by Celia Imrie
Bang! Bang! Thump! Thump!
Theresa jumped out of her chair.
Somebody was battering on her front door in great agitation and, whoever it was, they were surely desperate. Theresa prayed that it was not the police with bad news.
She opened up.
‘You whore!’ A tall woman with long blonde hair screamed into Theresa’s face, then, pushing her out of the way, strode through into the living room.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Theresa, still by the door. ‘I think there must be some mistake.’
‘A mistake? You’re dead right there is.’ The furious woman swung round, hands on hips, and looked Theresa up and down. ‘My God! Look at you! How low could he sink? He must be getting desperate in his old age. I never thought he’d go for such a frump!’
‘I think you must have got the wrong flat,’ stammered Theresa, leaving the door open so that, should it be necessary, there was a quick escape from this raving madwoman.
‘His standards have certainly fallen if he’s down to fucking over-painted fat old cows like you.’ The woman took a step forward and slapped Theresa across the face. ‘So back off, bitch. And in future, you superannuated Jezebel, leave my husband alone!’
The woman turned towards the door, plunged her hands into her pockets, then swung around. ‘I believe this grubby thing is yours.’ She dropped Theresa’s silk scarf on to the floor as though it was infected with leprosy.
With no further ado, the woman left, swept out by the same whirlwind upon which she had arrived.
Theresa stood, leaning against her new table, mouth open, stunned.
She put her hand up to stroke her still stinging cheek.
She could see clearly enough what had happened. The naked man who had landed in her courtyard must be the madwoman’s husband. Lord, she’d only wanted to help. Now look at the trouble. What had she done? By lending that naked man her throw, she was now the accused.
Oh, what a ghastly start to her new life!
She slumped down into a chair, lay her head on the table and wept.
Why had she come out here to this strange town where she knew no one and had nothing, not even proper cutlery? She wiped a tear from her eye and stooped to retrieve her scarf, which was now dusty and rather badly ripped.
When Theresa looked up, standing before her in the doorway, like a guardian angel, perfectly made-up, resplendent in her stylish suit with matching scarf, gloves and clutch bag, stood the glamorous American from the department store.
‘Oh dear, we meet again!’ said the woman in her casual American drawl. ‘I feared it was you. So now you’ve met the dragon-woman, Sian. I’m Carol Rogers, by the way.’
Carol stepped inside and gently shut the door behind her. ‘I heard the brouhaha from the street. Do you have another of those paper cups? I’d love a coffee.’
Carol sat at the new table and tore off a piece of baguette.
‘Come along, honey, sit down. Let’s eat this lovely breakfast.’
She buttered a strip of bread and laid it in front of Theresa’s coffee.
‘My, what a lovely table and chair set. I adore that 1950s look. So chic.’
Theresa still stood in the centre of the room, clutching her hanky in one hand, her torn scarf in the other.
‘You mustn’t listen to these people, dearie. They’re minnows compared to you or me, and that’s why they dislike us so.’
Theresa sat, bemused by this beautiful woman sitting at her new table, spreading butter and then crunching into a piece of baguette.
‘I haven’t slept with anyone’s husband, you know,’ said Theresa. ‘There’s been a mistake.’
‘Make the most of it. You’re the talk of the town, darling.’ Carol guffawed. ‘There may be a logical explanation, but, you see, Ted was seen running naked from your house.’
‘But nothing happened . . . he’d jumped from the window above and landed in my little yard.’ Theresa stood pointing towards the back window. ‘I just lent him a scarf to cover his nakedness and let him out.’
‘How typical of him.’ Carol shook her head. ‘Ted may think of himself as a poet, but at heart he’s really just a silly little boy. He enjoys getting Sian worked up. She’s so busy with her business projects she doesn’t spare much time for him. It’s his way of getting attention. In my humble opinion she’s asking for it, but poor you. It’s a terrible pity you took her wrath. And on your second day here.’
