by Celia Imrie
After the firework display ended and all the little boats started up their engines and turned out of the bay into the darkness, Stanislav went to the fridge and brought out two small glass bowls filled with chocolate mousse dessert, and drained the bottle of champagne into their glasses. Sally had the last drop.
‘Now you have the wish,’ said Stanislav.
Sally closed her eyes and made her wish.
The dinner had been perfect, the fireworks sublime, and the ambience of this particular place at this time of year, with the film festival in full swing, was sparkling with excitement and anticipation.
Sally looked at all the people thronging the shores. How many of them would be celebrating tonight – perhaps they’d just signed career-breaking contracts, writers had sold their scripts, actors won awards, directors finally raised the finance for their next film? On every boat around her there were people looking thrilled and full of hope. No doubt many a boat was also full of those whose lives would change because of something that happened today. The atmosphere was intoxicating.
Sally had had a wonderful evening watching it all from Stanislav’s yacht.
Now she sat back and looked up at the stars pricking the black sky.
‘When you see all that up there in the heavens and know that each tiny pinprick is bigger than our Earth, it makes life seem so short and makes us seem so unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Don’t you think, Stanislav?’
Stanislav raised his glass.
‘Talking of heaven,’ he said. ‘I’d like to propose a last toast.’
Sally gazed at him.
‘To the most wonderful, kind, beautiful lady, Sally. And thank you for making this a magnificent evening.’
‘Oh, what did I do?’ asked Sally. ‘Don’t be silly, Stanislav. You could have had all this without me.’
‘That’s what you don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I have had all these things and been unhappy and lonely. Since I met you, I see a point to having all these things. When I am with you I am happy. At my age that is something unexpected.’
My age, thought Sally! He must be all of fifty.
Stanislav put his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small box, which he presented to Sally.
He got down on one knee.
Sally wondered where the cameras were. Surely this time it was a gag, and any minute a crowd would jump out and shout: ‘Had you fooled!’
She looked around. There was nothing but herself and him, on a boat in Cannes bay.
He held open the box, and wiped a tear from his eye.
Sally looked down to see a beautiful diamond and sapphire ring.
‘Dear Sally. You have made me very happy. Please marry me. I want to be your devoted husband.’
Part Five
BRANDADE
Ingredients
500g salt cod
2 large potatoes suitable for mash (e.g., Maris Piper)
1 bouquet garni
150ml milk
knob of butter
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
juice of 1 lemon
150g Comté cheese, grated
ground nutmeg
salt and pepper
Method
Allow cod to desalt by soaking overnight in a bowl of cold water. Change the water several times. Peel the potatoes, cut them into cubes and boil for 15–20 minutes, till soft. Chop the desalted cod into pieces and poach for 3 minutes in a saucepan of boiling water, with bouquet garni. Drain the cod. Drain the potatoes and mash them, adding the milk and some butter. Discard any fish skin and bones that might remain and mix the fish with the potatoes. Mash the mixture with a fork, incorporating the oil, garlic and lemon juice. Add pepper and salt. Put into a baking dish, then cover with Comté cheese and a sprinkle of nutmeg. Place into hot oven (210°C) for about 15 minutes or until brown on top, and serve.
25
The balding man grabbed Theresa by the front of her white chef’s overalls.
‘Uncle Vito,’ begged Costanzo, springing forward in Theresa’s defence. ‘Please!’
Vito put his face close to Theresa’s ear and said: ‘Give us what we are here for.’
Theresa stayed as still as she could, looked directly at him and said quietly: ‘I told you I would get it for you. Today is Saturday. There is nothing I can do. The bank is closed.’
Vito kept his face close to hers. ‘My men are all around me.’
The three men at Jackie’s table got up and moved to the corners of the dining room. Theresa noticed Zoe slide gracefully to the floor and hide under her table.
‘If you are lying . . . ’
Vito shoved Theresa backwards, causing her to fall into William, Carol and Benjamin, who stood behind her. He put out his hand and said: ‘So give me the key.’
‘What key?’
‘To your safe-deposit box.’
‘I don’t have . . . ’
‘So where is the medallion? You said it was in the bank.’
‘It is.’
‘So give me the key,’ he repeated.
Theresa’s mind raced. How on earth to convince him that any of her keys would work in a safety-deposit box? She didn’t even know what bank keys looked like. For all she knew they were modern plastic digital ones, like you see in hotels. Her only hope was to give him the key to the restaurant’s safe.
‘I will get you the key,’ she said.
From the corner of her eye Theresa detected movement. Jackie was crawling slowly, imperceptibly along the floor, commando-style, elbows doing all the work.
‘You’re a bad man!’ shouted Cressida, her eyes full of fire. ‘Go away!’
‘Shut that child up!’ barked Vito.
One of his men came menacingly towards the child.
‘Don’t you take another step towards her,’ yelled Theresa, moving sideways to block his path. She turned to Vito. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, frightening children. You’re a bully and a coward.’
‘You owe me. I’m not giving up until I get it. Whatever it takes.’
‘No sentimental medallion is worth enough money to justify you threatening us like this,’ said Theresa.
