Nice Work (If You Can Get It)

by Celia Imrie

  ‘Just a bit of a rush on, Stanislav, mate.’ Mickey patted the Russian on the shoulder. ‘Seeing as how you’ve put a truckload of dosh into my little project, I wondered whether you might come out on the pitch before the match and take a bow.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Stanislav, lowering his eyes. ‘It’s not my way.’

  ‘Oh come on, mate. Don’t have to be so modest about it.’

  Stanislav spoke firmly.

  ‘I really don’t like to, Mickey. But thank you for asking.’

  Mickey made a gesture of exasperation and left the dining room.

  ‘I hope I didn’t upset him, Destiny.’ Stanislav leaned towards Sally. ‘I think it’s more classy to give, but keep quiet about it, don’t you think?’

  A couple of men Sally hadn’t seen before pulled up chairs and sat at the table. Destiny got up and loomed behind Sally.

  ‘Hey, Sally, old girl, come and join me for a quick tour round the commoners’ areas. I’m told you can get pizza and chips out there in the real world!’

  Sally really didn’t want to go, but Stanislav gave a quick nod and she thought that perhaps she had better let him talk business with the men.

  ‘I always leave the room when men want to yak. It’s so boring, don’t you think?’ Destiny linked arms with Sally and they swung into the public area of the stadium. ‘Oh, you should have heard old Stanny in the car this morning, Sally. I was quite glad you got in. He was jabbering away with the driver, vigorish this, ligorish that. Sounded quite cross about something. But he’s cheered up now, thank God. I hate a sulky man, don’t you?’ Destiny raised her hand and pointed towards a huge illuminated sign. ‘Hooray! That was easier than I thought it would be. Look, they’ve written it in English for us: “Pizza”.’

  ‘So how are the bookings for tonight?’ asked Theresa, who was busily doing advance preparations when William came into the restaurant kitchen. She had started work early, while Carol prodded about next door, sprawled on the dining-room floor, applying touches of paint to the dried cement, making sure that her new pieces of mosaic blended in with the old.

  ‘Not great,’ William replied, studying the large ledger. ‘We have Sally and her Russian friend, a table for two under the name Simmonds. I suppose that’s your daughter, and . . . ’

  Theresa put down the chopping knife.

  ‘Imogen is married. That’s not her surname.’

  ‘Maybe once her husband left home, she resorted to her maiden name,’ said William.

  ‘No,’ said Theresa. ‘She didn’t. She thought it would be too much trouble getting her passport and credit cards changed. Anyhow, she told me that if we were short tonight she would come and fill a table, if we wanted, but I was to phone her first.’

  ‘Whatever! Enough family matters,’ said William. ‘We can only hope there will be a good turnout on the door, because that’s it. Two tables for two. Let us pray for passing trade. Benjamin put ads in the local papers. “Grand Opening” and all that.’

  ‘And we have Diana Sparks, remember,’ said Theresa. ‘Our celebrity guest.’

  William’s body tensed from top to bottom.

  ‘Oh God! How did that happen? I was obviously so overawed, I’d forgotten she had promised to come tonight. How embarrassing. We have Diana Sparks arriving at an empty restaurant. We’ll look like the village idiots.’ He gasped and spun round. ‘And I think Carol told photographers from the local press she was coming too. We’ll be a laughing stock!’

  William moved off into the dining room to consult with Benjamin and Carol about filling the place, should no one turn up. Theresa went back to peeling and prepping.

  Simmonds? Could the Simmonds who had booked be her ex-husband? But he had reserved a table for two? Perhaps he was bringing a new girlfriend in to show off to her. He knew Imogen was here. Theresa certainly wouldn’t put anything past him. She had a terrible thought that her ex-husband, having been thwarted in his attempts to woo back ex-girlfriends and wives, was about to descend.

  Oh, she was being silly, imagining horrors out of nowhere.

  And William was right. Perhaps Imogen had booked the table for herself and . . .

  But why not a four?

  Theresa picked up a bunch of leeks and a stainless-steel cleaver.

  Why was she wasting time thinking about such stuff? Simmonds was hardly the most unusual name on the planet.

