Not Quite Nice (22 page)

Ted hushed her.

Theresa had an idea to change the subject again, and said brightly ‘Guess what, Brian? Do you remember when you so kindly came to my rescue after some nasty bloke knocked me down and stole my bag? Well, I saw the man in Old Town on Friday. Got quite a good look at him, actually. And I think, well, I’m pretty sure he’s a drug dealer.’

Brian looked blankly in her direction. It was almost as though she was speaking a foreign language.

‘Really?’ he said, after a long pause. ‘The man from way back? On the steps? Surely you can’t be certain it was him. It was a very long time ago.’

‘Oh, it was him, all right,’ said Theresa pressing pastry into the tin. ‘I’d never forget him. The face, the body shape, the gait, even the smell of him.’

‘I see.’ Brian looked quite concerned. ‘Did you tell the police?’

‘I didn’t actually. Do you think I should have done?’

‘I can’t imagine there’s very much they could do about it now,’ he laughed. ‘Anyone need a top-up?’ He grabbed the wine bottle and did the rounds with it.

Benjamin glared at Zoe, who was staring in his direction.

‘And what are you looking at?’

Zoe pursed her lips. ‘A cat may look at a queen,’ she said.

‘That’s enough,’ said Benjamin, ripping his apron off. ‘Enough, enough, enough.’

‘Sorry everyone,’ said William. ‘We’re off.’

They both marched to the front door and out.

‘Exeunt the Flowerpot men,’ said Zoe.

‘Is that because of their floral shirts, Zoe?’

‘William and Benjamin,’ said Zoe. ‘Bill and Ben. Don’t know why I didn’t think it up months ago.’ Zoe left a little pause then said beguilingly ‘Weeeeeeed! Which I must say, in Benjamin’s case, is rather apt.’

‘Now, everyone,’ said Theresa in a louder than usual voice. ‘Let’s get those onions into the frying pans.’

‘This is the best fun we’ve ever had at Cookery Club,’ said Zoe, dumping a mound of onions into the pan. ‘Who’s going to kick off next?’

During the silence which followed they all stirred, one frying pan on each of the four burners.

‘Where’s it all going to lead?’ asked Faith, under her breath.

‘I hope it leads to a drink,’ replied Zoe.

‘You crack me up,’ said Tom to Zoe.

‘Go on, Ted,’ said Sally, dragging the conversation back to the night on the boat. ‘Where
did
you sleep then?’

‘A five-star boutique hotel, of course,’ said Ted.

‘Mother! For goodness’ sake!’ Marianne rushed to Sally’s side and hissed in her ear. ‘Why must you go on about it? Leave him alone.’ She turned to the frying pan and, pushing her mother out of the way, started stirring the hissing onions.

‘There wasn’t room on the boat for all of us,’ said Tom, joining the fray. ‘Not to sleep, anyway, unless we were going to play spoons, which no one fancied. Why the fuss? We were all incapable of driving the boat home. Did you want us all to drown?’

‘No!’ shrieked Sally, through the hanky she was using to blow her nose. ‘I just want to be kept in the loop about my boat.’

‘It isn’t
your
boat, though, Sally, is it?’ Ted brought his chopping knife down hard into the block causing the chopped onions to jump and spread over the counter. ‘It’s
my
fucking boat, and I’ll do what I bloody well like with it, even if it’s just saving mollycoddled or henpecked men from their female jailers.’

Sally and Carol gasped in unison.

‘Sorry, mates, look at yourselves’ said Ted, taking off his apron and strutting towards the door. ‘There’s 57 dressing David up in fancy dress, as though he’s some fucking Barbie doll she just bought, while Sally behaves as though Tom is still a twelve-year-old kid. He’s thirty years old, for fuck’s sake. But if you don’t like the truth, nick off.’

He went to the front door and left, slamming it behind him.

‘Farewell to the Lizard,’ said Zoe.

‘Sort of Lounge Lizard, do you mean, Zoe?’ asked Faith.

‘No. The Lizard of Oz, or course.’

Tom guffawed.

‘Good grief!’ said Brian, downing his wine.

Carol turned on her husband. ‘Did you tell that uncouth Australian that you were henpecked?’

