The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them?

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  She filled the petrol tank before going to the café. Many of the customers were other passengers who’d made the crossing; she recognised the family who’d been beside her on the car deck, as well as an older couple dressed in identical yellow cagoules. And there were plenty of Irish accents ordering coffee and pastries. After using the bathroom, Deira got a tray and selected an individual tarte tatin before asking for a large Americano. She took her purchases to the counter that ran along the wall of the café, where she sat on a high stool.

  The coffee was strong and the pastry delicate. Deira felt herself relax again as she began to tune in and out of the conversations around her.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ a father was assuring his young son, who’d been demanding to know how much further they had to go. ‘You’re really going to love it.’

  ‘I’m sick of the car,’ said the boy. ‘We’ve been in it forever.’

  ‘We’ll soon be at the campsite,’ his mother promised.

  ‘I hate this holiday.’

  ‘You’ll have a great time,’ his dad assured him. ‘Do you want to get something from the machine?’

  ‘OK.’ The boy’s expression brightened.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The father turned to his wife. ‘You can ban all sweets once we get there. But in the meantime, it’s the only way of keeping sane.’

  How would she and Gavin have coped with a small boy who was bored? Deira wondered. She would have been well prepared in advance with books and games to keep him amused, but would she have caved in on sweets or biscuits or other rubbish to keep him quiet? She accepted that children got fed up in a car. So there might have been tears and fretfulness and arguments. All the same, she was sure she would have managed.

  But there were no children to take into account, and Gavin had planned a series of exclusive hotels for this holiday. Chateaux and country houses, no campsites. Yes, I want to do Brittany again, he’d said, but no, I don’t want to rough it. I did the camping thing once and that was enough. Nothing but the best this time. Leave it all to me. So she had. But then he’d dropped his bombshell, and there was no more talk of spending idyllic nights in French chateaux.

  He’d said he was sorry.

  And that, pretty much, was that.

  Her fingers tightened around the waxed cup and the coffee almost sloshed over the side with the pressure. She willed herself to relax once more. But the rage still balled inside her, hard and unforgiving.

  She took her phone from her bag. The missed-call notification was still on the screen, and even as she looked at it, the phone rang again with the same caller ID that she hadn’t recognised earlier.

  ‘Yes?’ Her tone was cautious.

  ‘Bonjour! It’s me.’

  ‘Tillie!’ She sighed with relief. ‘What number are you ringing from?’

  ‘Long, boring story about smashing my phone last night and having to borrow one,’ said her friend. ‘I thought I’d call and see how you were doing. I missed you earlier.’

  ‘That was you ringing me at the crack of dawn?’ exclaimed Deira. ‘You scared the life out of me; I’d no idea who it was.’

  ‘I went for an early-morning jog,’ explained Tillie. ‘Sorry if I startled you.’

  ‘I thought it might be . . . Well, I’d no idea who it might be,’ said Deira. ‘But it’s lovely to hear from you.’

  ‘So . . . how are you? Are you OK to talk while you’re driving?’

  ‘I’m grand. The weather is gorgeous. And you’ve caught me while I’m having a coffee at a service station, so it’s fine to talk.’

  ‘How much longer to Paris?’ asked Tillie. ‘Have you decided where you’re going to stay?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Deira. She watched some more passengers from the ferry walk to another enormous camper van. She’d never considered a camper van holiday. She still wouldn’t. But at least their owners had ready-made accommodation. ‘I was looking at TripAdvisor last night. You know me, hopeless at choosing anywhere.’

  ‘Pick the first place that doesn’t look like the Bates Motel,’ advised her friend. ‘You can always change after the first night. Any word from you-know-who?’

  ‘No,’ said Deira. ‘And hopefully I won’t hear from him until he realises the car is gone.’

  ‘Maybe not even then,’ said Tillie.

  ‘He’ll figure it out eventually. But feck it, Tillie, we were going to come here in this car together. Why shouldn’t I take it?’’

  ‘No reason at all.’ Tillie gave the same assurance she’d given from the moment Deira had told her about her plan. ‘I was wondering, though – he doesn’t have some kind of webcam alarm on it, does he?’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’ Deira thought of Gavin tracking her and felt sick.

  ‘I dunno,’ replied Tillie. ‘The world is full of so many gadgets, it’s not impossible, but you would’ve seen it, I’m sure. Anyhow, I sent you my most positive vibes this morning, so I promise everything is going to be fine. I went to my favourite spot in the woods behind my house and drenched you in sunlight and good thoughts.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Even though Deira didn’t believe that Tillie’s positivity would have the slightest effect on her life, she was grateful for her friend’s unconditional support.

