Not Quite Nice

by Celia Imrie

  Theresa passed through into a back room, a second wonderland of furniture – and there was the table. She wished now she hadn’t bought the mac, because this table was a beauty, a wrought-iron masterpiece that looked as though it came from some Parisian-set Gene Kelly ballet. All swirling treble clefs and golden balls, it came with four lyre-backed chairs. Being metal, Theresa thought it had probably been made for the garden, but she was in love with it, and it would not only look gorgeous in her dining area, but every time she looked at it, it would make her heart sing.

  She moved back to the main room to ask the manager for the price.

  A supercilious young man in a velvet jacket and bow tie came through with her and said coldly ‘Mille’ – A thousand.

  A thousand!

  ‘Six cent,’ she said. Six hundred.

  ‘Neuf cent,’ came the swift reply.

  Nine! Oh God. Now that she had started bartering she realised she really wanted this table – but nine hundred? She could never pay that for a table and chairs.

  ‘Sept cinquante.’ Theresa bit her lip. Seven hundred and fifty.

  With a sudden rush of relief and hope, she realised she had been thinking in pounds and wondered how it would convert – less surely?

  ‘Avez vous un . . .’ Again that language barrier. ‘Calculator?’

  ‘Another British skinflint,’ said the man in perfect English, sotto voce but quite loud enough for her to hear. ‘Clearly you want to bankrupt me. Typical tourist scrounging for a bargain.’

  ‘If I were you, Monsieur, I’d think seven-fifty was better than nothing on a miserable January day. Look around, I am your only customer.’ Theresa shrugged, and hoped he would relent. ‘Who’s going to come in here on a soggy wet winter’s afternoon and buy a garden table?’ she said, adding, ‘And for your information I’m not a tourist.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No deal. Not interested. Go away!’

  She held her position.

  ‘Go on! Shooo!’

  ‘Qu’est-ce que tu fais, Benjamin?’ A curtain behind him was pulled back and another man, hastily fastening the buttons of his jacket, slipped into position behind the till. He gave Theresa an ingratiating smile. ‘Madame?’

  ‘I was offering seven-fifty for the metal garden table.’

  ‘Non.’ The leather jacket puffed his lips in distain. His English was good, but he was undoubtedly French. ‘Not seven-fifty . . . But eight hundred and it’s for you.’

  ‘But you can’t sell it to her, Pierre. She’s a barbarian.’

  ‘It’s sold,’ said Pierre, the manager.

  ‘Cochon!’ The Englishman shoved past him, slipped round the edge of the counter and strutted towards the door. ‘You know I have a friend who wanted that table.’

  ‘Do you deliver?’ Theresa asked Pierre, ignoring the Englishman. ‘To Bellevue-Sur-Mer?’

  Benjamin, the Englishman, stopped in his tracks and briskly looked Theresa up and down. Then, holding his hand up to cover his face, he darted out into the street.

  The man in the leather jacket smirked and gave another Gallic shrug.

  ‘Livraison ce soir,’ he said. ‘I deliver you tonight. To Bellevue-Sur-Mer.’

  As Theresa, still damp and feeling utterly bedraggled in her new mac, put her key into her front door, a voice called from behind.

  ‘Hello! I’m Sally. Well done buying this place. I rather fancied it myself.’

  Theresa turned and said ‘I’m so sorry.’ Theresa felt as though she must have met the lady before. Her face was very familiar. ‘Who knows, I may not last,’ she said. ‘Things haven’t been working out spectacularly so far.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Sally. ‘It’s a gorgeous flat. I’m sure you’ll settle down soon.’

  The estate agent arrived shortly after Theresa got in and spent half an hour fiddling with the knobs on the boiler, searching for the booklet, reading it, fiddling again.

  Theresa had already done all this. From their telephone conversation, she’d imagined that the woman knew how it worked.

  Just when she was getting exasperated and wishing the woman would go, there was a loud rap on the front door.

  ‘That’ll be the table,’ said Theresa.

  ‘I can’t stay any longer.’ The estate agent was already pulling on her coat. ‘Perhaps the deliverymen will have a look at the heating. But I say you’ll need a plumber.’

