Rendez-Vous in Cannes. Jennifer Bohnet
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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 and starlets strutting their stuff – eager to catch the eye of any moviemaker that might be around.
As she walked, intriguing snippets of conversation floated in the air around her.
‘Sharon was really upset when Michael gave the part to…’
‘Gosh yes, a ticket to the Vanity Fair party would be to die for. Any chance of…’
‘No. We can’t meet there. It’s too risky. What if we were seen?’
Marcus was right; there was gossip everywhere.
Surely that was Tom Hanks over there talking to Bruce Willis? And that glamorous actress getting into a limousine looked incredibly like Meryl Streep.
Wandering through the crowds, Daisy wondered again about the possibility of chasing down a scoop for the paper. She just wasn’t that keen on investigative journalism. As she’d told Poppy, she much preferred to write feel-good stories about people rather than write ones that besmirched them.
Lingering near the carousel she spotted the young girl from the previous day, Cindy, riding around happily on one of the gaily decorated carousel horses, the tall man standing to one side attentively watching. He smiled in acknowledgement at Daisy when he saw her, before turning as the carousel slowed to a stop and helping Cindy off.
‘Come on, let’s go for those pizzas. Mummy said she’d meet us there and maybe Daddy as well.’
So Daddy had arrived then, Daisy thought, wishing she could follow them and at least put faces to Mummy and Daddy. But it was time for her to learn the trade secrets of how the stars managed their haute-couture appearances, so she crossed the Croisette and walked in the opposite direction, towards the luxury designer shops.
It was past three o’clock when she arrived back at the villa, intending to write up her notes, finish her report and do some internet research on Philippe Cambone. Having failed to unearth anyone locally who’d known the director and was willing to talk to her, the internet seemed to be her only option.
With luck too, she’d be able to grab some sleep before heading back down into Cannes for the first evening red-carpet screening and then on to the party with Marcus.
Poppy was on her mobile as Daisy walked into the cottage.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re très desolé, but it doesn’t help me this afternoon, does it?’
Poppy slammed the case cover down on her mobile before turning to face Daisy.
‘Can you believe it? The car people have double booked and they’re “very sorry”, but they are unable to meet Anna Carson this afternoon.’ Poppy ran her hands through her hair distractedly. ‘What on earth am I going to do? It’ll be impossible to find anyone else at this short notice.’
‘I shouldn’t worry. I expect she’ll just grab a taxi,’ Daisy said. ‘Just hope it’s not my Speedy Gonzales!’
‘She’s expecting to be met. I’ve got no way of telling her to take a taxi. My first booking for the villa and this happens.’
‘What time is her flight landing?’ Daisy asked.
‘If it’s on time, in an hour,’ Poppy said, looking at her watch.
‘I can look after Tom – is he at school? I know where that is and can walk there. You can go and collect Anna in your car.’
‘Would you? Oh, no that won’t work,’ Poppy sighed. ‘They don’t know you so they won’t let him come with you before I’ve officially introduced you. New stricter policy about strangers at the school gates these days.’ She looked at Daisy. ‘I don’t suppose you—’
‘Poppy, you know how much I hate driving down here,’ Daisy said, but she took one look at her sister and sighed. ‘Okay. Give me the flight details and the car keys and I’ll go and meet your