‘If the cap fits.’ David shrugged. ‘“57”.’

‘What fucking cap?’ said Carol. ‘If anyone’s hen-pecked, it’s Ted. Look at him! His wife is so barking mad she thinks he’s bonking Theresa!’

It was Theresa’s turn to gasp.

‘There you go, Carol. Or should I say, Adolf? I’m not your puppet you know, but you treat me like one.’ David spoke staccato-fashion, while shaking pepper on to his onions. ‘America is a classless society, you know. Yet you always assume superiority, and we always do what
you
want to do. Living with you is like living with Stalin.’

Carol turned and slapped David so hard across the cheek that he staggered into Sally, knocking her into Jessica.

‘And if we’re talking about manliness, Carol,’ David nursed his ruddy cheek with the palm of his hand as he made for the exit. ‘For all your feminine airs and your just-so clothes, you’ve a punch on you that would put Mike Tyson to shame,’ he called out his parting gift before slamming the door behind him. ‘Very feminine!’

‘And then there were six!’ With reptilian eyes, Zoe scanned the room. ‘Anyone else fancy a bout in the ring?’

To get out of the fray, Tom started ladling out and spreading the cooked onions on to the pastry tins.

Theresa knew she was supposed to be in control of things. In a desperate attempt to re-establish an equilibrium, she asked loudly ‘Everyone got their olives and anchovies ready?’

Sally turned to apologise to Jessica, who hastily scrambled about with her handbag, which had shot along the counter in the scuffle and came to rest on the stray onions. Something fell to the floor. Sally stooped to pick it up, bumping heads with Jessica who also reached for it.

‘Your phone,’ said Sally, picking it up. ‘Wait a minute!’ She gripped the thing and turned away from Jessica. ‘What’s this?’

‘Nothing,’ said Jessica, stretching to grab it from Sally’s hand.

‘I know what this is. It’s a Dictaphone!’ Sally staggered backwards as Jessica snatched the little machine from Sally and slipped it into her handbag. ‘You’re taping us!’

‘You’re paranoid, Sally,’ said Jessica calmly, snapping the bag shut. ‘It’s a phone. A newer, more modern model than you’re used to, I imagine.’ Jessica moved forward, pressing past the others, also heading for the front door. She turned, and waved. ‘The Bellevue-Sur-Mer asylum is too much for me, tonight, too, I’m afraid. Bye, bye.’

And she also left.

‘There she goes – the Jezebel!’ Zoe knocked back the rest of her wine.

‘I thought her name was Jessica,’ said Faith, laying her olives in a row.

‘A Dictaphone, eh?’ Zoe popped open the jar of anchovies. ‘Hmmm. Something fishy.’

Tom laughed again.

‘If it really was some sort of recording device, why would she want to tape
us
?’ said Faith. ‘We’re all so dull.’

‘Speak entirely for yourself,’ said Zoe with a floppy pout.

Sally answered. ‘It won’t affect us, Faith. It’s for Sian, I presume, about Ted. In Jessica’s position as spy-in-chief.’

Carol, who was mopping at the corners of her eyes with a pretty lace-edged handkerchief that matched her blouse, let out a sudden sob.

Brian rushed forward. ‘Carol? Perhaps you’d like a brandy.’

‘It’s the onions,’ said Carol. ‘Onions make me cry.’

‘Even when you’re crying,’ he said, ‘you are very beautiful.’

‘I thought you said
you’d
bought the boat,’ said Marianne, returning to her book. ‘But just now Ted said he had bought it. What’s that about, Mother?’

‘Oh . . .’ Sally fussed with things on the countertop. ‘Ted and I share it.’

Marianne laid her book on her knee. ‘But that doesn’t explain why you have no money left. Does it? How much is half of a thirty-nine-foot motor cruiser these days? Where did the rest of the money go?’

‘What do we do with the flans once we’ve laid out the fish and olives on top?’ asked Faith, in an uncharacteristically loud voice.

‘They go in the oven, Faith,’ said Theresa. ‘Could everyone please calm down.’

Marianne stood up and loomed over Sally.

‘Faith, Zoe, Carol?’ said Tom hastily. ‘While the pissaladières bake, perhaps I might buy you all a drink down the road. Brian, Theresa, shall we?’

