Not Quite Nice (13 page)

‘Oh dear,’ said Faith. ‘It’s all so alien, isn’t it?’

Sally was mystified. Everything about this woman seemed to indicate that she wanted to stay in England. Why was she moving to Bellevue-Sur-Mer? Sally didn’t like to ask straight out, but it certainly was a mystery to be solved.

‘Did you come to the Côte d’Azur, before?’ she asked tentatively, hoping it might spark a conversation explaining everything. ‘And fell in love with the place?’

‘Never.’ Faith sipped her tea. ‘It’s the first time I’ve been anywhere, really.’

‘So what made you chose to settle here, exactly?’

Faith put down her cup. Sally noticed the saucer tremble slightly.

‘My son picked it for me. He chose the place and the house. He knows me very well.’

Sally doubted that.

‘It’s certainly a lovely house.’ Sally ripped open a packet of biscuits and poured them on to a plate. ‘Do you have plans?’

Faith suddenly rose and moved to the stairs. ‘I’ll fetch them,’ she said.

‘No! No!’ Sally laughed. ‘I meant did you have plans for things to
do
here.’

‘I’ll get them anyhow,’ said Faith, disappearing up the stairs. ‘I don’t understand any of it, but maybe you can explain it all to me.’

‘It’s very big,’ said Sally, looking at the house plans a few minutes later. ‘Lots of rooms for one person.’

‘Too big,’ said Faith. ‘But it is quite beautiful. I can see that. It’s only that I . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Wanted to stay in England?’

‘It isn’t that either, really. I always thought, as I got older, that I would be able to start doing those things I always wanted to do, and couldn’t afford to do. I worked hard all my life in the civil service, and I always saved. When my husband died I thought . . .’ She paused. Sally thought she noticed a tear welling up.

‘Ah well . . .’ Faith sighed. ‘But I suppose most people don’t get what they wish for in life.’

‘It depends what you wish for.’ Sally smiled. ‘Once upon a time I thought I’d be famous, a Dame by now, turning up and signing autographs at the stage door before going in to play Cleopatra at the National Theatre, waving to the stage-doorman, putting on the slap and walking on stage each night to enormous rounds of applause. Well, none of that happened because I accepted the shilling from low-brow commercial kids’ TV. But, you know, in the end I think, accidentally, I got the better bargain. It’s lovely here, and the people are so nice. And I think I’d hate living in some awful house in Dulwich or somewhere, trudging into some draughty, rat-infested dressing room each night, panicking about learning my lines.’ She bit into a biscuit. ‘Listen to me going on. We were talking about you, Faith. So tell me about the dreams you have. The ones that you feel you won’t be able to have here?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Faith took a sip of tea. ‘Little things. Travelling by taxi. Going out to a posh dinner at the kind of places that cost two hundred pounds for one person. Taking a little cruise, here and there.’

‘I may be able to take you out for a few boat rides to St Tropez or San Remo once I get the certificate.’ Sally pointed down at her books. ‘And what’s to stop you going out for one of those three-star dinners? There are plenty of places like that round here. This is France – the home of gastronomy.’

Sally noticed Faith’s fingers contract around her cup.

‘You don’t have to buy that house, you know, Faith. You could always wait and get something a little smaller, cheaper. Just go up to the estate agent and tell them you’ve changed your mind. I’ll help you find somewhere cheaper. They allow you a few days, you know, to change your mind.’

‘No, no, no, no!’ Faith started violently shaking her head. ‘I can’t do that. I just can’t.’

‘Of course you can.’ Sally was frightened at how upset Faith seemed. ‘It’s your life. You can do whatever you want. You can, you know. Really.’

Faith seemed to collapse internally, as though in total surrender.

‘That’s the point, you see, I really can’t. If I don’t go ahead and do it, I’m afraid of what Alfie might do.’

13

After a very jolly night in her living room, eating pieces of pizza brought in from the brasserie next door, and drinking Brian’s Côte de Provence wine, Theresa got up bright and early and went out shopping for furniture. She tried a French version of that cheap Swedish shop, but after a quick walk about decided she would be happier spending a little more and getting things that she would like to keep, things that were more likely to be robust and that she didn’t have to assemble herself with a pot of glue and an Allen key. She went back to the furniture cave near the port and bought a lovely French double bed for her own room – she’d need a new mattress, but the one on it would do for the moment. She would move the bed she already had into the spare room for her new tenant. She also bought some chairs, both comfy and upright, and for her own room a small ebonised desk with panels, brass caryatids and little painted china plaques.

She arranged for the delivery and headed towards the bus home, before remembering she needed sheets, pillows and blankets, both for herself and Brian.

Again she grabbed what she could manage to carry and arranged for the remainder to be delivered then, as she made her way to the bus stop, another thought struck her: if she had a paying lodger he would need a bedside lamp, and they both needed plates, cups and cutlery in the kitchen.

When finally she did get home she began to panic about how much she had spent today. At this rate she’d have no money at all to live on, even after getting a bit of an income and paying it into the bank.

She looked at the Dufy on the wall. If she sold that she could be rid of all her problems. But it wouldn’t seem right, and after all it was the only thing she still had left of her mother’s. She also realised it was not the kind of thing you could sell just like that. By the time you’d had it valued, put it into the auction house, and they’d printed photos in their catalogue and waited for the right sale to come along, and after that all the usual red tape . . . well, it would be the best part of a year before she saw a cent. And she’d never have the chance to get something so lovely again. She would find a better way of managing.

As soon as everything started arriving, Theresa worked like a dervish. She managed somehow to persuade the deliverymen to move the old bed from her room into the spare room, which was quite a palaver. She rewarded the men with a bottle of wine.

