by Celia Imrie
William pivoted on the spot. He had intended to go back into the dining room but had seen something in there and turned now to address Theresa.
‘Zut alors!’ he cried. ‘A second celebrity. It’s that nutty woman from the TV show about women in the war. And she’s with a gendarme. In uniform, if you please.’
William wheeled again, and headed in their direction.
Theresa did enjoy cooking, and due to the sluggish arrival of guests the service tonight had not been too difficult. Much as she loved the kitchen, however, she missed the chitchat, the hustle and bustle of the public side of things out there in the dining room.
It was tantalising, hearing the odd snippet of conversation, and, whenever the door opened, she might catch a glimpse of a diner as they made their way towards the washroom.
She longed to go out and walk among the tables. But that was rather naff, wasn’t it? Whenever did you see a chef in the dining room, unless it was Gordon Ramsay or Marco Pierre White or someone of that ilk?
Theresa heard the rattle of the door and another gaggle of people coming in. Was that Imogen’s voice, talking with some man? She could definitely hear children’s high-pitched tones.
Carol swung in with a barely touched plate of apple pie, and another scribbled order.
‘The ruddy big-tits woman has changed her mind again. She thought apple pie was the same thing as tarte tatin. She wants a different dessert.’
‘What does she want this time?’ asked Theresa.
‘Ice cream.’
‘No problem.’ Theresa opened the freezer door and took out a couple of scoops of her home-made ice cream. ‘Let me bring it to her. Please.’
‘William won’t like it if you come through.’
‘Is Imogen here?’
‘Yes. And your grandchildren. Chloe is very excited to see Destiny MacDonald.’
Theresa poured a few drips of raspberry jus on to the ice-cream bowl, and stuck a fan wafer in the top. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Carol shrugged. ‘William won’t be happy.’
The sight that greeted them took them both by surprise. The three children were grabbing on to the legs of the moustached old-gentleman tourist, while Tom’s lady friend was bent over and appeared to be bashing him over the head with her notebook.
The old gentleman grabbed the woman’s head and shoved it down into his dessert.
‘Good God!’ said Theresa. ‘That man! It’s my ex-husband!’
The woman pulled herself up into a standing position and turned to face Theresa.
‘You?’ she shrieked, taking a step in Theresa’s direction.
Theresa meanwhile took a step back. ‘Annunziata?’
‘Theresa!’
‘Peter!’
‘Brandad! Brandma!’
‘Daddy! Mummy! Annunziata!’
The other guests sat staring in amazement as the Simmonds family recognised and recoiled from one another.
Tom got to his feet and hollered, ‘Signora Simmonds, what is going on?’
Theresa looked round at Tom, but it was Annunziata who yelled: ‘Mind your own business!’
Then both Annunziata and Theresa turned and advanced on Peter Simmonds, their mutual ex-husband.
Now it was Imogen who stood up and started to shout.
‘Annunziata! I had no idea you would be here. Why would you be here? You’re in Italy.’
‘I was advised to come here by my idiot of a design assistant, Tom Connor. I was due to write an article about this pathetic little town, with its manky hotel and this excuse for a restaurant. That is, if it’s any of your business.’ Annunziata brought herself up to her full height and gave Imogen the once-over. ‘I see, Imogen, that you remain as irritating as you were when you were a child, only now you share the interfering tendencies of your cow of a mother.’
Tom put his face in his hands.
‘No! Signora Simmonds!’
Annunziata swung round, pointed at Tom and said, ‘You’re fired!’
Meanwhile Theresa turned to Peter.
‘What the hell are you doing here? Go away, Peter. Leave me alone.’
‘It’s my fault,’ yelled Imogen. ‘I invited Daddy here because . . . ’
‘I know why you did it!’ screamed Annunziata. ‘That idiot ex-assistant of mine told you I’d be here in this poxy place and you wanted to lumber him on me again. But those days are over, Imogen, since the moment I caught him sleeping with the skivvy.’
‘No, no, no!’ shouted Imogen. ‘That’s not it at all.’
‘Enough!’ Tom marched across the dining-room floor. ‘I am nobody’s idiot.’
