Nice Work (If You Can Get It)

by Celia Imrie

As Sally moved across the hall she could see a billiard room to the left and a large kitchen ahead.

  They turned right and walked through a stone-walled dining room equipped with antique oak table and carved chairs all draped in plush maroon velvet. Sally thought it so archetypal a dining room it was almost a joke.

  Then they took a few steps down, passed through huge double oak doors and arrived in a large room with fur-strewn sofas and a widescreen TV big enough for a small cinema.

  Stanislav picked up a remote control and music came on, late-night jazz, and the lights dimmed.

  Sally felt strangely distanced from reality. It was like being in a James Bond film.

  ‘What an amazing place!’ she said, wondering if perhaps she was dreaming.

  ‘You’re not thinking of selling, are you, Stanny dearest?’ Destiny flopped down in the middle of one of the sofas. ‘This is exactly the kind of place Mickey and me are after.’

  ‘Comfortable, Sally?’ Stanislav came and sat near her on the sofa. She could feel the warmth of his body and hear his breathing. His aftershave was musky and sensual.

  The doors opened and the two servants came in wheeling a trolley laden with trays of food and a magnum bottle of champagne in a silver cooler.

  The maid poured tea for Mickey, while the butler tackled the champagne.

  After the bottle was popped and the delicate crystal glasses filled, Stanislav gave a nod to Stephane and he and Cecile left the room.

  ‘May I propose a toast?’ Stanislav served his guests then sat beside Sally and raised his glass. ‘I’d like to say that I feel I couldn’t be in more splendid and welcome company.’

  Destiny went ‘Aaaah!’ and lifted her own glass.

  ‘You’re lovely too, Stanny.’

  ‘It’s difficult to talk about, but when you have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, as I was, people tend not to relate to you as a person. But I have to say that you and Mickey have never treated me any different from all the other millionaires you know.’

  Mickey laughed, an explosive locker-room sound.

  Stanislav turned to Sally.

  ‘And as for you, Madame Connor, I know you’re not a rich woman, and although you once were famous throughout your own land, now your flower has faded, but you’re elegant and always full of humour and grace. Here’s to you, Sally. You have a beautiful and kind soul. I feel privileged to have met you.’

  Short of pinching herself to make sure she was not dreaming, Sally did not know how to respond. She knew she was blushing. She looked at Stanislav, who was beaming at her in a dewy-eyed way.

  Was this a joke? Where were the hidden lenses? Surprise, surprise, you’ve been had! Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!

  But nothing like that happened. Instead, Stanislav reached out, took her hand and squeezed it while never stopping gazing into her eyes.

  Sally was amazed to realise why the feeling was so familiar. She had played Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and now she finally knew exactly how that character felt when the man she had been chasing suddenly turned round and protested his undying love. Sally wasn’t stupid, and knew that Stanislav had probably had a few too many glasses of champers, and, if he had one, would probably be saying these romantic words to his dog. But it was odd that when a man you fancied started making public protestations, it was nothing short of humiliating.

  ‘Oh my word. Thank you,’ Sally stammered. ‘Really! It’s been so lovely to have a bit of company.’

  Stanislav drew Sally’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

  ‘Oi! Stanny dear,’ yelled Destiny. ‘If you’re going to start canoodling, for God’s sake let us out of here, and . . . “get a room”.’

  17

  Early next morning Theresa was sitting with Carol at one of the tables in the restaurant, working out advertisements to put in the local papers, when her phone rang.

  ‘Mummy! Finally!’

  Theresa was glad that she had at last made contact with her daughter.

  ‘Is everything all right, darling?’ she asked. ‘You sound frantic.’

  ‘Frantic is not the word for it. I’m frazzled.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You won’t believe it.’ Imogen’s voice went quiet, as though she was cupping the phone with her hand and whispering. ‘It’s Daddy.’

  Theresa made no sound.

  ‘He’s moved in.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘With me, Mummy. With me and the children. And it’s vile. He is such a liar. And a hypochondriac. And he’s so demanding.’

  ‘Where’s the cleaner? I thought you said he was living with the cleaner?’

