settling down as a couple had freaked Ben out and he’d told her it was all over between them – ‘I’m not ready for that sort of commitment, Daisy. I need some space.’ A few weeks later it turned out that the space he craved was in Australia – Sydney to be precise – which seemed to emphasise his desperation to get away from her.
How ironic then that his first letter since then should arrive as she left to catch her flight down here where they’d spent that happy holiday. 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 thoughts about Ben’s latest suggestion.
Standing with several people on the pavement in front of a busy road junction waiting for a red pedestrian crossing light to change to green, 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?’ Daisy overheard the girl ask hopefully, looking up at the man.
‘Maybe, Cindy. His plane should have landed an hour ago and a car was picking him up to bring him straight to Cannes.’
‘Good,’ Cindy said. ‘He can take me to the park tomorrow.’
‘Sorry, Cindy, I think you’ll have to make do with me for a few days. Daddy and Mummy are going to be really busy with the festival 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 few 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, in the distance, a belle-époque 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 cottage 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?’ Poppy asked.
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. Bill gave me my official redundancy warning letter this week, which contained an offer of voluntary redundancy if I wanted to take it. There are rumours flying around at work about the paper actually folding, so I’m seriously thinking of going freelance and finding some sort of specialism.’ She shrugged. ‘I could even move over here. I do love it down here. Live with you while I find something. I still like the idea of renovating a place, even if Ben couldn’t hack it.’
‘You could stay in the cottage if you wanted to be a bit more independent,’ Poppy said. ‘I know Dan would be pleased for me to have you near when he’s away – his business trips seem to be on the increase. I, of course, would love a live-in childminder.’ 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. 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, good connections, or both, 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. Apparently, it’s now 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. Set up her own company a few years ago. Apparently this is her first visit to Cannes.’
Later, sitting on the edge of her clic-clac 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 Bernard’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 over the next week or so, but whether she was capable of unearthing one was something else.
4
It’s Wednesday morning and I’m sitting at a seafront 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 7.35 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, still 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 type the first of her daily reports on her laptop.
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. 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 premieres.
After drinking the rest of her coffee, she set off for the Theatre Bazin on the third floor of the Palais des Festivals, 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 spectacle of entertainers
