by Celia Imrie
‘You’re right,’ said William. ‘Carol, will you organise that?’
‘Meanwhile,’ Theresa said, ‘it might be helpful if we came up with a name.’
‘Le Chat sur le toit?’ suggested Benjamin.
‘I hate those humorous names,’ said William. ‘And toit may, in fact, mean roof, but, the word, in English, has a rather unfortunate homonym.’
‘Twat!’ Theresa and Benjamin spoke in unison, and laughed.
‘OK, gang, I’ve got it,’ said Carol, after a short pause. ‘La Mosaïque.’
Part Three
CAVIAR NIÇOISE with MELBA TOAST
Ingredients
250g black olives, stones removed
1 clove garlic
2 anchovy fillets
a few basil leaves
1 tablespoon capers
100ml olive oil
black pepper or piment d’espelette
ordinary white sliced bread
Method
First make the caviar. Chop the olives, garlic, anchovies, basil and capers together, until they reach a fine consistency. Put the mixture into a bowl and pour in the olive oil, stirring all the time. Add pepper or piment d’espelette to taste. Set aside and make the melba toast as follows. Toast the slices of bread, then remove all four crusts and cut laterally – i.e., through the moist centre of the bread, creating two fine slivers per slice. Place on a baking tray, moist side up, and grill for a very short time till crisp. Spread the caviar on slices of melba toast and serve.
13
Sally squinted in the sun, trying to find a table for lunch at the brasserie by the quay. The terrace was as usual packed, but on such a lovely day she didn’t fancy sitting inside. She felt nervous, and hoped her daring mixture of guests would approve of her choice.
Jackie had been up late working on her laptop into the night and when Sally left was still snoozing, promising that she would join her after ‘a jolly old soak in the tub’. Today was Sunday, the festival three days away, and Stanislav was once again due to spend the day playing on the yacht, leaving Sally to ‘look after’ Destiny. To ease the situation Sally had decided to invite Sian to lunch, to make up the four.
The brasserie owner came through to greet her, with arms outstretched.
‘Madame Connor! How can I help?’
Sally explained the situation and he told her that he would have a table ready in about twenty minutes, and in the meantime if she’d like to sit up at the bar, she could have an aperitif on the house.
He took her by the elbow and whispered in her ear.
‘In fact, I was hoping to talk to you.’
Sally gave him an enquiring look.
‘Your friends, the other English . . . I hear they are hoping to open a restaurant a few doors along at old widow Magenta’s place. Is this true?’ Marcel’s face was wrinkled.
Sally felt her palms go all hot. She hated being put on the spot like this. Especially as she had sidestepped the project herself.
‘I believe they are looking into it,’ she replied, hoping it was a vague enough response. But Marcel was not to be put off so easily.
‘It’s just that Bellevue-Sur-Mer is a small town, Madame Connor. I’m not sure whether I can take such competition. There is only so much of a clientèle, especially in these hard times of austerity. Think of the winter . . . ’
Sally knew she had to be straight with him or this would turn into a conversation that would spill all over her possibly high-tension lunch.
‘I’ll have a word with them, Marcel. Get them to come over and talk to you. I’m sure they must have some plans that will work in a complementary way so that you can both exist together. But truly, I have nothing to do with it.’
Marcel, temporarily pacified, went over to greet another potential diner. Sally squeezed her way through the tables on the sunny terrace and, as she moved past one, a hand flashed out and grabbed her by the jacket.
‘I have a bone to pick with you, madam.’
It was Diana.
‘Oh, Diana! Hi! What’s up?’
Diana patted her lips with her napkin. ‘What on earth entered your brain, giving out my email address and phone number?’
Sally was mystified.
‘I didn’t.’ Sally heard her voice two octaves higher than usual.
Diana focused her famous glare on Sally. ‘You most certainly did. And worst of all, you gave it to that tiresome woman from that ghastly TV soap about the female aviators. Birds Fly Over Broadstairs or whatever it’s called.’
‘Skirts Fly Over Suffolk,’ Sally mumbled, wishing she could fly off out of it right now. ‘Jackie Westwood.’