Then she made up both beds with new sheets and blankets, and made the guest room look as comfort­able as she would like it to be, if she were paying to stay in some stranger’s home.

With a spray can of polish, she got all the dusty newly bought furniture to look rather splendid, especially her desk.

As she scrubbed and rubbed, her hair kept getting in the way, so she tied it up in a scarf, like a wartime housewife.

By the time the light started to fade, the flat was looking and smelling divine.

The doorbell rang and it was Brian, complete with suitcases.

He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Theresa in her rubber gloves, apron and headscarf.

‘Rather daring a costume for a cook,’ he said, lugging the two cases over the threshold.

Theresa laughed and showed him through.

‘So where will you be taking the class?’ He asked, after making a few complimentary remarks about the newly furnished room.

‘Next door in the living room. It has the kitchen bit at the back so that’ll be all right.’

‘If you like I can give you a bit of a hand, you know . . . assist you putting things in and out of the oven, clearing pans away.’

‘Yes,’ said Theresa. ‘You can be a Johnnie for my Fanny.’

It was only when she saw Brian’s shocked expression that she realised that her joke hadn’t sounded quite as she had intended it to sound.

‘I meant like Fanny Craddock, you know, and Johnnie, her long-suffering husband – I mean, not that you’re going to be long-suffering . . . or my husband. Oh dear. Sorry.’ She bit her lip and winced. ‘But, yes please, Brian. All help accepted. But don’t feel obliged, just because you’re renting the bedroom.’

Brian rubbed his hands together and surveyed the room. ‘I’ll just get myself smartened up a bit before everyone starts arriving.’

‘Arriving?’

‘For tonight’s Cookery Club.’

‘Tonight’s?’

‘That’s what it said on the card.’

‘But I . . .’ Theresa gasped. ‘Didn’t it say tomorrow? The third?’

‘Today
is
the third. The same date as the room became available.’

Theresa realised what must have happened. In all the kerfuffle around her, while she was writing out the cards for the room to let, she had written down today’s date as the start date. She must have also put it on at least one of the cards, maybe more, for the Cookery Club.

She glanced at her watch.

‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’ll be here in half an hour. I’ve got to get this room looking decent. I spent all afternoon working on the bedrooms.’

She pulled off the rubber gloves and headscarf and ran into the kitchen.

‘Oh
God
!’ she cried. ‘I don’t have any pans. Or ingredients.’

Brian stepped forward. ‘Let me help. I could go out to the Huit-à-8. That’ll still be open.’

‘No, no,’ cried Theresa. ‘You won’t know what I need. I’ll have to go.’

She grabbed her wallet and pulled on her coat.

‘I’m so sorry to ask you this, Brian, but could you arrange the chairs and make it look a bit nice? I’ll be back as soon as I can. If anyone arrives . . . well . . . Sit them down.’

She ran up the hill to the little corner shop. It was tiny. She knew it would be hopeless in there, quite impossible to find ingredients that would make anything impressive. But there was no choice. It was here, or nothing.

She glanced along the shelves. They held rows and rows of tins. There was also a freezer full of frozen ready meals.

Theresa grabbed a basket and darted round the aisles. She started at the hardware section, which held mainly cleaning things, mops, bleach, dusters. The only pans she saw there were one very small, thin frying pan, a baking tray and a pile of shallow cake tins.

She put them all into her basket, along with some wooden spoons. What on earth could she make in those? Quiche? How boring.

She went next to the fresh produce. Mostly it consisted of wilted aubergines, most of them on the verge of being ready for the bin. There were some oranges, a few large apples and some very nice-looking tomatoes.

Her cooking dictum had always been that the most important thing to have in any kitchen was the best, most fresh, top-quality ingredients. Well, the tomatoes qualified, so she ladled all of them into bags. Tomatoes! What was she going to make? Salad du tomates? Tomato soup?

Tomatoes and cake tins!

She picked up an apple and inspected it.

Well, with cake tins and an apple she could make an apple tart. She snatched any fresh herbs that looked half decent before rushing up the other aisle and grabbing some rolls of pastry and, for good measure, a few more things from the small chiller compartment: butter, a few cheeses. Then she stormed the grocery shelves, picking out all the usual essentials that any cook kept in a kitchen: flour, olive oil, sugar, salt, baking soda, mustard, eggs. All the while her head was whirring through recipes she had read and dishes she had cooked or eaten.

She stopped in front of the cabinet of wines. She put six bottles into the basket and immediately it was both full and too heavy, so she staggered over to the counter left it there and grabbed another.

Once all the pupils – customers – attendees (what on earth would she call them?) arrived, everything would be all right, for a moment at least, if she passed round some wine and nibbles. Then, while everyone socialised, she could tell them that this first class was going to be more of an introduction, a taste of what she planned to do in the future classes.

She grabbed packets of crisps and nuts and got a large pot of olives.

She quickly paid and, laden with six heavy plastic bags, she staggered back to the flat.

When she got in, Brian was chatting to some very nice young girl with very long blonde hair and a very short skirt.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the girl, standing up and smoothing her skirt down to prevent exposing herself. ‘I’m Jessica, by the way, and I’m awfully early, I do realise, but I’m new here, you see, and I had no idea that this address was so near to my hotel.’ She smiled apologet­ically. ‘On the map it looks miles away!’

‘No problem at all, Jessica.’ Theresa plonked the shopping bags on the floor and Brian took them and carried them through to the kitchen.

‘I hope you don’t mind waiting, Jessica. Do take a seat, while I make a few preparations. Would you like a glass of wine?’

‘That would be lovely.’ Jessica hesitated for a moment. ‘Whom do I pay?’

Theresa shuddered. She found the whole subject of asking for money deeply embarrassing.

‘If you like,’ Brian shrugged. ‘I can take care of that.’