Rendez-Vous in Cannes. Jennifer Bohnet

      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 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.