Rendezvous in Cannes (2 page)

Chapter Three

Cannes was in countdown to festival time as Daisy walked along the bord de mer and made her way towards the old port and the Palais des Festivals. The events of the past few days had happened so fast she could scarcely believe she was officially here as a journalist at one of the biggest annual show business events in the world. She must remember to send Damien a postcard thanking him for breaking his leg two days ago.

The palm tree lined streets were more chaotic than usual, with nose to tail traffic stuttering its way around double parked vans and lorries busy unloading last minute supplies to various exhibition venues and traders. Impatient gun toting gendarmes, standing in front of ‘route barre’ signs, directed frustrated motorists down narrow streets they knew would take them in the opposite direction to where they wanted to go.

Workers were busy sweeping and checking the condition of the red carpet that now covered the world famous flight of twenty-four steps.

Dodging the crowds that were milling aimlessly around hoping to rub shoulders with the few stars already in town, Daisy made her way round to the back of the Palais des Festivals. Marcus was leaning against the railings watching the crowds on the beach, his official photographer pass already strung around his neck, his camera at the ready.

‘You settled in all right at your sister’s place?’ Marcus asked.

Daisy nodded. ‘Where do I go to register?’

Marcus pointed to a door in the Palais. ‘Through there. You’ll be ages – French paperwork and chaotic bureaucracy is at its best in there. I’ll wait for you in The UK Film Centre Pavilion over in the Village International,’ he said. ‘We’ll go for a coffee afterwards and try to map out a plan of campaign.’

‘Plan of campaign?’

‘As well as a daily report and photos, Bill wants us to try to unearth some unusual stories – a scandal would be good, he says,’ Marcus shrugged. ‘You know what editors are like – always wanting a scoop.’

Marcus was right. It was nearly two hours before Daisy escaped from the Accreditation Centre, her press pass finally around her neck and clutching a mountain of booklets and other assorted festival papers. When she eventually tracked Marcus down in the Film Centre marquee he was with a group of men – all photographers, Daisy guessed from the amount of camera paraphernalia surrounding them.

‘Hi guys, this is Daisy my new partner in crime from the paper. I’ll see you lot later. Daisy and I have to talk.’

Marcus picked up his large canvas bag and Daisy followed him across the road to a pavement café in front of Square Brougham where they managed to grab a vacant corner table.

‘Deux café au lait s’il vous plaît,’ Marcus ordered, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of a group of vocal Italians at the next table, some Russians who’d clearly been there for some time sampling the house rosé and a nearby crowd of Americans who seemed intent on taking over the place. A Japanese tourist was busy videoing the scene.

‘Hope he’s got his sound switched on,’ Daisy said. ‘I’ve never heard so many languages all at once.’

‘Heard the news about Philippe Cambone?’ Marcus asked, as the waiter put their coffees on the table.

Daisy shook her head. ‘The big shot film director? What’s happened?’

‘Died of a heart attack. There’s going to be some sort of tribute later in the week – the powers to be haven’t decided what yet. Do you know much about Cambone?’

‘Only that he was French, was one of the top directors, wasn’t married,’ she glanced at Marcus. ‘Wasn’t gay was he?’

Marcus shrugged. ‘If he was, it was a well kept secret. Had a reputation of loving women but wouldn’t commit to one. Anyway, I expect they’ve got all the info they need back at the office but maybe you could do a couple of paragraphs about how the news has been received down here? Cannes was his home town. Maybe interview a few people who knew him? You know the score – find a human interest angle. The school he went to; name of his first love, etc.’

Marcus drained his coffee and pushed the cup and saucer away before asking, ‘You got a press conference tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow. I’m hoping to get to a screening in the morning and then I’m having lunch with a friend of Poppy’s who works for Chanel. She’s promised to give me the lowdown on some of the accessories and clothes they’ll be lending the stars. So I should have a spare hour in the morning to try to see if I can find someone to talk about Philippe Cambone. Then in the afternoon I’ll file my first daily report.’

‘Don’t forget to keep your ears open for any juicy gossip,’ Marcus said. ‘It’s what this place is good for – and Bill is keen to hear some of it.’

‘As you’re an old hand at this lark, where’s the best place to hang out to catch the gossip? See people?’

‘Any of the cafés and bars in town. This place is good,’ Marcus said glancing around. ‘Occasionally some of the up-and-coming stars like to come down here and hang out with the boules players over there. Too much security these days for the famous ones to do that, unfortunately. Mind you, if Jack Nicholson is in town he’s known to like an early morning stroll along the Croisette by himself.’

Marcus stood up. ‘Right I’m off. Want to come to a party tomorrow night? I’ve got tickets for Bruno’s bash. It should be a good starting place for gossip. Meet me after the evening screening and we’ll go together. Ten thirty outside the Petit Majestic – it’s on the corner of rue Victor Cousin.’

‘Who’s Bruno?’

‘Big name down here. Knows everybody who is anybody. Good contact.’

‘Thanks. I’ll definitely try to be there.’ Daisy hesitated. She really did want to spend the evening alone with Poppy having a good catch up but felt she ought to at least make the offer for Marcus to join them.

