by Celia Imrie
He started printing out Sally’s pass.
‘That will be ninety-five euros.’
‘Blimey,’ Sally mumbled. With her new pass, Sally arrived in the seething lobby of the Palais. Some film was clearly just over as she faced a tide of chattering people coming towards her.
She followed the signs leading her down and along past niches covered in posters for films from every country in the world.
She turned into a wide corridor with doors leading off into numbered screening rooms. She grabbed her invitation and made her way down the far end to number twenty-two.
The door was closed. She could hear the sound of music and machine-gun fire, and edged the door open.
A haughty young man stepped out.
‘Can I help you?’
Sally held up her invitation.
‘We don’t usually allow latecomers, but, lucky for you, there is space,’ he said, opening the door and ushering Sally into the small dark screening room.
She took her allotted place at the back, and tried to concentrate on the screen; as she settled into her seat, she realised it was the most expensive film to which she had ever been given a free ticket.
Having prepared a little supper for the children before putting them to bed, Theresa and Carol sat in the front room listening to Imogen’s tales of her father taking over her house and drinking.
They were now on their second bottle of local rosé.
‘He invited six of his cronies over to play cards till the small hours.’ Imogen topped up her glass. ‘Which of course kept the children awake practically all night. Naturally enough, at school next day they fell asleep and I got notes from the teachers all but telling me to be a better mother.’
‘Unfair,’ said Carol and Theresa in unison.
‘Meanwhile I had to put up with Daddy staying at home all day sitting in the lounge listening to a recording of the Carpenters singing “Solitaire”, at full volume and sobbing.’
‘How ghastly!’ exclaimed Carol. ‘That awful anorexic woman with a voice like a quarterback. He might at least have used the Andy Williams version.’
‘That’s not all,’ continued Imogen, happy, it seemed, to be the centre of attention and sympathy. ‘When the final long note was over he would continue wailing and return the track to the start.’
Carol groaned.
Theresa said, ‘Typical of him. Always liked to be the martyr.’ She took another swig of rosé. ‘Why on earth did I marry him?’
‘Thank God you saw the light, dear,’ said Carol.
‘The poor children were utterly perplexed. Was Granddaddy injured? Why was he always crying?’ Imogen finished her glass and grabbed the last fistful of olives. ‘What was I supposed to tell them?’
‘How about “his au pair walked out on him because she caught him shagging the maid”?’
They laughed till tears came into their eyes.
‘Thank heavens for France,’ said Imogen, helping herself to a refill. ‘It’s lovely being able to laugh about it.’
As she listened to Imogen’s descriptions of her father, Theresa couldn’t help but feel rather smug about her ex-husband. The biter was bit.
‘What about school?’ asked Theresa. ‘It’s not half term for a few weeks, is it?’
‘School cannot have it both ways, Mummy. I’m staying here till Daddy gets back with Annunziata.’
‘Or somebody,’ added Carol.
‘Anybody – if they would have him,’ Theresa laughed and walked towards the kitchen to top up the bowl of her favourite little black Niçoise olives.
‘Anyway, I’m here till he moves out of my home,’ said Imogen, wiping her mouth with a napkin. ‘Time for bed now. Will I be in the box room, as usual?’
Theresa had put the children to bed in her own room an hour ago. She hadn’t really thought about the practicalities till now. Where were she and Carol going to spend the night?
‘Oh, Carol, I should have thought!’ Theresa rose. ‘Last time I had my family staying I slept here on the floor, under the table. But, even if you fancied it, there won’t be room for two.’ Theresa felt rather badly, but thought better than to correct her daughter, who was bustling towards the bathroom.
‘I’ve already thought about it, darling.’ Carol was gathering her things together. ‘There is no problem at all, Theresa sweetie. Of course I understand that family come first. And if I’m going to sleep on a floor I think it would be quite useful for me to join Benjamin at La Mosaïque. Two security guards on the prowl will be better than one.’