  ‘Oh God, Mummy, don’t you listen to a word I say? That’s history. He wants Annunziata back. But she’s skipped the country and won’t even take his calls. She’s in Turin, I think, north Italy.’

  ‘Her family home, I suppose.’

  ‘No, no, Mummy. Don’t you recall she came from some countrified island, Sicily or Sardinia or Capri or somewhere?’

  ‘Now you mention it, I do remember her talking about a tiny island called La Maddalena. Because she was so often maddening and . . . oh I don’t know. It seemed funny at the time.’

  ‘Anyway, she’s gone to the business end of Italy. And she’s utterly washed her hands of him.’

  ‘So why is he not living in his own home?’

  ‘He tells so many lies that I have no idea. He claims that Annunziata is a witch and that she has put a curse on the place.’

  ‘A witch? Has he lost his marbles?’

  ‘Oh, it’s because she came from some clannish village where they believe in all that superstitious stuff. Don’t you remember, she used to tell our fortunes all the time?’

  ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten all that.’

  ‘She showed him a book of spells, apparently, and ever since, he’s been sure she sticks pins into his wax model.’ Imogen sighed. ‘What I do know for a fact is that the house is on the market, ’cos I went there yesterday to get him some clothes – he stinks, by the way – and there was a huge For Sale sign on the gate.’

  Theresa was having difficulty taking this in.

  ‘Do you mean he plans to live with you for ever?’

  ‘That is his proposal, yes. When I protested, he kept repeating, in that awful sorry-for-himself voice he uses, “You only have one father, Imogen. Only one father, who begat you,” until I had to be restrained from whacking him with the frying pan I was using to cook the children’s breakfast bacon and eggs.’

  Theresa, still trying to make sense of the information, was about to offer some words of consolation when William burst in to the restaurant, white-faced.

  ‘The mortgage company’s turned us down,’ he said, flinging his briefcase on to the table they sat at. ‘So either we’ve wasted our time and energy doing this place up, or we’re going to be enslaved to someone who may well kick us all out after our six months is up, when we’ve done all the frigging work.’

  Theresa felt winded at dramas coming in on both ears at once.

  ‘I’m sorry, Imogen, I have to go. Let’s talk later today. Love you. And the kids.’ She put the phone away.

  William said, ‘Rejected! End! Finita la commedia!’ and slumped down beside them.

  Carol groaned.

  Right from the start, Theresa had dreaded something like this happening.

  ‘Did they give any reason?’ she asked.

  William shrugged. ‘Why would they need to? We’re a disparate group with no official affiliation. We’re not French-born citizens. Some of us have only been living here a matter of months. We’re too old. We have no track record. You name it, it will work against us. Look at it from their perspective. We don’t have a leg to stand on, especially in this miserable financial climate.’

  ‘Is there anything else we can do?’ asked Carol.

  ‘We could win the EuroMillions,’ said William. ‘Or start an affair with a multibillionaire who wanted to indulge our ever
y little whim and shower us with money. Easy.’

  Theresa patted Carol’s knee to stop her reacting to William’s slightly hysterical outburst. Though her own stomach was a tight knot, she knew someone had to be the reasonable one.

  ‘Before we give up altogether we must have a brainstorm.’

  ‘I think we already had that, dear,’ snapped William. ‘A month ago, when we embarked on this crazy ill-judged scheme.’

  ‘Let’s draw up a list of backers,’ suggested Theresa.

  ‘You’ve heard of crowdfunding?’ said Carol. ‘Well, why don’t we try our own version of that? If we pool our own money, and see if we can get others to add to it . . . ’

  ‘And whose name will we put on the deeds? Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy . . . ’

  ‘William, stop!’ Theresa tried to drown him out, but on he went, relentlessly.

  ‘Daniel Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all?’

  William picked up his briefcase and walked to the door. ‘I’m going home. If either of you need me, that’s where you’ll find me.’

  He turned and slammed out of the restaurant, leaving Carol and Theresa in stunned silence.

  Theresa got up and rooted in the cupboard under the welcome desk for a clean piece of paper.

  Carol spoke first.

  ‘Who are those people he was reeling off?’ she whispered. ‘Do they live round here?’

