Nice Work (If You Can Get It)

by Celia Imrie

  ‘And then be charged three additional pounds for a packet of crisps, salt and vinegar or prawn cocktail only.’

  ‘They do come cheaper than that, I believe, Mum.’

  ‘You’ve mellowed, Imogen,’ said Theresa. ‘Or is that just the Bellevue-Sur-Mer effect?’

  ‘It’s a wonderful place. But since Michael buggered off with the nanny, and since I’ve had to deal with my self-obsessed father, who’s still grieving for his lost girlfriend, I must admit I’ve started looking at things in a slightly different way. I mean, really, Mummy, you either have to laugh or cry. And I don’t like crying, it plays havoc with my mascara.’ Imogen smiled. ‘The kids have been brilliant about everything. I think seeing other people behaving like pigs does tend to wise you up. They were very happy to be coming out here to see some woman with a fat arse . . . ’

  Theresa winced.

  ‘Not you, Ma.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ Theresa grinned.

  ‘It’s a statue, or rather a bas-relief, in town. Set into a concrete wall. It shows some local heroine.’ Theresa sighed and took another sip of wine. Although there was much work ahead, everything was going smoothly. The tasting session had scored a ‘bingo’, or a ‘180’ or whatever the latest name was for practically perfect. Now all she had to do was keep it up.

  ‘But the thing that puzzles me,’ continued Imogen, ‘is why, when you came here escaping the rat race, you want to join the race again, only this time with so much responsibility? Isn’t that ruining a good thing?’

  Lately Theresa had wondered this herself during many a sleepless night.

  ‘Look at your friend Sally,’ said Imogen. ‘She didn’t want to get mixed up with this stuff, and now she’s got someone chasing after her. That won’t ever happen while you look so frazzled. It’s too much for you at your age.’

  Theresa didn’t like the ‘at your age’ tag. But sometimes when she lay awake at night she did fear being old and alone. Not helped, she guessed, by her old bones being in her current chambre on the mattress on the floor.

  ‘Work, work, work!’ Imogen continued. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you had someone here with you full-time? Someone with whom you can share your twilight years?’

  Twilight years? A shudder went through Theresa. Euphemistic phrases like that made her feel rather nauseous. Theresa could only think of the Twilight Zone and that haunting tune. She found herself humming it.

  Maybe it would be nice to have someone to share things with. But there was no one on the horizon and she knew that if she just stayed here and lounged around, doing nothing with her days, she would go mad with boredom. Everyone, even older people, had to have some aspirations and some place where they were going to be needed. What was sadder than reading about an elderly person who had died at their breakfast table and remained there undiscovered for weeks? Theresa wanted to be busy and to have somewhere to go each day. She liked the idea of having to turn up at work, and knowing that, if only she and the others could get it right, they might even make some money from it.

  ‘If I don’t like it I can stop,’ she said, realising that this was not entirely true, as all her money was now tied up in the project. ‘But while it lasts – I like the work.’

  Chloe sat forward and said, ‘Professionalism is sublimely important.’

  Theresa shot a look at Imogen and they both laughed.

  Theresa could not be happier.

  23

  Sally woke early next morning wondering why she felt so nervous. She then remembered the list of reasons.

  The rapprochement between Sian and Ted had led to a high storm from Marianne, who, even though it was late at night, had packed her bags and ordered a taxi to the airport. She was leaving for London and, ‘as long as she lived’, never wanted to see Bellevue-Sur-Mer again. This left Sally feeling very hurt. Was a short dalliance with a childish man like Ted really worth the drama? Sally feared it was loss of face for her daughter, more than anything. Even as a tot, Marianne had always loved to win. And in this case she may have won Ted, but too soon afterwards she had lost him again.

  She also remembered, rather crossly, how, according to Jackie, Ted had described her while in the Cannes police station. Was she really ‘dried up with disappointment’? She knew that inside she felt lost and unwanted. She wanted work, or love, or something. Marriage and motherhood had come and gone as a form of quasi-employment anyhow, leaving her free, but with nothing to do with her days.