‘Exactly. Now she wants me to come to some pathetic little screening at Cannes Marketplace, and pose with her for photos and all kinds of things, and you know, Sally, it’s embarrassing to refuse her when I know you recommended her to me.’
‘But I didn’t . . . ’ Sally’s mind raced. How on earth had this happened? Then she remembered the card Diana had given her. Hadn’t she thrown it into the bin? But how could she tell Diana that? Obviously Jackie had gone rooting about in the wastepaper basket and found it. Worst of all, she was about to arrive here on the scene, any second.
‘Look, Sally, darling, you know me, I’m a big softy, but I have to refuse her. You do understand, don’t you? And please don’t do anything like that to me again.’
The young woman sitting opposite Diana went into a coughing fit, drowning out all conversation.
‘Oh, Sally, this is my daughter, Cathy. She’s come over with me to have a little break and get a bit of sun on her skin. Cathy, this is Sally. We were in rep together, sweetie, during the Stone Ages. Cathy is a librarian.’
The girl rose and shook Sally’s hand. ‘Hello, Sally. Cathy. Don’t mind me. I don’t like to be noticed. That’s Mama’s job.’
Cathy sat down again and started vigorously attacking the food on her plate.
‘So, Sally darling, it’s all forgotten and forgiven. But it won’t happen again, will it.’ Diana nodded slightly.
Sally started to explain and realised she was making it worse. She did manage to convey that Jackie was staying with her and might suddenly arrive for lunch.
‘You won’t mind if I have words with her, then.’ Diana gave a radiant professional smile. ‘Thanks for telling me about this little town. It’s gorgeous here, and so lovely to get away from the madding crowds.’
Cathy started coughing, quite violently, as though she was choking.
‘Are you all right, Cathy?’ asked Sally, glad of the diversion.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Cathy in a squeaky voice. ‘This foreign food is very rich for me. I prefer something a bit more plain, you know. Gluten-free, if possible. What with my allergies . . . ’
‘Still friends, darling? I know you understand.’ Diana blew Sally a kiss and, ignoring her daughter, turned once again to her plate.
Sally was dismissed. She started to walk away.
‘You must show me your place, sometime. What are property prices like?’ Diana called after her. ‘Is property cheap? It might be quite cosy to get a little bolthole hereabouts.’
Sally’s heart quivered with horror at the thought of Bellevue-Sur-Mer being filled with old acting friends from England. Some escape that would be!
When she got to the bar, she found Sian already perched on a stool, sipping an aperitif.
‘Marcel told me we were waiting for a table.’ She nodded in Diana’s direction. ‘Isn’t that . . . ?’
Sally nodded.
‘You must introduce me to her. I’m such a fan.’
Sally’s stomach clenched.
Sian went on staring in Diana’s direction.
‘Who’s that girl with her? Is she famous too?’
‘No,’ said Sally. ‘It’s her daughter.’
‘Ah, so she managed to raise a child who isn’t a man-eater, then.’ Sian knocked back the rest of her Noilly Prat. ‘Quite sickly looking, isn’t she? Like a nun
.’
Before Sally could reply, a loud screech came from the pavement, silencing all the diners on the terrace. It was Destiny.
‘Hi, Sally! Which is our table?’
Marcel scurried forward and guided Destiny through to the bar as all heads turned to gawp at her.
‘Destiny MacDonald!’ Sian muttered under her breath. ‘My God, Sally, suddenly you’re the new “and friend” of OK! magazine. What happened? You’ve become celeb central.’
‘It’s all a coincidence.’ Sally felt embarrassed and uneasy. She changed the subject and mumbled, ‘However long are they going to take with that table?’
Sally saw Diana’s head turn to watch Destiny’s arrival as she slipped herself between the tables. Simultaneously, in the distance, she noticed Jackie swaggering towards the brasserie terrace.
‘I am so excited,’ said Sian. ‘What a lunch date this is. It’s the best Sunday ever!’
In the midst of the terrace Marcel raised his hand and pointed to a table.
Sally grabbed her bag and nodded to Destiny and Sian.
They were all seated as Diana rose from her chair and made an elegant sashay towards them.
