Nice Work (If You Can Get It) Page 8

  ‘We don’t have a garden and where is the swan?’ Theresa dealt another helping of her standby penne, mozzarella, olive and tomato dish on to Carol’s plate. ‘And why does it have to be a French name?’

  ‘Who lives here, and what kind of food will we be serving?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Theresa took a quaff of wine. ‘I see what you mean.’

  Sally felt quite left out. Sian and Jackie were getting on like a house on fire. Sian was already talking about backing Jackie’s next film project and was putting pencil marks in her diary to make sure she didn’t miss the showing at Cannes.

  ‘I am so excited. I’ve never been to Cannes.’

  ‘But it’s just up the road.’

  Sian laughed. ‘I meant the festival. Do I need to get a gown?’

  ‘Crikey, no,’ laughed Jackie. ‘I’m in the Marketplace. Not much glamour, I’m afraid, old bean. We’re below stairs, in the business end of things.’

  ‘And that, Jackie, is where I am most at home.’ Sian smiled as she gathered up her handbag and phone. ‘So sorry, Sally, to have to cut and run like this, especially when we were having so much fun.’ She pecked Sally on both cheeks, then handed a business card to Jackie. ‘Phone me in the morning, Jackie, with all the details. I can run you over there in my car.’

  ‘Good show, my old china.’ Jackie stood and swayed from side to side in what Sally suspected was a wartime manner. ‘Toodle-pip! TTFN, old girl. Ta-ta for now!’

  As she left, Sian was still smiling benignly. It was as though she had totally forgotten that she had come here to shout at Sally as a kind of proxy for her daughter.

  Before Sally had a chance to ask Jackie about her day in Cannes, the phone rang. It was Jean-Philippe.

  ‘Sally, are you mad?’

  Sally was taken aback. What had she done wrong now?

  ‘You must phone Stanislav. He’s been on to me. You were supposed to phone him. He’s an important man. He told me he gave you his business card and asked you to call him ASAP, but you failed to reply. Did you lose it?’

  Sally wished Jean-Philippe would give her long enough to answer him. She found herself mumbling, ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Sally, my livelihood and possibly yours lies in this man’s hands. No one has any money any more – but he does. And he’s looking for people to do things and he pays well. Phone him . . . now!’

  Sally shrugged towards Jackie as she replaced the receiver. ‘Sorry about this.’

  She slid out Stanislav’s card from the pages of her book and dialled his number. She got a machine, waited for the beep and spoke quietly: ‘Hello, Stanislav. This is Sally here, from the boat . . . And the auction. You asked me to phone. And, well, here I am. Perhaps talk tomorrow. Bye.’

  When she put the phone down Jackie was heading for the stairs.

  ‘Awfully sorry, old chap, I’m pooped. Would you mind awfully if we don’t chat and I just head on up to Bedfordshire?’

  Sally waved and found herself saying, ‘Toodle-pip!’

  She started to tidy up the table, all the while wondering what Stanislav wanted of her that was so important he’d called Jean-Philippe. She offered no service like Jean-Philippe. The only things he’d seen her do were make a pot of tea and drop the fenders over the side before docking the boat.

  She laughed. Perhaps he was smitten and she’d end up marrying him and living in a huge castle outside St Petersburg.

  She smiled as she packed the dishwasher. Then her thoughts returned to her children. What was Tom up to now? Sally hoped his business in Italy wouldn’t keep him away too long. On the other hand, despite all this difficulty over Sian and Ted, she found herself thankful that Marianne was in London, if only for a while, till the emotions had cooled down. What a terrible mother she was – to wish her daughter to go away. But Marianne had brought this whole trouble upon herself and it was too uncomfortable – especially with Sian, a dragon at the best of times, on the warpath.

  Sally opened the fridge and pulled out a half-empty bottle of rosé. She poured herself a very large glass and flopped down in front of the TV to watch the news.

  This is what it had come to! She had turned into a couch potato taking solace in alcohol.

