Nice Work (If You Can Get It)

by Celia Imrie

  ‘How did you know . . . ?’

  ‘I heard you say “oops”. A Frenchwoman would have said “ouf”, or something else. You are English, are you not?’

  ‘I am English born and bred,’ said Sally. ‘And have a passport to prove it.’

  Stanislav smiled and strolled into the large rear lounge, sliding his sunglasses down his nose to see better. He glanced at his watch. Sally noticed his elegant hands; she realised she hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

  ‘We’d better hurry up. I have a lunch date with a very important person.’

  Sally escorted him along the plush pristine carpets through to the control room, where Jean-Philippe obeyed his boss’s instruction and revved the vessel up to its effortless speed.

  ‘You aren’t going to ask who?’ said Mr Serafim.

  ‘It seems impolite,’ said Sally.

  ‘I want you to ask,’ the Russian replied.

  ‘So, Monsieur Serafim, with whom are you taking lunch today?’

  ‘Marina Martel.’

  Sally laughed. ‘Wow!’

  ‘You think I don’t know anybody so renowned?’ Stanislav put on a chagrined expression, then he too laughed. ‘You’re right, madame. I do not know her . . . yet. But I have offered to put some money into her latest project, a film she wishes to direct. Today she flies into Nice and we’re meeting there to discuss it over lunch at the Negresco.’

  ‘How exciting!’ said Sally. ‘I adore her films. She is a great star. I suppose she’s over for the film festival?’

  ‘I know nothing about the movie business,’ said the Russian. ‘I know only oil. But I believe she is buying an estate here.’

  Sally was on the verge of informing him that she had once been an actress and did know a fair bit about how it all worked, but decided against it. Today she was strictly here as someone helping her instructor drive a boat. Delivering the owner to the bridge, Sally then stood behind Jean-Philippe, ready to help operate the controls.

  Mr Serafim turned to Sally.

  ‘Now you could bring us a pot of tea.’

  Sally was about to tell him to get it himself, when she caught eyes with Jean-Philippe, who slightly inclined his head, meaning ‘just do it’.

  Sally realised that, for all her qualifications as an ex-actress and a helmswoman, this morning she was, in effect, a servant. She made her way down into the galley, where she found a teapot, a kettle and a packet of tea. There was no milk in the fridge, so she hoped he liked it black. But there was an unopened packet of biscuits in one of the cupboards. She lay everything out on a small tray and carried it through to the helm. The way Stanislav, a Russian, spoke English reminded her of a line from Shaw’s Pygmalion in which she had played Clara Eynsford-Hill up in York: ‘Can you show me any Englishwoman who speaks English as it should be spoken? Only foreigners who have been taught to speak it speak it well.’

  She stood in the galley for a while, wiping down the tops, then made her way up to the aft deck and sat alone, gazing out on to the boat’s wake cutting a white path through the navy-blue sea, letting the morning sun beat down on her face.

  There were worse ways to earn a living.

  Theresa and Carol were at Theresa’s flat, busily circling names in the Pages Jaunes, when Theresa’s phone rang.

  It was Imogen, Theresa’s daughter.

  ‘We’ll be coming out for half term,’ she shouted down the line. ‘Which is in about three weeks. To house-hunt.’

  Theresa said, ‘How lovely. Whenever you like.’

  ‘So if you could gather any details and get a list of properties ready, that would be good,’ Imogen barked. ‘I’ll have my work cut out getting everything arranged this end, but now that you’re retired . . . ’

  Theresa decided against telling her daughter that she was herself very, very busy trying to get a new restaurant created, organised and open in record time.

  She hoped to agree with her, say she was doing everything, then do nothing till the day before Imogen arrived, when she could rush around and quickly gather some details of places to look at. After all, it would be folly getting leaflets for flats that were for sale now – within those three weeks they might well be sold.

  ‘Maybe, Imogen,’ she said aloud, ‘you could first have a little look online, and sort out which type of places interest you.’

