Not Quite Nice (9 page)

‘Thirty euros per person per session. Ten weeks, isn’t it, Theresa? Such a bargain. Good Lord, William, look at the time. I’ll never get all my things done before the midday gun. Pip, pip!’

And Carol was gone, leaving Theresa standing in the middle of her front room, holding a chunk of buttered baguette, her mouth agape.

8

Sally sat on the sea wall, swinging her legs, watching a young couple quarrelling as they tried to get the engine going on their little motorboat. What fun it must be to have a boat, she thought. When things got on top of you, you could go down to the harbour, get in, start up the engine and drive off into the sea, away from everything. You might see dolphins, or maybe go fishing for your supper. Think about that!

What would everyone think when they turned up to one of her dinners and not only had she cooked the fish, she’d actually caught it!

‘Put the bloody rope back in the box,’ snarled the man in the boat.

‘It’s soaking wet,’ sobbed the woman. ‘It’s too cold and dirty. My hands are filthy. Argh, look at my nails!’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ hissed the man, giving Sally a brusque and insincere smile as he pulled on the throttle and the boat spurted off into the bay, causing the woman to lose her balance and fall into the rear seating well.

It was a beautiful day, and Sally decided today must be the day when she started anew, with fresh hopes and dreams. She was in a rut, and she knew she had to pull herself out. She had every reason to feel happy but kept giving herself artificial hopes which only led to crashing disappointments.

She remembered once, years ago when she was in her teens, being lured into some place full of weirdos on Tottenham Court Road, and put through various stress tests. Then they took her into a curtained room and a rather smelly bearded man in sandals told her the reason that she was stressed was that she wanted to achieve too much – she wanted to be successful at work, and to get married and have a house of her own. If only she’d stop wanting those things she could attain happiness.

What bunkum!

Now that she thought about it she really had achieved all those things she had then wanted. Not that they had really brought her the wild happiness she thought they would, but she’d had fun along the way, and, as to the test, well, she’d only gone into the place to escape a heavy shower.

Eating breakfast yesterday morning with the bluff Englishman Brian had been very cheery. She was sorry he hadn’t taken her up on the offer of staying in her spare room. It would be lovely to have someone else in the house for a bit, some company, someone who’d banter comments on the TV programmes, and with whom she could share dinner and breakfast. Cooking for one was never much fun. You always cooked far too much and either had to throw it away or couldn’t bear the waste, so ended up eating the lot till you felt sick and put on another inch or two round your waist.

She looked up from the ripples on the water just as David and Carol’s sports car gave a toot as it went bowling up the hill, roof down, with Carol in the driver’s seat, David at her side and William in the back seat, heading off in the direction of Nice. Those three were clearly off to town for the day, having fun.

A car! That was an idea. If Sally got a car she could give lifts to people and feel she had a purpose in life, even if it was being the unpaid taxi service. But Carol already had a car. If she got one too and everyone preferred taking a lift from Carol rather than her, wouldn’t she then feel even worse?

What she really needed was a project. Something to go to bed thinking about and which made waking up such fun because you couldn’t wait to get up and at it again. But what?

The problem with being an ex-actress was that you couldn’t just go back to it after years out. And even if you did, then what? You couldn’t decide to play Goneril or Blanche DuBois in your living room. You had to wait for other people to ask you, and Sally knew well enough that she’d been out of the loop far too long to be asked to play
anything
, even a cough and a spit on a ropey afternoon soap. Not only that, if she wanted to get back into the acting world, she’d have to move back to London and the rat race, and that was something she
really
could not face.

She adored it here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer. She loved the weather, the light, the scenery, the people, the food, the ambience. And look at all those historical painters who had come here for the same reasons. Years ago Sally had painted. Now that was something you could do of your own volition without other people being involved. Maybe she should try again. Perhaps she’d go and buy a canvas and some acrylics and see how she got on. If she was still any good she could spend a morning standing out here on the quay trying to sell her work to unsuspecting tourists off the cruise ships. She felt a pang of worry at the thought of being judged or, perhaps, recognised by those awful tourists. Not painting, then.

Maybe she should try something new, take classes in something.

That was it.

She’d learn something exciting that she’d never tried before, like Mandarin, or lacemaking.

She walked briskly along the front to the little tourist office which had a lot of handwritten cards up, advertising everything from boats for sale to child-minders available. The section of ‘classes and private tuition’ was surprisingly long, though most of them were courses in French and English, and would therefore be of no use to Sally. She browsed for a few minutes, noting down a few details of classes which looked interesting, then marched back up to her house to make a few phone calls.

On the sharp bend just before the medieval arcade she bumped into Zoe.

‘Good Lord, Sally, where are you off to in such a rush?’

‘I’ve decided to take up evening classes, and you’re going to join me. Think of the fun we could have.’

‘Sally?’ Zoe peered over the top of her spectacles. ‘Are you feeling quite well?’

‘So, Zoe, what do you think?’

‘In what subject are you planning to take this course?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sally felt quite fired up. She threw her arms outward in a huge circular gesture. ‘Anything!’

‘Sally, dear,’ Zoe took a step back. ‘Now you’re worrying me. Have you completely lost your marbles?’

‘I have too much time on my hands . . .’

‘Never a truer word was spoken.’ Zoe’s quavering voice boomed out in the echoing tunnel-like arcade. ‘Your problem, Sally, if you don’t mind my saying, is that you never stop talking about your children. You spend your hours tirelessly maundering on about your tiresome adult offspring. Don’t you realise that there is nothing so boring as other people’s children, except, perhaps, other people’s dreams? Whoever heard of such an inappropriate subject for a woman, especially of our age?’

Sally was somewhat taken aback. Zoe was from a different generation. She must be at least seventy-five. When you thought about it, she was technically just about old enough to be Sally’s mother, so how could she lump them both together under the phrase ‘our age’?