  Theresa laid the paper on the welcome desk and pulled a pen from the penholder.

  ‘We’re a load of bumbling amateurs,’ she said. ‘I’ve been terrified to admit it to myself, but what are we thinking of?’

  Carol rose and gave her a quizzical look before moving towards her.

  ‘Don’t give up now, Theresa darling. We’re not utterly washed up, you know. And everyone has to start somewhere.’

  ‘But William’s right. We’re too old to be starting out.’ Theresa sighed. ‘Things like this get kicked off by young people gushing with enthusiasm and energy – people naive enough not to realise that life is finite. Not people like us. We’re living under the delusion that we can have a fresh start, when really we’re so near the end.’

  Carol put her fingers in her ears. ‘La-la-la-la,’ she sang out. ‘I will not listen to this kind of talk. We’re not washed up. We’ve had a setback and we have to regroup and press on. We’ve come this far. We have to give it a chance.’

  ‘I wish I had your spirit, Carol.’

  Theresa was still unconvinced.

  ‘I’m going to write a letter to the agent’s and see how much of the money we’ve already laid out we can try to claw back.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Let’s go,’ she said to Carol. ‘We’re getting out of here and going to sit in the sun for a while.’

  When they hesitated by the brasserie terrace looking for some empty seats, Marcel came out and waved them on.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Theresa said a little too loudly. ‘Some people can be so small-minded. Couldn’t matter less. We’ll have to go to my place for a coffee.’

  As they were opening Theresa’s front door, Benjamin came panting along, yelling their names.

  They moved inside.

  ‘William’s about to go to the agent’s to get his deposit back,’ he said between gasps.

  Carol pointed a gloved finger in Theresa’s direction. ‘So is Theresa.’

  Benjamin threw his hands up. ‘What is wrong with you lot?’ he exclaimed. ‘We’re down, but we are most definitely not out. There are people who’d back us.’

  ‘Like who?’ Theresa snapped, opening the fridge and bringing out a cake. ‘The Crown Prince of Ruritania?’

  ‘Well,’ Benjamin looked flustered but reached out for a slice, ‘what about Sian? Isn’t she a businesswoman? Perhaps she has contacts who are looking for just such an opportunity. And Sally’s daughter Marianne . . . ’

  ‘She’s in London,’ said Carol.

  ‘Really?’ said Theresa. ‘I’m sure I saw her this morning.’

  ‘We cannot have both Sian and Marianne – they hate one another.’

  ‘Wherever. We just phone them, one by one. Haven’t you ever watched Dragons’ Den? Come on. We have to work fast. We can do it.’ Benjamin crammed his mouth with cake. ‘I know we can.’ He spoke with such conviction he sprayed the room with crumbs. He swallowed.

  ‘This is delicious, Theresa. Where did you get it?’

  ‘I made it last night,’ said Theresa.

  ‘There you are then,’ said Benjamin. ‘Who wouldn’t want a hunk of that to take home?’

  Theresa felt flattered but knew that selling a few slices of cake would be better done in a patisserie than a restaurant.

  Carol said suddenly, ‘Where is Ruritania?’

  ‘Make-Believe-Land,’ said Theresa.

  ‘What day is it?’ Benjamin asked unexpectedly. ‘Is it Wednesday or Thursday?’

  ‘Thursday!’ Carol and Theresa spoke in unison.

  ‘Thursday’s child has far to go,’ mumbled Theresa. ‘Rather like us.’

  ‘Isn’t something meant to be happening on Thursday?’ Benjamin patted his pockets for his phone, which instantly started to buzz. ‘Oh damn, who’s this?’

  Theresa watched Benjamin as he looked at the screen. He mouthed ‘William!’ then pressed accept.

  ‘Uh-hum.’ Benjamin nodded, winced and said, ‘Oh dear, darling. What a shame. See you.’

  He smiled and slid the phone back into his pocket.

  ‘So, he’s gone to the lawyer’s and it turns out that we cannot get out of the first six-month contract, which is great news. So we either leave the place to rot until Christmas, or try to make a go of it for the duration.’

  He plonked himself down at Theresa’s glass table. ‘Well, what are you both gawping at? Let’s get the coffee going and start compiling our list.’