‘I’ve just about had it, Carol,’ said Theresa. ‘All I do is keep running away. But the problem is that wherever I go, however far I run, I always bring myself and, you see, I’m beginning to realise that it’s me I’m running from.’
‘Bah!’ said Carol popping open the jar of jam. ‘Stop being self-pitying and absurd. Let me tell you, in my time I’ve had my share of mockery. I really do know what it’s like. And I’ll tell you now, the best method of defence is indifference. Let them rant and rave. They’re the ones who’ll make themselves ill, poisoned with their own venom.’ She rose. ‘If you don’t join me and eat something I will finish that whole baguette all alone, and what would that do to my figure? I’d blow up like a balloon, then I really wouldn’t forgive you.’
Carol strolled into the kitchen and refilled the percolator.
‘I adore this apartment,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect. How many rooms?’
‘Bedroom, box room, this one, kitchen and bathroom,’ said Theresa, blowing her nose on a paper napkin. ‘I’m very lucky.’
‘I know we’ll both be fired up with caffeine overdoses, but why not? We’re going to sit down and you’re going to tell me all your problems and plans, and I am going to see how we can get them sorted. And before you open your mouth, you are forbidden to say no.’
Avoiding telling her about the trouble with her daughter, instead Theresa told Carol about her worries about the boiler and money, and her doubts over the move to Bellevue-Sur-Mer.
‘Don’t doubt that moving here was a good idea, darling,’ said Carol, sipping her coffee. ‘Best thing you ever did. Money however is another matter. It doesn’t grow on trees here any more than it does in London. What are you good at?’
‘I used to work for a solicitor.’
Carol put down her cup and looked at Theresa, her eyes sparkling.
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘A solicitor? That’s a kind of English pimp, right?’
Theresa was momentarily puzzled, then worked it out.
‘Oh, no! Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. A solicitor is a kind of local lawyer.’
‘Oh. An attorney. I was thinking that it was a kind of thrilling world to be admitting to leaving.’ Carol took another sip of coffee. ‘Going back to the subject of Ted – you say he’d jumped from a window?’
‘So it appeared.’
‘I don’t understand. Why jump? Why not walk out of the front door?’
‘I know it sounds mad. I suppose you don’t believe me now.’
‘No, no. But think about it. He had no reason to risk life and limb, especially while he was in the altogether, did he?’
‘His wife was after him, he said.’ Theresa tore off a piece of baguette. ‘There was no other way out.’
Carol chewed, screwing up her forehead, like a detective on a case. ‘Can I look at the drop?’
They walked to the back door and stood for a while in the small yard peering up the sheer rock wall to the hotel windows above.
Carol shook her head and blew a whistling sound of awe.
‘That is some jump! Is he a goat, like the god Pan? I’ve heard he has similar attributes.’
‘Really?’
‘Covered in hair like a gorilla, with a huge . . . you know . . . well of course you probably do know, very much the rutting male.’
‘I wasn’t really looking. I was in too much of a panic.’
That’s the Hotel Astra, which makes the puzzle with Sian coming here to attack you, all the more intriguing.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Think ab
out it. If Sian was really coming into the hotel, after Ted, because she thought he was in there, what would make her now believe that he’d actually been here with you? It doesn’t add up.’
‘No. I suppose not. Look, Carol, I really didn’t have anything to do with him you know . . .’
Carol flapped her hand, silencing Theresa. ‘No, no. I’m sure you didn’t. But there is a mystery here. Why was Sian going into that hotel within minutes of arriving in the town? There has to be a reason.’
‘Maybe she didn’t. Perhaps Ted imagined hearing Sian’s voice.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’ve heard her. They don’t only call her the dragon because of the temper. She has the vocal tone of a corncrake. And why else would he jump? No. If Ted was so convinced that she was coming after him that he jumped naked from one of those windows, he must have had reason to believe she was there.’
Carol took the sputtering percolator from the hob, strolled back to the table with it and flopped down into a chair.
