Page 4 of Rendez-Vous in Cannes
Ah, so she was second best, but she didn’t care. Covering the Cannes Film Festival would be a real step up from the dreary round of low key reporting and the ‘women’s features’ she was usually handed. She’d been thrilled, joining the team on the small South Coast daily paper a couple of years ago, but covering local events and writing up the sentences handed out at the weekly magistrates’ court was as exciting as it had got so far.
‘Definitely commitment free,’ Daisy had replied.
‘Marcus says the apartment he’s renting is tiny, but you can squeeze in there with him and the others. Probably be an airbed on the floor, but—’ Bill had shrugged.
‘Not a problem,’ Daisy had said, knowing there was no way she’d even think about sleeping on the floor. She knew Poppy would find her a more comfortable bed than that. ‘My sister lives down there. I can stay with her. You said there were two things?’
Bill had picked up an envelope from his desk. ‘You’ll have heard the rumours about lots of changes here – this is your official notification of possible redundancies. Enjoy Cannes.’ Having delivered the bad news in his usual brusque manner, Bill turned his attention to his computer screen and waved Daisy away.
Daisy had left his office with mixed feelings – elated she had been given the opportunity to cover the Cannes Film Festival and worried about her future afterwards. Later that day, though, once she’d opened the envelope and seen the offer of voluntary redundancy, thoughts of freelancing once again began stirring in her brain as she began packing for the festival.
And now here she was in Cannes. She must remember to send Damien a postcard teasing him about breaking his leg and giving her the opportunity to report on Cannes.
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. Luxury cars – Porsche, Bugatti, Aston Martins – all caught up in the gridlocked roads, attracted envious glances from pedestrians. 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.
As she approached the Palais des Festivals, Daisy could see men busy sweeping and checking the condition of the red carpet that now covered the most famous flight of twenty-four steps in the world. Dodging the crowds that were milling aimlessly around, hoping to rub shoulders with the few stars already in town, Daisy made her way to the back of the Palais. She recognised Marcus at once, 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 after they’d greeted each other.
Daisy nodded. ‘Yes, thanks. 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, gesturing in the direction of the large marquee and other tents that had been set up along the embankment. ‘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.’
Daisy was thoughtful as she made her way to register in the Palais office. Fingers crossed that she could do a good job and get her byline in the paper noticed. If she was made redundant her future freelancing career could depend on her CV showing how good a journalist she was.
* * *
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 for the festival. 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 in Los Angeles. There’s going to be some sort of tribute later in the week – the powers that be haven’t decided what yet. Do you know anything 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, et cetera.’ 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, like I said, 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?’ Daisy asked. Marcus might have a reputation as being a bit of a wild boy and overly fond of leather trousers but he was a brilliant photographer and had ‘done’ the festival for several years now.
‘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.’
