Not Quite Nice (11 page)

After what seemed an eternity of listening to Sian going on and on and on while she toyed with the salad on her plate, not eating anything, Sally came out with it.

‘I always wonder, Sian, if you are so frightened of losing Ted, why you don’t take him with you when you go off on all your high-flying business trips?’

‘Oh, Sally, you just don’t understand Ted.’ Sian gave Sally a pitying smile. ‘Your husband was a businessman. He would have been able to keep up in a world like mine. But Ted isn’t like that. Ted is a poet.’ She gave Sally a beatific smile. ‘It’s a totally different mindset. Ted needs his freedom and independence, and to be somewhere beautiful, which is why I bought the place here. For him. So that he can concentrate on his poetry.’

Sally wondered when was the last time Ted had written a poem, let alone had anything published. His main claim to fame was having once, back in the 1980s, written some long hippy-style ode along the lines of ‘Desiderata’. It had been reproduced
ad nauseam
on postcards, tea towels and posters which hung on students’ walls all over the English-speaking world and made him quite a bit of money.

But that had been years ago, in the days when Sally herself was making money and still had a TV career.

‘I just think . . .’ Sally started but Sian interrupted her.

‘I don’t need marriage guidance from you, Sally. I have my own way, thank you very much, and it has worked well, thus far.’ She held up her hand to prevent Sally interrupting. ‘Ted really wouldn’t know one end of a business deal from another. Can you imagine him grappling with a PowerPoint presentation or a spreadsheet? It’s ridiculous.’

‘He’s bored, Sian, bored and lonely.’

‘Well . . .’ Sian seemed to hesitate before delivering the news. ‘I’ve got a lovely new PA. She’s English, got a very good degree from a real university, not one of those cornershops that dole out MAs in sewing, and from now on she’s going to help me out on the business side of things.’

‘And how will that help Ted, exactly?’ Sally realised she sounded tart, and poured herself and Sian another glass of rosé.

‘This girl is so impressive. She’ll take a lot off my mind. I’m hoping to groom her up so that she can organise much of the business, and then one day soon I’ll be able to retire. Well, not
really
retire, but I’ll be able to take a lot more time off. What’s the point of owning a lovely house here if I’m always on the road?’ Sian took another swig of wine and, barely pausing for breath, continued. ‘Now as you know, Sally, despite the recession, my shops in the UK are beating the downwards trend, and so I’m thinking about doing some business locally, maybe open up a small boutique here or hereabouts.’

‘Here?’ Sally couldn’t believe it. Sian’s London shops were temples of high fashion.

‘It won’t be like the London ones,’ Sian added. ‘It’ll be more of a novelty shop, something on the lines of those old Carnaby Street places, you know, which not only sell cheapish clothes, but fun things too, like pos­­ters and mugs with amusing things written on them.’

Sally had no idea how to react to this stuff. And the very thought of a horrible shop like the one Sian was proposing here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer was awful. It was as though Sian wanted to turn the place into a fake tourist trap, just as so many surrounding towns and villages had become. What made Bellevue-Sur-Mer so nice was that it still kept hold of an everyday reality – the majority of shops and restaurants were for locals, not tourists.

‘So, for a while this girl is going to be my right-hand woman. She will join me on important trips, but, when I need things overseeing anywhere else, I shall put her in charge. I just thought you should know.’ Sian chuckl­ed, leant forward and whispered confidentially, ‘When she’s down here she has strict instructions to keep an eye out on Ted, and report back to me.’

‘Like the Stasi?’ said Sally. ‘Ted won’t like that.’

‘He won’t know.’ Sian glugged her wine glass empty. ‘I’m hiding her from him. I haven’t told him about her, and I’m not going to. She won’t be staying with us. I’ve got her a room in a local hotel, where she can come and go.’

‘When does she arrive?’

‘So you can warn him?’ Sian wagged a finger. ‘No, no, no, no. Anyway, for all you know she may be here already.’

