Take a Chance on Me (10 page)

B
ack home
, Charlie was sorely tempted to text or phone Mercedes. Surely the crew would have finished for the day. It was almost eight o'clock. She reminded herself that phones were not allowed during filming and Mercedes would be in contact when she could. She took a slug of wine and removed the sponge cake from a tin and tried to imagine what Mercedes would be doing. It had to be more fun than baking cakes and trying to work out what to watch on television.

Meanwhile Mercedes was about to see behind the scenes at Claudine's house. She waited outside for the door to open with a cameraman.

‘You'll enjoy this,' he whispered in a conspiratorial fashion. Mercedes was going to ask him to enlighten her further but the floor manager shushed them. He had had a very trying day with Claudine who insisted all the crew took off their shoes while in her house and had flown into a tantrum every time a lead was accidentally draped across a piece of furniture. Now everyone was tired and wanted to wrap up for the day. They were way behind schedule.

A buzz of chatter from the floor manager's walkie-talkie alerted them to the fact they were ready. A girl with a clapperboard stepped forward and announced, ‘Action!'

The door flew open. ‘Mercedes, 'ow wonderfool. Entrez. Let me show you to the reception room.' Claudine, dressed from head to toe in Yves Saint Laurent, took the handles of Mercedes' wheelchair and propelled her towards the front room. Her crystal-embellished Tulle dress rustled. Mercedes was miffed. She was not helpless. She detested it when people assumed she was. Claudine's heels on her python-leather ankle boots clattered on the marble floor as they made their way to an enormous room with rich wooden floors that stretched out into a glass conservatory. At the far end of the conservatory a table was set with expensive cutlery that shone, plush cotton serviettes and polished crystal glasses. Thick pillar candles on tall black stands completed the effect. Their flames emitted a soft light, enhancing the ambience. To the left of the room, a fire was burning brightly in a magnificent fireplace. Next to it, sat in a large wing-backed chair, was Patrick.

‘Mercedes,' he said, relief on his face. He stooped to plant a kiss on her cheek. ‘Come and sit by me.'

Claudine's house was much as Mercedes had expected it to be. Even from the outside, it was imposing, with its mile long private drive. Mercedes had almost envisaged a butler answering the door as she'd tugged on the rope of the brass bell. She could only imagine the size of the kitchen. She bet it had an AGA. All posh houses had AGAs. Cameramen moved expertly between the contestants. Mercedes almost forgot they were there.

‘Albert,' shrilled Claudine and a grey-haired man in a smart black waistcoat, trousers and white gloves bustled in, with a tray of glasses filled with champagne. So there was a butler, after all. He must have been too busy preparing the drinks to answer the door, unless Claudine didn't like staff greeting her guests. Patrick shot Mercedes a warning look as she stifled a chuckle.

Claudine immediately started talking about the house. It had been completely renovated by Claudine's husband, a property developer. ‘We 'av six barfrooms.'

‘Plenty of choice then if you suddenly need a barf,' mumbled Mercedes. Patrick sniggered. Claudine was too busy sounding off to notice. The bell rang.

‘I must see oo zis iz,' she said regally and left the room, even though the others knew it would be Maurice.

‘Wowee!' said Mercedes when Claudine was out of earshot, trailed by a beaming cameraman leaving them alone in the lounge. ‘Is she on this show to win a thousand pounds or to show off her house?'

‘I think it's the latter. I heard a rumour that they're going to put the house up for sale soon. This is a promotional exercise to―'

Patrick stopped talking. Two men backed into the room both filming reactions as Maurice shuffled in beside Claudine. His hands flew to his open mouth in surprise as he took in the size of the room.

‘Oh my! This is astonishing!' he gushed.

Claudine looked pleased at the reaction. ‘Yes, my husband, 'ee and 'iz team renovated zee whole 'ouse. I shall show it to you later, but first, you must 'av some champagne. Albert! Where is zat man?' She tutted, ‘I shall 'af to find 'im!' With that, she wafted off.

‘You look...' Mercedes began, taking in Maurice.

‘Stupid,' finished Maurice, looking down at his outfit. ‘I have no idea why I agreed to wear this.'

