placed at the end of the mezzanine. ‘There’s the bathroom and this is where Tom and I are sleeping,’ Poppy continued, opening one of the doors. ‘I’ve left some hangers for you to use in the wardrobe so you can at least unpack. These drawers are empty,’ she said indicating the chest. ‘I’ve put towels and things out for you in the bathroom and—’
‘Poppy, stop fussing. You’re sounding more and more like Mum,’ Daisy said. ‘It’s all fine. Incidentally, have you spoken to Mum recently?’
Poppy nodded. ‘She and Dad are hoping to come over at the end of the month. Apparently, Dad’s won some tickets to see the Monaco Grand Prix. Goodness only knows where I’m expected to put them the first night,’ Poppy shook her head and looked at Daisy. ‘Anna Carson doesn’t leave until the next day. Are you hungry? Fancy a sandwich?’
‘Please, and then I must think about walking down to Cannes.’
Downstairs, in the kitchen Poppy had created in what had originally been a lean-to conservatory, Daisy picked up Oscar, Poppy’s fat ginger and white cat, and absently stroked him as she looked out over the garden.
‘Is Anna Carson staying on her own?’
Poppy shrugged as she concentrated on making sandwiches. ‘Some of the time. She’s asked me to make up the bed in the master bedroom and one of the guest rooms but just to leave bedding in the other two rooms in case she has guests. She’s hoping her partner will arrive in the next couple of days. He’s hiring a car at the airport, so at least I don’t have to worry about organising transport for him.’
‘Did she sound okay when you spoke to her? Or does she have “showbiz attitude”?’ Daisy rolled her eyes in mock horror.
Poppy laughed. ‘No, she sounded really nice – friendly and down-to-earth. Let’s take these out into the garden,’ and she led the way out to the swing seat under the shade of the linden tree. ‘So what’s this photographer, Marcus, like? Replacement material for Ben?’ Poppy asked hopefully.
Daisy laughed. ‘I doubt it. I’ve only met him a couple of times when he’s called into the paper to see Bill, our editor, they’re old friends apparently and he gets a lot of freelance work from Bill. He does have a bit of a reputation as far as women are concerned and I definitely don’t want to be another notch on his belt. It’s going to be strictly business for the next ten days.’
‘It’s been months since Ben upped and left you for the delights of Australia. Life goes on. It’s about time you found someone else,’ Poppy said. ‘I just want to see my little sister settle down happily.’
‘To be honest I’m quite enjoying being single. Anyway, I don’t think Marcus is my type. Far too flamboyant.’ Daisy hesitated, wondering whether to tell Poppy about the letter she’d stuffed in her bag and decided she’d leave it until later, when they’d have more time to talk about it together. ‘Talking of Marcus, I’d better get going.’
‘You can bring him back for supper if you like,’ Poppy offered. ‘I’d like to meet him. Give him the third degree and see if he does have the potential to be a boyfriend for my little sister,’ she added.
‘No way,’ Daisy said. ‘Besides, you and I are having a girlie evening before the film festival takes over my life for the next ten days. Right, I’d better dash. See you later. Bye, Tom. Be good.’
3
Cannes was in countdown to festival time as Daisy walked along the bord de mer and made her way towards the old port and the Palais des Festivals. The events of the past few days had happened so fast, she could scarcely believe she was officially here as a journalist at one of the biggest annual show business events in the world.
Summoned by the editor, Bill, into his inner sanctum late in the afternoon just two days ago, Daisy had been nervous, wondering if she was about to be given the sack over some faux pas or other that she’d unintentionally made. But a distracted Bill had simply looked at her as he ran his hands over his thinning hair.
‘Two things. First: you got anything on for the next fortnight?’ Without waiting for her answer, he’d continued, ‘If you have, cancel it.’
‘Why?’ Daisy had looked at him, shocked, wondering what was coming.
‘Damien, the bloody fool, has broken his leg. I need you in Cannes for the film festival with Marcus. He’s an old hand down there, so he’ll fill you in on the details.’
‘You want me to cover the Cannes Film Festival for the paper?’ Daisy couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
‘You got a problem with that?’
Daisy had shaken her head. ‘No. I’m just surprised you’re giving me the job.’
‘I don’t have a choice. Alex has family commitments and can’t go. You’re single and commitment free – I hope?’
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