  She felt sorry again that she had not become part of the team at La Mosaïque. She imagined them now busily preparing for their opening, just like you did for a first night, stomach a-flutter, totally tense, but excited too, rushing around getting cards and make-up, laying out your place in the dressing room, arranging the telegrams . . . Oh no, times had changed. No one sent telegrams any more.

  She climbed wearily out of bed and went to put on her dressing gown, aware of the lingering perfume left on it by her house guest.

  Jackie’s door was closed. Sally wondered if she was cowering inside, scared to come down after yesterday’s embarrassment.

  She shuffled into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

  An urgent rap on the front door.

  She opened up.

  Four gendarmes with sniffer dogs stood in the street.

  ‘Madame Sally Connor?’

  Sally nodded. What on earth? She prayed nothing had happened to Marianne, or to Tom. But why dogs?

  The lead officer presented an authority to search and she took a step back, allowing him to pass.

  One man and his dog ran upstairs; the other started at the front door and worked his way back on the ground floor.

  ‘I have a friend up there,’ shouted Sally, wishing she’d had time to get dressed. ‘She is probably asleep.’ She turned to the commanding officer. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘You are acquainted with Jean-Philippe Delacourt?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally nodded. ‘He was my instructor at sea-school.’

  ‘He drove you to this house late at night last Thursday?’

  Sally thought back to the ghastly evening at Cannes, and Marina Martel’s after-party.

  ‘Yes. But what . . . ?’

  ‘Monsieur Delacourt is currently in police custody. He was followed by the Marseille drug squad and, after a search of his car, it was deduced from the trace elements we discovered that the main stash of cocaine had been deposited elsewhere. He claims to know nothing.’

  Sally stood open-mouthed in disbelief.

  ‘Perhaps, Madame Connor, you might tell us where it is.’

  ‘I know nothing too,’ she said. ‘And I don’t believe Jean-Philippe would . . . ’

  She was interrupted by the two dog-handlers. ‘Rien,’ they said. ‘Not a trace.’

  One of them turned to address her.

  ‘Your friend is not there in the bedroom,’ he said. ‘The bird has flown.’

  The chief held out his hand to shake.

  ‘Apologies, Madame Connor, for disturbing you.’

  And they were gone, leaving Sally to wonder what on earth was happening.

  Why had they arrested Jean-Philippe and how was Jackie involved, or was the officer simply making a joke? Had Jackie upped and gone without letting her know? After last night’s shenanigans it would not have surprised her.

  Sally went up to check the spare room. Jackie’s things were still there, and the bed lay unmade. What day was it? Saturday. Perhaps something was on at Cannes and Jackie had left early for that.

  Sally returned to her own bedroom and got dressed.

  She was being silly worrying about Jackie, when the real problem was Jean-Philippe. She wished now that she had asked where he was being detained and upon what charge.

  The phone rang. It was Tom.

  ‘Hi Mum, I’m thinking of coming down to see you for a few days.’

  ‘How lovely.’ Sally was still worrying about Jean-Philippe. Had she accepted a lift from h
im while he was carrying drugs back from Marseille?

  ‘It’s semi-work, actually, Mum. After you told me about all your friends opening that restaurant of theirs, I put the idea to my editor, who wants to start a column where I draw the establishment while my boss does a little write-up. We’re only going to glamorous locations, holiday hotspots, haunts of the rich and famous, so where better to begin than BSM?’

  ‘So when will you arrive?’

  ‘Tonight?’ asked Tom.

  Sally snatched her diary. She suddenly remembered that tonight was her date for the Cannes fireworks.

  ‘Isn’t that when you said the place opens?’

  ‘No,’ said Sally. ‘Tonight’s the dress rehearsal. They open on Sunday. I’m going. Why don’t you phone William? I’ll give you his number. He has the low-down.’

  ‘That’s the thing, you see, Mum. We don’t like to forewarn the proprietors, otherwise they tend to play it up a little. So anyhow, I’d ask you to keep it under your hat.’

  ‘Of course. Shall I make up your room?’

  ‘No. They put us up in the nearest posh hotel.’

  Sally laughed. ‘There is no posh hotel in Bellevue-Sur-Mer.’