William grabbed at him. ‘You can’t leave us now.’
‘I’m going to find out what’s kept my mother,’ said Tom. ‘She is never late like this.’
Destiny, Mickey, Jackie and Jean-Philippe rose to speak but were silenced by Peter, who moved in on wife number two, shouting: ‘I wouldn’t ever get back with you, Annunziata. Not if you were the last woman on earth.’
‘Aha! I get it!’ Theresa had been staring at Imogen. Finally the penny dropped and she rejoined the fray. ‘Now I see why you invited your father here. You needed to get him out of your house, so you thought you’d dump him on me, hoping that he could live in mine.’
‘Sorry, Mummy.’ Imogen shrugged. ‘It was an idea . . . ’ her voice fizzled out.
William took charge. ‘Can we have some calm here, please? Theresa, take your family squabble outside. There are people trying to eat.’
He swept his arm around, indicating the other tables where Jackie, Destiny, Mickey and Jean-Philippe were watching, open-mouthed.
‘What? Outside for the paparazzi?’ Carol stood arms spread, barring the exit. ‘And get the whole thing photographed and filmed. That is not the sort of front page we’re after, sweetie.’
Peter picked up a bread roll from Jackie’s table, and flung it at Annunziata. Annunziata seized the melting ice cream from Theresa’s hand and brought it down on Peter’s head.
‘Don’t they say that no publicity is bad publicity?’ said Benjamin weakly, as the door behind him opened.
‘What a load of total bollocks,’ replied William.
‘I say! What a turn-up!’ said Jackie to her gendarme friend. ‘Do things like this happen often here in la belle France?’
‘Les anglais sont fou!’ he replied. ‘What they say? Mad cooooos!’
Diana Sparks stood alone at the welcome desk.
She took in the scene. Three children tearing at Annunziata’s clothing, while in turn she bashed Peter, who threw rolls towards Theresa, who scowled at Imogen, who was sobbing, while all the other diners sat like spectators in the Colosseum, enjoying the rowdy show.
‘Who do I have to shag round here,’ she shouted above the din, ‘to get a table for two?’
The room fell silent.
No one moved.
All eyes were on Diana Sparks. But then they refocused to look at the woman who had followed her into the restaurant and who now stood behind her.
Resplendent in a red floor-length gown was none other than the multi-Oscar-winning American film star, Marina Martel.
31
In the time it took Tom to persuade Sally to join him for dinner, a lot had gone on at La Mosaïque.
Annunziata and Peter left together, leaving the dining room in relative peace.
Jackie’s gendarme had put on his cap and gone through to the back to speak privately with William and Theresa and let them know that any money Stanislav had put in their account had been withdrawn by the police. After that, duty done, he had taken off his cap and jacket and rejoined Jackie for dinner. ‘My guardian angel,’ she said to Destiny, at the adjacent table. ‘He took me from the airport to the police HQ so that I could spill the beans on the Russkie rotter. And now he’s off duty, we’re on a date.’
Theresa, William and Carol shuffled over to the table where Zoe sat, alone, tucking into her battered fish and panisse chips.
‘We’re sorry if we tried to shake you off,’ said William.
‘It was all such a panic,’ added Carol. ‘Nothing personal.’
Zoe looked up through reptilian eyes.
William pulled Zoe’s cheque out of his pocket. ‘Can we . . . ?’
‘You can do whatever you like,’ said Zoe. ‘But I only wanted to join up so I could have a share of the Chagall. Now what would be the point?’
William held up the cheque. ‘Shall I tear it up?’
Zoe pursed her lips, a difficult job. ‘No. Go on. Count me in. I like the idea of owning a restaurant. But I’ll want the odd freebie. This grub is pretty delicious.’
Jackie, the gendarme, Destiny and Mickey leaned over the gap between their tables to discuss what each of their involvement with Stanislav Serafim had cost them.
‘It was me who grassed him up,’ said Jackie with some pride. ‘He tried to kill me this morning, you know. Up at some villa near Vence. But luckily I had learned many escape techniques while rehearsing for Skirts Fly Over Suffolk.’
