Not Quite Nice (4 page)

On the bus home she found herself humming ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’.

It wasn’t a fortune, but it had more than paid for her break.

It seemed quite wrong now to go back to that hotel and pack. She had a pocketful of money – why not stop here, and find a place down on the seafront for a delicious late lunch?

On an impulse Theresa pressed the stop button just as the bus turned the corner above the colourful fishing village she had admired on her way to Monaco.

She got off and walked down a steep zigzag path, through ancient covered alleyways, passing quaint little shops selling pottery and a delightful-smelling bakery, eventually reaching the harbour. She took a table at a harbourside bar-brasserie and ordered a large glass of wine. What a day! The excitement of her win, the hypnotic spell of the beauty of this place and the radiant October sun gave her a feeling of exhilarating happiness.

The waiter arrived with her wine and Theresa asked if she could see the menu. He shook his head dolefully. The French had stiff rules on mealtimes, and she was too late to get any lunch and too early for dinner. It was apéro time.

She ordered another glass of wine and he brought a dish of little black olives and a few one-inch squares of pizza.

Theresa leaned back, enjoying the nibbles, and savoured the wine while taking in the stunning view of the harbour.

Right ahead of her, near the Gare Maritime, some workmen were hammering at a wooden sign.

She polished off the snack but still felt hungry. So, reluctantly, she left her harbourside seat and went off in search of that small bakery and a sandwich.

By the time she reached the entrance to the alleyways, the men had finished erecting their sign and were gone. The sign read ‘
À
VENDRE’ – for sale. Theresa peeked over the little wall, trying to get a glimpse inside the front window of the property it advertised.

At that exact moment a woman came out through the front door. ‘
Puis-je vous aider
?’

Theresa jumped back in shock. She wasn’t expecting anyone to be inside.

‘Oh! I’m sorry,’ she said, then remembered that she was in France and needed to try it in French. ‘
Je suis
 . . .’ she said, unable to get any further.

‘English?’ snapped the woman, gripping her clipboard and pulling the front door to. ‘No problem. You want see inside? You want buy apartment?’

Theresa shook her head, then before the agent could lock up, stopped herself saying no. ‘Why not?’ she said, instead. ‘
Pourquoi pas
?’

As Theresa stepped across the threshold she heard her stomach rumble.

The estate agent handed Theresa a piece of paper with of a list of room measurements and at the bottom the asking price in euros. She then perched on the low wall by the front door, scribbling notes on her pad.

Theresa took the paper and walked through the cosy rooms. The flat was gorgeous – small, but with a lovely view over the harbour.

Theresa stood by the window for a few moments and imagined herself living here.

A wonderful feeling of calm swept over her.

The agent came back in, pointing at her watch.

‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘You like?’

Theresa felt a wave of excitement and said: ‘I’ll take it.’

The agent raised her eyebrows and bustled back inside, flipping over the pages of her clipboard. ‘Can you come in the morning for the contract?’ she asked.

‘My flight home is at nine a.m.’

‘So, OK, let’s do it now. The office is by the station.’

Two hours later Theresa climbed aboard the train back to Nice.

In her handbag was a contract and a floor-plan of the flat she had just bought. She felt as naughty as a fifteen-year-old playing truant. She also felt exceedingly happy. She’d spent too much of her life pleasing other people: pleasing her parents by going to secretarial college rather than art school, pleasing her husband by turning a blind eye to all the expensive presents he bought for this secretary and that work colleague while he regularly forgot her birthday and never once remembered their wedding anniversary, pleasing her boss by always being willing to put in extra hours for no extra pay, pleasing her daughter by being constantly on call. She was almost sixty now. It was time she pleased herself for once. She had just bought a little part of paradise for herself, and why shouldn’t she?

French property law differs a lot from English and, once Theresa had shaken and signed on the deal, the flat went straight into the conveyancing process, no gazumping or procrastination and, subject to survey, she was given a predetermined end date upon which she would receive the key and be able to move in.

As winter drew in offers started coming in on her old home.

As she sat in Highgate, filling in forms and studying guidebooks, Theresa kept the information of her new purchase to herself until the whole process was all but complete.

Then, the night before the move, she went down to Wimbledon to pay the family a visit.

‘Mummy! Have you got dementia?’ asked Imogen. ‘Who’s going to babysit for me now on my Pilates nights?’

‘How about paying a nanny or an au pair, like I did with you?’

‘Oh really!’ Imogen puffed. ‘What a ridiculous idea.’

‘What exactly is so ridiculous about getting professional help?’

Imogen rolled her eyes about and shrugged while casting about for a reasonable response, then said: ‘It’s just better if it’s
family
.’

‘Why?’ asked Theresa calmly. ‘It only makes the children think I’m one of your servants.’

‘Oh, Mummy, don’t be absurd.’

Theresa took a stab: ‘Are you worried Michael will run off with an au pair like your father did?’

‘Michael and I are fine. You can mind your own business on that score.’ Imogen started frantically brushing non-existent crumbs from the shiny sofa. ‘Well, Mummy, I predict you’ll be back here in a few months, tail between your legs, begging me for help, so go.’ She folded her arms and sat back, her lips pursed. ‘I don’t care. You’ll never last out there in some horrid, strange place with no friends.’

‘I’ll be fine. Thanks for worrying.’ Theresa made for the door. She didn’t want to leave on a row. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day.’

‘Anyway, Mother, for a start, you barely speak French.’