  ‘So they’ll probably taxi us into Nice. No probs. See you soon.’

  And he was gone.

  William greeted Theresa with an early phone call, informing her of the latest news: Sian had now changed her mind and decided to take all of her money out of La Mosaïque.

  ‘We are back to square one,’ he announced. ‘Any ideas?’

  Theresa sank back down into her armchair and told him no.

  ‘So what’s the gen today?’ he asked. ‘I will be off my projected route as I now have to sniff around again for money.’

  ‘What about the van?’ asked Theresa. ‘You’re supposed to be picking up the supplies.’

  ‘No can do.’

  ‘How about Carol?’

  ‘She’s going to be at my side, on the phone all day, trying for adverts and reviewers.’ There was a pause. ‘How about Benjamin drives and you give that Sparks girl the list?’

  ‘Excellent idea, William,’ said Theresa.

  ‘I’ll ask him once he gets back from his midnight tryst with Carol.’

  ‘Oh, are they still doing that?’ Theresa herself was sleeping on the floor, but had forgotten that the other two were as well.

  ‘The threat hasn’t gone away, has it? Unless you’ve discovered the lost medallion stuck behind a wine rack and returned it to them?’

  ‘You know that I haven’t,’ said Theresa. ‘Except Carol’s plan.’

  William groaned. ‘So, better safe than sorry,’ he said. ‘Until the security people can get in to fit up the new system at least. And we have the money to pay them for it. So, that’s it then, Theresa. Benjamin and the Sparks girl can go to cash-and-carry or whatever . . . ’

  ‘William,’ said Theresa, ‘as you are so ready to fawn over the mother I do think it’s about time you remembered that the “Sparks girl’s” name is Cathy.’

  ‘Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’ said William. ‘Oh. Forgot to ask. How many people have we rustled up for the rehearsal?’

  ‘I left it to Carol,’ said Theresa. ‘But I think we’re just about full.’

  ‘Good,’ said William, and hung up.

  Theresa took it easy for the morning; after all, it was going to be a very hard night. She drew a map for Imogen, who wanted to go into Nice for a salad lunch in the Old Town. She put an X to mark the spot in the street where they’d find the statue of Catherine Ségurane, so that the kids could show their mother the woman with the bare bottom they were always talking about.

  When Theresa arrived at the restaurant, Benjamin and Cathy were unloading the van. Theresa helped carry crates of fresh vegetables, while Cathy emptied packets into the jars marked flour, rice, salt, etcetera.

  Theresa picked up one of the printed menus, which Carol had dropped off earlier, and pinned it up in the kitchen.

  She laid out her preparation worktop and started chopping.

  Sally was so nervous about her date that she spent almost all morning in front of the mirror, changing in and out of every piece of clothing she possessed. Some things looked classy, but too dressy for what was supposed to be a casual evening on a boat watching fireworks. After all, she had not been invited to the Prince’s Ball at Monaco or even Royal Ascot. It was an evening jaunt on a gin palace.

  When she tried to dress down, then it looked as though she was about to traipse round the supermarket or take the bins out.

  Eventually she went for the slightly nautical but still glamorous look and adorned herself with pieces of jewellery and a bit of make-up.

  While she was inspecting herself, she wondered what Stanislav would do now that Jean-Philippe was unavailable to drive the boat. Would he expect her to navigate, or even take the helm? Maybe she had got quite the wrong end of the stick altogether about this evening. Perhaps Stanislav wanted her there as a practical asset. Maybe he was throwing a proper party, with Destiny and Mickey and a shipload of celebrities. Isn’t that what people did at Cannes? Perhaps she would simply spend the evening throwing out and pulling in the fenders.

  She had a light lunch then went back to the wardrobe and tried again.

  She thought about Jean-Philippe. She couldn’t imagine him taking drugs, let alone dealing. He just didn’t seem to her the type. He was so outdoorsy. But like all these secret things, you never really could tell.

  She picked up another top and held it against herself. No. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Three outfits later, Sally heard the front door open, and went to the stairs to look down.

  Jackie came in, peered up at her and wolf-whistled.