Sally kept herself at the back of the screening room as the audience squeezed out. Many people were congratulating Jackie, who stood near the door, shaking hands and handing out further leaflets.
‘We’re still looking for distributors,’ she cried. ‘So if you’re in a position to help, jolly well do!’
Sally thought that some of the audience members had a very strange sense of style. There was even one man who, despite the heat, sat in the front row wearing a mackintosh, with collar turned up, a trilby hat and dark glasses. He had kept these on throughout the screening. It was very irritating, as from where Sally was sitting the hat had blocked out the lower-right quadrant of the screen. Sally wondered whether he might be a member of the cast. It was as though he was dressed in costume for the event, although the sunglasses definitely had a modern look to them. But then perhaps vintage sunglasses weren’t that easy to find. Did they even have vintage sunglasses, especially during the war?
By the time Sally reached the exit he was nowhere to be seen.
Sally congratulated Jackie on what was a sweet little film. She was genuinely moved both by the film itself, the lives of the heroic women it depicted, and Jackie’s dedication at seeing it through and getting on with it. It really was a great achievement.
‘You must be very proud,’ Sally said. ‘So well done to you and the rest of the team. Were they here to support you?’
‘No. I was a bit browned off about that, to say the least. Other work came up – one of them is doing the summer season in the Park and the other is on holiday. So muggins here had to get the whole show on the road.’
‘A holiday doesn’t seem like a very good excuse,’ said Sally as they strolled along the passageway past all the movie Marketplace stalls.
‘Fair do’s,’ said Jackie. ‘She’d just finished a six-month stint in Wicked, so I suppose she needed to get out of town.’
‘Isn’t Cannes and the glorious French Riviera out of town?’
‘Not when you’ve set your heart on a beach in the Seychelles.’ Jackie nodded at a man who ran past, saying: ‘Congratulations! Sweet little film.’
‘I am so brassed off with all these people who insist on calling my film “sweet” and “little”. Would they say that to Steven Spielberg? No they would not.’
Sally hoped she had not actually said the words out loud.
‘So, once I’ve changed, shall we go somewhere for a drink before the evening screening?’ Sally could think of nothing she’d enjoy better than a glass of wine on the beach.
Jackie came to a halt.
‘Oh, Sally, I forgot to say. Well, there’s this chap, a potential backer, and I . . . ’
Sally felt disappointed, but understood.
‘Don’t worry.’ Sally wondered if it might be Stanislav. ‘I do understand how these things work.’
‘I’ve got a meeting up at the Martinez. I’ll see you at your place in the cinema.’
‘Can’t we pal up and do the walk of shame up the red carpet together? I shall be nervous on my own. Like an impostor.’
‘Oh, I would have thought you’d have leapt at the chance of being able to go up the grand staircase alone, all those cameras clicking away,’ said Jackie.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’ Sally was cringing inside.
‘Come on! After all, you’re an actress, for goodness sake – act. By the way, I must tell you, I have a very nice eligible man who’s asked to take my arm. He was
at the screening – didn’t you see him?’
‘It was dark.’
‘You couldn’t miss him. He was in a hat and dark glasses. I met him on the train, actually. He was ever so kind to me. You don’t mind, do you, Sal?’
‘It’s important to be seen with people who are in the loop. I know that.’
‘Oh no. He’s not part of the festival. I bought him a pass. Seemed the least I could do for someone who helped me carry my leaflets down from the station and who gave up his seat for me and had to stand all the way from Nice.’ She rooted about in her carrier bag. ‘Here’s your party invitation, in case I forget. You won’t get in without one. I should have introduced you earlier, after the screening. But he’s just gone to buy himself a dinner jacket for tonight. You’ll get on famously, I know. He is such a flirt!’