  ‘When would I find the time for that? Mummy! Do you know how busy I am now that I’m a single parent? And, after all, you’re the one with expertise in the matter.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to you coming out here,’ said Theresa. ‘And to seeing the children. Will you stay with me, or shall I get you rooms at the Hôtel Astra?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mummy. We wouldn’t want to put you to any expense.’ Imogen laughed. ‘I’m sure you can find room for us in the flat – if you haven’t any murderers staying, of course.’

  Theresa clenched her teeth. Yes, Imogen was right; Theresa had made an error of judgement in her last lodger, but all her friends here in the town had been taken in too. She glanced across at Carol, who was sitting at the table, going through the Pages Jaunes, underlining names and numbers. She had just about lost everything as a result of having the wool pulled over her eyes by the same conman.

  ‘Look, Imogen, I’ve got Carol over to lunch today and it’s a bit rude to be chatting to you. Let’s talk later.’

  After a few more parting comments, Imogen hung up.

  Carol grinned. ‘After those Goodwill people come and pick up the things and the men take away the old machines, let’s hire a car. If I had any money I’d buy one. But if we get a car this afternoon we can buy paint and scrubbing brushes and all that stuff, bring it back here and then if we’re suffering from insomnia we can work overnight.’

  ‘Let’s stick to organising this place this afternoon. We can get a car first thing in the morning.’

  ‘OK,’ said Carol. ‘I see your point. Let’s get back to clearing.’

  ‘Actually, Carol, we’d be better going there by bus. It takes you right to the door and it will save us about a hundred and fifty euros.’

  ‘It won’t cost us anything,’ Carol smiled. ‘We just give the receipt to William and it goes on the company account.’

  ‘We are the company account, Carol. Every cent we spend is set against our profit, i.e., what we get paid.’

  ‘So how will we carry all those tubs of paint back here?’

  ‘We’ll take a taxi. It’ll be much cheaper than hiring a car.’ Theresa indicated the markings in the phone book. ‘What about arranging the plumbers and electricians, etcetera? We need to get them organised.’

  ‘Do you know any? Who were those nice men who did this place?’

  ‘Oh yes, he was very sweet. I got him through the estate agent. Now I think about it, she told me that he runs a whole building company – brickies, electricians, carpenters, the lot.’ Theresa got up and rummaged through a drawer in the kitchen. ‘I’ve got his invoice somewhere, with the guarantee.’

  She pulled out a piece of paper.

  ‘Here we are!’

  Theresa dialled the number. After a slow stammering start from Theresa, in her intermittent French, the plumber put his wife on the line. She spoke rather good English with an extremely thick and guttural French accent. Theresa explained everything, and asked whether Monsieur Leroux could have a look over the place and give them an estimate. By lucky chance, he was on his way to Bellevue-Sur-Mer now, his wife replied, to look at another job his firm were doing. Would she be there at the property in the next half hour?

  Theresa assured her she would.

  ‘Ah, mais . . . ’ Madame Leroux made a harsh noise of regret. ‘He has a big job starting. He could begin in two months’ time.’

  At the end of the call Carol flicked through the Pages Jaunes again. ‘William won’t be happy unless we get some rival quotes.’ She sighed. ‘Do you have a computer? There’s a website where you can find English-speaking builders, you know. Wouldn’t that be easier
all round? No misunderstandings?’

  As Theresa fired up the laptop, Carol opened her diary.

  ‘Two months. That’s a long time.’

  Carol took the phone and tried a few numbers. She chatted gaily with two Englishmen and arranged for them to come to give estimates that evening.

  When they got back, Monsieur Leroux was waiting outside the front door of the restaurant-to-be.

  ‘Le chauffage, il marche bien?’ he enquired.

  Theresa understood that he was talking about the boiler and heating in her flat, and assured him that he had done a fine job.

  She opened up and let him in.

  The boxes of plastic windmills and tea towels had toppled over, and their contents were spread again over the floor.

  ‘What the . . . ’ said Carol, stepping around the mess.

  ‘It’ll be kids,’ said Theresa. ‘I’ll show Monsieur Leroux around.’

  Carol started cramming the things back into boxes while Theresa took Monsieur Leroux into the kitchen. He peered down at the pipework, rubbing his chin. Theresa led him down to the cellar and showed him the new machinery.