  She pulled out a notebook and glancing at her mobile phone, scribbled down a number. ‘This is the man we use for our rental homes. He’s very dependable.’

  While Pierre installed the table and chairs, Theresa dialled the plumber. She hoped, should she run out of language, he might help her. The plumber informed her he might arrive later that evening, but it would probably be next morning.

  Theresa couldn’t stand another night shivering and she wanted a bath.

  After putting the phone down she asked Pierre if he knew how to work a boiler. He had a tinker, then phoned a plumber friend of his own, who came round and had a look just as the estate agent’s plumber arrived. Between the three of them the men decided the thing was kaput. Theresa would need a new one, they all told her. The system was ancient and not worth repairing. It would cost her maybe five thousand euros, perhaps more, excluding where they’d need to take up the floor and to redecorate afterwards.

  Then they left her, alone with her new table and chairs and her turquoise mac.

  She filled a hot-water bottle, rested it on her lap and sat down to do some sums.

  As she took the lid off her turquoise pen she realised it wouldn’t take Stephen Hawking’s mathematical genius to see that if anything else unexpected came along she was going to sink like a stone and that therefore she would need to set up some kind of home business, and earn herself some cash. Vite!

  6

  Before the hammering on her front door started, Sally had heard the sound of running feet clattering down the alley leading to her home.

  Wrapping her dressing gown tight, she opened up.

  Before her stood William, looking frazzled, despite his immaculate velvet jacket and freshly ironed mauve shirt.

  ‘William! What on earth has happened? Is Benjamin ill or something?’ She stood back to let him in.

  ‘That house,’ he panted, fluttering a palm to cool himself down. ‘You know, the boarded-up one . . .’

  Sally shuffled to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

  ‘The empty one, you mean. Owned by the old Italian family? The Molinaris’ place? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘There’s no time for a drink, Sally. You must get dressed, now. The Molinaris have obviously decided to sell the place.’

  ‘Good. But it’s eight o’clock in the morning. What’s the rush?’

  ‘I saw the immobilier going inside, just two minutes ago.’

  ‘Naturally he has to measure up . . .’

  ‘No. With people!’

  ‘People?’

  ‘He had a couple with him. They had brochures for other properties. They’re definitely buyers.’

  Within minutes, Sally was fully dressed and running behind William up the steep hairpin bends of the paths leading to the higher part of town.

  When they arrived, panting, at the house, William gave her a thumbs up. The front door was ajar, so Sally called out and walked inside.

  The immobilier poked his head down the staircase.

  ‘Madame Connor! Bonjour. Et Monsieur William.’

  Sally explained that she, too, would like a viewing, and the immobilier signalled her up the stairs to join the prospective buyers. ‘Two English,’ he said.

  There was another knock and, letting Sally and William past, the immobilier bowled down the stairs to answer it.

  In the main bedroom she found an elderly lady, dressed in grey.

  ‘Oh, hello. I’m Faith. Faith Duckworth.’ She held out her hand and Sally shook, while trying to look round and get a measure of the place.

  If Marianne didn’t fall for this place Sally w
ould be amazed. Although the ceiling was rather low on this upper floor, Sally liked the bedroom a lot, with its glimpses of the harbour. It was bathed in morning sunlight. Quite the best aspect for a bedroom.

  ‘Are you moving out here to Bellevue-Sur-Mer as well?’ asked Faith. ‘It certainly is a beautiful spot.’

  ‘I already live here,’ said Sally, realising she sounded a bit of a know-all.

  ‘Just having a snoop then?’ A man came into the room behind her, giving her a wry smile.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Sally answered, ‘I’m looking to buy somewhere near me, for my daughter.’

  ‘Excuse Alfie,’ said Faith. ‘He means well. He’s my son.’

  Alfie was shortish and sturdy, with a thick head of curly dark hair setting off a cherubic face and a roguish smile. He gave a breezy ‘Hi!’ and strolled across to look out of the window, blocking out the light.

  ‘Alfie’s helping me look around,’ said Faith. ‘He’s taken a week off work to come out here. He’s a good boy.’