‘I have a smattering,
chérie
. Living over there can only improve it.’ Theresa offered an olive branch. ‘I will miss you all. Promise me you’ll come over and have a holiday some time. It’s so beautiful – and the sea is right on my doorstep. It’s so lovely. Come to visit me in France, and you’ll all be treated royally.’

‘What?’ Imogen laughed sardonically. ‘You mean you’re going to chop off our heads?’

Theresa laughed too. ‘Well, I won’t go that far, but I promise to lay on a feast worthy of Louis the Fourteenth.’

‘You’ve got to watch your weight, Mummy,’ snapped Imogen. ‘And all you think about is food.’ She stood with her hands on her hips and wearing a serious expression. Then she said: ‘You’d better live frugally out there, Ma. We don’t want you using up the children’s inheritance.’

Theresa did not grace this parting shot with a reply.

As she clicked the garden gate after her and walked to the tube station, she wiped away a few more tears.

Theresa was shocked to realise that whatever she chose to do aroused this greedy disdain in her daughter. Making her way back to her now oddly empty and echoing house, she decided she must be resolute. Absence, she hoped, would make the hearts grow fonder.

She slept fitfully, and woke before dawn.

She left the key to the house with Mr Jacobs and, early that morning, flew out to Nice.

As Theresa stepped off the plane, her London house sold, the key to her new French apartment in her hand, the first thing that hit her was the heat. Then she looked up and had to shield her eyes from the glare reflected from the sun hitting the sparkling deep blue sea. Even though it was late January, Nice Côte d’Azur Airport was bustling with people.

She had arranged the sale of all her furniture and given most of her clothes to a charity shop, so she pulled only one suitcase from the luggage carousel. Of all her London treasures there was only one thing she had brought with her, a small painting that her mother had picked up for a few shillings back in the 1950s and which turned out to be an original Raoul Dufy. She would hang that in pride of place in the flat, and for everything else, well, she was looking forward to raiding the markets and bric-a-brac brocantes for furniture, painting it, hanging tapestries on the other walls, living the art-student life she’d dreamed of having before she’d sacrificed it to please her parents and, instead, taken the secretarial course at St Godric’s College for young ladies.

Theresa rode the bus out of Nice, past the port (where she saw many enticing antique shops and signs indicating a flea market), up and over the hill, then along the coast, to the small fishing village which was to be her new home.

The views were stunning.

No wonder they called it the Bay of Angels.

It was coming up to noon when Theresa let herself in to her bright front door.

SALAD NIÇOISE

 

Ingredients

Jar of fine albacore tuna in olive oil

Small plum tomatoes

1 stick celery

Lettuce – cos or little gem

Spring onions

Fine green beans (blanched)

Black olives (naturally, Niçoise if possible)

Anchovies

Hard-boiled eggs

 

Dressing

Olive oil

Balsamic vinegar

Salt (fleur de sel, if possible)

Black pepper

Dijon mustard

Honey

 

Method

Dip the fine green beans in boiling water to blanch then immediately run through with cold water.

Lay the tuna in the centre of the plate, and layer on chopped celery, lettuce leaves and quartered hearts, halved tomatoes, green beans and chopped spring onions. Lay small black olives on top, and place quarters of hard-boiled eggs alternating with anchovies in a circle on top of the prepared salad.

Mix the dressing and pour on just before eating.

3

It was nine years since Sally Connor had moved to Bellevue-Sur-Mer.

When she bought her house, nestled in the heart of Old Town, she was told that it had once belonged to a dancer from the Ballet Russes of Monte Carlo, and that, according to legend, he had entertained Diaghilev, Stravinsky, Isadora Duncan and Mata Hari in his dining room. Though no one knew whether this was at the same time or on separate occasions.

Not on the same level, obviously, but Sally herself had once been famous. Back in the 1970s she had been a TV presenter on a very bumptious Saturday morning kids’ TV show, and for a few loud years had had her face plastered over every magazine cover on the supermarket shelves.

On this bright January afternoon, a few months short of her sixty-second birthday, Sally came out of her little house in the milky winter sunshine, a canvas bag slung over her arm and strode along bound for the market down on the quay.

Today Sally had guests for dinner.

Outside the boulangerie, Monsieur Mari was chalking up the sign for his ‘Sandwich du jour’. Sally gave him a smile and a wave. She’d stop to buy the baguettes for dinner on the way back, thereby catching the latest warm batch.

Sally liked to think that her home was the hub of the English set. Only Zoe Redbridge had lived here longer, but as she was that much older than Sally, she felt Zoe didn’t count.

She shivered as she plunged into the cool darkness of the alley which zigzagged down to the harbour.

Sally had been to the best-known ballet school, Elmhurst where, a few years before her, Hayley Mills had been a pupil. After this she had gone on to study at RADA and for a few years a successful career in the theatre followed, where she played leading roles in repertory companies from Dundee to Exeter.

When offered the TV presenting job she accepted for one reason only: the irresistible lure of money. She planned to save up, put aside a nest egg ‘to fall back on’, then, when the show finished, go back into proper acting, only with a slightly raised profile.

However, things didn’t work out like that. The show made her very famous, and the image of her in spotted, baggy dungarees, throwing buckets of brightly coloured goo over visiting stars, overshadowed any serious chance she had of establishing herself in roles like Hedda Gabler or Lady Macbeth. When her name was suggested directors in repertory theatres sneered. Only companies that spent all their time working with children or touring schools, were interested in using her.

Sally’s years of fame had not lasted long, but her renown did attract a handsome husband in the form of Robert, an insurance broker. Due to her celebrity, their wedding was reported, with photos of the grinning couple, in all the women’s magazines.