Nice Work (If You Can Get It) Page 6

  As the crowd dwindled away, Diana clutched Sally’s hand. ‘Look I’ve got to run, but are you over here for the festival? Are you in something?’

  ‘No.’ Sally saw Jackie just inside the entrance, looking around. ‘Actually, I live near here.’

  ‘Really! How wonderful! Lucky you.’ Diana pulled a business card from her handbag and handed it to Sally. ‘Look – give me a ring. I’d love to catch up and you can show me around somewhere saner than Cannes at le festival time. Where do you live?’

  ‘A tiny place. Bellevue-Sur-Mer.’

  ‘Never heard of it – but all the better,’ said Diana, moving away. ‘Once the madness starts I’ll need to escape. As the week drags on this place becomes like the ninth circle of Hell.’

  By the time Jackie arrived beside Sally, Diana had disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Wasn’t that . . . ?’ said Jackie, standing on tiptoe to look.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘She just stopped to sign some autographs.’

  ‘Wait! Sally!’ exclaimed Jackie. ‘You were getting her autograph?’

  ‘No. No.’ Sally decided not to explain what had really happened. ‘I was just standing here. Waiting for you. So how did the leafleting go?’

  ‘It was smashing,’ said Jackie. ‘I met a lovely man in there who’s going to look after it for me.’

  Sally looked at her watch.

  ‘Look, Jackie, I really must get back. Why don’t you stay on for a few hours while I go ahead?’

  ‘No!’ Jackie shrieked dramatically, causing several heads to turn in her direction. ‘I’d get lost. I may play Maisie the navigator in Skirts Fly Over Suffolk, but really, I cannot tell my east from my west. I’d never find your place again.’

  ‘You found it easily enough yesterday morning,’ said Sally, not without malice.

  ‘But that was in daylight, darling. I don’t think you have the best street lighting in Bellevue-Sur-Mer.’ She grabbed Sally’s arm and linked her own round it. ‘Pretty please?’

  ‘The festival starts next week, doesn’t it?’ Sally sighed.

  ‘The earlier I get these around the place the more chance I’ll have,’ said Jackie, pulling an unappealing winsome face.

  Sally knew there was no way out. ‘Come on. Give me a handful.’

  ‘Now, what time’s the last train? I’m looking forward to getting back myself, actually. I’m feeling ever so peckish and I’m sure you’re going to cook up a storm for us – à la français, of course.’

  Sally took a deep breath and started striding up into the town.

  William had made the new agreement at the immobilier’s office – regarding the work they were about to do on the property – right after lunch.

  He phoned the others and told them it was full steam ahead.

  Having spent the rest of the afternoon clearing the place of all the boxes and watching the dirty, ancient cookers being hauled out on to the scrap lorry, Theresa set to work in what was the old kitchen as evening descended.

  Carol had rushed up the hill to the Huit-à-8 to buy them some more anti-grease spray and a couple of bottles of water and some biscuits to keep them going.

  Theresa wished she had brought her transistor radio from home. Even some europop would be better than this lonely silence. The shop next door was shut now. It was always cheering to have noise while you cleaned, especially when it was dark and you were working in the back room under a solitary bare strip-light.

  She filled a bucket with warm water and detergent and started work on the dirtiest wall.

  She had been at it about five minutes when she heard someone come in through the front door. Carol could never have made it back that quickly. Still fearful after her recent troubles with the burglar, Theresa peered through the strip curtain. Someone was in the front room. She could see a man’s silhouette against the window.

  She armed herself with a broom and flicked on the light.

  ‘Allô?’

  The man spun round.

  She caught a glimpse of him: dark-skinned, brown hair, slim and tall, dressed in denim. But he turned away, and in a flash he was out of the door.

  With pounding heart, Theresa went after him. She pulled open the door and looked both ways, but there was no sight of him running, nor could she hear footsteps.

  She came back in and turned the key in the lock.

  Better safe than sorry.

