by Celia Imrie
Benjamin interrupted. ‘It’s not school, William. We have all been preparing for this moment too, darling.’
‘What time do we open the doors?’ William looked at his watch. ‘Oh, my God, we’re going to be late.’
‘According to our cards we’re open noon to two p.m. and seven p.m. to ten.’ Benjamin brushed a little flour off his boyfriend’s lapel.
‘So we open the doors in three minutes.’ Theresa leaned back in her seat. ‘Calm yourself, William. Let’s enjoy our last few moments of peace.’
Zoe was waiting at the door and was the first to enter. Benjamin had been correct. She had brought three spectacularly good-looking young men with her. They were extremely attentive, taking her wrap, holding out her seat at the central table; in fact, doing all the jobs that Benjamin should have been doing.
Theresa went into the kitchen to await the orders. She watched through the pass, where the waiting staff would collect the plated dishes, as Carol handed out the menus and told them about the ‘specials’, which she had earlier scratched on to a small blackboard that she now placed on a stand adjacent to the table.
‘The wine is complimentary,’ said Carol. ‘As our licence is not yet operational.’
‘I thought it was all complimentary,’ said Zoe. ‘Isn’t this a dress rehearsal for you lot?’
William appeared, suddenly all smiles, and explained the peculiar legalities of this one-off evening.
Theresa waited like a greyhound in the slips. She wanted to get on, to start cooking, and wished they’d order.
Other tables filled up; first Marcel and his family, then Monsieur Mari and his wife from the boulangerie up the hill.
Theresa tapped Cathy on the shoulder and she started lining up the amuse-bouches, tiny complimentary dishes that would be served to all diners at the very start. Tonight’s were simply minute bowls of olive tapenade with slivers of carrot and celery to dip.
The orders started coming in and Theresa’s hands flew from the whisk to the fish slice, from bain-marie to frying pan, as she served up the requested dishes.
When she placed two plates of the Niçoise ‘fish and chips’ on the pass she noticed that the table nearest the door had clearly been changed around, as Imogen and the children were seated there, not Sally and her guests. In fact she couldn’t see Sally at all, but all the tables were full.
She pulled a paper order from the pass and returned to the range to fry up some more panisse chips.
* * *
As arranged, Sally waited at the harbour side for Stanislav. While she stood, she watched people going into La Mosaïque, pleased she had made her booking for the opening tomorrow. Then suddenly she remembered, and quickly got out her mobile.
‘Jackie, I entirely forgot that I was meant to be at tonight’s dress rehearsal for the new restaurant on the quay.’
‘I did wonder when you went out,’ said Jackie. ‘Does that mean I can’t go? I was rather looking forward to it.’
‘No, darling, you go, please, and present my apologies. Trouble is I thought Sian and Ted would be with me, so you have two choices: cancel the other three seats or find some friends you can bring along.’
‘Fantastic!’ Jackie said.
Sally heard a chugging behind her on the water, and was surprised to see Stanislav arriving, alone on a small RIB, a little inflatable rubber boat with an outboard motor.
‘I am driving my own tender,’ he said. ‘First time ever! I’ll be grateful when you get aboard.’
Sally leapt in.
So her fears were right. She was here to provide nautical aid.
They arrived at Stanislav’s yacht and climbed on to the back, pulling the RIB in after themselves.
‘Phew!’ he said. ‘Glad that’s over. I’m being very daring about everything tonight.’ He flung his arms up in an extravagant gesture. ‘Why not? You only live once.’
He turned to Sally and took her hand. ‘So, Madame Connor, would you care to join me upstairs in the decent quarters?’
Sally followed him up the narrow steps and through the saloon towards the helm.
There was no one else to be seen. Her party idea was wrong, unless they were picking up the guests later, which at Cannes was quite probable.
‘Who’s taking the helm?’ she asked.
‘You are,’ he said. ‘With me beside you.’
‘Oh Lord, Stanislav, do you think that’s wise?’