Maurice glanced at his reflection in the huge mirror over the fireplace. ‘It was the only outfit in the fancy dress shop that had anything remotely to do with France. Normally, I love dressing up, but even I think this looks silly. I'd have liked to have come dressed as Napoléon Bonaparte but that outfit had been borrowed. Who's Claudine supposed to be?'

‘I think she's Coco Chanel or Brigitte Bardot. I can't decide,' suggested Mercedes.

‘Either way,' said Patrick, ‘it's an excuse to look stunning in designer clothes while the rest of us look like idiots.'

‘Speak for yourself. I think I look great as Joan of Arc,' said Mercedes smiling at the camera focused on her. ‘Mind you, this armour breastplate is a bit uncomfortable.'

‘I hate dressing up,' said Patrick.

‘Is that why you haven't bothered to?' teased Mercedes.

‘I have bothered. I'm Alain Delon, the famous actor. I even have a hat like he wore in the film
Le Samouraï.
See.'

He reached down beside his chair and produced a hat that he plopped onto his head. ‘Voilà! Instant fancy dress.' There was a guffaw from behind a camera. Patrick stared into the lens and winked.

Claudine arrived with the butler who was carrying another tray of champagne-filled glasses. ‘So sorry to 'av kept you. Dinner will be served in ten minutes,' she said. ‘But first we 'av some traditional French entertainment.'

She clapped her hands and a gentleman with a large moustache wearing a striped jumper appeared at the doorway and began playing the accordion.

‘
A
re
you sure it'll work? I don't want to ruin it for you,' said Charlie. She was on the phone to Mercedes.

‘You won't. Now, you know what you have to do? Wait outside in your car at two o'clock. By then, the guests will be here and the crew will be filming the meal. I'll send you a text when I'm ready for you. Let yourself in the back door. Wait for my cue, press the play button on the sound system on the kitchen top, and then shimmy into the dining room.'

‘I'm not sure I can remember the moves. I've gone blank. It's the realisation that not only will I perform in front of the four of you but millions of viewers who'll watch the show. I can't do it,' wailed Charlie.

‘Of course you can. Those belly dancing lessons have really paid off. You look like a professional when you shake your booty.'

Charlie pondered her words. She wanted Mercedes to win the coveted one thousand pounds for the best host and meal. She deserved it, and if wobbling her belly at strangers helped Mercedes win, then she'd forget her own anxieties and wobble away.

She thought about the girls at the belly dancing classes again. Maybe she should sign up for more lessons. Jasmine suggested they might like to consider tribal belly dancing classes next.

‘Do we get to shout and chant as we dance, then?' Susannah asked.

‘No, but you play tiny cymbals on your fingers and dance with other women. I'll let you know when classes start. You could join the end of year Tribal Belly Dancing Float in the annual Festival Parade if you like it enough.'

‘I'm delighted with what I've picked up here, Jasmine,' replied Susannah. ‘My husband cancelled his darts at the pub again tonight so he'd be home when I got back,' she grinned. ‘Thanks ever so much. I'm going to go to the gym like you suggested and maintain my fitness levels. I'm not going to let myself regress to where I was. I can't believe the difference in only four weeks of belly dancing. I actually feel younger.'

‘Me too,' commented Marcia. ‘I'm going to join the advanced class and then I might even try my hand at pole dancing.'

There was no doubt that Charlie felt more confident than she did before the classes. Jasmine promised they would feel sexier and she certainly felt more womanly. She walked better too. Not as tall and proud as that glamorous woman she saw having coffee with the Piggy man as she now called him, but prouder nonetheless.

Mercedes' voice brought her back to the present. ‘Come on, you'll be wearing a veil. No one will be any the wiser as to who you are and you can mysteriously disappear after the applause. It'll be great. That way, you're on the show and I get some original entertainment for my guests. Don't forget to shake your money belt thing at Patrick. He'll be mesmerised. He's the hairdresser I told you about. He owns a salon in town. He's definitely not your stereotype camp hairdresser, in fact when we went to his house, he was quite the opposite. Patrick likes women to be feminine and somewhat subservient. He made his views quite clear. He will love you batting your eyelashes at him.'

Charlie sighed in defeat. Mercedes was so keen to win. She could not let her down.