  ‘I sent thoughts that you’d be happy and maybe meet someone but not do anything mad.’

  And there it was, thought Deira. Tillie’s inevitable warning.

  ‘If there’s an opportunity, I’ll take it,’ she said. ‘I don’t have that many, after all. I’m thirty-fecking-nine, Tillie. I’m positively geriatric.’

  ‘You’re not, you know you’re not. You’re a strong, confident woman—’

  ‘Ha!’ Deira’s snort interrupted her.

  ‘You are. So have a great holiday,’ Tillie added. ‘Just . . . you know . . . take care.’

  ‘I might check out Airbnbs around here instead of hotels in Paris.’ Deira changed the subject.

  ‘Where were you meant to be staying originally?’ asked Tillie.

  ‘There was a lot of talk about gorgeous country houses and chateaux,’ said Deira. ‘But he hadn’t got around to making any bookings. Which has turned out to be a good thing, because it gives me freedom.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t you forget about Paris and go somewhere more relaxing,’ suggested her friend. ‘After all, France is a huge country, with lots of nice places you probably wouldn’t get to if you didn’t have a car. So take advantage of it.’

  ‘I should have thought about it before I left,’ said Deira. ‘It was all a bit chaotic on my part.’

  ‘I went to Marseilles once,’ Tillie said. ‘That was lovely. Or how about Lyons, maybe? Or Toulouse?’

  ‘Marseille is on the south coast, you klutz,’ said Deira. ‘It’d take me a full day to get there. Maybe more.’

  ‘You have all the time in the world,’ Tillie pointed out. ‘No reason why you couldn’t go. Or drive anywhere else, for that matter. You could do a grand tour.’

  ‘A grand tour?’ Deira laughed.

  ‘You’ve nearly three weeks,’ said Tillie. ‘One way or another, you wouldn’t have spent it all in Paris, would you? I know you earn a decent wedge, Deira, but you’d be bankrupt by the end of it. All those chic shops!’

  Deira laughed. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘There’s always Cannes,’ added Tillie. ‘That’s not far from Marseilles. You could disport yourself with the movie and yachting set.’

  ‘Gosh, yes, the film festival is around now, isn’t it?’ said Deira. ‘Although that’d probably mean everywhere is booked up or out-of-my-league expensive. Still, I might give it a look.’

  ‘Make the most of your time. Stay positive,’ said Tillie. ‘And go with the flow.’

  ‘Until the police come looking for me thanks to Gavin’s secret webcam.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. I’m sure it’s fine. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re a good friend,’ said Deira. ‘And I’m sorry I’ve been a bi
t . . . well, distant lately.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for that one little bit,’ said Tillie. ‘You needed space. Now you’ve got it, so make the most of it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Deira glanced around. Most of the people she’d identified as being from the ferry had left now, and the newer arrivals were French families.

  ‘Anyway, keep in touch and drive safely,’ Tillie said.

  ‘I will. Thanks again.’

  Her coffee had gone cold. Deira ordered another and brought it back to the counter, where she opened her iPad and began looking at her maps again. She had two initial choices, she thought as she studied it. Head east to Paris as she’d originally intended. Or turn south towards Bordeaux, from where she could think about Tillie’s suggestions of Toulouse, Marseille and Cannes. Her friend was right – it didn’t matter how far away they were; she had plenty of time.

  Looking at the map more closely, she saw that Toulouse, Lyons and Marseilles formed a large triangle, and Toulouse was on the same road as Bordeaux. So she could stop at Bordeaux and then continue on. In fact there were a few other towns on that southern road that might be nice to visit. La Rochelle, for example. Or Biarritz. Hadn’t Biarritz been a jet-set kind of place in the sixties? Perhaps it still had a touch of glamour. Perhaps she might find what she was looking for there.

  Right, she thought. Change of plan. South it is.

  She got up from the counter, picked up her bag and the takeaway cup and walked towards the exit, still harnessing the power of positive thinking.

  The power of positive thinking didn’t last very long.

  A couple of seconds later, she was face down on the floor of the café, her coffee cup spiralling across the tiles. She’d no idea what had happened. One moment she was walking towards the automatic door, the next the ground was rushing up to meet her.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  She was glad that it was an Irish accent she could hear as she tried, and failed, to turn herself over.

  ‘Take it easy.’ The owner of the voice was kneeling beside her. ‘You took a terrible tumble there.’

  She recognised him. He was the man she’d spoken to on the deck of the ferry the night before.

  Did meeting him again mean something?

  Was it a sign?