‘Oh, by the way, Theresa dear, I really didn’t mean so much to ask you “how did you earn a living back in England?” – but rather “how would you like to earn a living here?”’
‘Not soliciting!’ said Theresa. ‘I’m too old and fat.’
‘You’d be amazed, my dear,’ Carol laughed. ‘Men have a very wide spectrum of taste. What are your hobbies, the things you enjoy doing?’
‘I like reading.’
‘No money to be made out of that, I’m afraid.’
‘Cooking?’
Carol pursed her lips and screwed up her eyes. ‘Now that, my darling, might just be an idea we could run with. How about you . . .’
Carol was interrupted by a hammering on the front door.
Theresa cowered. ‘Oh, not again . . .’
‘Come on.’ Carol rose. ‘Stand up to her. This time I’ll be right beside you ready to land her a hefty punch if she goes too far. And believe me I’ve got quite a powerful uppercut.’
Wincing, Theresa went to the door, took a deep breath and opened up.
A man stood on the threshold. ‘Oh, sorry. I’m looking for Carol. Someone told me she came in here?’
‘In here, William, darling. Come meet my lovely new friend, Theresa.’
Theresa held the door wide and William edged into her living room.
‘Your taxi awaits, Divina!’ He stopped, open-mouthed and flung his arms out in a gesture of amazement. ‘Oh, Theresa, my dear, where did you get that wonderful table? Carol, isn’t it just divine!’
‘Divine, as is its owner. Theresa – William. We’re all going to adore one another, aren’t we, darling?’
Carol reached for her clutch bag, gloves and scarf. She moved towards the door and linked arms with William. ‘You’re going to sign up, aren’t you, William?’
‘Oh, God, Carol, you devil!’ William gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘What are you getting me into now?’
‘It’s wonderful – so exciting – Theresa is going to give us all classes in cooking.’
In unison Theresa and William exclaimed.
‘Thirty euros per person per session. Ten weeks, isn’t it, Theresa? Such a bargain. Good Lord, William, look at the time. I’ll never get all my things done before the midday gun. Pip, pip!’
And Carol was gone, leaving Theresa standing in the middle of her front room, holding a chunk of buttered baguette, her mouth agape.
8
Sally sat on the sea wall, swinging her legs, watching a young couple quarrelling as they tried to get the engine going on their little motorboat. What fun it must be to have a boat, she thought. When things got on top of you, you could go down to the harbour, get in, start up the engine and drive off into the sea, away from everything. You might see dolphins, or maybe go fishing for your supper. Think about that!
What would everyone think when they turned up to one of her dinners and not only had she cooked the fish, she’d actually caught it!
‘Put the bloody rope back in the box,’ snarled the man in the boat.
‘It’s soaking wet,’ sobbed the woman. ‘It’s too cold and dirty. My hands are filthy. Argh, look at my nails!’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ hissed the man, giving Sally a brusque and insincere smile as he pulled on the throttle and the boat spurted off into the bay, causing the woman to lose her balance and fall into the rear seating well.
It was a beautiful day, and Sally decided today must be the day when she started anew, with fresh hopes and dreams. She was in a rut, and she knew she had to pull herself out. She had every reason to feel happy but kept giving herself artificial hopes which only led to crashing disappointments.
She remembered once, years ago when she was in her teens, being lured into some place full of weirdos on Tottenham Court Road, and put through various stress tests. Then they took her into a curtained room and a rather smelly bearded man in sandals told her the reason that she was stressed was that she wanted to achieve too much – she wanted to be successful at work, and to get married and have a house of her own. If only she’d stop wanting those things she could attain happiness.
What bunkum!
Now that she thought about it she really had achieved all those things she had then wanted. Not that they had really brought her the wild happiness she thought they would, but she’d had fun along the way, and, as to the test, well, she’d only gone into the place to escape a heavy shower.