‘Claudine will detest you, so forget about her. She's a complete diva and is determined to win this contest. Luckily, no one enjoyed her endives in cream sauce and her tarte tatin was a disaster. I think hiring a man to play French accordion music was a stroke of genius, if only to distract us from the food but the mime artist was definitely over the top. And getting us all to dress as French characters was wacky. The image of Maurice as Marie Antoinette will remain with me for a long time.' She giggled and Charlie was overcome with affection for her friend who was clearly enjoying the entire experience.

‘I'm not confident I can win Claudine over with my menu but I'm banking on wowing the two men. I discovered Maurice has a Moroccan boyfriend so it's in the bag as far as he's concerned. You'll be the entertainment that should swing it for me with Patrick. I'm sure he'll give you a perfect ten on his scoreboard. So thanks to you and to my recent cookery lessons, I'm ready to rock. It was very kind of you to ask Fatima to help out.'

‘She's a smashing lady. When she was in hospital undergoing surgery for gallstones, I spent some time with her. She told me all about her life back in Morocco before she came to the UK. Her family house was palatial. They owned gold crockery and even had servants. Who would have thought it? She once was waited on and now she sweats away in her restaurant kitchen. She's a super cook though,' said Charlie.

‘She enjoys it. Told me it gives her a sense of purpose, and she can keep a beady eye on her husband at the same time. Make sure he's not slacking. She keeps those sons of hers on their toes too. And she gave me some fantastic ideas for setting the scene at our house. Ryan worked tirelessly all last weekend to transform the dining room into the interior of a desert tent. He hung fabrics and a large Moroccan lamp we borrowed from Fatima. She came over and helped too. It looks magical. She even lent me her silver teapot to make mint tea after the meal.' Mercedes was prattling so quickly Charlie could barely keep up with the conversation.

‘I can't wait to see it. So have you got almonds for nibbles and have you put your chick peas for your chickpea soup into soak yet?'

‘Almonds for toasting and a large bottle of fizz to accompany them, check. Chickpeas, check.'

‘Moroccan meatball tagine with lemon and olives', Charlie read from Mercedes' menu card in front of her. ‘Sounds yummy. For dessert, desert rice pudding with date compote. Lovely and light. Managed to find any orange blossom water for that?'

‘Of course. Our local grocery store has everything you could imagine. I'll have to cook for you when this is over. I've really enjoyed my crash course in cookery with Fatima. It's opened up a new world for me. The meals aren't very difficult to prepare. I'll have to be careful though, Ryan has already started to put on weight since I began cooking dishes for him to try.'

‘I bet he has. Okay, I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well and good luck.'

T
here was
a knock at the door. Mercedes opened it. Maurice stood on her doorstep. ‘You look very exotic, my dear,' he said, offering her a small box of chocolates.

Mercedes laughed. She was wearing a long pale-grey silk djellaba with exquisite embroidery at the neck. Her red hair was held back with silver clips.

‘Thank you. I'm not used to being so elegant. These djellabas are very comfortable to wear. You should get one for yourself, Maurice. They come in all sizes and colours for men and women. We could be trendsetters.'

‘Mercedes, I think you carry it off far better than I could,' he replied. The cameraman sniggered quietly.

Mercedes showed Maurice directly into the dining room where he made appropriate noises about the decor. Large matching cushions and beaded pouffes completed the bohemian look. Settling him down with a drink, she wheeled out of the room to greet the second guest.

The format of the show changed little. Each hosting contestant had to greet each guest individually, take them to the lounge or dining room, serve a drink then greet the next person. It was to give the impression that those invited had arrived separately. In reality, they were all outside in the garage having their make-up checked and being miked up for sound. It was chilly out there and Claudine was muttering about being cold.

‘Maybe you should have worn something warmer, my dear,' said Patrick glancing at her thin black dress.

‘'Zis is Chanel,' she huffed.

The sound engineer raised his eyebrows at Patrick.

‘You're next, Claudine.'

Claudine patted her hair and walked off, a fixed false smile plastered on her face.

‘That's a nice shirt you're wearing,' said the make-up girl to Patrick as she wafted some powder over his face.

‘'Zis is Oxfam,' he said with a cheeky grin

Back in the house, Maurice was admiring Mercedes and Ryan's bedroom. ‘Isn't this tasteful? Gosh! Mercedes should be an interior designer,' he gushed. ‘Oh what are these,' he asked, stopping to put on his maroon framed glasses so he could see more clearly. ‘Oh, they're awards for races and look at all these rosettes!'