  He totted up some figures and scribbled them on to a scrap of paper which he handed to Theresa. It was a lot less than she had expected.

  ‘Mais . . . Je commencerai juillet?’

  ‘Pas possible avant?’ said Theresa, hoping that she was saying ‘not possible before’.

  He departed with another handshake, leaving her with the decision whether to take up his offer to start work in two months’ time – July.

  Shortly afterwards a squat Brummie came, looked at the space and did much the same thing, and half an hour later a lanky Liverpudlian ran his fingers through his hair many times, and shook his head while making a sucking-in sound as he inspected the existing pipework.

  They’d both need to do some sums, they said, and would put their estimates in writing, then drop them through the door tomorrow.

  Sally trudged up the hill clutching a fistful of euros for her day’s sunbathing (as she had not done much else it seemed a good way to think of the earnings). After tying the boat up, and driving them all back to Bellevue-Sur-Mer in Jean-Philippe’s little boat, the smarmy Russian had given her another of those sparkly-tooth smiles as he bade her farewell. A few moments later, as the Russian climbed into a waiting black-windowed limo, Jean-Philippe had slipped the roll of notes into her handbag.

  She thrust the money to the bottom of her bag, while pulling out her keys. As she looked up, she could see some woman sitting on the step of her front door. It was a shaded spot on an otherwise sunny street; many tourists sat there while reading maps or messages on their mobile phones. Sally sighed. She hated having to ask them to excuse her for going into her own house. They rarely responded with an apology, more a tut of irritation as though she was ruining their holiday. She shook her keys around a bit, trying to issue a warning, and moved forward till her shadow fell across the woman, who looked up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sally, nodding towards her front door.

  The woman clambered to her feet, broke into a grin and cried: ‘Darling!’

  Sally blinked in the evening sunlight.

  ‘It’s me, sweetie. Jackie!’

  Sally was aghast. ‘But you only rang this morning . . . ’

  ‘I was phoning from Nice airport. Oh, sweetie, I should have explained myself better. Pip, pip, and all that! Dying for a cuppa. Let’s go in and I’ll tell you all.’

  As Sally opened up she noticed that Jackie had a suitcase with her.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Sally stepped inside, helping Jackie with the suitcase, which was surprisingly heavy.

  ‘I wondered what had happened to you, actually. I must have arrived a mere hour after I called.’ Jackie pulled out a chair and sat without being asked. ‘Still, I managed to have a little wander round your pretty village. It’s ever so nice. Though I have to say, I couldn’t live here myself. I’d feel totally cut off from reality.’

  ‘That depends, Jackie,’ – Sally was filling the kettle – ‘on what you consider “reality”.’

  ‘Well, the business, for one.’ Jackie paused while she clicked open her case.

  Sally filled a tray with some biscuits and the pot of tea.

  Jackie had started pulling out large buff envelopes.

  ‘These are some of my flyers,’ she cried as she dropped a handful of them on the table. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join me tonight, distributing them round Cannes?’

  ‘Cannes is some way away, you know,’ said Sally, hoping to get out of it.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, old chap, I’ve looked it all up. It’s just a chug away on the train.’ Jackie slid a brightly coloured leaflet from one of the envelopes.

  ‘Really, Jackie. You’d be much better to start fresh in the morning. It’s a law of ergonomics, you know.’

  ‘I say, old girl, where did you pick up lingo like that? Ergonomics indeed!’

  Sally wondered where Jackie had picked up her own ‘lingo’.

  ‘So you didn’t manage to find a hotel then?’

  ‘Oh, Sally darling, don’t be absurd. That would be so boring. It’s going to be such fun catching up. We’re going to have many glorious larks, old chum.’

  Sally took a gulp of tea, and smiled wanly.