Eating breakfast yesterday morning with the bluff Englishman Brian had been very cheery. She was sorry he hadn’t taken her up on the offer of staying in her spare room. It would be lovely to have someone else in the house for a bit, some company, someone who’d banter comments on the TV programmes, and with whom she could share dinner and breakfast. Cooking for one was never much fun. You always cooked far too much and either had to throw it away or couldn’t bear the waste, so ended up eating the lot till you felt sick and put on another inch or two round your waist.
She looked up from the ripples on the water just as David and Carol’s sports car gave a toot as it went bowling up the hill, roof down, with Carol in the driver’s seat, David at her side and William in the back seat, heading off in the direction of Nice. Those three were clearly off to town for the day, having fun.
A car! That was an idea. If Sally got a car she could give lifts to people and feel she had a purpose in life, even if it was being the unpaid taxi service. But Carol already had a car. If she got one too and everyone preferred taking a lift from Carol rather than her, wouldn’t she then feel even worse?
What she really needed was a project. Something to go to bed thinking about and which made waking up such fun because you couldn’t wait to get up and at it again. But what?
The problem with being an ex-actress was that you couldn’t just go back to it after years out. And even if you did, then what? You couldn’t decide to play Goneril or Blanche DuBois in your living room. You had to wait for other people to ask you, and Sally knew well enough that she’d been out of the loop far too long to be asked to play anything, even a cough and a spit on a ropey afternoon soap. Not only that, if she wanted to get back into the acting world, she’d have to move back to London and the rat race, and that was something she really could not face.
She adored it here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer. She loved the weather, the light, the scenery, the people, the food, the ambience. And look at all those historical painters who had come here for the same reasons. Years ago Sally had painted. Now that was something you could do of your own volition without other people being involved. Maybe she should try again. Perhaps she’d go and buy a canvas and some acrylics and see how she got on. If she was still any good she could spend a morning standing out here on the quay trying to sell her work to unsuspecting tourists off the cruise ships. She felt a pang of worry at the thought of being judged or, perhaps, recognised by those awful tourists. Not painting, then.
Maybe she should try something new, take classes in something.
That was it.
/> She’d learn something exciting that she’d never tried before, like Mandarin, or lacemaking.
She walked briskly along the front to the little tourist office which had a lot of handwritten cards up, advertising everything from boats for sale to child-minders available. The section of ‘classes and private tuition’ was surprisingly long, though most of them were courses in French and English, and would therefore be of no use to Sally. She browsed for a few minutes, noting down a few details of classes which looked interesting, then marched back up to her house to make a few phone calls.
On the sharp bend just before the medieval arcade she bumped into Zoe.
‘Good Lord, Sally, where are you off to in such a rush?’
‘I’ve decided to take up evening classes, and you’re going to join me. Think of the fun we could have.’
‘Sally?’ Zoe peered over the top of her spectacles. ‘Are you feeling quite well?’
‘So, Zoe, what do you think?’
‘In what subject are you planning to take this course?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sally felt quite fired up. She threw her arms outward in a huge circular gesture. ‘Anything!’
‘Sally, dear,’ Zoe took a step back. ‘Now you’re worrying me. Have you completely lost your marbles?’
‘I have too much time on my hands . . .’
‘Never a truer word was spoken.’ Zoe’s quavering voice boomed out in the echoing tunnel-like arcade. ‘Your problem, Sally, if you don’t mind my saying, is that you never stop talking about your children. You spend your hours tirelessly maundering on about your tiresome adult offspring. Don’t you realise that there is nothing so boring as other people’s children, except, perhaps, other people’s dreams? Whoever heard of such an inappropriate subject for a woman, especially of our age?’
Sally was somewhat taken aback. Zoe was from a different generation. She must be at least seventy-five. When you thought about it, she was technically just about old enough to be Sally’s mother, so how could she lump them both together under the phrase ‘our age’?
‘My children need me, Zoe. I’m just trying to be a good mother—’