‘Are you doing anything tonight? Poppy and I are planning a girlie evening but if you’d like to come to supper? I warn you, you’re likely to get the third degree from my sister.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘Thanks but I’ve arranged to meet the guys for a quick drink and then a reasonably early night. Doubt that I’ll see bed much before three or four a.m. most days while the festival is on. Expect you’ll find the same once you get into the swing of things.’

Unexpectedly he lent forward and kissed her cheek. ‘When in France and all that,’ he said. He picked up his camera gear. ‘If you need me urgently, you’ve got my mobile number and you’ll invariably find me in the paparazzi scrum at the side of the red carpet. We’ve got a definite date for dinner one evening before the festival ends – either the Carlton Terrace or the Palm Beach. You choose. Bill can pick up the tab! See you tomorrow night. Ciao,’ and he sauntered off in the direction of Palm Beach.

Thoughtfully Daisy watched him go. Well, that was definitely the most unromantic dinner date invite she’d ever had, but dinner at the Carlton might be good.

Daisy gathered her things and headed off in the opposite direction. Passing the busy pizza restaurant on the corner brought back memories of the last time she’d had a pizza in there. The four of them, Poppy, Dan, Ben and herself had been celebrating the villa’s renovation being finished. She’d been so happy that night. She and Ben had even talked about the possibility of moving to France and restoring a cottage themselves.

Back home a week later her world had fallen apart when Ben told her it was all over between them. Apparently all the talk that night of getting a mortgage and settling down together had freaked him out.

‘I’m not ready for that sort of commitment, Daisy. I need some space.’ The space he needed was in Australia. Sydney to be precise.

How ironic then that his first letter should arrive as she left to catch her flight down here where they’d been happy. Unsure of how to reply Daisy had stuffed the letter into her bag. She’d get Poppy to read it later and see if she had any ideas about Ben’s suggestion.

Standing with several people waiting for a green pedestrian crossing light on the bord de mer, Daisy smiled at a little girl waiting with a tall man.

‘Nat, d’you think Daddy will be at the house when we get back?’ the girl asked hopefully, looking up at the man.

‘Maybe Cindy. His plane should have landed an hour ago and an official car was picking him up to bring him straight here.’

‘Good,’ Cindy said. ‘He can take me to the park tomorrow.’

‘Sorry, Cindy, I think you’ll have to make do with me. Daddy and Mummy are going to be really busy for the next week. That’s why they’ve asked me to look after you.’

Daisy smiled sympathetically as the man looked up and saw her watching. He returned the smile but didn’t speak. Just then the lights changed and the small crowd surged forward. Once across the road, Daisy stopped on the pretence of rummaging for something in her bag and let the man and girl walk past her, curious to see where they were going.

It was a hundred yards or so before they stopped in front of a pair of large wrought iron gates where the man pressed a security button high in the wall and spoke into the intercom. One of the dark green gates with its golden spikes on top swung slowly open giving pedestrian access and the two disappeared into a private garden. Daisy caught a glimpse of immaculate grounds, and a villa covered with bougainvillea before the gate snapped shut behind them.

Daisy strolled on past and ten minutes later she and Poppy were sat at the table under the loggia, with a glass of wine to hand, thumbing through the various film magazines and trade papers Daisy had collected in Cannes.

‘So, you still enjoying being a journalist?’

Daisy hesitated long enough for her sister to throw her a curious glance, before saying slowly, ‘Chasing after news stories is losing its appeal. Anyway, I mightn’t have a job much longer. There are rumours flying around at work about major redundancies in the next few months. So, I’m seriously thinking of going freelance and finding some sort of specialism.’ She shrugged. ‘I could even move over here. Live with you while I find something. I still like the idea of renovating a place.’

‘You could have the cottage,’ Poppy said. ‘I know Dan would be pleased for me to have you near when he’s away – his business trips away seem to be increasing.’ She poured some more wine.

‘Any idea what you’d specialise in?’

‘Lifestyle? Property? Quite fancy the idea of getting to look around posh houses. Incidentally there’s this gorgeous belle époque villa below you that must have so much history attached to it. Dark green gates with gold spikes. D’you know it? Saw a little girl and her minder disappearing in there earlier.’

‘If it’s the one I think you mean,’ Poppy said, ‘It’s someone with either a lot of money or good connections staying there. It’s one of the original grand nineteenth-century villas along that road. It was bought last year by some Russian who’s spent a fortune renovating it. Now apparently it’s the latest word in twenty-first-century opulence. Available only to those with the necessary funds.’

‘Well, “Daddy” is clearly some festival VIP to warrant an official car. Shall have to do a bit of sleuthing tomorrow I think,’ Daisy said. ‘The little girl’s name was Cindy – not that usual a name. Somebody is bound to know who her VIP father is. Maybe she’s got a famous mother too.’

‘Don’t any of your official booklets and papers have potted biographies of important people attending the festival?’ Poppy asked. ‘Have a look while I go and check Tom is asleep and fetch another bottle of rosé.’