‘Jean-Philippe was unavailable,’ he said. ‘And I couldn’t bear to have some stranger here, especially as the whole idea is to be alone with you.’
Sally wondered whether Stanislav knew why Jean-Philippe was unavailable.
‘Have you spoken to Jean-Philippe at all lately?’ she asked.
‘Tried,’ said Stanislav. ‘No reply.’
‘I see.’ Sally looked at the big boat and was worried. ‘Do you mean that you and I have to navigate our way to Cannes and back on our own?’
Stanislav nodded.
Sally gulped and took her place in the helm seat. She surveyed the array of controls, and was relieved to see that most of them were irrelevant to manoeuvring the boat. She could see multiple displays for fish shoals, sea and air temperature, and switches for stereo hi-fi systems and air conditioning.
‘We don’t have to moor,’ said Stanislav, no doubt trying to reassure her. ‘That is an advantage. We just drop anchor both ends.’
‘So it’s just us, then?’ asked Sally. ‘I’m hoping you’ve got someone in to cook the dinner, or do I have to do that too?’
Stanislav put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’m a man of simple tastes. I know people believe it’s romantic to have servants running around, but I hate that idea of strangers listening in to your every word, don’t you?’
Sally shook her head. Oh dear! This was not the romantic rendezvous she had foreseen. However, it was good to be out on the water, she loved fireworks, and when else would she get the chance to play about with a great big marine vehicle like this?
The anchor switch was plain enough to see. She pressed it and heard the motor spring into action. Another indicator showed her when the anchor was safely stowed.
‘What can I do to help?’ said Stanislav.
Sally looked around, then turned the key for the engine and put her hand on the throttle.
‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘Just sit there and look pretty.’
They both laughed.
24
Halfway through serving the main course Theresa knew that something was badly wrong. There had been the odd comment, brought up to the pass by Benjamin or Carol, about texture, and some about taste. But now the messages were flooding in. The batter was ‘floppy and tasteless’; the sauce ‘like wallpaper paste’. She herself had been wrestling with things in a way she never had done before: the roux seemed to be the wrong consistency, the pastry crumbled, the batter didn’t go as crispy as it always did and the sauces somehow didn’t gel correctly. She had no idea why, and whatever she tried, it failed to correct the problems.
William stormed into the kitchen. He was enraged, but instead of shouting – which the guests would hear – he half-mimed and grimaced his way through a verbal tirade of fury.
‘There isn’t one table on which someone doesn’t want to send the food back, Theresa. What the hell is going on?’
Theresa looked around her. She had no idea why everything that had worked yesterday should turn out so different today.
‘I can’t imagine.’ Theresa’s stomach clenched in fear. This was like one of those nightmares. She prayed she was asleep and would wake up to find it was only a bad dream. ‘Nothing’s changed since yesterday.’
‘Oh yes it has, Theresa, dear.’ William still managed to snap while speaking in a hoarse whisper. ‘I tasted the batter on the fish myself. It’s like gnawing your way through a rubber wetsuit. And the pastry cases are like cardboard. Don’t you sample things before you send them out, like you’re supposed to?’
‘Of
course I do, but pastry cases and batter are two things you cannot taste on the dish. They were both fine in the previous runs. Everything I did is the same as yesterday.’
‘I’m telling you, Theresa, it is not the same. Even the fleur de sel, in the little bowls on the tables, appears to have been replaced with something that tastes like dishwasher salt.’
Theresa went to the jar marked ‘flour’ and unscrewed it. She dipped in a spoon and emptied a little into a saucer with some water, then stirred. She tasted the result.
‘There’s something wrong with the flour.’
Carol came in. ‘Everything’s ground to a halt out there. Even those children are saying the food is disgusting.’
Theresa wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.
‘Do you think it was those thugs who left the lighter and the fag ends?’ said Theresa. ‘Perhaps they let themselves in and changed everything in the jars.’
‘How could they?’ asked Carol. ‘There has been someone here at all times, day or night.’