  ‘List?’ said Carol. ‘Of potential backers, you mean?’

  ‘That too,’ said Benjamin. ‘But what we really need is a list of ideas that are going to get us noticed.’

  Theresa filled the percolator, knowing the energising aroma of coffee always helped to spur her on. Secretly she was pleased that they had tried to pull out and been thwarted. There was nothing to direct the mind so much as having your back to the wall. However, at the same time she couldn’t prevent a sinking feeling.

  ‘It’s going to be hard to press on with total enthusiasm when you know it’ll be all over almost as soon as you get started.’

  Carol made a quiet sound, indicating that she agreed.

  Benjamin crossed his legs deliberately. ‘Losers!’ he said. ‘Where’s that Dunkirk spirit? Get on. We’ve got a chance to have fun for six months. We might even make a bit of money out of it. And if we prove ourselves, we can find somewhere else, can’t we? Cannes? Monte Carlo? When things go wrong, we just have to get over ourselves.’

  Benjamin’s phone buzzed again. The call was short and, during it, Benjamin rose and indicated that they had to hurry out.

  ‘Bye, William,’ he said as he slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Come on, you two!’ he called, heading for the door. ‘William’s on his way to the agent’s. He wants to see whether we can sublet La Mosaïque to someone else.’

  ‘Oh no we won’t,’ said Theresa, following him. ‘We’re going to stop William in his silly-billy tracks.’

  18

  Sally woke in her own bed and, despite drinking rather a lot of champagne the night before, she had only the vaguest glimmer of a hangover.

  She could hear banging around in the kitchen downstairs and at first was alarmed. She’d been having such a good time with Stanislav, and Sian had taken over Jackie’s welfare and entertainment to such an extent, she’d forgotten she was there.

  But she was clearly downstairs now and the noise of clanking pots seemed rather loud.

  Sally climbed out of bed and looked at herself in the mirror. How on earth had Stanislav gazed at that tired phizog and declared her to be beau
tiful? She shook her head and went downstairs.

  Jackie was dressed up to the nines: full make-up, drop earrings, hair up, long dress and very high stilettos.

  ‘Going anywhere special?’ Sally joked.

  ‘It’s my première this afternoon,’ said Jackie. ‘Then tonight I’ve been invited to the smashing new movie starring Marina Martel.’

  ‘Marina Martel! Oh lord!’ Sally shuffled over to the sink to fill the kettle. Hadn’t Stanislav talked about Marina Martel on that first day when she was on his boat with Jean-Philippe? Wasn’t he financing one of her films or something? Sally wondered whether he’d be there at Cannes today, with the glamorous Miss Martel on his arm, strolling up the red carpet, smiling for the banks of cameras.

  As she poured her cup of tea, Sally noticed that Jackie was preparing a packed lunch. It was really rather moving seeing her old friend all tarted up like this, and knowing that she was planning to spend her lunchtime hiding in a corner of the Palais des Festivals, gobbling down a home-made stack of sandwiches, smuggled in an old-fashioned Tupperware container.

  ‘Now, Jackie, is there anything I can do to help?’

  Jackie swayed from side to side in a movement that would have looked quite good in uniform but in evening dress looked slightly mad.

  ‘Well, Sally, old bean, I was actually wondering if you’d chum me.’

  ‘Chum you to what?’

  ‘All of it,’ said Jackie. ‘To my première, then to the big screening tonight. It’s a formal red-carpet affair. You have to wear evening gown, high heels and everything. I’ve wangled two tickets and I don’t want to give it to just anyone. We’ve got invites to the after-party too, if you’d like.’

  ‘Marina Martel’s after-party? What about Sian?’ Sally dreaded the idea of a thwarted Sian arriving at her front door for a scene. ‘I thought you’d promised to take her.’

  Jackie winced.

  ‘The situation re Sian is all a bit delicate, as a matter of fact, Sally. When we were parking the car last night, after a very jolly day together, there was this man standing on the pavement grinning in her direction. Sian used the car to try and ram him up against a wall, while shrieking the most dreadful things at him. I thought she’d gone quite barmy, but it turns out the man she was trying to kill was her husband.’