Not Quite Nice (10 page)

She only had a few minutes’ wait on the graffiti-smeared platform before a train pulled in for the ten-minute journey into Nice. Her plan was to find a bookshop and buy a few recipe books to pore over, and also to get a basketful of goodies from the vegetable market.

In the central part of town she bought a shopping trolley. After a quick browse through a second-hand bookshop she found some interesting-looking old recipe books, and by the time she reached the market she was just in time to catch the last of the stallholders packing up before the market space was taken over by the bars and cafes for the afternoon. Somehow Theresa just managed to buy some great cheeses, a bag of olives and a random selection of vegetables.

Exhausted but inspired, Theresa flopped down at a sunny terrace table and ordered a coffee. The waitress was rather snippy with her as the tables were already being laid up for luncheon. Theresa had forgotten how strictly the French took their ritual of mealtimes. Luckily the girl relented – for the moment.

As she relaxed in the warm rays of the sun Theresa’s phone rang. It was Imogen. She picked up.

‘So how’s it going in Fantasy Land?’

‘You mean Bellevue-Sur-Mer.’

‘Wherever . . .’ Imogen gave the usual world-weary sigh. ‘I thought you were moving to Nice?’

‘Well, it’s not quite Nice, Imogen, but very near. I’m in Nice now.’

Theresa told her daughter that it was lovely and suggested that she should come out at half term to see for herself, and bring the children.

‘How will I have the time for that, Mother? It’s all right for you. You live in a daydream. I’m in the real world and I have obligations.’

Theresa couldn’t help but wonder what these obligations consisted of, as Imogen didn’t go out to work and even had a cleaner. All she really had to do with her day was look after her husband and children and go to her Pilates classes.

‘Imogen, I am sitting on a sun-kissed terrace with a bag full of beautiful fruit and vegetables which cost me substantially less that it would have cost me in Wimbledon. I am a few steps away from a sparkling azure sea and surrounded by beauty wherever I look. I imagine you have the lights on inside today because of the dark and the freezing drizzle, while I am sunbathing.’

‘You’re so impractical.’ Imogen sighed. ‘Weather isn’t everything. You’ll soon get bored of sunny days.’

‘You’re right, I probably will. But I just thought that a break from England’s miserable bleak February might be nice for you. There’s a carnival in a few weeks’ time.’

‘A carnival!’ Imogen let forth another long world-weary sigh. ‘That’s fine, Mother. I’ll leave you to your rosy spectacles for another week or so. No doubt the scales will fall from your eyes. Michael says he gives it a month before you’ll be running back to us for help.’

When Theresa put the phone back into her handbag she felt furious, but even more determined to make things work. Michael! What a cheek. She thanked God she hadn’t been tempted to ask them if they would lend her the money for the boiler.

She gathered her things together and walked up through the winding alleys of the Old Town, heading for the bus stand and a bus home.

On the bus, when Theresa could tear her eyes away from the stunning views over the Bay of Angels, she took out her turquoise pen and scribbled some words on to a scrap of paper, composing an advert for her cookery classes. Maybe classes sounded too formal. A cookery club sounded more fun. She scrawled the word ‘club’.

She totted up some figures and made the decision to borrow the money from her capital, even if it did mean losing a whole year’s interest as a penalty. But at least if she did that she could get the work on the boiler done right away. If she was going to be doing lots of cooking she’d need running hot water.

If she could only make this thing work, she would recoup the money over time and, once it was paid for, have a small income.

And also, while she was putting up the signs on noticeboards and in shop windows, she could search the boards to see if anyone needed some typing done, or maybe bookkeeping. If she could get a little income from anywhere she would be fine. As the bus neared the stop she put the pen into her handbag.

She climbed out of the bus and realised she’d made a mistake not coming back home by train as the bus stop was right at the top of the town, while the railway station was only a main road away. Now she had to bump the heavy trolley down an endless set of stone steps before reaching the alleyways of the old village and home.

She slung her bag from her shoulder, balanced the trolley in front of her and took it slowly, wheeling it down one step at a time, while gripping tight to the rusty iron handrail.

Then she heard a clatter of feet coming down swiftly behind her. She clung on to the handle of the trolley and stepped aside, to get out of the way.

The feet got nearer but as they reached her, instead of passing her, someone shoved Theresa from behind, knocking her down. She tripped over the trolley’s wheels and stumbled down a few steps before landing palms down, sprawled out on a stone step. As she came to a stop, the man moved in close and wrenched her handbag out of her grasp. She could smell the cigarette smoke on his leather jacket. He shoved her handbag under his arm and then kicked her trolley, so that it tumbled down ahead of her, spilling fruit and vege­tables, which bounced away, then rolled into the dark little alleyways at the bottom.

The thief followed the trolley, rushing down the rest of the steps, and disappearing out of sight into the dark warren of the old village before the trolley and its contents finally came to rest.

Theresa reached up for the rail and tried to pull herself up, but her hands were badly grazed and she was shaking. A blue throbbing lump was already swelling up on her knuckle.

She tried to yell out, but her voice came out in a weedy kitten-like mewl.

She heard the thief stop running. His steps turned into a casual stroll as he walked away, all innocence.

Theresa pulled herself into a sitting position and took a few deep breaths. Then she stood and took a tentative step, but her legs were shaking so violently she was scared that she would fall, so she sat again. She could feel the cold and damp of the stone penetrating her coat.

‘I say! Are you all right down there?’ A man’s voice from above.

Theresa twisted her head round to see a tall man in an old-fashioned navy blazer and chinos making his way down the steps.

‘I was mugged,’ said Theresa. ‘He took my handbag.’

‘You’re English too. Oh dear, look at all your shopping,’ said the man. ‘How awful. I’m Brian, by the way. Oh Lord, poor you. You stay there. Let me help.’