‘Theresa,’ said William. ‘It’s your kitchen. You are in charge. As you said, it’s your domain . . . ’ William looked really distressed.
‘Perhaps they came in when you were sleeping?’ suggested Theresa.
‘Oh, Theresa,’ Carol sighed loudly. ‘You and your gangsters.’
‘We’d better call back all of the dishes,’ said Theresa, thinking of the only other possible answer. ‘Perhaps some of the dry ingredients have been contaminated.’
‘Poison?’ William’s face filled with horror. He reached out and grabbed a countertop to steady himself. ‘Oh my giddy aunt! We’ll be sued to hell and back.’
‘Someone go out there and tell them not to eat any more. We don’t want a bunch of lawsuits on our hands,’ said Theresa.
‘Let’s stop now,’ Carol agreed. ‘Let’s just let them all go while we sort this out.’
‘I don’t mean to be alarmist, but maybe we should call the police?’ said William.
Theresa flopped down on the folding steps, put her face in her hands and started to sob. ‘It’s all my fault,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay for all the costs of tonight.’
‘Including the complimentary wine, if you don’t mind,’ added William. ‘That’s around two hundred euros alone.’
Cathy took a step forward.
‘I think I know what happened,’ she whispered.
Everyone turned and looked in her direction, a timid grey mouse of a girl cringing in the corner. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders and hung her head, hiding her face. ‘It was a surprise. I thought I was being helpful . . . ’
The tension was palpable. No one dared speak.
Eventually Theresa took a deep breath and asked Cathy what she had done.
‘I changed all the flour for gluten-free, the sugar for sweetener, the butter for low-fat spread and all the fancy salt for low-sodium. I thought it would make everything as tasty as before and, at the same time, much more healthy.’
By the time Sally dropped anchor in Cannes about an hour later, she was feeling very confident in her navigational skills. The most difficult thing about manoeuvring such a large vessel was being so high up above the water level. It was hard to see small rowing boats and RIBs, but Stanislav, sitting beside her in the navigator’s seat for the entire journey, kept a keen lookout.
Once the yacht was safely at a standstill, Stanislav held out his hand.
‘Now, my dear lady, follow me.’
He led Sally through the main saloon and up a couple of gangways, eventually emerging on the outer top deck.
They walked to the platform at the stern of the boat, which now faced the shore.
‘Please be seated,’ he said, pressing a button that brought up a table. He turned and opened a cupboard, took out a linen cloth and spread it with a flourish.
He then opened the fridge and presented a half-bottle of champagne, which he placed in a prepared ice bucket nearby. After a few minutes he had brought glasses, opened the bottle, poured them both a glass each and laid the table with two place settings and the most perfect picnic. Olives, a selection of cheeses and breads, some salads – potato, carrot, beetroot, tomato, cucumber, mesclun – and some strips of cold poached salmon with a little pot of mayonnaise.
‘I had it made up at that little traiteur at the top of the town,’ he said, taking a seat beside her. ‘A light dinner. We even have dessert.’
The sun had set and, in the balmy gloaming, all the little lights of hundreds of boats twinkled on the black water surrounding them. Multicoloured disco lights from party tents the length of the Croisette added to the incidental illuminations, and the rhythmic beat of music from multitudinous revelries, both along the shore and in nearby boats, blended with the sound of seagulls and the lapping of wavelets against the hulls of all the seacraft in the broad bay.
Stanislav raised his glass and proposed a toast.
‘To Sally, a woman, beautiful and multi-talented, alone here with me tonight, but who really shouldn’t be all alone in the world.’
The first spray of fireworks, pink, green, silver and gold, popped against the dark sky.
Theresa took it upon herself to make the announcement about the food. She told everyone that there had been a bit of a mix-up with the labelling and that they should all feel quite healthy, even if their taste buds had not been inspired.
She then went round to speak personally to all the guests she knew, while Carol, William and Benjamin did the same.