  She flicked over and reached the news channel. War, famine and all the usual horrors. Then there was a crowd of people peering into the waters of the harbour. The dead body of a young man had been discovered by fishermen this morning. She recognised the location immediately. It was down in the old port, round the corner from her hairdresser’s and Jean-Philippe’s sea-school. The drowning was something to do with a drug cartel. The dead boy was only seventeen. People were urged to keep their eyes open. She thought of Tom at that age. Like a baby. It made Sally remember that her problems were minuscule; nothing more than social inconveniencies really.

  She downed the rest of the wine and headed up to bed.

  9

  When Theresa arrived at the restaurant next morning she again found Carol already ensconced, sitting on the floor of the kitchen with a large cup of coffee, reading the local newspaper.

  ‘Bonjour, cherie!’ Carol drawled.

  Theresa set her things down in the corner. She could see a few cigarette butts lying on the quarry-tiled floor.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked, Carol.’

  Carol looked up. ‘I don’t.’

  Theresa took a step back and pointed to the floor. ‘So whose are these?’

  Carol got up and inspected the butts. ‘Even if I did smoke I wouldn’t be dragging on roll-your-owns. How low can you go?’

  ‘So whose are they? They weren’t here when we locked up last night and they’re certainly not mine.’

  Carol flopped down again. ‘They must belong to Benjamin. Remember he came back to pick something up.’

  ‘The newspaper.’ Theresa checked the date on the one Carol was reading.

  ‘I bought it this morning,’ squealed Carol. ‘He wanted yesterday’s.’

  ‘Well, he’s a dirty puppy.’ Theresa swept the butts on to a piece of paper using a paintbrush. ‘I shall have words.’

  A rap on the door signalled the arrival of two plumbers from Monsieur Leroux’s team, who’d come to check out the taps for the sink and the gas pipes for the hobs. One was the same man who had fitted Theresa’s new boiler in her apartment. They greeted one another fondly, though formally, and Carol went out to get them some coffee from the brasserie up the road.

  While Theresa pottered around in the cellar, spray-cleaning the equipment that needed bringing up today to be attached, William arrived to help.

  ‘Benjamin’s running behind,’ he said, pulling off his jacket as he came down the cellar steps. ‘But he’ll be with us in no time.’

  ‘He’s been a naughty boy,’ said Theresa. ‘Left some cigarette ends on the clean floor.’

  ‘He what?’ William stood frozen to the spot. ‘Where are they?’

  Theresa immediately felt bad for mentioning it. ‘Oh darling, it’s nothing so serious, just something not to be repeated once we’re up and running.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ William raced up the stairs, Theresa scrambling behind him.

  He came upon the bucket where the stubs were, just as Benjamin walked in gripping a couple of coffees, Carol at his side.

  William held up a cigarette end, inspected it, sniffed it, then waved it at Benjamin.

  ‘I thought I paid good money for you to give up drugs,’ he said tensely.

  ‘But I . . . I . . . ’

  ‘Admit it,’ said William. ‘You came in here when no one was about so that you could get back on your old habit?’

  ‘No. I didn’t. I swear. Really, William. I haven’t touched anything since I came out. Really.’

  William screwed up his eyes. ‘As far as I know, there are three sets of keys to this place. I have a set, Theresa another and Carol the third. Whose keys did you steal?’

  ‘I didn’t. I didn’t. Theresa lent me the keys to come for my paper la
st night and I gave them right back to her.’

  William rounded on Theresa. ‘So you’re encouraging him?’

  ‘Honestly, William, I came in, fetched the paper and went right back.’

  ‘After you hung about for a few drags of marijuana?’

  Theresa put up her hand. ‘William. Please. If you must quarrel, let’s not do so in front of . . . ’ She nodded towards the younger of the two plumbers, who was carefully avoiding them by running a metallic tape measure along the wall.

  William moved into the kitchen to ask the chief plumber whether his work would all be finished by the end of the day and if it would be possible to continue at the same time as the electrician. He shrugged his shoulders while nodding confirmation that his colleague the carpenter would arrive shortly so that they could work together on fitting the sink into the countertop.