  She worked on for a few more minutes, then wondered if she hadn’t been overreacting. Perhaps it was someone who had seen the light and thought the shop was still open. After all, no one had bothered to remove the old sign saying that it was a souvenir shop and sold ice creams.

  Theresa was out in the yard refilling the bucket and mixing in the heavy-duty cleaning fluid when there was a loud rapping at the front door of the restaurant.

  She moved gingerly through the kitchen and into the front room – the dining-room-to-be. A tall figure was silhouetted against the window.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she cried timidly.

  ‘It’s me, of course, darling,’ said Carol. ‘Who else were you expecting? Jack the Ripper?’

  Theresa moved to open up.

  ‘Sorry about that, Carol, but I left it unlocked earlier and discovered some young man rooting around in here.’

  ‘Really?’ said Carol. ‘I wonder who that was?’

  ‘He ran like the devil when I came after him with a broom.’

  ‘Maybe it was one of the men who helped cart stuff away today. Must have been; no one else has been in here. Perhaps he’d left something behind.’

  ‘So why didn’t he say so? He just took one look at me and scarpered.’

  ‘Or some chancer who saw an open door and hoped there would be something to steal. But look, the place is stripped bare. Nothing to nick.’ Carol rolled up her sleeves. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, darling,’ she drawled. ‘Now where are those rubber gloves?’

  The two women worked till the ceiling and walls were clean enough to paint, and what was once a thick layer of brown grease on the ceiling was white ceiling with a mere hint of yellow.

  ‘At dawn tomorrow we paint,’ said Carol, looking at her watch. ‘And now, as we’ve worked so hard, I’m going to treat you to a late snack and a drink at the brasserie.’

  ‘Ooh! How lovely.’ Theresa pulled off her rubber gloves. ‘We’ll have to run.’

  Before she went to bed that night Theresa made herself a nightcap cup of chocolate, all the while mulling over Carol’s words, ‘It’s almost too good to be true.’ Too good to be true. William had said it too. That was right. When you thought about it, the deal was unbelievable.

  Relishing her aromatic comfort, she moved to her desk and pulled out her copy of the contract for the restaurant together with the new addendum. She sat down and read as she sipped. Of course it was all in French, but she could make most of it out; in particular the financial figures. It really did look too good to be true. Theresa couldn’t bear it if something went wrong just because they hadn’t really delved into the contract.

  Just to be safe, she scanned the document and sent copies off to Mr Jacobs, her former employer in England, and his friend the French notaire who had helped her with the purchase of her apartment. She attached a small note consisting of one sentence: ‘Is this too good to be true?’

  7

  Sally got up very early and pottered around on her own before her house-guest awoke. She thanked God that the Cannes Film Festival started soon and only lasted ten days.

  Meeting up with Jackie had brought on a bout of depression. Sally wasn’t sure whether it was stirring up doubts about wanting to go back into acting herself or what. It had been quite a turn-up, too, meeting Diana yesterday. And how strange that in all the intervening years Sally had never put two and two together and worked out that the actress who now ruled the world of showbiz was that same timid girl who every night handed her the snake at the end of Antony and Cleopatra. They’d shared a dressing room, along with Marcia, who p
layed Charmian. Sally remembered that Marcia was quite a bit older than both of them, and obviously resented Sally for having the greater role. Diana had dyed her hair since those days, and had lost quite a bit of weight too. Nonetheless, Sally felt quite foolish for not remembering her while watching her in all those terrific movies and seeing her regularly brandishing shiny awards on the front pages of glossy mags.

  But somehow thinking about Diana’s success had also added to Sally’s depression. She had once played the lead to someone who was now a world-famous actress . . . maybe, if she had stayed on in the business, working? Sally snorted to herself. Now she was sounding like that dreadful fig-seller comedian! ‘I was somebody . . . once.’

  Sally fingered Diana Sparks’s card. She didn’t think she’d ever phone her. What would she say to her? They’d had their little catch-up on old times. What else was there to talk about, really, and how long could they reminisce over a single play at Frinton? Of course Sally knew all about Diana’s subsequent work, but to talk about that would put her on a par with the most cringey of fans. It would be embarrassing and awful.