When Jackie left for the Martinez, teetering down the street in her evening gown, Sally went back into the Palais, which now seemed strangely calm after the frantic scenes out along the Croisette, where jostling crowds of fat tourists shoved past anxious young people in evening dress who were holding up scribbled notes reading ‘Invitation for The Stranger’, ‘DESPERATE for invite to HELL!’ and ‘Pigs Might Fly PLEASE!’ and waving them at everyone who emerged from the Palais.
She grabbed a reviving coffee in the exclusive Nespresso bar upstairs, then went to the ladies’ powder room to get dressed up for the movie.
Being in this world again – rubbing shoulders with the actors, the producers and directors – was giving Sally an unexpected buzz.
She regretted now all the years she had withdrawn from showbiz.
Standing in front of the mirror in the cramped ladies’ room, putting on her rather worn-down make-up, was also reminiscent of many a night in shady touring venues from her past. She recalled arriving at venues where no one had thought that actors actually needed somewhere private to change into their costumes. And a shabby Theatre in Education group where most of the actors came to work on the bus dressed as bears and scarecrows rather than have to change in school toilets, being jeered at by the kids.
Her phone rang. Marianne.
‘Are you back home now?’ asked Sally.
‘In a way of speaking,’ said Marianne. ‘There was some air-control strike on and I couldn’t get a flight today, so I’m at yours.’
When she was done making herself look smart, Sally sidled out of the Palais. Having waved her invitation to one of the doormen, she was hustled along the Croisette, about half a mile, pushing through the milling throng. Then a prompt U-turn and into the main entrance drag, joining the others in evening dress.
She hung her head slightly, embarrassed at being stared at by leering crowds.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Nobody,’ she heard.
Along with all the others she arrived at the red carpet. Here on either side were decks of professional journalists, cameras whirring and flashing. Some people, mainly women in very expensive scanty gowns, were stopping and posing for the cameras.
Sally scanned the other faces in the red-carpet area, hoping to find Jackie, but she was nowhere to be seen. She carefully climbed the plush steps into the Cinema Lumière.
Taking her seat inside the magnificent red and black auditorium, Sally looked around. She recognised many of the people sitting near her: directors, actors and actresses seen in magazines, or familiar from television and cinema. She had an aisle seat and on the other side of the aisle were rows of empty places. These, she presumed, must be reserved for the director, producers and artists who had worked on this film.
The buzz was thrilling.
She looked anxiously at the two empty seats beside her, praying that Jackie wouldn’t be late.
Suddenly a ripple went through the audience, and all heads turned.
Marina Martel, surrounded by a posse of producers, strode down the aisle, head held high, smiling radiantly at everyone.
People around her stood, offering an ovation. Clapping, Sally too rose to her feet.
Before she moved into her row of seats, the Hollywood actress stopped and turned, waving at the audience. She then headed for her seat, but for a flash of a moment she did the tiniest of double-takes, and glanced back in Sally’s direction.
Sally cast around to see who she was looking at, but at that minute the applause subsided and the lights dimmed.
The huge screen showed floating red steps, first underwater, then against blue, then up into the stars – the Cannes palm logo came on to the screen and the audience burst into applause.
As the production titles came up an usher appeared out of the darkness at Sally’s side.
‘Pardon, madame!’
In the pitch-black, first Jackie, then the man in dark glasses were shown to their seats. Sally stood to enable him to pass. It was when their faces were a foot away from each other that she realised the man was her best friend’s husband, her daughter’s lover, Ted.
* * *
Theresa sat and listened to Imogen’s stories about life at home in London since Annunziata had walked out on her ex-husband and he had moved in with Imogen.
Annunziata, however, had turned out to be quite a gal, and not the brain-free sex bomb that Theresa had thought her. But while Annunziata used all her wiles to get a well-paid job in fashion publishing, Peter, Imogen’s father, had let everything go, and coasted along on Annunziata’s achievements, which appeared to be considerable.
Theresa had to keep pinching her hands and biting her cheeks to try and stay awake. But for Imogen all this piffling stuff seemed so important.
