Nice Work (If You Can Get It) Page 7

  She thought of the day before yesterday, out on the boat with Jean-Philippe. That had been fun too, although it had been rather annoying when the Russian had assumed she was merely his tea lady.

  ‘Morning!’

  Sally instantly recognised the swooping tones of Zoe.

  ‘I’m off to town, to an auction,’ she said.

  Sally noticed that since Zoe’s visit to the hairdresser’s her forehead had become remarkably smooth and shiny and her lips enormously bigger.

  ‘Fancy joining me?’ Zoe cocked her head to one side, sunlight creating a glass-like sheen across her brow. ‘It’ll save you from accidentally signing up for a course in mechanical engineering or birdwatching.’

  The word ‘bird’ caused Zoe’s mouth to wobble, as though the nearby muscles were incapable of lifting the weight of the newly filled lips.

  Rather than hang around feeling sorry for herself, Sally accepted the offer, and a few minutes later was in a taxi heading towards the Hôtel des Ventes in Nice.

  The saleroom was jammed with people, sitting in rows on black folding chairs.

  Sally and Zoe squeezed in at the back.

  ‘Creep over there,’ whispered Zoe in a voice loud enough to wake the dead. ‘I want to inspect the jewellery.’

  Sally blushed when everyone turned to look at them, but nonetheless obeyed Zoe’s orders and shuffled along, pressing past people till they reached the jewellery exhibits.

  Everything in the glass display box looked pretty worn and dusty, but what did Sally know? The only jewellery she had ever possessed that was worth anything was her wedding ring, which she kept in a box full of junk on top of the wardrobe.

  ‘It’s rubbish of course, Sally, but you know me. I love a bit of bling.’

  Sally knew that Zoe was perfectly capable of whispering properly, unless she wanted people to hear her usually quite funny comments. Sally wondered why she was being so loud now, but suspected that she must be after something good and wanted to put off the competition.

  She examined Zoe’s face for clues; never easy, as she had had so much plastic surgery and Botox that it was always set in one expression: surprised.

  Zoe threw her the nearest she could do to a frown, indicating that Sally should look forward.

  The bidding was currently for a painting. The assistant was holding aloft some old thing featuring stormy seas and a tossing ship, all set off in an ornate gold frame.

  Sally watched the nods and winks, the flap of a catalogue, the shaking of a head – all signs indicating who was in or out of the competition. The auctioneer in his blue shirt balanced on a high stool and waved his gavel in the air. What a masterful job it was – recognising when someone was simply scratching their nose and when it was a bid.

  From where Sally was standing she could see that most of the bidders were eccentric-looking. Fat bald men in denims, bomber jackets and hobnailed boots, women in multicoloured patchwork-quilted coats, women with little dogs on their laps, which they stroked between bids, a man with a long grey ponytail, in a sweeping leather coat. Sally realised that she was probably the youngest person in the room, save for the people who worked here. There was one man who looked younger, sitting in the middle of the front row. She could only see the back of his camel cashmere jacket, but unless he’d done a spectacular dye job, he at least had hair that was not grey.

  Suddenly Sally realised that Zoe was bidding. Her head was nodding occasionally and her eyes were fixed on the auctioneer. She realised too that the man in the camel jacket was bidding against her. She could see his hand slightly raising from his lap in a counterpoint rhythm with her head.

  ‘Someone’s being very stubborn,’ Zoe hissed at Sally. ‘This should be mine by now.’

  The man turned his head to see who was bidding against him.

  It was Stanislav Serafim. He caught eyes with Sally and his eyebrows shot up. He gave her the merest flicker of a smile, then turned back to the auctioneer.

  After this he stopped bidding and Zoe raised her fist in the air and called out her name.

  The item was put into a box and one of the porters nodded towards Zoe, who nodded back.

  Stanislav, meanwhile, was beaming in Sally’s direction, also nodding.

  He rose, and made his way to the exit, walking behind Zoe, who was scuttling after the porter. Sally followed.

  While Zoe paid up and took possession of her painting, Stanislav sidled up to Sally. ‘How lovely to see you again so soon,’ he said. ‘The pretty English who prefers her France.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Sally. ‘I am happy here. I wouldn’t move back to England for a fortune.’