‘Hello, girls!’ She pushed her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and peered over the top. ‘Here we all are, living the glamorous Riviera life.’
‘Rather!’ said Jackie, stressing the last syllable. ‘Girding our loins before the battle commences.’
‘Oh, darling . . . ’ Diana beamed down at Jackie. ‘I’m so sorry I won’t be able to make your little film, I’ll be at a junket all day.’
Jackie opened her mouth to speak, but Diana got in first. ‘After that I’ve promised my daughter that I’ll take her to the Cocteau Museum at Menton, and the Matisse and Chagall at Nice . . . Oh, I have such a full week. And the rest of the time of course, like you, I’ll be rushed off my feet at the festival. I’m so sorry, sweetie.’ She bent low to the table and stage-whispered: ‘And, except for duty, one wants to spend as little time as possible in Cannes, don’t you think? It’s just a sweaty meat market.’
Sally was aware that most of the other diners on the terrace were staring at their table with its array of stars and celebrities.
A waiter lurked, wanting to take their orders.
Diana sensed the moment and took her leave. She turned back and headed to her own table in the shade.
‘I know her. She’s a famous actress, isn’t she? And what the bloody heck’s a junket?’ asked Destiny.
Jackie said, ‘She is. Yes. Oh, and it’s a sort of Q and A.’
‘Q and A? What’s that? Isn’t it a cheap high-street clothes shop?’
Jackie picked up the menu.
Monsieur Leroux was technically breaking the law by allowing his men to work on a Sunday, but he was keen to get the job finished as soon as possible, and in his words ‘what went on behind closed doors stayed there’. He was thankful that it wasn’t a flat with downstairs neighbours having nothing better to do than complain or, worse still, report him. But he had to be out of there this week and didn’t want to leave them with anything unfinished.
So, while his men fiddled about fixing worktops, installing lavatories and basins, and testing all the electric points and equipment, Carol and Benjamin worked alongside Theresa, painting the walls of the dining room a bright white.
Theresa had tried to call Imogen a number of times both on her home line and her mobile and got nothing but the answerphone. She now had a constant internal niggle. What had happened? And why no word from her since that one enigmatic message?
While there was nothing she could do but wait and keep trying, she knew she had to concentrate on the work in hand.
‘If we get a move on, while the men fit the lighting in here tomorrow, we can visit all the furniture shops for tables and chairs and we’ll be practically ready for inspection by the end of the week.’
Carol took a few steps back and admired the work. ‘What we really need is a huge piece of art on this side wall – bright and shiny with big splashes of vivid colour. A Patrick Heron, a Terry Frost or an Albert Irvin.’
‘On our budget, you’ll have to do it yourself.’ Benjamin dunked his paint roller in the white vinyl. ‘We’ll be the only place that can boast an original Carol Rogers.’
‘I went to art school, I’ll have you know,’ said Carol. ‘Though I must admit I did not graduate.’
‘How about Sally’s son Tom?’ suggested Theresa. ‘His work was rather good, I thought.’
Carol gave a deep throaty laugh. ‘We are not using his huge canvas of naked Zoe, however colourful.’
‘Worth asking, though.’
Theresa noticed that Monsieur Leroux’s men were sitting in the little back yard, eating home-made sandwiches from plastic boxes. She glanced at her watch. It was late for lunchtime.
‘We’re almost done here, aren’t we? Let’s wash the brushes, and get over to my place and have an official break.’
‘Sod that,’ said Benjamin. ‘Let’s go to the brasserie.’
‘I’m with Benjamin.’ Carol was already unbuttoning her dungarees. ‘Let’s get waited on.’
‘I’ll phone William,’ said Benjamin. ‘See if he has got any further with the business stuff.’
‘On a Sunday?’ said Theresa. ‘Unlikely.’
‘Well, he can join us anyway.’
While the others were washing their brushes, Theresa had one more go at calling Imogen.
This time she got through.
‘Imogen? Are you all right?’
‘Can’t talk now, Mum,’ she replied. Her voice was tense, and slightly out of breath, as though she had been running. ‘It’s dire. Soooo much to tell you. Cressida, leave that alone! Get in, Chloe.’
