Not Quite Nice (23 page)

Theresa took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

My word! There we had it. It wasn’t a love affair going on behind William’s back. Benjamin must be on drugs.

Everything Theresa had witnessed on the day she bought the table would fit together with Benjamin’s being a drug addict. When he had emerged from the back room he was certainly behaving in a manic fashion. She’d never seen him cavorting about like that since.

And now, Benjamin’s usual supplier had been banged up, so he was buying from some other man lurking in the alleyways of Nice’s Old Town. A man who Theresa knew was on the wrong side of the law, as he had pushed her over and stolen her handbag. Yes. That all made perfect sense. And if maybe William had struggled before this to get Benjamin off drugs, then that would really explain his fury yesterday. His anger wasn’t so much directed at her as towards Benjamin.

And tonight! All those references people were making to cocaine and sniffing.

Oh Lord! Poor William.

Theresa folded the paper.

What could she do to help?

She put her head in her hands.

What a mess!

No point helping. She’d interfered enough already.

She lay down on her air-mattress and gazed through the windows at the moon, shining in the black sky like a silver coin.

A song was running through her head. She couldn’t get it out of her mind.

‘Somebody loves me; I wonder who?’

PISSALADIÈRE

 

Ingredients

Roll of puff pastry

Onions

Garlic

Small black Niçoise olives

Jar of anchovy fillets

Olive oil

Thyme

Salt and pepper

Dash of good thick balsamic vinegar, velours or glaze

 

Method

Roll out pastry to cover a pizza pan, and blind bake.

Chop onions and fry in olive oil.

When they are soft, add a squeeze of garlic, salt and a good grind of black pepper, and a dash of balsamic vinegar.

Sprinkle with thyme.

Spread mixture on to the pastry.

Arrange the olives and anchovies on the top.

Bake at approximately 180°C for 20 minutes or until golden.

Cut into slices and serve.

20

Next morning Sally bumped into William in the boulangerie. He was standing in the queue to be served. They both wore dark glasses.

‘Benjamin’s finally come clean, and told me he’s back on cocaine,’ said William. ‘If I can borrow Carol’s car today he’s going back into rehab.’ He nodded towards Sally’s eyewear. ‘And you?’

‘I had a huge row with Marianne,’ she said. ‘I didn’t tell anyone what I’d done, because Faith and I made a pact. But the truth is Faith’s son wanted her to buy a house here while she only really wanted to rent. As you know, I’ve been looking to buy for so long, so we went to the lawyer together. I bought the house, and she rents it from me so we’re both happy. Marianne didn’t like it at all.’

‘Why’s it any of her business?’ asked William.

‘Yes, why? That’s a point,’ said Sally. ‘Her life may be all sums and interest rates, stocks and bonds and all that financial jargon, but I can’t live like that.’

‘And why should you? Look at all you mothers being bossed about by your children. Faith’s son, for instance. What business is it of his if she rents or buys? It’s not right. Parents should leave their children alone, and children should have the decency to do the same in return.’

Sally made a quiet sound of approval.

‘Why was her son so keen on her buying anyhow? To get her stuck over here?’

‘From what I gathered, it was more that he didn’t want her frittering away “his inheritance”. But poor old girl, she wants to make the most of her last years, and why not?’

‘I think you did the right thing, Sally. You were worried about leaving all your money in some bank. Well now it’s safe, you get a decent income from the house, the capital’s still there, and Faith can live the high life. Everyone’s happy.’

‘Except Alfie and Marianne.’

‘Alfie doesn’t know, nor did Marianne till Ted opened his enormous Ozzy gob.’ Sally sighed and said, ‘Marianne went on and on about property values and sitting tenants.’

‘Oh poo! You now possess a valuable house instead of a dodgy bank account. I wonder in the light of all the recent bank collapses how these financial gurus have the nerve to keep going on about banking and stocks being the answer to everything.’

‘I agree,’ said Sally. ‘But I suppose it’s Marianne’s job and I don’t want to upset her. I always feel you can have fun with a house or a painting or
things
, but having money in the bank makes you feel like Fagin.’

‘If she’s so worried about sitting tenants, remind her that Faith’s knocking on a bit.’

‘She’s of an age with Zoe,’ said Sally.

‘A hundred and four, you mean?’ William laughed. I don’t think Zoe’s face is any indication of anything, with the Botox and the lip plumpers, and those nasty injections she has in Switzerland.’

‘Oh, by the way, take care when you see Carol,’ said Sally, paying for her baguette and cramming it into her shopping bag. ‘I think that spat with David last night really hurt her.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said William, ordering a couple of croissants and a seeded loaf. ‘As I came up here I saw David heading off towards the boat just now with Ted.’

‘Why did I ever take those power-boat classes?’ Sally grimaced. ‘This is all my fault.’

‘Come on, Pandora,’ said William, linking arms with her and swinging out into the alleyways of the Old Town. ‘I don’t think we can quite lay all the troubles of the world on your shoulders . . . yet.’

Sally got home and laid out breakfast for three: herself and her two grown-up children, then sat down to read the paper.

After a little while Marianne emerged from her room, looking sombre and wheeling the same suitcase with which she had arrived a few days before.

‘Oh, Mum, you shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I should have left you a note. Have to fly out this morning, so I won’t have time for breakfast.’

‘You’re not leaving because of our row about me buying that house, are you?’

Marianne looked surprised. ‘No, actually. After sleeping on it, I think it’s a better idea than when you first told me. It gives you an income, and you still have the capital. Plus you make that old woman happy. Well thought out, Ma.’