‘Like kneeing him in the knackers?’ asked Destiny, miming out a karate attack. ‘Take that, Stanislav Serapig!’
Having already had three coffees, Jean-Philippe remained alone at his corner table, picking at a plate of petits fours. At Stanislav’s name he looked up.
‘Vous aussi?’ he said to Destiny. ‘My English not too good. But Stanislav . . . bad crook.’
‘Bad crook is putting it kindly,’ said Mickey. ‘He’s what we in England call a conniving twisted lying bastard.’
Imogen, now contrite at having been the cause of the catastrophic reunion that had all but wrecked her mother’s opening night, sat solemnly in another corner, surrounded by three very quiet little girls.
Diana explained to William that, like many others, she had left the Brits in Film party early, after the police arrived to tell a number of guests that their finances had been breached by Stanislav’s fake promises. The atmosphere had become far too gloomy. Marina Martel had heard the news and told Diana how Stanislav had taken her to lunch rather showily at Le Negresco. But his smooth ways had instantly put her hackles up, and she had, thankfully, eschewed his offer. While Marina and Diana exchanged their stories they decided to escape together, to get out of town and go eat. Marina asked her driver to bring them to Bellevue-Sur-Mer.
Her bodyguards were waiting outside, she told William. If he could perhaps offer them a table . . . ?
In the kitchen Theresa had gone into a robotic state, too busy now to rewind the dramatic and unpleasant scenes between herself, her ex-husband and her ex-nanny. She would definitely have words later with her daughter, but meanwhile . . . there were diners to be served.
Cathy, who had come up to join them from the cellar, was the only one who seemed unfazed by the recent commotion. She whirled round the kitchen like a dervish, grabbing plates, taking ingredients from the fridge and larder, helping to fry fish and panisse, and plating up. She snatched the orders from Carol’s hands and whizzed back to Theresa with them, then seized fully prepared plates and laid them on the pass. She was a woman transformed.
* * *
As he steered his mother in through the front door of La Mosaïque, Tom put his arm around her. Most of the photographers had packed up and gone home to bed – they had their shot for tomorrow’s gossip column. ‘Hollywood star shines at local restaurant opening.’
Tom had told her about the scenes in the restaurant, which had marred the early part of the evening.
‘Honestly, Mum,’ he said. ‘How the hell was I to know my new boss was the woman who had run off with Theresa’s husband? What a small world, eh?’
Sally listened to Tom talking about Theresa’s ordeal, and realised that, however foolish she had been over Stanislav, she was not the sole focus of everyone’s attention.
Tom was right. It really was a small world and life was short. Late in life, both she and Theresa had been humiliated over love.
She stepped quietly over the threshold into the restaurant.
‘You took your time,’ said William, by way of a greeting. ‘Where’s the ruddy Russian? He did us in, you know.’
‘From what I gather,’ said Sally, taking her seat at a corner table, ‘he did everyone in. Now let’s forget him.’
She held her menu up to hide her face while she made her choice.
Then Carol came over to take her order.
‘That boyfriend of yours suckered us,’ she said.
32
Theresa’s work for the night was coming to an end. Apart from Sally’s dishes, all the main courses had gone out and the desserts on tonight’s menu only required plating.
‘May I go out and say hello to my mama now?’ asked Cathy, her eyes like an eager puppy-dog.
Theresa waved her off.
When Cathy was gone, Theresa flopped down on a stool and wiped her brow. She was knackered. Was this what she had signed up for?
Imogen had imagined she had come to Bellevue-Sur-Mer to relax her remaining days away with her feet up, preferably in slippers. But Theresa liked to be busy. Maybe not quite this busy, but . . . Even though she was doing a job she loved, something else was lacking.
She thought about it for a few seconds and realised what that thing was.
‘How are you doing?’ Sally stood at the door to the kitchen. ‘Tom told me about what happened here earlier.’
‘Looking back, we’ll all have a good laugh about it, I’m sure, Sally.’ Theresa shrugged. ‘I hear you also were rather let down.’
Sally smiled and closed the door behind her. ‘We’re a pair of old fools, aren’t we?’