‘But, Imogen . . . ’
Imogen said, ‘Talk later,’ and hung up.
As they strolled along the road together, Theresa looked up to see Marcel standing on the pavement watching them approach.
‘Full,’ he said, waving his arms, shooing them away. ‘No space.’
Theresa could see a few available tables, and others where people had finished their coffee, paid the bill and were picking up their things, ready to leave.
Marcel stepped out on to the street, blocking their way.
‘No room for traitors here,’ he said. ‘No room for people who stab you in the back.’
Carol took the lead. ‘Marcel darling, don’t get so hot and bothered! We’ll be no competition for you, sweetie. Look at your fabulous view and your huge terrace. Our place is tiny. We’ll have about forty covers.’
‘If we’re lucky,’ added Benjamin.
Marcel did not calm down.
‘In the winter, I’m lucky if I get forty covers. Especially if it rains.’
Theresa stepped forward. ‘Please, Marcel, let’s talk, but just not now, in front of everyone.’
‘I will not tolerate the treacherous!’ The brasserie owner was red in the face and looked as though any moment he might explode. ‘Go!’
‘All right, all right,’ said Theresa, putting up her right hand in a halting gesture. ‘Let’s go to my place.’ She turned and spoke quite calmly. ‘You just lost yourself four covers for lunch today, Marcel. Seriously, we don’t want a war. There’s no reason why we cannot exist together.’
Sitting around Theresa’s glass table, they discussed the problem, and Benjamin made a good point. ‘What did he do when old Ma Magenta was in charge? Presumably she was here first. Or were they both running along in perfect harmony?’
‘Maybe Marcel was at war with them too,’ said Carol.
‘Perhaps that is the real reason the grandson is so keen to ditch the place,’ said Theresa.
Sally had seen Marcel shouting at Theresa and the others and wondered what was going on. She was sorry to see them walking off, as she would have liked them to be at an adjacent table where she could talk to them.
Jackie, Sian and Destiny had been deep in conversation for what felt like hours. Whi
le they munched through the starter, the main course and now the dessert, they talked about show-business publicity agents and marketing strategies and all kinds of things that Sally knew nothing about. Even in those faraway days when she was actively in the business, no one she knew had a publicity agent. Everyone just muddled through. Nowadays, it seemed, everyone’s lives were dictated by stylists and managers and PAs as well as the compulsory agents.
While they talked, currently on the subject of which designer labels provided you with the best loans for premières and parties, Sally watched fishermen sitting on their boats, tucking into their lunch and mending their nets. There was a row of small fishing boats and beside them another row of gin palaces.
‘Destiny?’ Sally spoke for the first time in half an hour. ‘Why would you prefer lunch with us to being on that fabulous yacht with your husband?’
‘Oh, Sally, love, I only have to look at a glass of water and I’m seasick, remember. Boats! Can’t stand the things. If God had wanted us to mess about on the water, we’d all have been born with flippers, I always say.’ Destiny paused to sip her wine. ‘Anyhow, hun, nothing beats a nice chinwag on a sunny Riviera terrace with the girls. Stanny gets a bit too intense for me.’ She took another gulp of wine then gave Sally an enquiring look. ‘Didn’t Stanny say you had your own boat, Sally?’
Jackie’s head swung round. ‘Crikey, Sally, you’re a dark horse. Maybe you could run us over to Cannes in it. That would be ever so glamorous, don’t you think?’
‘Where do you keep it?’ Destiny pushed her sunglasses up onto her head.
‘It’s over there.’ Sally stood and pointed towards it. ‘It’s moored alongside the red and green fishing boat.’
‘It’s the boating equivalent of a garden hut,’ said Sian.
‘I like it,’ said Sally, feeling quite defensive, being the only person at the table who was not rolling in money.
‘It’s hardly a gin palace, darling, is it?’ said Sian, laughing and turning to the others. ‘And as Sally is part-owner with my soon-to-be-ex-husband, who I am about to take to the cleaners, perhaps it’ll soon be mine. You only own the licence, don’t you, Sally? The structure of the boat belongs to Ted.’