‘Oh, yes it is,’ replied Vito gleefully. ‘When it was made by Marc Chagall.’
Under one of the tables, Zoe coughed. As everyone swung to look in that direction, Jackie got herself to all fours and darted, round the screen and out of the front door, to freedom.
‘Lock it!’ shouted Vito. ‘That silly Englishwoman doesn’t matter. But now our time is limited. She will call the police. She has, how do you say, “put the heat up”. Everybody stay still. We have guns. Next person who moves will be shot.’
‘Let me give you the key,’ Theresa pleaded. ‘Please. I have the key. In the cellar.’
Vito nodded. One of his henchmen grabbed Theresa’s arms and marched her slowly into the kitchen.
‘This had better not be a trick.’
Theresa tried to think, as she stumbled forward.
‘It’s where you dropped your Zippo lighter last week,’ said Theresa. ‘You know it.’
She led them through the kitchen, which was just as she had left it when she came into the dining room to make her apologies, then made her way down to the cellar.
Rolled up in a ball in the corner, Cathy crouched, her face ashen, looking up at them with huge black eyes.
Theresa had no idea she was there, and didn’t want the men to be surprised. She stood in front of her.
‘There,’ said Theresa. ‘Look inside the cupboard at the bottom of the steps. Mine is the turquoise coat. Inside the right pocket. You’ll find a bunch of keys.’
Vito’s accomplice rushed to Theresa’s coat and pulled out the key ring.
As he passed her Cathy shrunk further into her cocoon and whimpered. The man swung round and went for his gun.
‘Who is that?’ asked Vito.
‘She works in the kitchen. An apprentice. Another child.’
Vito ignored Cathy and inspected the keys. He thrust them in front of Theresa.
‘I need to sort them out,’ she said. She was allowed to fumble with the bunch. She pointed at a smallish-size key. ‘Take it. That one. The bank is in Nice – Rue Portmanteau.’
‘There!’ Vito snatched the whole bunch of keys. ‘Better safe than sorry. In whose name? Don’t we need to bring you?’
‘La Mosaïque company,’ said Theresa. ‘You can give my name. Simmonds.’
There was a cry and sounds of a commotion coming from the dining room.
Theresa was steered back up the steps, and through the kitchen. A table had been upturned. Carol had dived for one of the men and both were sprawled on the floor. Theresa was pleased to see that Carol had the upper hand and that during the disturbance most of the guests had fled.
‘We will check this bank of yours on Monday. If we don’t find what we are looking for, don’t mistake, I will return. And next time I will not be so kind.’
If navigating Stanislav’s boat had been difficult during daylight hours, it was practically impossible to see her way in the dark. Sally made much use of the radar and nautical satnav screens on the control panel.
Stanislav was very helpful. He occasionally used binoculars to scan the horizon, while remaining standing up, scrutinising the darkness, searching for the lights of smaller vessels.
‘I think it’s better if we keep clear of the coastline,’ said Sally. ‘I remember from my time passing the test that there are notorious outlying rocks here. We’re safer right out to sea.’
Stanislav nodded and smiled. ‘Whatever you say, captain.’
Since his proposal, Sally’s head had been in a spin. She had declined giving him an answer straight away for the simple reason that everything was too perfect: the night, the boat, the dinner, the champagne, the fireworks. She wanted to think about it and give him a reply when she was somewhere more like reality.
Stanislav had told Sally he didn’t want to rush anything. She could take as long as she wanted to make up her mind. But life was short . . . If he had his way he would go into town tomorrow and marry her.
Sally knew she couldn’t make any such decision alone. She had to discuss it with someone. That person should have been Marianne; Tom too. But it was certainly not a conversation to have on an international phone call. She felt excited, apprehensive. If she went ahead and said yes, everything would change, and yet . . . How lovely it would be to have someone to wake up with, someone to dine with and take to the theatre. Someone who, like her, loved going out on boats. She knew it was silly. She’d only known the man a few days. But she was no spring chicken. Whenever else in her life was a handsome hunk going to pop up and propose? She realised too that no one could say he was after her for her money or anything, because, compared to him, she had nothing – no Paris townhouse, no country estate at Vence, no property in St Petersburg. All she had was two small houses here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer. If she traded them in for a London property, she might just about get a garage in Streatham.
‘Watch out!’ yelled Stanislav, raising his arm in front of her. ‘There’s something down there.’
Sally peered out into the black. She could see nothing.
‘Look!’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s a fishing boat or a RIB.’
‘I don’t see it.’ Sally stared in the direction of Stanislav’s finger.
‘There are some kind of lights on it, but it looks as though they have no motor and no power.’
‘Ah, yes, I can see,’ said Sally. ‘I’ll tell you what the lights are, Stanislav. They’re holding up mobile phones.’
She scanned the controls. ‘There’ll be a spotlight somewhere.’ She located the switch and flicked it. ‘There!’
As the light went on, she used the little joystick to swivel it round towards the smaller vessel. It was an open RIB with outboard. And it was drifting on the Mediterranean swell.
She heard faint cheering as a man and a woman stood up, waving their hands in the air.
