Page 17 of Rendez-Vous in Cannes
A bemused Daisy gazed after him, wondering what was not possible. And which of the cards had caused him to make that comment?
* * *
From her table at the Beach Restaurant, Anna had a clear view of the numerous luxury yachts moored out in the bay. The noise from helicopters, busily ferrying VIPs to the Palm Beach complex at the far eastern end of the Croisette, added to the hubbub of sounds all around. In the distance, the Isles of Sainte-Marguerite and Saint-Honorat lay serene in the midday sun. Anna turned her head to alter her line of vision, determined not to let certain memories of Sainte-Marguerite flood into her mind right now.
Anna reached for her tumbler of water. Lunch had been delicious – tuna salade niçoise followed by a mouth-watering glacé with summer fruits and mascarpone. Reneé Porteous, the Parisian who represented the company in France, had been full of enthusiasm for the coming year. Now she’d left for another meeting, leaving Anna and Rick sitting there mulling over the things that had been discussed and taking in the atmosphere.
All around them, life, as one big social networking event, was busy: People talking animatedly on their mobiles; men in Armani suits and actresses dressed to seduce, air-kissed; ladies who lunched with coiffured hair and their inevitable toy dogs were busy seeing and being seen. Two gendarmes, arms folded across their chests, were standing regarding the diners seriously.
‘Wonder who or what they’re after,’ Rick said, as one of the policemen, his gun visibly protruding from his waist holster, began to weave his way between the tables towards a large group of diners. Judging by the noise they were making and the number of empty bottles on the table, the party had clearly indulged themselves over lunch.
Turning her head to look, Anna felt her heart lurch in her chest. Sitting three tables away was Jacques Cambone. For a fraction of a second, Anna had believed it was Philippe – the likeness was so startling. Both Jacques and the man he was lunching with, were watching the police intently. There was something vaguely familiar about the other man too, but Anna couldn’t quite place what it was.
The rowdy table had fallen silent as the policeman approached. A fair haired man, clearly the subject of the policeman’s interest, had pushed his chair back and was standing up.
‘Yeah. Sure. I’m Sean Hamill,’ Anna heard him say in a drunken drawl. ‘What’s the problem?’
The officer’s reply was lost in the general buzz as he reached in a pocket for a pair of handcuffs, which he proceeded to snap around Sean Hamill’s wrists, before indicating with a jerk of his head and a pull of his arm that he was to accompany him.
‘Hey, lighten up, man. It was just a publicity stunt. A joke.’
‘Une blague in poor taste, monsieur,’ one of the gendarmes answered.
As Sean and the policemen passed their table, Anna and Rick got a good look at him. Late thirties, tall, sunglasses pushed up into his fashionably long hair, expensive loafers on his feet, wearing white jeans and polo shirt, he appeared unfazed by his arrest.
‘Interesting,’ Rick said. ‘That’s the actor who’s been claiming to be related to Philippe Cambone.’
Shocked, Anna looked at him before slowly turning and looking at Jacques in time to see him glance at his companion and mutter, ‘Bien. It is to be hoped that that should put a stop to it.’
‘Right,’ Rick said, pushing his chair back and standing. ‘I’m off. See you this evening. The party,’ he added as Anna looked at him, puzzled. ‘Super Californie?’
‘Sorry, I’d completely forgotten,’ Anna answered. ‘See you later then.’
Anna sat for a few moments after Rick had left, lost in her thoughts. She turned to look at Jacques and his companion. Idly she found herself wondering how Jacques would react if she approached him to offer her condolences about Philippe. Would he recognise her – unlikely, it was so long ago they’d met – or simply accept her platitudes about his brother as coming from an ex-colleague? Would he introduce her to his companion?
One of the licensed African beach sellers approached, offering a selection of watches and sunglasses, kaftans and various other items. Anna shook her head, the interruption breaking into her thoughts. ‘Non merci,’ and the man continued his hopeful trawl around the beach restaurant tables.
Pensively, she looked out across the bay towards the islands – and this time she allowed a long-ago memory a little space in her thoughts. Was life over there still as simple and idyllic as it had appeared to be, forty years ago? If there was time, she’d suggest she and Leo take one of the local ferryboats and spend a couple of hours wandering around Saint-Honorat with its ancient Abbaye. She knew Leo would be intrigued by the story of the Man in the Iron Mask who’d been held captive for decades in the ancient fort on Sainte-Marguerite, but she wasn’t ready to face down her own particular memories of that island just yet.
Jacques Cambone and his friend had stood up and were walking towards her table on their way to the beach exit. Anna felt a jolt of recognition as she saw the face of Jacques’ companion. She couldn’t remember his name, but she was certain he was a friend of Philippe’s whom she’d met years ago.
She half stood up to speak to him, to claim acquaintance, to offer Jacques her condolences, but sank back down again onto her chair without speaking. What was the point? It couldn’t possibly serve any purpose, so was best left. Once the festival was over, she’d be leaving with Leo and together they would make new memories. New happy memories that would push away the old, unhappy recollections that seemed to have taken over her mind recently.
9
Daisy and Nat stood on the Croisette waving at Tom and Cindy every time they whirled by sitting side by side on gaily painted carousel horses.
‘They’re getting on well, aren’t they? Poppy was worried Cindy might be a bit precocious,’ Daisy said.
‘Cindy’s a sweet kid,’ Nat answered. ‘Not your average spoilt monster with showbiz parents. Verity and Teddy are very down-to-earth, nice people.’
Daisy hesitated before asking. ‘It’s none of my business, but I was wondering what you meant by rogues in the business the other day?’
‘Somebody, pretending to be interested in representing me, took my last script and got it commissioned as his own work,’ Nat said, sighing ruefully.
‘That’s awful,’ Daisy exclaimed. ‘Couldn’t you expose him?’
Nat shook his head. ‘Unfortunately there’s no copyright in ideas and he’d altered the script just enough to make it difficult for me to prove anything. So from now on I intend to be more careful who I trust and make sure I register everything with the scriptwriters’ union and other places. I do admit to harbouring murderous thoughts about him, but in the end I had to accept it as a harsh life lesson and move on.’