  Maybe it was just an English couple, holidaying in Bellevue-Sur-Mer, who had seen the ad in the paper and fancied trying something new.

  Theresa brought the cleaver down hard.

  Sally sat on the concrete steps overlooking the bright-green football pitch with Destiny while she ate her slice of pizza. Sally was loving the sweet smell of the turf as it was being freshly hosed.

  Outside the quiet calm of the VIP restaurant, the public area buzzed with energy and the soundtrack of cheering crowds. Kids bolted around, some bearing packets of hot chips, wearing team strips. Men stood in gaggles talking earnestly, gesturing and laughing; women sat in the fold-down seats chatting and eating socca off shallow cardboard trays and slugging back beer from plastic cups.

  ‘I like sitting with the common people – like me – don’t you?’ Destiny took a bite of her pizza. ‘The food they serve in those posh places is always tepid. Is that the word? Not much taste.’

  Sally decided not to correct her.

  ‘You’re keen on Stanny the Russkie, aren’t you, Sally? I gather he’s talking about marrying you?’

  ‘He told you that?’ Sally thought this was all a big secret until she had made her decision.

  ‘Nah. He told Mickey and Mickey told me. Men are bigger gossips than us, you know.’ Destiny dabbed at her lips with the paper napkin that came with the pizza, pulled out a lipstick from her handbag and started refreshing her make-up. ‘I suppose you’ll have a nice life with him. He’s quite rich.’

  ‘Money doesn’t matter to me,’ Sally said, and instantly realised she sounded glib.

  ‘Money always matters, hun,’ said Destiny, as a bunch of men moved between them, heading down the steps looking for their seats. ‘You wait till you ain’t got any. Then you’ll know how much it matters.’

  ‘I really meant I wasn’t after him for his money.’ Sally felt weird having to say that. But, truthfully, his money had to be part of the equation, even if in a negative way.

  ‘And Stanny certainly knows how to spend it, doesn’t he? Thousands here, thousands there. My old mum always taught me to keep a grip on my spending and I do. No one is a bottomless pit. Or perhaps they are in Russia. I’ve never been tempted to go there. Too much snow. And I can’t stand beetroot.’

  Sally had to defend Stanislav. After all, he was being so generous with all her friends, sponsoring their projects so that they had the freedom to move forward. Sometimes money was a positive force after all. ‘It’s all investment money, though, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘He’s spending, but it’s backing films and football initiatives. Presumably somewhere down the line, there’s a pay-off for him. Think of those people who put money into Star Wars. A thousand-pound investment and now they’re millionaires.’

  ‘Suppose so. But it’s a bit like roulette, isn’t it? Mum always said the safest place to shove money in is houses. Like they say: “safe as houses”. Even banks aren’t safe, are they? That’s why Mickey and me are looking to put our dosh into buying an estate out here.’

  Sally realised that she had become very fond of Destiny, with her straight talk and lack of guile. In the short time she had spent with Mickey, he too seemed very candid and sincere. ‘How did you meet Mickey?’

  ‘At Boujis. I was a waitress. I accidentally spilled a drink on him, and the girl with him, some posh bird, got all cross and tried to get me sacked. Mickey just laughed and winked at me. He sent me a note, later, apologising for her and asking me out. And we just clicked. We made each other laugh. We had so much in common, see.’ Destiny looked out at the stadium; Sally followed her gaze. ‘This place is bloody
massive, isn’t it?’

  Sally found the buzz of the stadium intoxicating. Rock stars and football players, she realised, experienced this on a daily basis. How she would have loved to have a try at playing in front of anything nearly as exciting as this huge expectant crowd.

  ‘My dad used to bring me to football games since I was a tot. He wanted me to be a boy really, but instead he got this.’ Destiny grimaced, indicating herself. ‘There wasn’t any of that princess thingy either. He tried to call me his Princess, but I stopped up my ears when he did ’cos I was frightened if I really was a princess I’d have to marry Prince Charles, with those jug ears.’

  Sally laughed.

  ‘Princes are generally quite ugly people, when you think about it.’ Destiny snapped her bag shut and leaned back on the step behind her. ‘Look at them: Prince Albert of Monaco, Prince Edward . . . ’

  ‘Prince William and Harry seem OK,’ said Sally.

