No Escape (14 page)

‘That’s all very well.’ Lizzie’s panic had scarcely subsided. ‘But the fact is, I’m not at all sure that
I’m
going to be able to handle
this.’

‘Codswallop,’ Christopher said. ‘You could do it standing on your head.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘I do.’

She did handle it. In fact, once the TV people had sorted themselves out, some disappearing, as Susan had suggested they might, the others mostly melting into the background,
and once Lizzie, Susan, Arden and Bill Wilson, the director (who’d arrived after the crew, astride a motorbike, clad in black leather), had got to work sorting out exactly what Lizzie was
going to be doing over the next several days, she found herself much happier.

‘Half a day,’ Arden decreed, ‘to get the feel of the place.’

‘Not much time to see the excavations,’ Susan said.

‘Thank God for that,’ Gina Baum said. ‘I loathe ruins.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Arden, who was at least twenty years her senior, said, and Bill Wilson sniggered a bit.

The fact that Vienne was one of the most extraordinary repositories of ancient Roman buildings in France had only partially figured in Lizzie’s selection of it as their primary location;
she had originally hoped to be able to set up her first kitchen – attempting to cook with ancient (at least ancient-looking) vessels in one of the residential town houses that had been
excavated in the Saint-Roman-en-Gal district – until it had transpired that the insurance aspects, even if permission had been forthcoming, would have been terrifying.

Magnificent nearby locations for filming aside, Lizzie’s other reasons for choosing Vienne had been its proximity to Lyon, thought of by many as the gastronomic capital of the world, and
its claim to fame as the site of La Pyramide, home to the late Fernand Point, the legendary chef and restaurateur whose philosophies of cooking had gone on to dominate and inspire legions of chefs
for decades.

‘Not enough time,’ Lizzie said to Susan at the end of the first of the three days they had been allocated for the shoot. ‘I don’t see how we can possibly manage in that
time.’

‘Don’t start panicking again,’ Susan told her, and poured her a cognac from the generous supply that Arden had laid in. ‘You know you’ll all manage.’

‘But all we’ve done is look at the markets and equip the kitchen.’

‘Which probably means that if push came to shove, you could probably shoot the whole thing in one go tomorrow.’

‘Maybe if we were doing it all live, heaven forbid,’ Lizzie said. ‘But if today was anything to go by, every pepper pod I grind’s going to turn into a major
production.’

Susan laughed, having been in the
place du marché
early that morning when Wilson, trying to get a head-start with a small mobile unit, had insisted on Lizzie buying the same peach
no less than five times before he was satisfied.

‘Think of it this way, Lizzie. When it comes to writing the daily diary, the things that go wrong will be much more fun than the stuff that sails along.’

‘I’m not sure if Richard will be as happy if everything’s a disaster.’ Lizzie had already heard two lectures from Arden on the subject of daylight-wasting and
budgets.

‘Everything
won’t
be a disaster,’ Susan said. ‘Drink your cognac.’

‘The Susan Blake remedy for everything,’ Lizzie said. ‘Alcohol.’

The house in which they were billeted, would, in normal conditions, have felt spacious and airy, but with so many people milling around, plus all the equipment and hot lights,
it soon became claustrophobic. Having become almost relaxed about the outside location scenes in which she’d simply chosen produce and become a virtual tourist, Lizzie’s nerves sprang
instantly to jangling point when it was time for her to perform her pre-cooking spiel in the big kitchen-cum-studio.

‘Fernand Point believed that
these
were the stars of both kitchen and table.’

She looked away from the camera’s unflinching eye and down at the large, very naked and, by now, too-warm chicken, and the two baskets of vegetables assembled on the stone counter before
her.

‘If his ingredients were as he wanted them – of the finest quality and freshness – he felt it criminal to use the art of cooking to disguise their essential flavours and
textures. Everything Monsieur Point included in a dish had to have—’

Somewhere in the house, a telephone began to ring.

‘Fuck,’ said Bill Wilson.

‘Cut,’ said someone else.

The phone stopped ringing, and Lizzie waited for the direction to go again.

‘Action.’

‘Everything Monsieur Point included—’

‘Cut,’ said Wilson.

Lizzie shaded her eyes against the lighting. ‘What did I do?’

‘You’re a bit shiny, darling,’ the director said. ‘Someone take the shine off her nose,’ he said, loudly, then, to her again, more gently: ‘All right,
Lizzie?’

‘Bit warm,’ she said.