  ‘Really?’ Stanislav shrugged and smiled. ‘I wonder if you would call me sometime. Let’s have lunch.’

  He handed Sally his business card and returned to the saleroom.

  Holding her new acquisition, Zoe turned to Sally and said loudly, ‘My God, you’ve pulled. Really good-looking too. Now let’s scarper.’

  ‘It’s wonderful for us,’ William perched on a large paint pot rereading the small print of the contract, ‘but what’s in it for him?’

  ‘As Carol said, he just wants shot of the place.’ Theresa shook the roller and applied it to the paint tray. ‘He’s young. To him it’s a lottery ticket.’

  ‘All right then. I suppose there’s no point holding back.’ He placed the contract on the floor and wiped his hands. ‘My French lawyer says it’s fine, but I wonder if you might get it checked out by your lawyer friends, Theresa.’

  ‘Already have done.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘I’m awaiting their reply, William. Don’t forget to organise the electricians and plumbers for tomorrow,’ said Theresa. ‘As early as you like.’

  ‘I spoke to him yesterday evening. Monsieur Leroux has agreed to start today. As soon as the paint is dry. He says there are things he can get on with.’ William glanced at his watch. ‘In fact, he should be here in three hours’ time.’

  Theresa felt slightly put out that, after she had sorted all the arrangements with Madame Leroux, William had still thought fit to make a follow-up call. But she decided to say nothing.

  Carol suddenly spoke. ‘Hey, guys, if the grandson is so keen to be getting any money he can, we’d better make sure we don’t lose it to someone else. We should put in an offer, get a mortgage, something. Just a thought.’

  William stopped in his tracks and turned on her. ‘I really don’t think, Carol, that, having risked nothing at all in this project, you’ve much say in it.’

  ‘I’ve put in plenty of time and effort and thought . . . ’

  ‘You’ve nothing to risk; no money equals no loss. If this thing goes wrong we’re all going to lose our shirts and you can sail off to pastures new.’

  ‘But I . . . ’

  Theresa stepped forward to stop this developing into a major row.

  ‘She’s right. We should press ahead.’

  ‘It’s a quandary,’ said William. ‘Should I sign and commit us, or wait till you hear back from your lawyer friend? Mine has OKed it.’

  ‘Your lawyer says it’s kosher?’ asked Benjamin.

  William nodded.

  Theresa looked across to Carol, who stood, head bowed, eyes brimming with tears. She had seen how keen she was, how much time she spent and how much energy she threw into it. It wasn’t entirely Carol’s fault that she was broke.

  ‘Carol, could you just help me find that letter?’

  ‘What letter?’ Carol obviously had no idea.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Theresa went into the kitchen and hastily whispered, ‘I’ve decided. I’m going to give you half my share from that newspaper article.’

  ‘You what?’ Carol mouthed back in disbelief.

  ‘That is the equivalent of my share of the money I’m due to put into the restaurant. I got the money for being taken in by the same vile crook as you, so . . . Think of yourself as an equal partner.’

  Carol threw her arms tig
htly around her friend.

  ‘Oh my gosh . . . I don’t know how I am ever going to be able to thank you . . . ’

  ‘When we go back, simply agree with everything I say.’ Theresa winked.

  They returned to William and Benjamin.

  ‘Can’t find the ruddy thing,’ said Theresa. ‘Carol reminded me it’s in my kitchen at home. But Carol is due to be paid a large sum in compensation for . . . what was it, Carol?’

  Carol opened her mouth to speak. She managed to grunt one syllable before Theresa continued.

  ‘Let’s not bother about details now; the important thing is that Carol will be putting in as much as I am, and therefore has equal rights with all of us. I have to add that I also think her efforts so far have been extraordinary; so, William, a little consideration please.’

  ‘If you knew about this money, why didn’t you mention it earlier?’ asked William, appraising Carol with a beady eye.

  ‘Well, I . . . ’ said Carol.

  ‘Carol is superstitious, William. We all know that. She didn’t want to jinx it before it came through. Now then, let’s take a vote,’ said Theresa. ‘Who’s for signing today?’