Sally felt a gush of relief, not only that the quarrel with her daughter seemed to be resolved, but that Marianne was not the total monster that so many people in the financial sector appeared to be.

‘You’re not worried about Faith being a sitting tenant?’

‘She’s respectable and she’s old. She might die soon, and if she doesn’t, it wouldn’t be too hard to get her out, if we needed to.’

Sally shuddered and said, ‘Shall I come with you to the taxi rank, or the station?’

‘Really no. David’s giving me a lift.’

Marianne brushed her lips across Sally’s cheek.

‘I thought he was in the boat with Ted?’

Marianne shrugged. ‘I know nothing,’ she said.

‘They’re not thinking of taking you there by boat, are they? You can’t land a pleasure craft near the airport, you know!’ said Sally. ‘Security—’

‘He’s taking me in the car.’ Marianne talked to Sally using a face reserved for addressing idiots.

‘Marianne? About the wedding . . . When will I meet your young man?’

Marianne glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I’ll be late. It might not happen. Don’t waste any time on it.’

She wheeled her case to the front door, turned back and mimed a phone, using a finger and thumb, her usual goodbye gesture.

‘I’ll call you, Mum. Thanks for the mini-break.’

Sally stood dumbstruck for a few seconds then Tom shuffled in from his bedroom, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, running his fingers through his shaggy hair.

He looked down at Sally’s breakfast spread. ‘I couldn’t face any of that.’ He glanced at the oven clock. ‘Got to rush. I’m going out on a jaunt—’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Sally. ‘In the boat with Ted and David.’

‘No.’ Tom gave her a second version of that ‘reserved for idiots’ face, then poured himself a glass or orange juice and drank it in one quaff. ‘Actually I’m going on a date.’

‘Oooh!’ cooed Sally. ‘How exciting. May I ask who’s the lucky girl?’

‘The lucky girl who what?’

Sally wondered if there was something wrong with her accent. Maybe too long living here and speaking fluent French had messed with her English accent. How else to explain why this morning no one seemed to understand her?

‘The lucky young girl you’re taking on a date?’

Tom rubbed his eyes, snatched up a croissant and took out a huge bite.

‘Who said anything about a young girl?’

He chewed the mouthful and swallowed before striding across to the front door.

‘I’m going on a date with Zoe.’

Before Sally got her breath back, Tom was gone.

As Imogen was going home on a late flight out that evening, she asked Theresa if she’d mind taking care of the kids while she spent a final day on the local private beach, being pampered.

Theresa gladly agreed and after Imogen left, the kids all got together and helped Theresa to create a picnic.

Just as Theresa had packed up and was leaving, the phone rang. It was Brian. She explained that, inspired by his suggestion, she was going for a picnic up at the arenas in Cimiez.

‘I don’t suppose you fancy joining us?’ she asked him.

‘Which way will the car come?’ asked Brian. ‘I could wait along the road, in Nice.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Theresa. ‘We’re going by bus.’

‘Carol’s going by bus?
Pourquoi
?’

‘Oh, no. It’ll be just me. Me and the kids.’

There was the briefest of pauses on the line.

‘OK. Fine. So where do I hop on?’

‘At the 22 bus stop. Massena.’ Theresa hesitated for only the slightest moment before posing her question for him. ‘My lot go back to England late tonight. Would you like to have your old room back?’

‘Not sure,’ said Brian. ‘I’d have to give notice where I’m now staying . . .’

‘I understand. Just in case . . .’

Another pause, which Brian broke. ‘So, then, I’ll see you later?’

As she replaced the receiver, Theresa looked down at the three eager faces waiting by the front door.

‘I don’t want to go home,’ said Chloe.

‘Nor me,’ said Lola.

‘Nice is nice,’ said Cressida.

They rode on the bus into Nice and Theresa tried to work out whether she was misreading Brian or had something just gone wrong during their phone call? Of course, wherever he had moved to, he must be happily settled. And why would he want to be a lodger when he could be an independent man? She wondered where he stayed now. He’d said in Nice, near the port, so perhaps he lived in one of the side streets, the bus was passing at this moment.

Theresa didn’t want to be nosy, but equally Brian had been keeping rather private about himself and his whereabouts in the few days since he had moved out.

Theresa’s musings were brought to an abrupt halt when, just as they were coming past the port, heading up towards Place Garibaldi, the bus driver stopped the bus and grumpily told the passengers to descend as it was ‘
terminée
’.

Theresa and the three girls marched along. Up one of the side streets a little band was playing, so the children naturally ran towards the music.

They caught the tail end of some marching display by some boys in the junior department of the Foreign Legion, which, till this moment, Theresa had always thought was a jokey thing from history, not a military reality still going in the present day.

‘Granny?’ asked Lola, squinting upwards. ‘Who is that woman up on the wall?’

Theresa dreaded to think but her eyes followed Lola’s gaze to a giant bas-relief statue of a woman holding something like a cricket bat and a gigantic flag.

‘I have no idea,’ said Theresa. ‘But I can see from the sign that she was apparently a laundress called Catherine Ségurane and she had repelled an invading Turkish army with nothing but a flag and a washing beater. Come along. Brian will be waiting.’

Theresa picked up the picnic basket and marched onwards. ‘We have another bus to catch – then it’s lunch.’

Brian was duly waiting, waving at the bus stop. Once they arrived in the olive grove of the old monastery gardens and spread out their plates and sandwiches, Brian looked around. ‘Pity there isn’t a bar, and I could buy us a bottle.’

‘I shouldn’t,’ said Theresa. ‘Not when I’m in charge of the kids. Maybe this evening, after they’ve gone?’

Brian thought for a little while.