T
he filming was going well
. There had been no hiccoughs and Mercedes had played the part of the hostess with aplomb. She was now almost ready to serve the starter.

In the dining room, Patrick stared frostily at Claudine and chomped a handful of almonds. They were seated around a huge shining copper table on plump, comfortable cushions. Patrick had happily taken up a cross-legged position but Claudine had complained bitterly about being so low to the ground and struggled with her attire, constantly pulling at the hem of her dress. The men chose to ignore her and Maurice was now staring about the room, a thoughtful look on his face. Mercedes whisked about the kitchen, ensuring the first course was ready. She deftly navigated her way around camera leads and the people who were invading her home, keeping up a monologue for the camera.

‘Right, that's it. I'm ready to surprise my guests,' she said. ‘Hope you're hungry, folks,' she shouted. ‘I'm coming in.'

‘Do you need me to 'elp you carry in zee food? Eet must be difficult for you,' asked Claudine, earning herself a frosty look from Maurice.

‘No, I'm perfectly able to serve, thanks, Claudine,' replied Mercedes, arriving with a tray containing hot bowls of soup on her lap.

‘How lovely,' said Maurice. ‘My friend Hassan would love this. The room is perfect. It reminds me of the tent I stayed in when I went to the Sahara desert. It was so romantic there. It had a round table like this and plush cushions to sit on too. It was in a little town called Zagora near the sand dunes. We sat out afterwards and took in the silence. It was warm that night so we sat up late. The sky was so clear we could see gazillions of stars.' He took in a deep breath and sighed in contentment. ‘So beautiful,' he continued with another little sigh before changing the subject. ‘So, Mercedes, you know all about us but we don't know much about you. How did you get into hospital radio?' asked Maurice.

‘This is quite a long story. I'll try to condense it for you, and before I begin, I'm not into sympathy.'

Maurice's eyebrows raised but he nodded his affirmation. Patrick sat up on his cushion while Claudine affected a look of concern.

‘I used to be a jockey. I always loved horses and worked at stables from when I was young. I was lucky enough to work for a trainer who saw my potential and I started racing competitively at the age of eighteen. I enrolled at the British Racing School in Newmarket, graduated in 2007, then started training horses for a sheik.

‘They used to call me Little Horse-Whisperer because I could always get the best out of the horses. I began to race, won a few events and made a decent name for myself. Anyway, one day, I was out training a highly-strung horse. No one else could handle him as well as me. To cut a long story short he got spooked and reared. We both tumbled. He landed on me. Luckily, he was fine but I wasn't.

‘Ironic isn't it? I'm called Mercedes and now I roll about on wheels. Not as fast as a real Merc though, but I like to get up speed sometimes.' She smiled. ‘I damaged my spinal cord at lumbar one-two. The doctors told me I'd never be able to walk again. I have to admit it was a very low point in my life. It took several months of therapy to convince me I could carry on with my life in spite of losing the use of my legs. I was at City Hospital to have some follow-up work done on my elbow because it also got damaged in the accident, when I met a radio presenter there called Charlie. She was visiting patients, asking if they wanted any special requests played on the radio. It was after visiting hours and I was having a little weep. She sat beside my bed and talked to me for ages. She visited me every day after that, in fact the entire time I was in hospital.'

Maurice bit his bottom lip, lost in Mercedes' words, eyes filled with admiration.

‘After I left hospital, she visited me regularly at home and it was thanks to her that I pulled myself together. She made me see that my life wasn't over. I decided to behave as normally as possible. I could still do many of the same things I could do before the accident. I bought an adapted van with hand controls. Charlie came with me to choose it. I even have her to thank for finding my husband, Ryan. She invited us both to an evening at her house where he and I just clicked. I'd never have met Ryan if it hadn't been for Charlie and I wouldn't have met Charlie if it hadn't been for the accident. Everything happens for a reason, I guess.

‘Anyway, I trained to become a radio technician, got married and am now living happily ever after. It's very rewarding working in a hospital and humbling too. It puts things into perspective when you see what some people have to go through,' she paused. ‘Sorry, I really monopolised the conversation there, didn't I?'

