen or be the chief welcoming party and reservations manager, freeing up William to concentrate fully on his favoured duties as a sommelier and bookkeeper.
Benjamin would be jack of all trades, assisting Theresa in the kitchen or William and Carol in the dining room – wherever he was most needed.
If Theresa and Sally decided against joining the project, or it proved too much work for the little band of friends to manage, they planned to hire others to help out. But Theresa worried that it would be a huge task to find someone else to take on the cooking, and secretly she wouldn’t want that anyway. It was a conundrum.
This morning they had arranged to meet at her place for breakfast to hear her decision and to share their information.
To get things rolling, the gang still had to find the perfect premises. Somewhere small, preferably with a previous licence and a decent aspect.
The meeting was due to start in ten minutes, but meanwhile Theresa was enjoying sharpening up her French-language skills by reading the local paper, a dictionary at her side.
The headlines and many pages today were full of one thing only – the preparations for the upcoming film festival at nearby Cannes. There were detailed articles about the stars who were going to make up the panels and the jury and more about the films that had been chosen to compete for the prestigious Palme d’Or. Quite a glamorous array of Hollywood faces covered the front page. Theresa was a particular fan of the American actress Marina Martel, who was topping the array of A-listers due to be at the festival.
On an inside page Theresa found an article about a man who owned a tiny bistro in a hillside village not far from Bellevue-Sur-Mer (and many miles away from Cannes) who had found fame last year when George Clooney and Leonardo DiCaprio arrived unannounced late one evening, after attending some screening at the film festival, wanting dinner. The ensuing brouhaha had made the man’s restaurant so popular that during the following months the owner had had to squeeze in extra tables and lay on additional staff to cope with the long list of reservations. Now local people and tourists were booking tables there six months in advance and a Michelin star was predicted.
This all seemed rather odd to Theresa, rather like shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. Surely the would-be diners had missed their chance of seeing the famous stars? Or was it a case of: if it’s good enough for George and Leo, it’s good enough for me?
If only they could guarantee something like that happening, it would take a bit of the risk out of it.
Still, even if she didn’t join them, there was no harm in helping the others – in an advisory capacity, maybe.
Theresa grabbed a pencil and wrote the word ‘publicity’, rather than just ‘advertising’. Word needed to be spread, and nowadays celebrities were the easiest way to get newspaper coverage. Someone would have to be in charge of ideas about that kind of thing. Carol, perhaps, as she had a sense of flair and fashion and an enviable way of charming the birds from the trees.
Publicity was a strange beast. No one seemed to be able to control it, and it caused misery for many, but sometimes it worked in your favour, as in the case of that hillside bistro.
Now Theresa was already wishing that some similarly serendipitous event might bring this projected ‘dream’ restaurant success.
A sharp rapping on the door jolted Theresa out of her reverie. She looked at her watch.
As usual, William and Benjamin had arrived on the dot.
Theresa welcomed them in and they took their places around her wrought-iron and glass table while she fixed a fresh pot of coffee.
William pulled out paper, pads and pencils and happily arranged them in front of him, while Benjamin went to the kitchen to help Theresa, fetching cups and saucers. Theresa brought to the table a tray of rolls she had baked early that morning.
‘Carol phoned yesterday to say that the owner of that filthy café behind the station is thinking of selling.’
William took a large pot of jam from his bag and plonked it in the centre of the table.
‘I thought we were only looking for classy locations?’
‘The station is busy, William,’ said Benjamin. ‘Lots of passing trade.’
‘Is that the kind of trade we’re after?’ said William. ‘Lazy tourists who’re looking for a bag of chips or an ice cream for the beach?’
Theresa’s guests started buttering their rolls and she sat.
‘I suppose somewhere is better than nowhere.’
‘Don’t be daft, Theresa. You only get one chance at a first impression. It’s do or die; we’d be better on the seafront, or in one of those high-up streets, somewhere with a terrace and a view.’ William popped the jam jar open, letting the framboise fragrance escape, and started spreading the jam thickly on to his roll.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, William,’ said Benjamin. ‘You know how hard it is to get any property round here, especially at this time of year.’
‘Anyhow, where is Carol?’ William sounded vaguely annoyed. ‘Always, always late.’
Theresa listened to the two men bickering and her mind was made up.
She would not join them.
She would wait a few weeks and hopefully something else would come along to keep her busy.
Before she spoke up, the phone rang. It was Sally.
‘I know you’re having the meeting around now,’ said Sally. ‘I’ve thought long and deep and I’ve decided not to be part of it.’
William was up and standing at Theresa’s shoulder, listening in. He grabbed the receiver. ‘What do you mean, you don’t want to be part of it?’
‘It’s just not my kind of thing, I’m afraid, William. But seriously, if you need help further down the line, I’d be glad to be of assistance if I can. Good luck.’
She ended the call.
Theresa returned to the table. She didn’t dare mention her doubts now and leave them in the lurch without a chef.
‘Oh God!’ Benjamin put his face into his hands. ‘How bloody disappointing. I was sure she’d joi
n us.’
‘I wouldn’t touch that place by the station. Frankly, I think you’d do better converting this place into a restaurant,’ said Theresa, sitting.
‘And where would you sleep? A caravan at Le Camping?’
‘Do we want to catch some of this summer’s trade or not?’ Benjamin stood and poured coffee for everyone. ‘We’d be mad to hang about till we find the right place and open in the winter when there isn’t the influx of tourists to give us good write-ups on TripAdvisor.’
‘Or bad ones,’ said William.
‘I see your point, William,’ shrugged Theresa. ‘It is already May. You’ve got a lot to do very quickly.’
‘If we go for the station place, you can count me out,’ said William, deliberately smoothing back his hair. ‘I’m not running a burger bar.’
‘If you don’t go for the station place, you can count me out,’ said Benjamin, pursing his lips into a tight knot. ‘I want to get on with it, now. I will not miss the tourism boat.’
Theresa shut her eyes for a second. Was this what it was going to be like for the next year and beyond? The more they went on, the more convinced she was not to join them. She certainly did not want to be in the middle of endless spats between William and Benjamin for the rest of her life.
She picked up her pen. ‘You haven’t got anywhere yet,’ she said. ‘For the moment why don’t you concentrate on the facts, figures and legal stuff?’
‘Fine with me,’ said William. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Benjamin looked markedly at his watch and said, ‘What on earth is keeping Carol? Too busy touching up her lipstick, or maybe she lost a false eyelash?’
Theresa took a deep breath.
Tall, elegant and blonde, Carol was a very snappy dresser. In the style stakes she was unbeatable. Only a few months ago Carol had appeared to be the perfect wife, in a perfect couple, but a minor dalliance had led her husband to employ a private investigator. What the detective uncovered was more than her husband was bargaining for – for Carol had, in fact, been born a boy. After writing to all Carol’s friends to spill the beans, her husband had packed up and left.