‘Part and parcel,’he said.

‘I know.’ A young man with a powder puff dabbed away at her, then vanished back into the blackness behind the lights. ‘I’m fine, Bill,’ she said.

‘From the top, I think,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘From “Fernand Point believed”?’

‘From the top, please.’

Lizzie looked down at the chicken, praying that her hands, when it came to actually doing some cooking, wouldn’t be so slippery with sweat that she’d drop the bird on the floor, and
began again.

‘You were wonderful, darling,’ Wilson told her an hour or – so it felt to Lizzie – twenty later, kissing her hot, damp cheek. ‘And doesn’t
that chicken look fabulous.’

‘Very Piperesque,’ Richard Arden said, and kissed her too.

‘Don’t anyone try eating it,’ Lizzie said, as the hot lights went out, temporarily blinding her.

‘Why not?’ Susan’s face loomed into focus. ‘It smells divine.’

‘Because I don’t think it was all that fresh to begin with, and then it was hanging around for much too long in the heat, and when it did finally make it into the oven, it
wasn’t for nearly long enough, and I don’t think an outbreak of salmonella would do too much for the Roadshow.’

‘It still smells gorgeous,’ Susan said.

‘Then clearly smells lie,’ Lizzie said, ‘and all I can say is that Fernand Point must be spinning in his grave.’

The first segment under their belts, Lizzie, Susan and Arden flew from Lyon to Nice, picked up another car and drove across the border to San Remo, while Bill and Gina caught
another train or two, and the rest of the crew pounded down a series of
autoroutes
towards Nice, Ventimiglia and their second destination.

‘
II Dottore
’ – as everyone in reception at the Palazzo Grande Hotel (the hotel selected by Christopher for the excellence of its facilities for wheelchair-users)
referred to Christopher when Lizzie checked in – had already arrived with Signorina Spence and the
ragazzi
and was awaiting her in one of the two suites he had reserved. One,
he’d made a point of telling her when he’d made the arrangements, for their sole use, and the other a three-room suite for Gilly to share with Jack, Edward and Sophie.

‘More privacy for us,’ he had said at the time.

And Lizzie had felt her insides recoil.

His sexual restraint, in the run-up to the tour, had made her no less apprehensive, had, on the contrary, made her more jittery, more certain that he was just biding his time, waiting for more
atmospheric settings.

‘You okay?’ Susan asked now, as they headed for the lift.

‘Bit tired,’ Lizzie said, and reminded herself for the dozenth time to be careful.

‘Two whole days off.’ Susan was glowing at the prospect. ‘The pool’s seawater, apparently, and the food’s meant to be divine. Bliss.’

‘So long as I don’t have to cook it,’ Lizzie said.

Every trace of disquiet disappeared the instant she neared one of the suites and heard the sound of her children’s voices, all raised in excitement.

‘Mummy!’ Sophie, barefoot and gorgeous in a pale blue sundress, saw her first and came running into her arms.

‘Hi, Mum.’ Edward, preferring, from his twelve-year-old status, to be more laid-back, sauntered towards Lizzie, his brand new Canon Sureshot dangling from his neck.

Lizzie shut her eyes for an instant, drinking in the warm, vibrant armfuls of her oldest and youngest, then opened them again to look for Jack.

He was by the balcony doors, back to the view, his face partly in shadow, but Lizzie saw, with a great pang of relief, that he was smiling what she thought of as his Number One Smile; the one
that lit every millimetre of his face, the one that meant he was truly happy, rather than his all-too-frequently used Number Two Smile, which meant that he was almost certainly in discomfort or
even pain, but didn’t want anyone else knowing about it.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said. ‘Good trip?’

Lizzie gave Sophie one more big kiss, ruffled Edward’s dark hair, and made her way across the large and beautiful sitting room to where Jack, looking cool in a striped T-shirt and denim
shorts, sat in his chair.

‘Great trip.’ She bent and hugged him. ‘You?’

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Except when Sophie threw up on the plane.’

‘Did she?’ Lizzie turned around to look at her daughter just as Gilly came in from one of the bedrooms, a towel over one arm. ‘Hi, Gilly. You all right?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Gilly grinned at Jack. ‘Been telling you war stories?’

‘I hate flying,’ Sophie said.

‘But you’re better now, are you, my darling?’ Lizzie could see, from her daughter’s glowing cheeks, that she was.