  Sally slipped the card into the wastepaper basket.

  She picked up the phone and rang her daughter to find out how the house-hunting was going. Marianne told her baldly that she and Ted weren’t looking to live here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer any more and that instead they had decided to fly back to London ‘and see how things pan out’. Marianne was going to help Ted get a new literary agent and a book contract while she herself was planning to explore some new business opportunities in the City. ‘There are too many bad memories here for Ted, Mum.’

  Bad memories for Ted? All he did here was sleep with as many women as possible.

  Sally wondered whether this didn’t really mean that Marianne, knowing that Ted was such a womaniser, wanted to get him out of the way before the tourist season kicked in. Marianne would be wise to keep him in her sight; after all she knew only too well how, once the wife was away, Ted would play.

  Marianne rattled on: ‘And as Sian is ejecting Ted from the house . . . ’ Marianne sighed down the line. ‘We even have to put up with the indignity of house-hunters being shown round the place while we’re here. It’s humiliating.’

  ‘Perhaps you could buy the house yourselves?’

  ‘Don’t you hear me, Mother? We want to leave Bellevue-Sur-Mer. To escape from the past . . . and her. In fact we’re at the airport. The plane leaves in half an hour.’

  ‘It’s just that . . . well, I’ll miss you.’

  ‘You have Tom here, don’t you?’ Marianne snapped. ‘And who knows, perhaps we’ll be back for the summer.’

  Sally put the phone down feeling more depressed.

  She rang Tom.

  The call had a foreign ringtone.

  ‘Hello! Mum? I’m on a train to Genoa. Lots of tunnels. Sorry if we get cut off.’

  ‘Genoa?’ Sally balanced on the edge of a stool wondering what was coming next.

  ‘I change trains there. I’m off to Venice.’

  ‘Venice? What for?’

  ‘I’ve got this . . . ’

  And the call cut off.

  Sally wasn’t sure whether to ring back, or would that be annoying?

  She was about to pick up the phone when she heard the footfall on the stairs.

  ‘Good morning, my old china!’ Jackie clomped into the kitchen and slumped into an armchair by the window. Sally noticed that she was wearing her dressing gown. She must have taken it from the back of the bathroom door.

  ‘What are we having for breakfast? Café and croissants, I presume.’ Jackie stretched and yawned. ‘I have to say I do love the French way of life. You have it so easy down here. Sun, sand, glorious sea, delicious food. It almost makes me tempted to give up the business, like you did.’

  Sally bit the inside of her lip.

  ‘Still, better put our shoulders to the wheel and get things shipshape and Bristol fashion. I’ve now got the name of the important woman at the festival place. No time to waste, eh?’

  ‘Pip, pip,’ said Sally, wishing she could biff her over the head. ‘The trains to Cannes go once an hour. Next one’s in twenty minutes; if you get your jolly skates on you could just about make it.’

  Jackie looked up at Sally, bewildered.

  ‘Chop-chop!’ said Sally. ‘Tempus fugit, and all that.’

  8

  Theresa arrived to work at a little after 7 a.m. She could hear noises coming from the space at the back, so moved gingerly, in case it was the visitor from last night, but it was Carol, who was vigorously applying the paint roller to the walls.

  ‘You’re on the go early,’ said Theresa, looking with amazement at the room, which was practically finished.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Carol. ‘I got home last night, glowing with happiness and that lovely wine at dinner, to find a legal document waiting for me.’

  ‘What kind of legal document?’

  ‘My husband, of course. Divorce, or rather annulment papers, and legal notice to quit the house.’

  This news was not unexpected. Since Carol’s husband had gone back to live in the USA, he wanted nothing more to do with her.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘That’s the thing, honey.’ Carol sighed and turned, roller swinging at her side. ‘I don’t want to leave Bellevue-Sur-Mer. I certainly don’t want to go back to the States. All my friends are here, and what with the restaurant . . . ’

  Theresa knew what was coming.