  ‘My daughter’s looking for an investment, you know, doubling as a holiday home. She’s a business executive.’

  The more Sally went on, she realised, the more smug and awful she sounded. But she was desperate. And knowing the local ropes she knew she had a good chance of beating them to this house. If she got a move on.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She went back to the landing. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush actually, so I’ll nip round to look at the other rooms.’

  She left mother and son gazing out of the window at the delightful view of the bay. As she quickly took notes on the spare bedroom, she heard Alfie, in the next room, whispering to his mother. He said the name of the TV programme Sally had been on.

  Oh God, she thought. He’d be about the right age to have watched it as a kid. And once you’d appeared on TV everyone thought you were loaded, which she certainly was not.

  She went down the stairs and found the immobilier sitting at the table in the kitchen with a largish grey-haired man wearing smartly pressed chinos and a navy blazer.

  ‘Your wife is obviously loving it here,’ said Sally, presuming he had something to do with the lady and her son upstairs.

  ‘Single gentleman, actually. Don’t have a wife. But if you’re offering . . . !’ With a beaming smile, the man stood and presented his hand. ‘Brian Powell. They just sent me down from the office. I’m looking to buy somewhere round here too. This is a lovely little house, no?’

  She looked down at the suitcase by his feet. ‘Are you moving in today?’ Sally joked, hoping there was not some special twist to his sudden appearance.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ He shrugged. ‘This one’s a little bit above my size and budget, I’m afraid. I was looking for something more in the way of a bachelor pad.’

  ‘Monsieur Powell was ’oping to stay at Villa Bougainville while ’e looked, but zey double-booked.’

  ‘Up the creek without a paddle.’ Brian pulled one of those wincing ‘look-at-me-I’m-such-a-twit’ faces, and Sally laughed. ‘Only just got off the plane and I’m already homeless.’

  ‘Try the little hotel up by the railway station. They may have rooms. Or there’s another hotel just above the Gare Maritime. Though it’s a bit rougher, I’m told.’

  ‘Already tried. All the hotels here are full this week. It’s half term or something. The estate agents have been ever so kind, but turned up nix. It’s quite a bore. I’ve got to lug the old case behind me wherever I go till I find somewhere. After I’ve had a look around I’m going to nip over to Nice and find somewhere to lay my weary head until I get settled.’

  ‘I’m sorry not to be more help,’ said Sally, leaning in to touch the estate agent’s arm. ‘Je dois parler avec ma banque. Je vous parlera.’

  This house was more expensive than Sally was expecting. It would cost all of the money she had inherited, and she would need to supplement it with money from elsewhere. Perhaps Marianne would part buy it with her?

  With a brief smile at Brian, Sally rushed out into the alleyway, dialling her daughter on her mobile as she walked down towards her home.

  ‘Oh, Mum, what’s the rush?’ wailed Marianne down the line. ‘I’ll get my accountant to look into it.’

  ‘You’d better get a move on, darling. The whole property thing is different here in France.’

  ‘Stop panicking, Mother,’ replied Marianne. ‘No one ever said no to a bit of gazumping. Palms can be greased anywhere in the world.’

  Sally knew better, and, as she put her key into the lock of her front door, tried to interrupt.

  ‘No buts, Mother. Remember, I am the businesswoman here. You made a right old hash of it all. You earned all that money and have nothing whatsoever to show for it. You never had any idea of how to capitalise on your investments.’

  ‘But your father . . .’

  ‘My father always did his best for us. He had to work hard, not earn his money prancing around in silly costumes. Anyway I can’t get away to visit for a month or two, so don’t start airing your spare room for me quite yet.’

  ‘Where are you now, darling?’

  ‘Look, Ma, I can’t talk now. I’m in Europe for a flying meeting. Speak soon.’

  Marianne ended the call.

  Crushed to the heart, Sally slammed the door behind her and threw the mobile phone down on to the sofa. Europe? How vague could you get? Was she in France perhaps? Surely she would have said. Probably the reason was that she was in one of those places in Uzbekistan or somewhere with an unpronounceable name.’