When she returned, Daisy waved a booklet at her. ‘No luck with my mystery VIP but I’ve found your Anna Carson. She’s a well respected production designer, worked on lots of films over the years. Apparently this is her first visit to Cannes.’

Later, sitting on the edge of her put-u-up bed balancing her laptop on her knees, Daisy updated her ‘To Do list’. Tomorrow she’d a) go to a screening b) find someone to interview about Philippe Cambone c) talk to the girl from Chanel d) write up her first report e) go to Bruno’s party f) try to uncover a scoop for Bill.

She smiled ruefully to herself as she wrote ‘uncover a scoop’. She didn’t doubt there would be several secret scandals floating around in a place like Cannes but whether she was capable of unearthing one was something else. Maybe she’d overhear something at Bruno’s party.

Chapter Four

‘I’m sitting at a sea-front café, croissant and coffee to hand, watching Cannes come to life on the first full day of the festival. The morning sky is the brilliant blue that gives this stretch of the Riviera its other name, the Cote d’Azur, and the forecast is for a sunny day.

All around me there are giant billboards advertising the films that will be screening here over the next few days. Although only 7.15.a.m. there is a general sense of bustle everywhere. Queues are already forming outside boulangeries, espresso machines are hissing into life, squirting the dark, strong liquid the French call coffee, into small cups.

People are arriving bleary-eyed back at their hotels and apartments hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep after partying the night away. Others, bright eyed and with a spring in their step, are on their way out to the first breakfast meetings of the festival.’

Daisy took a swig of her coffee and a bite of croissant before continuing to speak the first of her daily reports into her small voice recorder.

‘I’ve collected all the daily trade magazines, signed up for a press conference tomorrow morning with a famous star – more of that later in the week – and now I’m off to view my first early morning screening. With over one hundred and twenty films to be shown during the festival, things start early around here.’

Daisy pressed the save button and switched off the recorder. She’d add some more to it after lunch with the fashion assistant who had promised to explain how the stars managed to acquire the necessary glitz for film premiers and type it up later back at Poppy’s.

After drinking the rest of her coffee she set off for the Theatre Bazin on the third floor of the Palais des Festival, where many of the press screenings would be held during the festival – far away from the glamour of the red carpet.

Emerging three hours later, her head buzzing from both the film and the Q & A session with the filmmakers that had followed, Daisy joined the lunchtime crowds that were thronging the Croisette: tourists and locals enjoying the presence of entertainers and starlets strutting their stuff – eager to catch the eye of any movie maker that might be around.

As she walked, intriguing snippets of conversation floated in the air around her.

‘Sharon was really upset when Michael gave the part to ...’

‘Gosh yes, a ticket to the Vanity Fair party would be to die for. Any chance of ...’

‘No. We can’t meet there. It’s too risky. What if we were seen?’

Marcus was right; there was gossip everywhere. Surely that was Tom Hanks over there talking to Bruce Willis?

Wandering through the crowds she wondered again about the possibility of chasing down a scoop for the paper. She just wasn’t that keen on investigative journalism. As she’d told Poppy, she much preferred to write feel good stories about people rather than ones that besmirched them.

Lingering near the roundabout she saw Cindy riding around happily on one of the carousel horses, the tall man standing to one side attentively watching. He smiled in acknowledgement at Daisy when he saw her, before turning as the carousel slowed to a stop and helping Cindy off.

‘Come on, let’s go for those pizzas. Mummy said she’d meet us there and maybe Daddy as well.’

So Daddy had arrived then, Daisy thought, wishing she could follow them and see who Mummy and Daddy were. But it was time for her to learn how the stars managed their haute couture appearances.

It was past three o’clock when she arrived back at the villa intending to write up her notes, finish her report and do some internet research on Philippe Cambone. Having failed to unearth anyone locally who’d known the director and was willing to talk to her, the internet seemed her only option.

With luck too, she’d be able to grab some sleep before heading back down into Cannes for the first evening red carpet screening and then on to Bruno’s party with Marcus. Poppy was on the telephone as she walked into the cottage.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re très desolé but it doesn’t help me this afternoon, does it?’

Poppy slammed the phone down before turning to face Daisy.

‘Can you believe it? The car people have double booked and they’re “very sorry” but they are unable to meet Anna Carson this afternoon.’ Poppy ran her hands through her hair distractedly.

‘What on earth am I going to do? It’ll be impossible to find anyone else at this short notice.’

‘I shouldn’t worry. I expect she’ll just grab a taxi,’ Daisy said.

‘She’s expecting to be met. I’ve got no way of telling her to take a taxi. My first booking for the villa and this happens.’

‘What time is her flight landing?’ Daisy asked.

‘In an hour,’ Poppy said looking at her watch.

‘I can look after Tom – where is he, by the way? You can collect Anna in your car.’

‘Would you? Oh, no that won’t work,’ Poppy sighed. ‘He’s at school until three thirty this afternoon and they don’t know you so they won’t let him come with you before I’ve officially introduced you.’ She looked at Daisy.

‘I don’t suppose you?’

‘Poppy, you know how much I hate driving down here,’ Daisy said sighing. ‘Okay. Give me the flight details and the car keys and I’ll go and meet your Anna Carson.’