When at last Imogen yawned and declared she was off to bed, looking forward to a lovely relaxing Riviera day, Theresa gathered her spare pillows and beach futon roll and tucked herself in down under the front window.
She lay in the dark and thought about La Mosaïque, and really how exciting it all was. As for the strange visitations – the fag ends, the open doors, the dead pig’s head – who could it be? Surely Marcel from the brasserie up the road wouldn’t be quite so demonstrative of his displeasure because they were opening what he saw as a rival establishment.
She remembered Zoe’s tales of – what was it she called them? – those Sardinian bandits who were related to Old Mother Magenta. She’d seen The Godfather, and leaving animal heads around the place as a threat was surely part of the Italian brigands’ repertoire. But what were they threatening?
Theresa couldn’t imagine what she and her friends were doing wrong. Would the distant relations of the boy who was selling really prefer him to be letting out a shop peddling tourist tat to owning a fancy local restaurant, which would stay open even during the cold, rainy winters?
Her mind strayed to their financial predicament. Who could they approach as backers? They could certainly go back to Sally; in fact, William was probably on the blower to her right now, and what with her new friends, who all seemed to be celebrities, there must be some interest somewhere. Theresa certainly recognised the two actresses from TV shows back in London. Perhaps they would like to invest.
Theresa turned over and realised that she was not going to sleep.
Why not go and join the other two – perhaps they would be in the same state of nervous excitement and it also left them sleepless?
Quietly Theresa got up, wrote a brief note to Imogen, explaining that she was at La Mosaïque. As she’d probably read it when she got up for breakfast, how was she to know her mother was going to join the midnight dorm, rather than getting up early for work? She rolled her futon, put a pillow under her arm and let herself out.
The night was cool and clear. Every star imaginable pricked the black sky. She could hear the waves softly lapping on the harbour wall as she took the short walk along the front. As she approached the restaurant she thought she saw someone moving stealthily near the windows of La Mosaïque.
She stopped, took a position behind a parked car and watched.
She could see the silhouette of a man, stooping, peering inside. The
n the man stood up and moved furtively towards the door.
Theresa put down her bedding, except for the pillow, and walked as silently as she could in the direction of the restaurant.
The man was now standing tightly against the door. From his stance, Theresa believed he was about to try opening it, but she could see that he was braced, as though he intended to move suddenly.
What if Benjamin and Carol were both asleep?
She could not let this man jump them.
As the man gripped the handle and pushed the door open, Theresa rushed forward and shoved the pillow into his back, causing him to lose his balance and fall flat on his face. At the same time she heard Carol shout out and Benjamin yelled, ‘Gotcha!’ The lights flashed on inside and as she entered Theresa could see both Carol and Benjamin on the floor, splayed out on top of the intruder, who turned his head and said quietly, ‘Back off, you idiots. It’s me. William.’
21
Sally found a set of blow-up chairs on the edge of the beach, just under the awning of the large marquee in which the after-party was being held.
She had adored the film, a quirky wild tale set in the seventeenth century. It reminded her of a production of The White Devil in which she’d played Isabella, a wife who was poisoned by kissing her own husband’s portrait. This film had all those Jacobean elements – murders, unfaithful henchmen, deceitful, greedy relatives – and also finished with a bloodbath. Marina Martel had been superb as the crafty evil leading lady who ended impaled on a huge golden crucifix.
Unfortunately Sally’s enjoyment of the movie had been slightly marred by the arrival of Ted. In fact at first she found the plot of the film quite hard to follow after spending five minutes seething with anger about him showing up. She thought too about Sian, and also Marianne, now sitting in her home in Bellevue-Sur-Mer.
Ted was at this minute standing in the centre of the party, his arm around Jackie, talking to a gaggle of laughing people. The room seemed to be full of people who knew one another. She felt rather lonely and embarrassed. Sally accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned to watch the waves lapping up the sand in the darkness. For a moment the sound in the party seemed to dip.