  She went into the kitchen to make herself a coffee and tartine, but the milk was off, she hadn’t bought bread and what she did have left from yesterday would be better used as a table leg than food.

  She slumped down on to a kitchen chair.

  Why did she bother?

  Why?

  Ah well. Another property within her financial range would turn up soon, preferably before any bank crash. There was no reason to be upset. Her neighbours in Bellevue-Sur-Mer were very sweet and generous, after all, and she had lots of friends.

  The trouble was they all had someone special of their own. Benjamin had William, Carol had David and Ted had Sian. True, Zoe was alone, but she was barking mad, and also much older.

  Sally longed for some company.

  She jumped to her feet and grabbed her bag.

  Damn money and saving, she’d take breakfast in the brasserie down by the port. Why not? It would only set her back a few euros and at least she’d have someone to talk to, even if it was only the waiters.

  As though to prove her right, the moment she took her seat at a table on the cafe’s terrace, the sun came out, bathing her with warmth. She ordered and sat waiting, gazing out at the boats bobbing around on the choppy waters, wondering where she had gone wrong.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t care for a little company?’

  Sally looked up to see the man in the blazer, Brian, hovering.

  ‘You look sad, which is all wrong for a pretty woman in such a beautiful setting.’ He gave a solicitous look. ‘Perhaps I could help?’

  Sally pulled out a chair.

  ‘There’s nothing to be done,’ said Sally. ‘I am always astonished at how, no matter how hard you try, you can never please your children.’

  ‘No need to tell me about it.’ Brian smiled. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

  ‘You have children?’

  ‘A daughter.’ Brian looked down. ‘Let’s say I understand the role of King Lear.’

  ‘Yes. Me too. Oh, I don’t mean, I, er . . .’ Sally laughed. ‘Did you find anywhere to stay yet?’ She handed the menu to Brian. ‘The croissants here are always warm and fresh, and the coffee superb.’

  ‘I saw your plate and was toying with ordering exactly that. Now that you have verified my thoughts, I shall order the same,’ said Brian. ‘Once I’ve eaten, the plan is to head for Nice, as I said. I think I’m going to try and find a room to rent. That should work out better for me than
the extortionate rates the hotels charge round here.’ He laughed. ‘I presume you know what it’s like, living on a fixed income!’

  Sally tipped a spoonful of sugar into her coffee and watched it sink slowly through the froth.

  She had that spare room which she always kept prepared, ready for Marianne should she want a short break. Perhaps she could do this man a service and, while she was at it, make a little pin money for herself. It would be nice to have a man around the house and some company.

  ‘I wonder whether you might like to take my spare room,’ she asked tentatively. ‘I’m hoping my daughter might come over soon. She’s a businesswoman. Very smart. But at the moment it’s free.’

  Brian waved his hand for the waiter. ‘You’re very kind, but I couldn’t dream of it,’ he replied. ‘But thank you for the offer.’

  7

  Theresa traipsed up the hill to the boulangerie for a fresh loaf and to stretch her legs. Despite having no hot water or heating she was looking forward to her first breakfast in her new home. She’d got the coffee and a lovely-looking pot of apricot jam and a sweet little percolator to brew up the coffee.

  Coming out of the little Huit-à-8 shop with some milk and butter, a packet of paper plates and cups, which for the moment would have to do, she thought she saw the lady from yesterday who had persuaded her to buy the mac in the Galeries Lafayette going into the wine shop. She was looking superb in a neat black-and-white outfit, matching gloves and scarf, simply too well turned out for this time of the morning. Theresa scurried along hoping the woman wouldn’t turn and catch sight of her in her sloppy old clothes.

  Then while the coffee brewed, she turned on the radio and sang along as she polished up the new table ready for eating. She pondered phoning Imogen to ask whether she or Michael might be able to give her a loan towards getting the boiler done and decided against it.

  The spluttering of the percolator coincided with the delicious aroma of the warm bread coming from the oven. Perfect timing! She lay it all out on the new table, got her penknife from her bag and spread out a paper napkin for a tablecloth. Then she poured herself a steaming cup of best arabica.