  All hands went up.

  ‘Fine,’ said William. ‘I will head right up there. Come along, Benjamin. You’re a signatory too.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Benjamin shook his head. ‘I want to have a go at painting.’

  William frowned at Benjamin. ‘I do hope you’re not going to paint in that shirt. It’s a New & Lingwood.’

  Benjamin sighed and stripped the shirt off. He faced William, hands on hips. ‘Better?’

  ‘The jeans were expensive too,’ said William.

  Benjamin undid one button.

  ‘Enough!’ cried Theresa. ‘This is not the launderette.’

  When Sally got home, Jackie was nowhere to be seen. Sighing with relief, she made a pot of tea and settled down to read a book. When she realised she had left her reading glasses in her handbag, she reached out for something to use as a bookmark and picked up Stanislav’s card from the tabletop. She read it. Stanislav had a St Petersburg home, a Paris apartment and an address in a village up in the hills, near Vence. It was too tempting, so she opened up her laptop and, using Google Maps, took a tour of all his properties – well, all the ones on the card.

  Should she phone him? She slammed the card down again. If she phoned now it would look too, too desperate. She’d wait till this afternoon. But then, later on Jackie might be in earshot, which would be difficult. Sally realised her heart was beating fast. How silly! The man probably only wanted someone to make tea for him on his next boating excursion. But that smile he had given her! Zoe was no fool, and she’d seen it too.

  A rap on the front door.

  Sally slipped the card into the book and, gearing herself up for more 1940s-style chitchat, went to open up.

  ‘How is the mother of the deadly adulterous serpent?’

  On the doorstep, shading her eyes from the setting sun, stood Sally’s old friend Sian.

  Seeing Sian was always rather daunting. She was brusque to the point of rudeness and prided herself on her acumen as a businesswoman.

  ‘I thought you were in London.’ Sally tried to give a bright smile.

  ‘I lied.’ Sian swept past her and took a seat at the table. ‘Like everyone else in this sordid little caper, I’m spying on my husband and your daughter.’

  Sally gulped and closed the door. How to cope with this? How did one behave when having the wife of the man your daughter was sleeping with to tea? She didn’t know where to put herself or what to say.

  What could she say?

  She hovered behind Sian, staying silent.

  ‘I do hope Marianne finds another job soon, or they’re both going to struggle.’ Sian took the lid off the teapot, peered inside and looked up at Sally. ‘Ted eats up money, just like he eats up women. Well, aren’t you going to offer me some tea?’

  Sally scuttled into the kitchen and grabbed another cup.

  ‘You can warn the little slapper you spawned that Ted won’t stay with her long. He’s used to being kept in a certain style.’ Sian reached for the teapot and filled her own cup.

  ‘I am so sorry, Sian. Truly, I knew nothing about it.’

  ‘You’re hardly going to tell me you were the pimp. Anyway, I’m here to get my house back. I’ve filed an order.’

  Sally hung her head. ‘I know.’

  This was beyond embarrassing.

  Another, louder rap on the door.

  Hopefully it would not be Marianne, returned from London.

  Sally opened up.

  ‘Bad show, darling. Awful kerfuffle at the venue. Nothing doing till tomorrow now.’

  Jackie came inside. Sally’s stomach went into an even tighter knot.

  ‘Hello there!’ Jackie held out her hand to Sian. ‘I’m Jackie, Sally’s best friend, over from Blighty.’

  Sally realised that she was so nervous about this clash of personalities happening here in her dining room that she was making an odd whimpering sound. Jackie could not have picked a worse moment to arrive.

  ‘Her best friend?’ Sian sipped her tea. ‘I always thought that was me.’

  ‘The more friends the merrier, eh, old girl?’ Jackie took off her jacket and strode over to the table. ‘Shove up, old chap. I’m dying for a brew.’

  Old chap! Old girl! To Sian, sitting there in her pristine designer suit. Sally winced and turned to look at Sian, expecting an outburst.

  But Sian was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Sian stood back to get a better look. ‘You’re Maisie Reilly, aren’t you?’

