Page 12 of Rendez-Vous in Cannes
Thursday morning and Anna was up early, wanting to fit in a swim before breakfast and getting ready to go down to her company’s temporary office in one of the hotels on the Croisette. It was a beautiful morning and, sitting out in the garden eating her breakfast, she decided to walk down into Cannes rather than call a taxi. It wasn’t as if she had to clock in at a certain time.
Unknown to Anna, she was following in Daisy’s footsteps of the previous evening when she turned onto rue Saint Antoine and began the steep descent. Because of the relatively early hour, many of the shops still had their shutters closed, but the cafés were already busy serving breakfasts to bleary-eyed festival goers. By the time Anna reached the bottom of the rue, the souvenir shops, their pavements and windows full of Cannes Film Festival memorabilia were open for business and the enticing smell of coffee being roasted hung in the air.
As she turned left at the bottom, Anna caught a glimpse of the amazing large trompe l’oeil on one of the buildings opposite. A tribute to Hollywood and the important part cinema had played in the growth of Cannes, Anna smiled as she recognised the famous faces depicted so brilliantly in movie scenes across the wall.
Rick, her business partner and office manager back home, and Fran, their PR and Personal Assistant, were both already in the office when Anna reached the hotel room they regularly booked during the festival. She was immediately absorbed into the meticulous, detailed organisation events at the festival demanded.
‘As you know,Future Promisesis screening Sunday evening, so I’ve managed to get a hair appointment for you with the salon here in the hotel for the morning,’ Fran said, handing Anna an embossed card with the details on it. ‘You’ve got your dress and everything organised?’ She glanced at Anna who nodded. ‘The limo will collect you and Leo at seven o’clock to take you to the Palais des Festivals and again afterwards to take you down to the Palm Beach for the party. There’s also a couple of invitations here for various other parties.’ Fran glanced at Anna. ‘I know you said you didn’t really want to get involved with the party scene on your own, but this one in particular sounds fun. It’s up in Super Californie in one of the big villas there tomorrow night.’
Anna hesitated and glanced across at Rick. As always he was in total charge of things for Cannes week. She knew he’d been surprised when she’d told him she was coming to Cannes this year. The deal had always been, Anna didn’t do Cannes. A couple of the other festivals, yes, but Rick was on his own for Cannes. He’d never asked why; just accepted it as a perk that he got to spend nearly a fortnight in the South of France every year. The networking he did was invaluable to the business and Anna had no intention of cramping his style in that regard.
‘It’s usually a good evening,’ he said now. ‘The Americans attend this one in full force. There will be several people there who would love to meet you, including the eccentric Rosa Cruft.’
‘Isn’t she on our party guest list? I’ll meet her then,’ Anna said.
Rick nodded. ‘Yes, she is. No guarantee that she’ll come though. We can go together if you like,’ he offered. ‘Pick you up at nine o’clock.’
‘Okay and thanks,’ Anna said, glancing at him. ‘Rick, did you ever have any contact with Philippe Cambone down here?’
Rick shook his head. ‘Shared a couple of cocktails with him at various parties down the years, but that’s about it. Different ends of the business, so we were never going to be in regular contact. Seemed an okay sort of bloke. Did hear on the grapevine that he was looking to cut back on work. Wanted to spend more time down here with his family and on his boat. Shame he didn’t manage it. Why?’
‘No reason, just that somebody at the villa I’ve rented asked if I’d ever worked with him and could I pass on any anecdotes for a feature she was writing. I thought I might ask around and see if anyone could help her.’
Rick shrugged. ‘Sorry can’t help. Right, I’m off to the JW Marriott for a meeting.’
‘I’ll walk down with you,’ Anna said. ‘I thought I’d have a mooch around Cannes this morning before going back to the villa. I need to find a supermarché too. Stock up on some supplies.’
At the hotel exit, they went their separate ways.
‘See you tomorrow evening,’ Rick said, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Anna to cross the road and wander along the Croisette in the direction of the Palais des Festivals, soaking up the atmosphere.
Flags fluttering in the light breeze, huge billboards, pictures of famous stars everywhere, police dogs and their handlers creating wide paths before them as the slow-moving crowd parted to let them through, before surging back to close ranks again behind them. Buskers, clowns, starlets hoping to be discovered, locals out for some people watching and nannies bribing their young charges with ice cream as they gazed at the over-the-top glamour in the designer boutiques that lined the Croisette. Anna watched it all and marvelled.
Le Petit Train, still with a few vacant seats, was about to set off on its routine sightseeing trip around town and Anna fleetingly wondered about hopping on board with the tourists. As she stood there, undecided, the decision was made for her when the driver rang the bell and the train began to slowly manoeuvre its way through the crowds and traffic.
A small crowd had gathered around a middle-aged woman with startling henna-red hair preparing to play an accordion. Anna, about to move on, found herself rooted to the spot as the woman began to sing ‘Jezebel’ à la Edith Piaf.
With a voice eerily similar to that of the tragic star’s, the modern-day singer sent a frisson of déjà vu running through Anna’s body. Once a favourite song of hers, she’d bought and played the record over and over again until, in a fit of blind rage the summer her world fell apart, she’d jumped and stamped on it until it was broken into hundreds of pieces. To hear that special song unexpectedly like this, in the place where the words had once been whispered so intimately to her, was heart-stoppingly hard.
Anna turned and blindly followed a group of teenage would-be starlets crossing the road. As the girls made their way up a busy street towards the centre of town, Anna turned in the opposite direction and took a narrower, quieter street, away from the hurly-burly of the crowds.
A small park, a labyrinth of traffic-free roads, and Anna slowly regained her composure. Another left turn and this street was busier, housing a florist, a fashion boutique, a couple of cafés and restaurants, the inevitable pharmacy and a tabac.
Anna sat at a pavement table at the smaller of the cafés and ordered a coffee. Waiting for her drink to arrive, she looked along the street with its tall, narrow buildings, their window boxes overflowing with scarlet geraniums, blue shutters fastened against walls, exuding an air of tranquility absorbed down the centuries.
A typical French street, it reminded Anna of countless others she’d seen before in towns up and down the country, but there was something familiar about this particular street that she couldn’t place and it was niggling at her.
‘Merci,’ she said as the waiter placed the demitasse coffee on the table before her.
Sipping her drink, she watched a couple of women, locals she guessed from their capacious straw shopping baskets, talking animatedly together as they came out of the pharmacy.
A few doors down, a well-dressed woman was in earnest discussion with the florist, before buying a large bunch of white lilies. As the woman, carefully holding her flowers, walked purposefully past her, Anna wondered who the flowers were destined for. The woman crossed the road a few yards on and stopped outside a shuttered restaurant with a large ‘Fermé’ sign plastered across its door.
Its pavement tables and chairs were piled up haphazardly, and there were numerous bunches of flowers already placed in the doorway. With a jolt, Anna realised where she was, why the street seemed familiar. As the unknown woman placed the lilies in the shade of the doorway, she didn’t need to read the gold embossed name, ‘Chez Cambone’, above the door to know it was Philippe’s family restaurant, the flowers placed as a tribute to him.
Her hand was shaking as she picked up her cup to take a steadying drink. Two reminders of her past on only her first full day in Cannes. Was every day going to be like this? Her past forcing her to remember and wonder ‘what if’?
7