Monsieur Mari from the boulangerie talked to Theresa as though he was not surprised that the food was awful. After all, Theresa was English, not French; it was a different cuisine. She knew there was no point arguing with him, explaining how it should have been, how it had been yesterday. The fact is, today it was horrible.
Marcel from the brasserie could barely disguise his glee as he sympathised, telling her ‘these things happen’.
She turned to address Zoe.
‘Don’t worry, Theresa. For a moment I thought I was back at boarding school,’ said Zoe brightly. ‘Next course: Spam fritters!’ She laughed and the boys at her table joined in. ‘Have you met my friends, um, Antonio, Raphael and Fabio? We met at the May Ball last night at Cap Ferrat.’
Theresa smiled at the assembled table.
‘I was just telling the boys about the previous owner, how she made quite a wonderful art collection.’
‘That’s true,’ said Theresa, glad to be able to change the subject. ‘I gather the local painters who came in to eat used to pay for services rendered by donating pictures.’
Zoe laughed loudly, and the boys around her joined in.
She winked and pulled Theresa closer. ‘She was paid for services rendered, all right, Theresa, but the services had nothing to do with the cuisine.’
She turned back to the boys and topped up their glasses.
Theresa went over to her family seated at the next table. Imogen was not quite as gracious as Zoe had been. ‘Honestly, Mummy, I’d been boasting to those nice young men with the woman off that BBC thing – you know, Girls with Flying Skirts in Norfolk or whatever it’s called. Anyhow, having been proud of you when I came in, I am now scarlet with embarrassment. Scarlet!’
Theresa moved on to speak to Jackie and her friends.
‘Hello, I’m Theresa Simmonds and I’m sorry for this debacle. You’re Sally’s friend, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around the town.’
‘I love the artwork on the walls,’ said Jackie. ‘Very eclectic. Kind of Cath Kidston meets Marc Chagall!’
‘That’s by Carol, over there.’ Theresa pointed towards Carol but didn’t think she’d be very happy for her labours to be compared to Cath Kidston. ‘She’s worked very hard.’ Theresa quickly wiped a sheen of sweat from her top lip.
‘I’m sorry it turned out like this for you all,’ she said. ‘Hopefully we will be able to count on your patronage further along the line when we’ve worked out all our little
hiccups.’
‘Not me, old girl,’ said Jackie. ‘I’ll be safely back in Blighty by then, I should think. But if Sally ever invited me over again—’
Costanzo clumsily interrupted. ‘My grandmother would have loved to see the place looking like this.’ He smiled and introduced the balding man with him as his Uncle Vito.
Theresa was relieved and smiled back, then she looked to the men who sat with Jackie.
Jackie said, ‘Sally and her friends stood me up, so I brought along these fine gentlemen in their place. We’d got talking during my afternoon coffee in the brasserie and as they were so fascinated with this establishment I thought, well, why not? They’re not very talkative. But then I no speekah di lingo.’
‘French?’ asked Theresa. ‘Français?’
‘Bien sûr, madame,’ said one of the men.
‘Vous souhaitez une carte de visite,’ said Theresa, reaching behind her for one of the restaurant’s business cards.
‘One for me too,’ said Costanzo’s uncle.
Theresa handed him one. He patted his pockets, took out his packet of cigarettes and lighter; then, from beneath them, his wallet. Thanking Theresa, he took the card she proffered and put it carefully away.
Theresa looked down at the lighter on the table in front of her. It seemed familiar.
She turned back to address the dining room and clapped her hands.
‘So, everybody, I apologise once more for the upset, but assure you we’ll be OK with the desserts, if you’d like to continue?’ She looked around the room.
People were nodding; a few applauded.
Uncle Vito stood and said, ‘First, I should like a word.’
He picked the cigarette lighter up from the table, and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket.
Costanzo rose from his seat and said hoarsely: ‘No!’
Theresa knew at that moment where she had seen such a lighter. It was the exact model of Zippo that she had found on the cellar floor, left presumably as a threat – fancy red enamel, with a gold engraving of skulls.