Maurice wiped his eyes with a corner of a serviette.

‘Maurice,' growled Mercedes. ‘I hope you're not getting maudlin.'

‘No, no. It's just… you're so brave.'

‘Rubbish. There are plenty of people who face far worse than me. It's surprising how you can learn to cope. Anyway, enough of that. Let's finish this wine.'

The alcohol flowed, the conversation became more animated and Maurice enchanted them with stories about his time as a teacher in Marrakesh.

‘You received a live guinea fowl as a gift from a pupil?'

‘Oh yes, they gave me all sorts of things. I had to stop them in the end. It was getting awfully difficult. The guinea fowl in particular caused mayhem. I had to take it back to my apartment on the back of my moped. It sat in a box with its head poking out watching the world go by as I skidded about the streets.'

Mercedes spluttered her wine. ‘Never!' she said.

‘It's completely true, my dear. I intended giving it to my flatmate to cook, but by the time I'd got home, I hadn't got the heart to kill the poor creature. We'd formed a bond you see. I drove it to the nearest park and gave it its freedom. I hope it found a mate there,' he added, smiling.

‘Was that the most bizarre present you received?' asked Patrick.

‘No. I had others. You have to remember that these people lived in all sorts of areas. They didn't have much money so much of what they gave me, they had grown or cultivated themselves.' He gave Patrick a knowing look.

Patrick twigged immediately. ‘You mean you were offered cocaine?'

Maurice nodded. ‘Several times. I refused it, of course. It was then I decided to stop the pupils lavishing gifts on me. I told them the other teachers were getting jealous. It seemed to work, although the following day, I noticed a female teacher headed from her classroom clutching a live rabbit. I highly suspect one of the pupils had taken my message to heart and decided to spread their generosity.'

It took over an hour to consume the meal. Each course was savoured and appreciated. Maurice adored the tagine dish used for the main course and told them about haggling in a market in Rabat for one and how, having refused the seller's price he had walked away only to be pursued by the man up and down the streets until he agreed to return to the stall and buy it for a cheaper price.

The lighting and the comfortable cushions together with the plentiful supply of booze meant they were all relaxed by the time Mercedes cleared away the empty bowls that had contained the rice pudding with date compote. Maurice sat back and rubbed his stomach. Even Claudine appeared to be more content as she stroked the copper table and stared at the hanging glass lamps. Mercedes returned with small glasses for the mint tea and a silver lamp which she handed to Patrick.

‘Patrick, would you like to rub my magic lamp and make a wish?'

Patrick guffawed, rubbing the lamp with vigour.

Mercedes clapped her hands and said, ‘Magic lamp, silver not blue, please make Patrick's wish come true.'

Immediately, Arabian music came from the kitchen. The guests sat in confusion until a belly dancer dressed in a deep-red fringed bra and matching harem pants emerged from the kitchen. A heavy veil hid most of her face, revealing only her large green eyes, made larger by dark eyeliner and black mascara. Her fluid movements were accentuated by the belt around her hips, generously decorated with coins. Patrick's mouth opened in surprise, his eyes transfixed by the belt and the hips that swung in his direction in time to the beat of the music. Maurice sat back on his cushion and smiled at the dancer, nodding enthusiastically at her performance. Claudine feigned delight and clapped her hands to accompany the dancing.

C
harlie gave
it all she had got. She pretended she was in the class with the girls and not in front of a live audience. She created seductive movements with her hands and enchanted with her rhythmical movements. The music transported her back to the studio and all too soon it was over. The guests applauded. Charlie bowed and backed off to the kitchen again.

At the back door, Charlie grabbed her trainers she'd left on the mat and hastened out before any of the crew could talk to her. She raced over the grass in bare feet, through the open gate and onto the street where she immediately crashed into a man walking down the dimly lit road. Her belt came undone and fell onto the ground with a clatter.

‘What on earth?' the man exclaimed.

Charlie took in a sharp breath. It was the Piggy man. He had surely recognised her. Before he could speak, Charlie drew the veil around her face.

‘As-Salaam Alaykum,' she mumbled, using the only Arabic expression she had ever heard. Then, grabbing her coin belt from the ground, she hastened to her Golf, leapt in, and drove off at speed.