‘Amazing rooms.’ Gilly joined Jack by the balcony, laid a hand easily on his shoulder. ‘And such a view.’

‘It’s brilliant,’ Jack said.

‘Everyone happy, I see,’ Christopher’s voice said. ‘Hello, star.’

Lizzie turned to see her husband framed in the doorway, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved white T-shirt, impressive as always to look at, and wished, in that instant, as she so often did, that
she could find a way to block out his flaw and focus only on the goodness of the man.

‘Hello, Christopher.’ She went to him, kissed his cheek as he bent his head towards her. ‘We’re all very happy, I think. You’ve really spoiled us this
time.’

‘Where are the others?’ He put an arm around her.

‘Susan’s two floors down.’ Lizzie slipped discreetly away, sat on the sofa, looked at Sophie, who was examining the room service menu. ‘Come and tell me about your
journey, Sophie.’ Her daughter ignored her, and she looked back at Christopher. ‘Richard’s staying here, too – and I think Bill Wilson, the director, and Gina –
that’s his PA – are coming, but I’m not sure.’

‘What about the rest of the crew?’ asked Edward, who had been mugging up on TV production ever since learning of the trip.

‘They’re staying at another hotel,’ Lizzie told him, trying to remember.

‘Hotel Paradiso,’ Christopher supplied.

‘Why not here?’ Edward was disappointed, had been harbouring fantasies about hobnobbing with cameramen.

‘Too much dosh,’ Jack told his brother.

‘I’m hungry,’ Sophie said.

‘I’m starving,’ Edward agreed.

Sophie came over with the menu. ‘Daddy says you’re going to be more famous than ever now.’

‘I’m certainly not famous yet,’ Lizzie said.

‘You are a bit famous, Mum,’ Edward said.

‘Not as famous as Dad,’ Jack said.

From their location in a cream-coloured villa that had once, Gina Baum said, belonged to a Russian aristocrat, Lizzie and the Roadshow crew painstakingly assembled the second
portion of the series. Lizzie was filmed shopping for produce – vegetables from the
mercato
in La Pigna, the old town, full of picturesque lanes and steep steps up and down which Bill
Wilson asked Lizzie to haul her baskets of tomatoes, artichokes, mushrooms, aubergines and fresh herbs; fish from the prettily yellow and cream village of Cervo; and the local wine,
Rossese
,
from the vineyards around Dolceacqua. Still out and about, the crew visited various places selected by Lizzie over the past few months, filming mini-segments, many of which, she knew, would
probably bite the dust at the editing stage: the castle of Doria, supposedly haunted; a Russian Orthodox church housing tombs of blue-blooded
emigrés
; a town destroyed by an
earthquake more than a century before; the rose and carnation gardens of Ventimiglia; and in San Remo itself, the Municipal Casino.

‘Having fun now, aren’t you?’ Christopher observed at the end of day two, over a couple of cognacs in the piano bar, alone together for once.

‘Yes, I am,’ Lizzie admitted, despite her exhaustion. ‘I think I was so busy being nervous in Vienne that I forgot what a once-in-a-lifetime privilege this is.’

‘Might not be,’ Christopher said. ‘A one-off, I mean.’

‘Oh, I should think it will be, and even if it isn’t, first times are usually the most thrilling, aren’t they?’

‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘I could see you building up tensions in the run-up.’

‘Have I been very difficult to live with?’

Christopher drank some cognac. ‘If you had been, which you weren’t,’ he said, quietly, ‘I’d hardly have had the right to complain, would I?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘I knew I was one of the reasons you felt so tense.’ Christopher glanced around. ‘Hijacking your tour, turning it into a family holiday—’

‘Having the children along is wonderful,’ Lizzie said quickly.

‘But me, too,’ he said. ‘Banging on about how romantic it was going to be.’

‘It is romantic,’ she said, quite touched by his candour, then swiftly added: ‘If having people filming your every move can possibly be construed as romantic.’

‘It’s all right, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘Don’t fret. I know how important this is to you.’

‘Christopher,’ she said, feeling guilty. ‘I don’t—’

‘I said it’s all right,’ he cut in gently. ‘I’m not going to spoil it.’

She thought, after that, with a quiet, but profound sense of relief, that maybe it was, after all, going to be all right; that she might, if luck held, manage to do a
competent, even entertaining, job of work and that – more important – Edward, Jack and Sophie might be able to experience a truly happy, fun holiday with neither parent having to put
too much effort into feigning contentment.