  ‘Phwoar!’ she said. ‘You look corking, old girl. Off on a date?’

  ‘I was worried about you, Jackie.’

  ‘You silly old goose. Whyever?’

  ‘When I couldn’t find you this morning.’

  ‘No probs, old bean. I had to tootle over to Cannes, remember . . . I told you days ago. Meeting with the British funding people. Left at sparrow’s fart. Didn’t want to disturb you.’

  Sally knew the next question was going to be tricky. She doubted anyone ever answered truthfully.

  ‘Do you take drugs?’

  ‘Drugs?’ echoed Jackie.

  ‘Cocaine?’

  ‘No,’ said Jackie emphatically. ‘Tried it once at drama school. Went green and was sick in a lift and never felt tempted again. Why? Were you about to offer me something?’

  ‘No, no.’ Sally now felt foolish for asking. After all, the sniffer dogs would have picked up the smallest trace, if there had been any in Jackie’s room.

  ‘In fact,’ said Jackie, ‘I’m rather down on all that illegal stuff. Once had a pal who was attacked by a loony on crack. Really don’t approve of druggies at all.’

  Why had Sally suspected Jackie? The only person they were looking for was Jean-Philippe.

  Sally thought back to the car ride home from Cannes that night. There had been a box on the back seat. Was that full of drugs? Or were they stashed in the boot?

  ‘Are you all right, Sally?’

  Sally realised she was just standing there gripping the banister and that Jackie had offered to make a cup of tea.

  ‘No, no. I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Got to get ready. As you said – I’m off on a date.’

  ‘Who with?’ asked Jackie. ‘As if it was any of my business!’

  ‘Stanislav.’

  ‘Ah, the handsome Stanislavski,’ said Jackie. ‘I told you he’s funding my film, didn’t I?’

  ‘He’s a very generous man,’ said Sally.

  While Carol and Benjamin laid up the tables, Theresa and Cathy worked next door, blind-baking the pastry and preparing the desserts, boiling potatoes and rearranging things when they realised that the layout wasn’t suiting them. Cathy was proving to be a very good worker. She took orders quietly and wheneve
r Theresa called on her, she was ready.

  Just after six, when Theresa, Carol, Benjamin and Cathy had just sat down to take their own light supper, William arrived, grinning, with a crate of champagne and another crate of mixed wines.

  ‘We can’t sell or serve liquor till the terms of the licence start,’ he said. ‘But as we are not actually open this evening, and this is essentially a private party of invited guests, I have brought some wine.’

  He walked around with a distinct spring in his step and put a bottle on each table.

  ‘Who’s coming, Carol?’ he asked, sitting and taking a plate. ‘Do you have a table plan?’

  Carol got up and fetched the piece of paper.

  ‘Zoe and three guests, no doubt young men she pulled in some disco in Beaulieu last night,’ said Benjamin.

  ‘Sally, plus three.’ William pointed to the table nearest the door. ‘Will that include the Russian hunk? Oh, by the way, he left a message. He wants to invest in us!’

  ‘Wow,’ said Theresa. ‘That will certainly help. Did he say how much?’

  ‘It was a short message and the line not good, but I think he said “name your figure”, then he laughed and added “within reason”.’

  ‘We can ask him when he gets here,’ said Carol. ‘I’d say “Beware of Russians bearing gifts.”’

  ‘Marcel and his family are coming,’ said Theresa, who also thought that you shouldn’t believe anything till it was all done and dusted and the money in the bank. ‘I think that’s nice that Marcel’s supporting us tonight. I hope he likes us! And that table is for my daughter and three grandchildren. They adored everything they tried yesterday.’

  ‘Who are all the other bookings?’ William had his glasses on and was inspecting the table plan.

  ‘Friends of friends,’ said Carol. ‘Oh, and that four, there, is for Costanzo and companions. To keep the peace, you know.’

  ‘The most important thing,’ said William, putting his spectacles back in his pocket, ‘is that we use this night for ourselves. We need these people’s reaction to help us make sure we get things right. Dishes should arrive in a timely fashion, wines and food served from the left, and taken away from the right. That’s what I was taught. I . . . ’