He walked briskly down the steps and started retrieving as much of the shopping as he could. ‘I’ll just put it all together,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll come back and get you. Don’t worry. Sit still and take some deep breaths.’

Brian helped Theresa all the way down to her flat, holding his arm out for her to clutch, wheeling her trolley with his other hand.

‘You should make yourself a stiff drink,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a shock. Do you have any whisky or brandy?’

At the front door, Theresa realised her keys were in her stolen handbag.

‘I can’t get in. He’s got my keys.’

‘Oh, good Lord,’ said Brian. ‘That’s unlucky. I wonder what’s French for a locksmith?’

‘I was due to have it done, anyway,’ explained Theresa. ‘I’ve only just bought the place.’

‘The estate agents will know a locksmith,’ said Brian. ‘They must have to organise it all the time.’

‘I don’t have a phone!’ Theresa realised she had no wallet, no credit cards and no way of paying. ‘He’s taken the lot.’

‘Let me sort it out,’ Brian pulled his own phone out of his blazer pocket. ‘I was only going round a house with the gentleman myself this morning.’ He cupped his hand round the phone and pointed down. ‘Oh, by the way, your leg is bleeding.’

Theresa looked down to see that her tights were ripped and torn, with dirty black patches, and blood was oozing through a hole at the knee.

She sat on the small wall surrounding her front yard and burst into sobs.

Talking on the phone Brian walked out to the street, phone on one ear, his hand covering the other. He talked for a while then came back smiling.

‘It’s lunchtime. But I did manage to speak to a very nice girl, who is going to get a locksmith down here as quickly as possible. She says that you must talk to the bank, and they can arrange for you to get cash. I’m hoping you didn’t have your passport in the bag?’

Theresa was numb with it all. She didn’t move. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Do you have a friend, whose place you could go to?’

Theresa shook her head. ‘I’m new here.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Brian. ‘Like me. Look, borrow my phone. I’ll pop back for it in an hour or so. I have a few things I need to do. Will you be all right if I leave you?’

‘Thank you so much.’ Theresa’s voice came out this time in a feeble reedy croak. ‘You’re very kind.’

She spent ten minutes on the phone to the bank, who told her she must first report the robbery to the police, and then come into the bank, which was in Nice, near the Promenade du Paillon.

She then tackled the call to the police.

They too needed her to come in person to report the theft.

Theresa realised that the only thing she could do, for now, was sit and wait for the locksmith. Then after she’d got inside and washed up she would tackle the rest.

She pulled an apple from her trolley and took a bite.

10

Sally had an idea. She phoned Ted to put it to him, but Sian answered.

‘You’re not after his body, too, are you?’ she joked. ‘What did you want him for?’

‘Well . . .’ Sally was at a loss. She actually wanted to persuade Ted to join her taking one of the classes, but knew she could only do that kind of thing to Ted himself. ‘As you were in town, I was phoning to ask you both to lunch today.’

Sian accepted. ‘Ted can’t come though. He’s in the doghouse, with me,’ she said. ‘So, while I had a meeting, I’ve sent him off on a nasty chore. He’s taking the car up to some nearby hilltop village for the annual service. I doubt he’ll get back before coffee.’

A couple of minutes after Sally put down the phone, the doorbell rang. She couldn’t imagine Sian could have got up the hill so fast.

She opened up, expecting to see the postman standing there with a parcel, but it was her daughter Marianne, leaning against the side of a limousine with its engine running.

‘Hi Mama! I told you I would whizz by. Can only manage a hello–goodbye cos I have to be at the airport in twenty minutes.’

‘But darling, surely you can come in for a coffee or something?’

‘Absolutely not. But I knew you’d be furious if I was passing so near and didn’t say hello.’

‘But where . . . what . . . ?’

‘Business along the coast. Just a whistle stop. I’m off to Rome now. Can’t be late for the flight.’

Sian appeared, waving at Sally from along the street.

Marianne formed her hand into the shape of a mobile phone. ‘I’ll phone you.’

She climbed back into the car. The car sped off.

‘My daughter,’ said Sally, crushed but putting on a brave face. ‘She’s in business too, as I told you.’

‘Nice,’ said Sian, watching the car disappear along the twisty uphill road.

‘It’s a work thing,’ replied Sally. ‘She’s a high flier.’

‘So I see,’ said Sian.

Half an hour later the two women managed to change the subject and Sian sprawled on a chair at Sally’s dining table, safe in Ted’s absence, talking about him. She also had much to say about the new inhabitant of the flat on the seafront, which Sally had coveted. The new woman had, it seemed, seduced Ted.

Sally had seen the woman involved, shopping in the village earlier. She found it hard to believe Sian’s story as the new woman was rather on the large side and not at all Ted’s usual type. She felt sure that Sian had got things wrong.

‘Have you asked him outright?’

‘I don’t need to. Enough people witnessed him running away from the scene of the crime. Anyhow, I gave her what for, so I don’t think she’ll be likely to try the same again.’

Sally was starting to get tired of the way Sian never stopped going on about Ted and his errant ways. She began to wonder if Sian didn’t work at keeping his rampant sexuality inflamed by her jealousy as some weird fetish of her own. Why else, if she was so upset by his gallivanting, was she always going off, leaving him behind? Sian never stopped treating him like a naughty boy who would lose his pocket money if he didn’t obey her. She never included him in her plans, even today she had made sure he got uninvited here, and, not content with that, she then spent hours slagging him off to Sally and anyone else who would listen.

Poor old Ted. He was so bored and lonely he spent much of his time making a great play for every passing woman who came through town, which in the summer was a very high number. All he needed was to ask a girl in a cafe to pass the sugar, and within half an hour they’d be together in her hotel room.