  ‘Only because we know who they are and who their mother was. No one would look twice at them if they worked in the local garage. Not like my Mickey, or your Stanny. They’re good lookers. You two will look great together.’

  A bell rang and everyone started to walk briskly; some ran. Sally was frightened it was a fire alarm, but the general movement was towards the stadium seating, pushing past them down the steps.

  ‘Yeah, Stanny is one good-looking bloke.’ Destiny got up and put out a hand to help Sally. ‘I don’t like that Russian man who drives him about, though, do you?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve met a Russian man with him.’

  ‘Yes, you have. He’s called Stephane. He was up at the house in the hills playing butler.’

  ‘But he’s French? Isn’t he?’

  ‘Not when he was jabbering away to Stanny this morning in the car. French is all “hon hee hon” and pouty lips, but Russian sounds like a tape going backwards. I’m sure they were talking Russian together. That Stephane bloke sounded quite cross. Anyone would think he was the boss and Stanny the servant. I wouldn’t like staff talking to me like that. They’d have their cards in a jiffy.’

  Out of the corner of her eye Sally thought she saw a man who looked just like Jean-Philippe. She turned to check but he turned too, so she could not see his face. Was it him? Had he been released from jail? Why was he here? She felt sure it was him.

  Something felt wrong.

  Destiny pushed through the doors of the VIP restaurant, with Sally in tow, just as Stanislav, and everyone else in the room, was rising from the table and moving into the viewing box.

  Stanislav held out his hand. Sally took it. He raised hers to his lips and kissed it.

  ‘You look ravishing,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry business got in the way. From now on it will be your day.’

  He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

  ‘We’re going to be very happy,’ he whispered.

  Sally looked into his sparkling eyes and made her final decision.

  Theresa was talking Cathy through the dishes for the evening. They had both learned some sharp lessons yesterday and now, hopefully, things would go more smoothly.

  ‘Everything that happened was my fault. I do know that,’ said Cathy, head hung low.

  Theresa thought back to the terror of Uncle Vito and the Magenta gang and digging up the floor and thought, my dear, you do not know the half of it!

  However, as Cathy knew nothing, Theresa still thought it best to keep quiet, especially as her mother was footing the bill for Cathy’s wages, and also providing the much-needed puff of publicity that might make a splash in the local papers so that their opening would maybe mean something to locals and tourists alike.

  Cathy was now in the middle of preparing melba toast to go with a caviar Niçoise tapenade, which they hoped to serve in place of the rather disappointing amuse-bouches they had had last night. Called croûtes en dentele in France, melba toast had been created by the local chef Auguste Escoffier. Its preparation was not hard, but required concentration. Theresa showed Cathy by making one piece herself, toasting the bread then cutting through it laterally, and retoasting the raw side. Unattended, it was very easily burnt and then came out like a Friesian cow, black and white, and had to be thrown away.

  As she prepared carrots, Theresa could hear William, Benjamin and Carol next door, chatting amiably while they laid up the tables.

  ‘It’s a shame about Mum, isn’t it?’ said Cathy, laying the once-toasted slices of bread on to the grill rack.

  ‘What do you mean? Has something happened to her?’

  ‘No,’ said Cathy. ‘She’d forgotten that she had a prior arrangement tonight, and won’t be able to make it.’

  Next door the telephone rang and William took the call.

  Theresa didn’t want to have to break the appalling news to William quite yet. She bit her lip, turned and placed the carrots into salted water, then started shelling broad beans.

  An eerie silence next door was followed by the sound of William howling at the top of his voice: ‘The bitch!’

  Theresa now realised who had been on the line.

  She counted to ten, and sure enough, before she reached seven, William arrived on the threshold, smiling coldly.

  ‘I gather your mother can’t make it?’

  ‘It’s the Brits in Film night at Cannes,’ said Cathy. ‘She’s one of the guests of honour. The dates were . . . ’

  ‘I know,’ said William, cutting her off. ‘Very confusing. She told me.’

  He flounced out and Theresa turned to apologise to Cathy but before she had time to voice the word she screamed, ‘Help!’