Sally couldn’t help herself wincing. How sorry she felt for poor old Ted, having some brainy business whizz-kid, paid by his wife, whose main purpose appeared to be spying on him.

She also felt rather miffed that Sian hadn’t thought of approaching Marianne if she needed help with the business. Marianne had a degree too, and all kinds of certificates in business management – and, if she’d used Marianne, Sian wouldn’t have had to run to the ridiculous expense of a hotel.

‘My daughter is qualified you know, Sian, in business studies. If you ever . . . ?’

‘Yes, yes,’ snapped Sian. ‘You deal with your business; I’ll deal with mine.’

There was a rustle, rather than a knock, on the architrave round the kitchen door.

‘It’s only me. Sorry to interrupt.’

Sally had entirely forgotten that Faith was upstairs.

‘Oh, Faith, do come in.’ Sally stood up. ‘Please feel free to use the kitchen whenever you like.’

‘I only want to fetch myself a cup of tea,’ said Faith. ‘This whole morning has been pretty exhausting, I’m afraid.’

‘Sian, this is my house-guest, Faith. She’s just buying the Molinaris’ old place. Sian is a local businesswoman. Very high-flying.’

Sian gave a glacial smile.

‘You’re lucky, though, Faith,’ said Sally, filling the kettle. ‘You have that lovely boy of yours helping you out. He must be quite a support. There’s not many young men who take such an interest in their mothers, you know.’

Faith bit her lip and nodded. ‘I’ll just get that cup of tea and get out of your way.’

‘Ted’ll be in
her
knickers next,’ said Sian, as soon as Faith was up the stairs.

‘Oh, Sian, really . . .’ Sally hoped that Faith hadn’t heard Sian’s remark.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Sally. He needs treatment.’

Sally had had enough. She decided to come out with her opinion, no matter how much it might annoy Sian.

‘You know the problem with Ted, Sian? You treat him appallingly. That’s what’s wrong. You behave as though you’re his mother and he’s a wayward adolescent boy, so he acts like one. Ted needs something to care about, some project to keep him feeling, I don’t know . . . wanted.’

‘He has his poetry.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sian, you know what I mean.’ Sally sipped her glass of rosé and watched Sian’s face harden. ‘Yes, we’re all so envious of you because you still have a husband around. But why not value him? Put
him
in charge of your new shop. Let him have the business to care about and take him away with you instead of some fancy assistant.’

Sian looked at her watch and rose abruptly from the table, grabbing her handbag and coat from the back of the chair.

‘You said it. You’re jealous of me, that’s what it is. Jealous.’

Before Sally could contradict her she continued.

‘I’m late for a meeting.’ She bent forward and made a feeble attempt at kissing the air on either side of Sally’s face. ‘And I have a flight to catch. Must rush. Thanks for the snack.’

And she was gone.

Snack indeed, thought Sally who felt she had spent the better part of the morning putting together a fancy three-course lunch for Sian. They’d not got to dessert, so now she had two portions left. Sally put them on a pair of side plates and laid a tray. She knew she mustn’t get into the habit of behaving as though she was running a hotel, but she felt sorry for Faith. Also, Sally had already laid down the rent money Faith had given her on her new course, so she didn’t want Faith moving out and asking for it back.

She took the tray upstairs and knocked on Faith’s door.

When Faith opened up Sally could see that she had been crying.

‘My friend had to leave before pudding,’ she said. ‘So I thought it would be nice for us to eat them.’

Faith smiled. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘It’s only two tarts, from up the road,’ Sally said, then laughed. ‘I could have phrased that better,’ she added.

Faith tidied away a sheaf of paperwork about her new home.

‘It’s a lovely house you’re buying.’

‘A little large for me.’ Faith shrugged. ‘But I suppose if I’d spent the same amount of money in London I’d be lucky to have got a bedsit.’

‘True,’ said Sally. ‘Will your son be living out here with you?’

‘Oh no,’ said Faith. ‘He works in London, in the City, you know, finance and all that stuff.’