  Part Two

  TOMATES à la CHAPELURE

  Ingredients

  6 tomatoes

  4 cloves chopped garlic

  2 diced anchovy fillets

  50g breadcrumbs

  1 teaspoon chopped fresh parsley and another of basil

  salt and pepper

  olive oil

  Method

  Cut the tomatoes in half, remove pips, sprinkle with salt, rinse. Place on a well-oiled baking tray and pop into a warm oven (90–100°C) for about 15 minutes. Mix garlic, anchovies, breadcrumbs and herbs. Lay now-soft tomatoes open side up in a well-oiled baking dish, making sure they are close to one another, filling the bowl. Stuff each tomato with the herb and breadcrumb mixture. Season with salt and pepper and drizzle with olive oil. Bake in a hot oven at 200°C for about 20 minutes or until the edges of the dish caramelise. Eat hot or cold.

  6

  Next morning, Theresa and Carol were climbing on to a bus and heading up to the huge shopping centre at Lingostière to buy scrubbing brushes, large containers of industrial cleaner and pots of paint.

  ‘Sister,’ said Carol, raising a hand to Theresa in the passenger seat. ‘We rock!’

  As they pushed their trolley around the vast bricolage shop, William phoned Theresa.

  ‘Stop everything!’ He spoke loudly down the line.

  ‘I’m sorry, William.’ Theresa held the phone away from her ear. ‘Why do we stop when we know we are in a rush against time?’

  ‘All right,’ said William. ‘So who pays for all this work if we don’t take up the sale? We are effectively doing up a wreck of a property for nothing.’

  ‘We’ve not spent much, yet.’

  ‘You’re there buying paint, which isn’t a huge expense, I admit, but it is money going out. If we decide not to continue after the rental period, do we get the money offset against the rent, or our deposit? Have we even paid a deposit? It’s all a joke.’

  Theresa could see that William was talking sense, but it was difficult to reason with him while standing in a hypermarket, speaking into a mobile phone, and especially when he was on high doh.

  ‘I don’t mind covering the paint,’ said Theresa. ‘And we are saving a fortune doing it ourselves, you know.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Theresa dearest. What about the plumbers and electricians? We do need to use professionals or we won’t have the necessary certification, as I discovered this morning at the mairie . . . ’

  ‘We’ve already got three estimates on the way.’

  ‘How did you do that in the time?’ William calmed for a second. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘It does seem unlikely, but we were just lucky. We pho
ned around twenty but we hooked up with the three builders who happened to be in town, or nearby.’

  ‘You’re making it up. I know women like you are prone to fantasy.’

  ‘William! I am standing in the aisle of a supermarket, pushing a trolley full of cans of paint. This is not the time. But I do agree we must talk about it . . . ’

  William had hardly drawn breath.

  ‘I know Carol doesn’t have two rupees to rub together. So I suppose it’ll be muggins here—’ William went on. ‘Therefore, to safeguard myself, today I am consulting a lawyer and putting measures in place by which I can protect my investment.’ He left another pause before adding, ‘Unless, Theresa, you wish to pull out now.’

  Theresa gripped the phone tightly. ‘Now calm down, William. I have some money and am due some more very soon. I have already put up the deposit on renting the building and am quite happy to go halves with you on any further outgoings.’

  She caught Carol’s eye and grimaced.

  ‘It’s a hare-brained scheme, anyhow,’ William continued. ‘Benjamin and I are feeling distinctly out of our depth.’

  Theresa could sense that William was going through exactly the kind of jitters she had initially gone through while alone, lying in her bed the night before last. But the morning usually brought sanity. She decided that silence was the best policy.

  But William was still at it: ‘Shall we go ahead, Theresa – or are we all going to lose our shirts?’

  ‘I wonder, William, if you feel so worried about it, whether perhaps you should pull out now? On my part, I have no desire to lose my shirt or any other part of my clothing. I used to work in the law myself. I know we have to keep strictly within the laws of the land. I realise that we also need a mutual agreement. But I do not believe that we should start to move separately now, one against the other. I want us to be safe, to have a clear contract and to cover ourselves against losses. But as for any extra fripperies of law – I do know how much it costs.’

  It was William’s turn to be silent.

  ‘Why don’t we meet at my place at one o’clock? Bring some bread and cheese.’

  ‘Receipts! S’il vous plaît,’ said William and hung up.