‘My children need me, Zoe. I’m just trying to be a good mother—’

‘Good mother? If you really mean that, then ignore the selfish little bastards. Forget about them for a bit and concentrate on yourself. Look at you. You’re quite the frump now. No longer the glam TV star of yesteryear.’

Sally was so astonished she was lost for words.

Zoe steamed on.

‘
Good
mothers, Sally, let their children go. Look at lions.’

‘But I’m not a—’

‘Your children will like you ever so much more if you pay them no attention. Really. Start enjoying your life and then they might be persuaded that it would be fun to visit you here. If I was your child I couldn’t be bother­ed to come. The very thought would give me claustrophobia. Too much pressure. Ugh.’

‘But Zoe, I really—’

‘As young people say, Sally: get a life.’

‘Zoe, why are you being like this? I just told you that I was going to start concentrating on something else, didn’t I? Evening classes.’

Zoe threw up her arms in despair. ‘Evening classes! Evening classes? Since when did taking evening classes constitute having a life? You need to live a little, girl. Get out of your comfort zone. There are some wonderful discos in town. Dance the night away. Meet some interesting people.’

‘Bellevue-Sur-Mer is crammed with interesting people.’

‘Bah!’ exclaimed Zoe. ‘You need to let your knickers down a little, dear.’

‘What I do with my knickers is none of your business . . .’ Sally stopped when she saw that Faith and her son Alfie, the two who had been at the house viewing yesterday morning, were standing only a few feet away, staring. They had come out of the tiny tabac, holding a small map of the town while deciding which way to go.

‘We’re looking for the Hôtel Astral,’ said Faith, blushing.

‘Astra,’ corrected Zoe. ‘The Hôtel Astra. You need to go up the way and along a little alley. Bougainvillea all the way. It’s heavenly.’

‘Oh good.’ Faith smiled. ‘As it’s so cheap I was fearful that it might be rather rough.’

‘It
is
rather rough,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s the
path
leading to it which is heavenly. The Hôtel Astra is a dump.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ said Sally.

‘Oh, dear. This is my son.’ Faith winced. ‘Alfie, well, he thinks it’s a good idea for me to stay here, on site as it were, till I settle in. Our bid was accepted, by the way.’

Sally swallowed. Another chance gone.

‘And, anyway, we’ve just booked a room there for two months.’

‘No probs, Mum. If the place is a dive full of marauding sailors and tattooed prostitutes we’ll soon find you somewhere else, minus the low-life, and more suitable to a lady of your age and tastes.’

‘Who said anything about low-life?’ said Zoe. ‘Low-life would be terribly exciting and would certainly be preferable to the actual clientele of the Hotel Astra, which consists in the main part of Australian rucksackers and British obese, illiterate lobsters sporting dayglo shorts.’

‘Gap-year kids and package tourists, mainly,’ said Sally, wondering why she felt obliged to apologise for the hotel. ‘It is all pretty basic.’ She hesitated before going on, afraid that Zoe might start up again.

‘Everywhere else seems to be full,’ said Alfie.

Sally had an idea. ‘I have a spare room in my place,’ she said. ‘You could pay me less than you’d pay the Astra. It would give me a little pin money.’

‘No doubt to spend on lessons in astronomy and motorcycle maintenance.’ Zoe gave a little wave to no one in particular and walked on. ‘Good luck to the lot of you.’

‘Don’t worry about Zoe,’ Sally whispered. ‘She’s a little eccentric.’

‘Heard that,’ shouted Zoe without turning round, as she beetled up the hill, round a corner and out of sight.

Sally went with Faith and Alfie to see the only available room at the Astra. It was a dark poky space with a tiny window looking out on a wall. It had a shabby rug on the scratched wooden floor and was not easily reached, necessitating a hefty climb up a complex set of irregular stairs. Sally asked the manager if that was the best he could do, and he explained that there was a much nicer double room but it had been booked a month ago by a local person on behalf of a young lady who had been already installed, though she might be leaving in a day or so. But the room was reserved for her with a retainer on a short notice basis.

‘In other words,’ snapped Sally, ‘it’s already taken. Why not just say so?’

Sally took them up the road to her house.

There it was agreed all round that, rather than pay to take the dingy box room at the Hôtel Astra, Faith would spend the waiting weeks in Sally’s better spare room, the one she kept pristine at all times in hopes of a visit from Marianne.

‘Let me give you a deposit,’ said Alfie, pulling out his wallet as he flopped down on the bed.

‘It’s all right, I’ll do it.’ Faith took a while to get her purse out of her bag, but
she
handed Sally the money. ‘Here. This is what I would have paid the hotel for the whole stay. You must have it.’

‘But I couldn’t . . .’

‘Please,’ said Faith. ‘It will make me feel better knowing it’s all settled.’

‘If you insist. Look, you make yourself at home, while I go downstairs and rustle up a cup of tea. Would that be nice?’

‘Lovely,’ said Faith.

‘Strong please,’ said Alfie, ‘with one sugar and a tiny bit of milk.’

‘He’s very particular,’ said Faith. ‘Alfie likes things just so.’

As she pulled open the tea caddy Sally felt elated. Still clutching the wad of euros she picked up the phone and dialled one of the numbers she had written down from the cards on the noticeboard, the class that earlier this morning she thought would be way beyond her means.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’d like to sign up for the power-boating course.’

9

Theresa was totally panicked at having been thrown into this cookery class idea of Carol’s, though it would certainly be one way of raising the money for a new boiler.

Wrapping her new turquoise mac tightly around her she opened the front door, and peered out, scanning the road for hysterical blondes on the rampage. When she saw that the coast was clear she furtively darted up the street in the direction of the main town and the railway station.