  Theresa couldn’t believe it was all going so well. Weren’t there all those tales about workmen not showing? How lucky they were to have found this crew who contributed their own expertise to the project.

  She wished now she had brought a kettle along and some camp stools so that while the men were busy next door they could sit in the dining room and discuss the works.

  ‘Look, guys,’ said Carol. ‘While we’re hanging around, why don’t we get this hardboard up and have a peek at the floor. It looks great round the edges, but for all we know it’s a foul mess in the middle and we’ll have to estimate for some new carrelage.’ She laughed. ‘You see, I know that here in France there are two names for tiles: carrelage for floors and faïence for walls.’ She smirked and rolled up the sleeves on her dungarees. ‘So there!’ She pulled out a pair of heavy work gloves from her pockets and turned to the others. ‘Anyone going to help me?’

  Purse-lipped, William came through.

  ‘He’s got to use blowlamps and drills and things, so the electrician can’t start till tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s no surprise, William. He needs room to move. It would be chaos to have both things going on at once.’

  William gave her an icy stare. ‘Theresa, I need to set a date for the health inspector and that cannot be till the basic work is done. And you and Carol still need to pop into the estate agent’s and sign your names to the rental agreement.’

  Theresa feared that William was spoiling for a fight, but that it was more to do with his worries over Benjamin than anything else.

  ‘Hellooooo!’ cried Carol, who was down on her hands and knees tugging at the corners of the hardboard. ‘Is anyone going to help me?’

  ‘It’ll be fine, William. Let’s get our diaries out and set a date for the inspectors next week. I think we should have got the place looking decent enough by then. It’s psychological – the better the place looks, the cleaner he’ll find it. Now let’s have all hands on deck.’

  Benjamin was already beside Carol, and Theresa moved to the far corner.

  William glanced at his watch.

  ‘I’m sure you can manage without me. I need to get back to the mairie before they go off for the interminable lunchbreak.’

  And he was gone.

  Benjamin took the middle section of the hardboard and was keen to take command. He glanced at each woman and nodded. ‘Shall we count to three, then haul it up as high as we can go?’

  ‘All very well,’ said Carol, ‘but how will we then see the floor?’

  Benjamin got the point.

  ‘I need to haul it up from the centre, then you jump into position either side and we walk it up.’

  They took breaths and Benjamin counted to three. With a concerted effort they raised the hardboard, walking underneath to lift it from the ground.

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Theresa, glancing down. ‘It’s ravishing!’

  ‘The décor will have to be worked around it – it’s a masterpiece.’

  They all stood, holding the hardboard up with their heads, looking down at a brilliant mosaic, created with vivid background of ultramarine glazed tesserae. The central motif was a swirling sun in chrome yellow, with flashes of orange and red. The irregular patterns along the edges showed Greek key motifs made from gold pieces and shards of broken mirrors. All around the sun were several circles and oblongs depicting the signs of the zodiac.

  ‘This is brilliant,’ said Benjamin. ‘How do we protect it?’

  ‘I suppose we carefully put this hardboard back down, and make no attempt to lift it up again till the very last minute.’

  ‘OK – let’s go,’ said Benjamin. ‘On three, gently lower . . . One, two . . . ’

  ‘Wait,’ yelled Carol. ‘Let me take a photo.’

  She reached into her dungaree pocket, pulled out her phone and with one hand quickly took a few shots. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Sally was heading out for the market when the phone rang. The suave voice of Stanislav asked her why she was avoiding him and invited her to lunch in a famed restaurant in the heart of Old Town, Nice.

  So she went back upstairs and spent the rest of the morning changing into something smarter and putting on make-up.

  As she applied her lipstick she thought about him – so dashing and handsome and rich. No! She must not think about the rich part. She didn’t want to turn into one of those grabby women who only went after men for their money.

  She couldn’t believe that, after waiting for her to phone yesterday following the auction, late last night he had gone to the bother of phoning Jean-Philippe to get her number. He really must be keen.