Sally knew she was cornered, and, as the other members of the Cookery Club left the house, she realised that she was going to have to come clean with her daughter about where all her money had really gone.

In the bar by the seafront Tom sat chatting with Zoe, while Carol and Faith gazed out on the still waters of the harbour.

Brian sat close to Theresa.

‘Since I moved out I’ve missed all the hurly-burly,’ he said.

‘Isn’t that kind of thing reserved for witches’ covens?’

‘If the pointy caps fit!’

‘And what are you in all this, Brian? Chief warlock?’

Brian laughed. ‘What did he look like?’ he asked, while brushing a piece of dust from his shoulder.

‘Who?’ Theresa stared blankly. She had no idea what he was talking about.

‘The man who knocked you over and took your bag? You said you saw him again.’

Theresa shrugged. ‘Scruffy. Torn blue jeans, leather jacket. About five foot ten. In his forties maybe. Reddish hair. Hopeless description really. Could be anyone of millions. It would have been a waste of time reporting him. Just lots of form-filling for nothing.’

Brian stretched out a finger and stroked Theresa’s cheek.

‘I do hate to think of harm coming to you,’ he said. ‘I’m very fond of you, you know.’

Theresa blushed.

What a turn up – at this age to be flirted with by a handsome eligible bachelor!

‘Look at them.’ Brian nodded towards Zoe who was cackling loudly at one of Tom’s remarks. ‘And tell me you’re not part of a coven?’

Theresa cradled her wine glass and stared out to sea.

‘I tell you what we should do,’ whispered Brian in her ear. ‘Get Carol and David to join us and go out for a ride in that lovely sports car with a huge picnic one afternoon. Up to the woods on Mont Boron or somewhere,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

Theresa smiled.

‘I think it’s a splendid idea.’

When Theresa got home she found a dark, quiet house. Imogen had left her a kind note, beside an uncorked bottle of wine, an empty glass and today’s local newspaper. The kids were all in bed asleep and they were all very happy to be here, said the note. Imogen wished she and the kids could stay here in Bellvue-sur-Mer for ever. It suggested Theresa finish the wine, as there was one glass left.

Theresa felt so happy she could cry, and there wasn’t an onion in sight. In one night she was being courted by a gentleman, and wanted by her daughter and grandchildren. Who could ask for more?

She looked down at her pissaladière. It looked pretty good, if she did say so herself. She’d managed to get two, as so many people had walked out of the club tonight. She put both tins into the fridge for the family to have tomorrow.

Then she put her bed out on the floor, and lay down. She tried to sleep but it was impossible. After the roller-coaster evening she knew she wouldn’t, so, by the light of the street lamps, she got up again and cut herself a slice of the onion tart and laid it out on the glass table with a small glass of red wine. While she ate she decided to read the paper Imogen had left out, even if she only glanced at the headlines.

She switched on the small table lamp and took out her reading glasses. She found reading the paper rather a useful method of polishing up her French. The pictures frequently gave a clue to the story.

Today it was all the usual stuff about politics, finance, sport and national plans for road-building. A page was devoted to the worries of local restaurateurs about the disappointing outlook for the forthcoming year’s tourism, another to some celebrity film gala and a folklore festival up in the mountains somewhere.

Theresa turned over to the page which concentrated on local issues: births, marriages, deaths and court cases.

There, in the middle of the page, was a picture of a man who resembled the owner of the furniture cave. Without thinking, she stroked the glass top of the table which she had bought in his shop and leaned in to take a closer look at the newspaper. It was him, surely. She glanced over the article but there were too many French words which were beyond her vocabulary. But then she saw his name was Pierre. So she went to the bookshelf, took out her dictionary and translated the adjacent text, as best she could.

Well!

What a shock!

The furniture shop had been shut because the owner, Pierre Delaville, had been arrested. It appeared that Pierre was using the back room of that very shop as a kind of drug exchange. He was part of a group with links to a criminal gang who operated out of the port and trafficked with dealers in Corsica and Africa. Pierre was the middleman. He sold drugs to locals. In the police search of both his apartment and the store rooms of his shop, they had picked up massive bags of cocaine, hashish and heroin. Pierre had been sent down for ten years.