‘Another one.’ Sally laughed. ‘So
he’s
to blame for the world’s troubles!’

Faith looked so upset by this remark that Sally hasti­ly covered for herself.

‘Poor bankers, no one likes them any more, do they?’

‘He’s not exactly a banker,’ said Faith. ‘He is a financial advisor.’

‘That’s lucky for you. I wish I’d had one of those when I was earning.’

‘I feel a bit like a fish out of water, here in France,’ said Faith. ‘It’s very daunting leaving everything you know in England and coming out to a place you don’t know at all.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t even speak French.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Faith. You’ll fit in in no time.’ Sally smiled and laid the plates of fruit tart on the bedside table. ‘It really is beautiful here, and it’s very kind on old bones, you know. And as for the language, well, you can get by with only a few words. Most French people speak English, to some degree.’

Sally felt quite drained from the day so far. The most cheering thing was the scenery outside the window. She smoothed down the bedspread and added: ‘Remember, Faith, you have us. We’re quite a gang, you know, the Brits of B-S-M!’

11

Suddenly, as evening fell, Theresa’s flat was like Piccadilly Circus. While the locksmith fiddled with the front door, a plumber and his mate were busily dismantling her boiler.

Theresa herself, calm now, sat at the glass-topped table, writing out a stack of index cards and putting them into two separate piles, one with details of her Cookery Club meetings and the other with ads for the spare room, which she had decided to let out for the moment, until things settled down. She had looked around for the turquoise pen Mr Jacobs had given her and realised, with a groan, that it must have been in her snatched handbag.

Carol was whirling around making cups of tea, while her husband David was measuring up all the walls and radiators for the plumber.

Ted was in the kitchen helping the plumber.

Theresa had been startled when she saw Ted standing on her doorstep, but then Carol stepped up behind him with a bright grin. ‘I’m gathering the troops,’ she cried, while Theresa stood open-mouthed.

‘What?’ Ted had joked as he crossed the threshold. ‘Don’t recognise me with my clothes on?’

Naturally Theresa went into a flat panic.

‘But your wife . . . She thinks . . .’

‘She’s wrong,’ replied Ted. ‘You know that. I know that. It was a very nice English girl I met in a bar. Didn’t even have time to exchange names, as it happens. And, now my beloved wife isn’t here to suspect anything between you and me. Flown off to New York this afternoon, only gave me two seconds warning, as usual, so . . .’ he gave Theresa a saucy wink, ‘. . . in the meanwhile I am your slave. I know I owe you one for the roasting you had from her. Very sorry about that, mate. Oh, and I didn’t tell her, you know, I think it was one of the pesky waiters at the bistro who saw me running along the way with me family jewels on display. He must have thought I’d gone troppo. Or was jealous of me physique.’ Ted rolled his sleeves up. ‘Anyway, let’s get at it. 57, here, rounded me up as I do know a bit about building and so on.’

‘57?’

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s my pet nickname for Carol.’

Earlier, as Theresa sat waiting after Brian had left her on the doorstep, clutching his mobile phone, the locksmith had phoned to say sorry but he couldn’t be there for a few hours. Desperate to get things moving, Theresa had gone straight up to the police station, then headed back into Nice, where she had a very product­ive talk with the French bank manager. He had not only arranged for a new card and some immediate cash, but also proposed that, rather than touch her capital, which was on a deal where she couldn’t touch the money for a year without penalties, Theresa take a small loan towards the new central heating. His only condition was that she moved fast and paid it off quickly, maybe got some income coming in soon, from the classes and perhaps letting the spare room.

As she came out of the bank, Theresa ran into Carol and David, who were waiting at Place Garibaldi, for the same bus back to Bellevue-Sur-Mer.

‘Lent the car to William,’ David explained. ‘So we’re reliant on public transportation. Which is fun, once in a while.’

When Theresa told them her tale of woe, both husband and wife got on to their respective mobile phones and started getting things moving.

Within an hour the plumber was in Theresa’s kitchen, along with everybody else.