  She grabbed her handbag off the bed. She was glad that Jackie had left early for Cannes so she wouldn’t have to explain herself. She paused for a moment in the hall. Would she need a shawl for later, if it got cool in the shade? She decided no, and if it did, well then she’d just have to shiver.

  She took the bus into Nice and realised she was a little early, so strolled slowly through Old Town and the market before entering the restaurant.

  The restaurant was not full.

  Stanislav was there, sitting at a large circular corner table.

  As Sally approached, he stood and bowed slightly in her direction.

  ‘Looking beautiful today, Sally.’ He took her hand and kissed the back of it. Sally felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck. ‘I can hardly believe you are the same woman who was heaving those plastic balls out of the water on my boat the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Fenders,’ she said, and thought that she sounded like some awful seamanship know-all.

  She decided also not to mention how many times she had walked past this restaurant, really wishing to come in but feeling too intimidated to try.

  ‘By all reports the manager is a tigress,’ said Stanislav, as though reading her thoughts. ‘But that way she keeps out the riff-raff.’

  Sally gulped and realised she was that ‘riff-raff’.

  A waiter hovered, handing out menus. ‘Aperitif?’ he asked.

  ‘Champagne,’ said Stanislav. ‘Dom Pérignon.’ As the waiter moved off he leaned towards Sally and whispered into her ear, ‘Only the best for you.’

  Another waiter flicked Sally’s napkin on to her lap, which gave her an opportunity to look the other way. She really didn’t want Stanislav to feel how her heart was beating or see the blush rising on her cheeks. He really was the most charming and sexy man she had ever met.

  ‘So, Sally,’ said Stanislav softly. ‘Jean-Philippe tells me you are not married.’

  Sally nodded and shifted slightly in her seat.

  ‘I am very glad,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I wouldn’t want some terrifying English squire coming after me with a gun.’

  The wine assistant approached the table with an ice bucket. Behind him the sommelier cradled the bottle of champagne as though it was a baby. As he tackled the foil wrapping, and prepared to pop the cork, another waiter was on Sally’s other side placing a hot, bulging paper bag in front of her.

  ‘Du pain!’ he said. ‘Attention! Chaud!’

  She peered
inside.

  Stanislav moved closer and she thought she heard him say the word ‘Destiny’.

  Sally gazed up into his eyes.

  But he was looking past her, across towards the entrance.

  A young, garishly dressed, super-tanned woman on incredibly high heels was scanning the room.

  ‘Oh lawks! How was I supposed to find this place when the taxi can’t get up to the front?’ The new arrival staggered between the tables, heading towards them. She was cradling a little lapdog. ‘Bloomin’ France. Why can’t they all speak English, like us?’ screeched the young guest to anyone who was listening.

  Sally turned back towards Stanislav and saw that he was in the process of rising from his seat, smiling brightly at the brash girl with the loud voice.

  ‘Ooh, Don Pérignom!’ squealed the girl. ‘My fave. Pour us a glass, Stanny darling; my throat’s as dry as a camel-driver’s jockstrap.’

  She stooped, grabbed a glass full of champagne and downed it in one. She then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and gave a little burp before flopping into the empty seat next to Sally’s.

  Stanislav took the girl’s hand and kissed the back of it, as he had done for Sally. ‘Destiny! I’m so glad you could make it.’

  Destiny put out a hand and touched Sally’s forearm. ‘You must be Sally. Stanny here’s been telling me all about you. How you’re a boat driver or something.’

  Sally, nose out of joint, felt rather miffed.

  ‘Hello. I’m Destiny MacDonald.’ The girl thrust out her hand for Sally to shake. ‘So you’re Sally Connor. You know Stanny, and best of all, you speak-a-de-English and live in de France.’ She laughed appreciatively at her own joke.

  From the girl’s demeanour, Sally could see that she was supposed to have had some kind of reaction to the name, but to be honest, it meant nothing to her. She did her best to sound enthusiastic as she said: ‘How lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Destiny is married to the footballer I was telling you about on the boat. Mickey MacDonald? Walsingham Wanderers?’

  Sally was still in the dark.