  Sally feared that this was going to be another faux pas, this time in the other direction, but Jackie was still beaming.

  ‘Maisie the marvel! That’s me, old bean.’

  ‘How exciting. Jackie Westwood in the flesh! Why didn’t you tell me, Sally? Oh Jackie, you’re one of my favourite actresses and Skirts Fly Over Suffolk is my absolute top TV programme.’

  Jackie glowed.

  Sally went to fetch another cup.

  After Monsieur Leroux called to take measurements and inspect all the equipment in the cellar, Theresa left Carol and Benjamin to paint the skirting boards and window frames, as it was too much of a squeeze with the three of them. She went home to prepare something to eat for the others. Once they had finished the gloss painting they would come over the road and join her. While she was chopping and stirring, the phone rang. She hoped it would be Mr Jacobs, but it was Imogen.

  ‘Mummy! You’ll never guess what?’ She left a pause then said, ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

  ‘Well, tell me then.’

  ‘Annunziata has left Daddy!’

  Theresa was astonished. Nowadays she never thought of her ex-husband. The humiliation she had faced when he divorced her so that he could marry the au pair had faded into a mere shadow of a far-away memory. The whole episode was so long ago, and it seemed almost to have happened to another person and therefore no longer meant anything to her emotionally.

  ‘Where has Annunziata gone? Didn’t she depend on your father keeping her?’

  ‘Oh, Mummy, you’re so behind with the gossip. No. I think the thing that drove Daddy into the arms of the cleaner was Annunziata’s independence, financially.’

  Theresa sat down. ‘I’m sorry, darling . . . “Into the arms of the cleaner”?’

  ‘Yes!’ Imogen spoke excitedly. ‘Annunziata caught him at it with the cleaner, an elderly Filipino woman.’

  ‘I don’t know why you say “elderly” like that. He’s hardly a spring chicken. The cleaner! Good Lord, how sordid.’

  ‘Anyway, it means Annunziata’s moved out and left him all alone.’

  ‘But he still has the cleaner.’ Theresa chuckled.

  ‘No. You see the cleaner has family of her own and has no intention of moving in with Daddy, or losing the money she gets from him as a cleaner. She sends it all home to her family in the Phi
lippines, apparently. She’s looking for another job.’

  ‘So Dad’s left alone, licking his wounds,’ said Theresa. ‘Serves him right.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Someone at the door, darling.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mummy – just had to let you know. Speak soon.’

  Carol and Benjamin stood in the street holding up white-paint-stained hands.

  ‘Sweetie! We forgot all about white spirit. Got any to hand before we smear all your goods and chattels?’

  They followed Theresa through the flat to her back door. She went out into the small yard and got a bottle of white spirit from the little box shed.

  While they cleaned up, Theresa laid the table for supper.

  ‘Smells heavenly, darling,’ said Carol.

  ‘As usual,’ added Benjamin.

  They gathered round the table and discussed the whole project. In three days they had accomplished so much and from now on it was all systems go. Tomorrow, first thing, Monsieur Leroux and his team would begin fitting the gas cookers, the sinks and making the lavatories decent. Theresa, Benjamin and Carol meanwhile planned to start work on the front room, where the actual restaurant dining room would be – the shop window, the heart of the place.

  Over dinner they discussed colour schemes and furniture; how to do it cheaply while looking stylish. Benjamin had some good ideas, having worked for a while in the second-hand furniture trade. He suggested, if they couldn’t afford new, they might go for an arty, random look.

  ‘There’s a good antique market we could go to tomorrow morning down in Beaulieu. What do you think?’

  ‘We really do need a small van,’ said Theresa. ‘Not only for this, but for daily collections of vegetables and going to the cash and carry.’

  ‘There was a deal in today’s paper.’ Benjamin left the table and rooted about in his knapsack. ‘I must have left it at the restaurant. I’ll go and get it.’

  Theresa tossed him the keys and he rushed out.

  ‘We still haven’t named the place,’ said Carol. ‘So much easier to say Le Jardin or La Cygne than constantly saying “the restaurant” as if there were no other restaurants in the world.’