  Cathy was standing by the open oven; the melba toast had not only burned, but tongues of flame licking out from the grill had caught the ends of her hair. Cathy was on fire.

  Theresa grabbed a towel and threw it over her.

  Sally sat in the stadium, almost deafened by the sound of cheering as a giant eagle appeared seemingly out of nowhere and circled the arena, swooping down to land gracefully on the gauntlet of a falconer who stood in the centre of the pitch.

  The bird and his handler walked off and, to a tremendous roar from the crowd, the footballers jogged out through the tunnel.

  ‘What was that? What was that?’ Sally was getting really caught up in the theatricality of the whole event.

  ‘That’s their mascot, the Nissa Eagle, innit. And, look, there’s mine . . . my Mickey mascot.’

  Destiny clapped her hands together like a little child when she saw Mickey give the crowd a wave.

  ‘Are you going to keep me waiting much longer?’ Stanislav leaned in towards Sally and whispered in her ear. ‘The anticipation is driving me wild.’

  The crowd cheered again as a team of policemen and dogs on leashes came on to the pitch and stood around the entrances. At the same moment the doors of the VIP enclosure opened and a file of gendarmes marched down the stone aisle.

  ‘Oooh,’ said Destiny, patting Sally’s lap. ‘The guard of honour!’

  A man in a camel-coloured coat and trilby hat walked out on to the green. Sally imagined that this must be the trainer, or manager of the visiting team. But when she looked at the footballers’ faces they seemed puzzled and started giving one another strange glances. This presence was not expected.

  ‘Well?’ asked Stanislav, taking Sally’s hand and squeezing it. ‘If you thought that on the boat it was too romantic to give me an answer, this must be a better place. Please, Sally. I am yearning to know your decision.’

  Sally turned to Stanislav. He was so debonair and charming. Everything about him was perfect. And Sally also knew that when she said yes to him she could have everything she ever wanted.

  She clasped his hand and looked him right in the eye.

  ‘It has taken up every moment,’ she said. ‘But I have made up my mind, Stanislav, and . . . ’

  Before she could finish, a policeman stepped down and put his hand on Stanislav’s shoulder while another began reading him his rights.
Stanislav started to rise, but two more officers appeared behind him and shoved him down. One of them pulled out handcuffs and locked them on to Stanislav’s wrists.

  ‘The answer is no, Stanislav,’ Sally continued. ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Madame Sally Connor?’ asked one policeman, while another was asking Destiny’s name.

  As Sally struggled to stand, she too was handcuffed, and so was Destiny.

  Sally saw Destiny glance down at the pitch and she followed her gaze. Policemen were also slapping cuffs on Mickey MacDonald.

  All Sally could hear as she was dragged up the concrete steps was her heart pounding and the stadium ringing out with the thunderous sound of booing.

  Theresa came in and slumped down with the others.

  Cathy’s hair had been extinguished swiftly enough not to have burned her scalp or face, but she was now left with a very strange hairstyle.

  ‘Oh dear, I look weird,’ she said, glancing in her handbag mirror. ‘People will probably stare at me. I really don’t like that. That’s Mama’s job.’

  William rolled his eyes and Theresa kicked him under the table.

  ‘A positively thriving business,’ he said, tapping his watch in case it was wrong. ‘Eight o’clock and not a sign of a soul.’

  ‘What time is the first reservation?’ asked Theresa.

  ‘Eight-thirty,’ said Carol and Benjamin in unison.

  ‘It’s not like it was yesterday, is it?’ said Cathy.

  ‘Thankfully,’ said Carol. Now Theresa kicked her under the table.

  ‘Perhaps we should have a phone around,’ suggested Theresa. ‘See who we can rustle up.’

  ‘We’re all here,’ said William. ‘Unless you want to get Zoe back. Sally was meant to be here. She didn’t give an exact time but she said eight-ish.’

  ‘She’s late,’ said Carol, twisting her watch round on her wrist. ‘Surely we know somebody else. How about Monsieur Leroux?’

  ‘The plumber?’

  ‘Why not?’

  William gave Carol a glacial stare.

  ‘Benjamin darling, go and have a look at the brasserie and see if they’ve got the same problem?’