  ‘I wondered, perhaps, once the fateful day comes around, could I maybe stay with you just a little while, between being chucked out and finding somewhere else to live?’

  ‘My daughter’s coming over soon with her kids. But it would be possible before that.’

  Carol smiled. ‘I’m going to have to get a second job, on top of working for the restaurant.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Shop assistant. English teacher.’

  ‘Is your French up to it?’

  Carol sighed again. ‘Not really. No.’

  ‘Listen to that English-speaking radio station. They have jobs that come up. Mind you, they’re usually long-term and involve going away. Hostesses on boats, things like that. But, look, Carol, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. This restaurant has to make money. We have to make it work. And we need you working with us.’

  ‘What if it fails?’

  ‘That’s what we’re all thinking.’ Theresa knew she never spoke a truer word. She herself had been lying awake fraught with worry for most of the night. ‘It would certainly be better to work for us than some stranger. We all have a great incentive to make sure it doesn’t fail. And you have such charm, Carol. You’ll make a lovely hostess, welcoming our customers in.’

  Carol dipped the roller and swung back to work on the wall. ‘At least we have this way of getting our niggles out of our system. It’s quite therapeutic throwing paint around all day. I’d much rather this than sit in an office in town applying for a licence, like William’s doing.’

  ‘We’re lucky to have someone who willingly offered to do all that.’ Theresa pulled her work clothes on over her top. ‘Believe me, the legal stuff is a tough job.’

  ‘I imagine it would be very boring and tiring. I simply refuse to do things I don’t enjoy.’

  Theresa was about to chide Carol. Every success story involved doing things you didn’t quite fancy doing, but they simply had to be done and that was that.

  ‘Anyways,’ Carol continued, ‘as I don’t have any money to invest in the capital project, I’m really only a pretend partner with nothing to lose and nothing to give except my exertions.’

  Theresa was torn. She remembered that in the last few weeks Carol had lost her husband, her home and her income due to the recent shenanigans with the same burglar, which had left them both injured and embarrassed. When Theresa thought about it, the principal difference between their situations was that Theresa had received a large pay-off
from an English tabloid for her version of the story – the very money she was investing in the restaurant.

  Carol had gained nothing and lost all.

  ‘Carol,’ said Theresa, sloshing the paint on to the side wall where the cookers would go. She didn’t want to dig too deeply. ‘What did you do before you married David?’

  ‘What do you mean, exactly?’

  ‘Well, what did you do . . . with your time? Did you work?’

  ‘I went to art school. Got my diploma. Then I was in the building trade for a bit. Then . . . well, things took a bit of a turn, and I had a bit of time off. Then I met David.’

  ‘And you stopped working?’

  ‘All but . . . ’

  ‘Same thing happened to me. I worked. Then I married and had my daughter. Then after Peter, my husband, left me and ran off with the nanny – what a cliché – I found myself in a situation where I went to work again.’

  ‘Work is good,’ said Carol. ‘It takes your mind off things.’

  Theresa wondered whether the ‘things’ might be loneliness and not having someone to come home to in the evenings. Work might well be good, but it would certainly be nicer to have a partner with whom to share the ups and downs, the tears and laughter.

  Theresa picked up a thick square brush and dipped it into the paint pot.

  Having rid herself of Jackie, for the morning at least, Sally took herself out for a walk by the quay. She watched the train pull out and disappear into the tunnel on its way to Cannes; relieved, she sat on the harbour wall in her usual place and gazed out on to the tranquil sea.

  She couldn’t believe her morning – both children had announced that they were leaving or had left town, and now she was stuck with this wretched woman and her jolly-what-ho prattle.

  She watched Theresa come out of the old widow Magenta’s place and walk briskly across the car park towards her own front door. She now felt slightly envious of the others with their restaurant project, although when it had first been proposed she hadn’t been interested.