‘Keep looking at them,’ said Stanislav. ‘Don’t get too near, so we don’t send it under our wake. When I shout, turn the boat so that I can reach them from the rear platform and find out what they need.’
Sally knew that this was the correct procedure.
She waited for the call, never taking her eyes off the RIB, then pulled the yacht forward a small way.
She heard Stanislav yell something indistinct. She also distantly heard a reply. A few minutes passed. A small bump from the rear. This was probably Stanislav putting out the ship-hook and hauling the RIB in to touch the back of their boat. He could secure it behind.
Another, louder thump from the rear of the yacht.
Sally was suddenly frightened. What if these people were robbers? There were only two of them, but they could easily smack Stanislav over the head, throw him into the sea and board this boat. She would be powerless to stop them.
You heard about this kind of thing often enough on roads, where someone would feign an accident, stop a Good Samaritan, then steal their car. Surely the same thing was possible at sea?
She called Stanislav’s name.
No reply.
She was torn.
Should she stay at the helm? Should she drop anchor? Should she go back and see what was going on?
She moved towards the saloon and looked out. It was impossible to see through to the back from there.
She edged forward.
Again she called Stanislav’s name.
Still no reply.
She heard a distant splash.
Please God, let that not be the body of Stanislav hitting the water.
She could feel their boat drifting. She shouldn’t have left the helm unmanned. They were far from shore, but what of other craft? Without the motor on or an anchor, they were at the mercy of the current. Anything might be in the way. She rushed back to the controls and looked out of the windscreen.
She flicked a switch, hoping it was a second searchlight, and, as though by magic, five small screens at the far end of the control room flickered on. Each one showed a closed-circuit image of another part of the boat. Why hadn’t she known about this before? She should have switched it on right from the moment when Stanislav left to go aft.
She inspected each glimmering screen one by one. There was a grey shot of the engine-room, a dark view along the gangway between the saloon and the master bedroom, another of the grand saloon itself, one of the upper deck, and the last showed the stern platform. They all looked like stills from those TV programmes where people go hunting for ghosts in damp basements.
Sally shivered.
Where was Stanislav? The stern platform was empty. She could see a taut rope extending from a cleat on the starboard quarter. That one must be attached to the drifting RIB. But no one was visible. Where had he got to? She should have been able to see him there.
A flitting shadow caught her eye on another screen. Was it the top deck? By the time she switched her attention she’d missed it.
Oh God, please don’t let this be a modern-day pirate attack. A glamorous boat this size was an obvious target for thieves. Perhaps they had pulled Stanislav off the back and were now running around, silently invading, ready to take over.
Sally’s heart was thumping and her mouth dry.
‘Stanislav?’ she called again from the doorway in the direction of the saloon.
She could hear more noises coming from the rear of the boat: footsteps, splashing, banging.
She rushed over to look at the stern platform on the closed-circuit screen.
Someone was out there. She glimpsed the outline of a head just as it passed out of the scope of the camera and into the door.
Somebody was heading her way.
Benjamin was moving around the room, comforting the few remaining terrified guests.
‘The Magenta family were never good people,’ said Marcel, brushing himself down and heading for the exit.
Cost
anzo apologised profusely and started to sob as he followed Marcel out.
‘I see those three pretty boys of mine were first out,’ said Zoe, hauling herself out from her hiding place under the tablecloth. ‘Never can trust a man you meet at the Bal Masqué.’
Now there were only the four proprietors left. And Zoe.
‘What happens now, for heaven’s sake; do we have to wait for them to come back?’ Zoe asked. She was appalled.
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ said William, ‘or be anywhere. They’re not after you.’
‘You can’t help us, Zoe,’ said Theresa. ‘We know what they want. And we don’t have it.’
‘Oh, really?’ Zoe stepped forward and stood in the middle of the circle. ‘Sorry to contradict you, but we do have it.’
‘We do?’ Theresa, Benjamin, Carol and William spoke together.
Zoe fumbled in her handbag. ‘I say we, because I am now buying in to La Mosaïque,’ she said. ‘I wish to own a fifth share. I will put in enough to cover the cost of the building, which I will own. I won’t chuck you out and we can get a contract promising that. How much do you need? Two hundred grand?’
She pulled out a chequebook and flourished her fountain pen. ‘Who is the estate agent?’
‘Zoe? What is wrong with you?’ William threw up his arms. ‘Is this the time to be doing a business deal?’
‘Now is precisely the time. The bastards will get what they are looking for and we’ll all be happy.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said William. ‘That Russian boyfriend of Sally’s has already told us he’s going to back us. We don’t need your money.’
‘Safer the devil you know,’ said Zoe. ‘Let me help you.’ She started scribbling a cheque.
‘Cheques don’t mean anything these days, Zoe dear, as you well know. The only trusted method is the bank transfer.’
Theresa felt all her energy rush back as she reminded everyone: ‘The key won’t work. They can search my house, they can go to the bank I told them about and they won’t find anything there, not even a safe-deposit box. Carol hasn’t even been able to buy some antique replacement medallion like we planned.’
A cold chill ran through her at the thought of what could happen next.