‘Less of the old,’ said Theresa, patting the stool beside her, inviting Sally to sit.
‘Look, Theresa, I know I was evasive about it all from the start, but what would you say if I wanted to be part of this? Would you be put out if I offered to help you in the kitchen?’
Theresa leaned back against the cool white wall.
‘Do you know, Sally, I’ve been thinking all night long what a lonely life this job might turn out to be. Having a friend in here cooking with me sounds like a wonderful idea.’
‘Are you serious?’ said Sally, sitting next to Theresa. ‘I cannot think of anything that would be more rewarding, and more fun.’
The kitchen door burst open and Cathy rushed in. ‘I was telling Mummy and her friend about that horrible man. Can I show them the Lion thing?’
Theresa nodded and Cathy grabbed the lime-green bag that Vito had so angrily flung to the floor. She ran back to the dining room with it.
‘She’s a sweet kid, really,’ said Theresa. ‘But a bit of a klutz. She’s good as an assistant, when she’s actually in the room, but it would be nice to share the work with a true pal.’
‘What’s going on now?’ asked Sally.
They could hear sounds of another small commotion coming from the dining room. Together they moved to the door to take a peek.
Diana was standing up, holding the piece of mosaic, with William, Benjamin and Carol gathered round her table.
‘Theresa!’ called William. ‘Quickly!’
Theresa took Sally by the arm. ‘Come on. Let’s have a squint at what’s up.’
Diana was speaking earnestly, while, at her side, Marina Martel’s eyes popped. They were holding the mosaic medallion between them.
‘When it fell on the hard floor the copper band broke off,’ said William, his face slightly flushed with excitement. ‘But just look what’s underneath!’
Theresa peered down at the greyish side of the medallion, as Zoe rose from her table and crept forward to join them.
‘It looks like a signature, carved into the wet cement,’ said Theresa.
‘What does it say?’ asked Sally, screwing up her eyes.
‘That’s not anything like the name Marc Chagall,’ said Zoe with an enormous sigh.
‘That’s because it says Picasso.’
‘Picasso?’
‘Pi
casso!’
‘Picasso!!!’
‘Thank you, God,’ Zoe crossed herself, ‘for letting me buy in, just in time.’
‘Excuse me?’ Throughout all this excitement over the mosaic medallion, Marina Martel had been staring at Sally. She spoke in a deep Texan drawl. ‘Aren’t you Sally Doyle?’
Sally nodded.
‘I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to meet you.’
‘Meet me?’ said Sally.
‘Yeah. I thought I saw you at my movie première. That was you, wasn’t it?’
Sally thought back to the night in the Cinema Lumière, when Ted had made his unwelcome appearance and she thought that she and Marina Martel had briefly caught eyes.
‘I was there,’ said Sally. ‘At the side, near the front.’
‘I knew it was you! I used to watch you every Saturday, when my pa was stationed over in the UK – Greenham Common. I loved the funny faces you pulled in the skits, and . . . all the gloop.’
‘Sccerrrunch!’ said Sally.
‘Sccerrrunch! Yes. That was it.’ Marina Martel looked at Sally as though she was the fan and Sally the movie star. ‘It was because of you I became an actress.’ She touched Sally’s arm. ‘Look, sweetie, I’m going to start rolling on a new movie I’m directing. We’re shooting hereabouts, and there’s a little role in the script, and you would be just dandy in the part. Would you care to join us?’
Sally looked around at her friends’ eager faces.
In the corner Jean-Philippe was standing beside Tom. Both men were grinning; to her side Destiny and Jackie looked up with wide eyes; and, close enough to hug, stood William, Benjamin, Carol and Theresa, all hanging on Sally’s reply.
Sally thought of golden opportunities and how they panned out, about how often promised gold turned to lead. And, for all the funny stories and earnest trials, the adulation and the applause, Sally knew she was no longer cut out for the world of drama.
Sally knew where she would prefer to be.
‘Miss Martel, I could not be more flattered that you thought of me,’ said Sally. ‘But do you know what I just signed up for a new job.’