  She began to struggle upright, but a sharp pain in her side made her stop.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he repeated.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You tripped,’ he said. ‘It was like it happened in slow motion. You seemed to go up into the air and then come back down with a terrific thump. And you didn’t manage to put your hands out to stop yourself in time. You’re lucky you didn’t smack right down on your face.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Deira winced and gently rubbed her side as she finally succeeded in sitting up. The man had been joined by some of the café’s staff, including a young woman whose badge said ‘Chantelle’ and who asked her, in English, if she needed medical assistance.

  ‘No,’ said Deira. ‘Thank you. I’m OK.’ But she winced again.

  ‘It was an awful fall,’ said the man.

  ‘There was nothing on the floor for you to fall over.’ Chantelle, who seemed to be the manager, looked anxious.

  The man shrugged. ‘There could have been a small spillage.’

  ‘We are very careful,’ said Chantelle. ‘We clean all the time.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Deira said to the younger woman. ‘I’m not going to sue you. It was an accident.’

  ‘Can I get you another coffee?’ Chantelle asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ replied Deira.

  ‘You should have something,’ the man told her. ‘Give yourself a few minutes before you get back into your car.’

  Deira thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘A tea, please,’ she said.

  ‘Black?’

  ‘Um . . . do you have peppermint?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That would be perfect. Thank you.’

  She made an effort to get to her feet, assisted by the man, who supported her as he led her to a table. The knot of people who’d been watching dispersed. Deira released a slow breath and then allowed herself to sit on one of the plastic chairs.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the man asked.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Deira.

  ‘Would these help?’ He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and handed her a strip of foil-wrapped Nurofen.

  Deira was about to say that she didn’t need them when another sharp pain in her side made her realise that she probably did. After Chantelle had left her with the peppermint tea and a strawberry macaron ‘on the house’, she swallowed two of the tablets.

  ‘There must have been something on the floor no matter what she says.’ The man looked sceptical.

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ said Deira. ‘And the fact that I went face down makes me think I simply tripped over my own clumsy feet.’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t look clumsy.’

  ‘I can be.’ She took a sip of the tea and felt her shoulders relax.

  ‘Have you decided where you’re going yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Bordeaux,’ she replied.

  He looked concerned. ‘That’s another five hours. It’s a long drive, especially if you’re in pain.’

  ‘Do you know the route?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve driven it a few times,’ he replied. ‘It’s pleasant enough, but do remember that the French will drive up behind you and expect you to get out of the way if you’re in any of the outside lanes. They take no prisoners on the motorways, you know.’

  Deira smiled. ‘I’ll be careful. Are you going that way yourself?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m off to Paris.’

  If falling had been a sign, perhaps she should abandon her decision to go to Bordeaux and revert to her original plan of driving to Paris instead, thought Deira. And perhaps she could meet up with her knight in shining armour for a drink later. Because bumping into him again had to mean something. Didn’t it?

  He stood up.

  ‘If you’re sure you’re all right, I’ll be off.’

  ‘I’m much better now,’ she told him. ‘Honestly. And thanks for looking after me.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Au revoir.’

  ‘Au revoir,’ she repeated as he walked away.

  Her eyes followed him out of the café and across the car park. He unlocked a medium-sized red van and got in.

  It hadn’t been a sign.

  He still wasn’t the one.

  It was another fifteen minutes before she returned to her own car. Alone again in the café, her hands had begun to tremble and she’d suddenly felt a lot shakier than she’d done when she’d been insisting she was fine. She told herself it was the coffee that was making her shake, not the shock. But she took her time before leaving.

  She grimaced as she slid gingerly into the driver’s seat. For someone who’d once prided herself on her insights and competence, she’d turned out to be pretty shit at both. If Gavin were here, he’d laugh at her. But he wasn’t.

  She blinked back the ever-ready tears as she started the car and flicked to the satnav menu, entering Bordeaux as her destination. It was nearly five hundred kilometres away, and the (still nameless) man from the services was right: the journey would take about five hours. Hopefully, she thought, the Nurofen would keep her pain-free till then.

  She rejoined the main road and was so lost in her thoughts as she drove that she was startled when the satnav told her to take the exit towards Nantes and the Atlantic coast route. The sudden command threw her into another spasm of indecision. Paris or Bordeaux. Bordeaux or Paris. Maybe the man she’d met on the boat and in the café did matter. Maybe he was important to her future. Maybe she was making another massive mistake. Paris or Bordeaux. Bordeaux or Paris.

  At the last minute, she veered to the right and took the off ramp, much to the annoyance of the ancient Renault behind her, whose driver blast
ed her with a long hoot of the car’s horn.

  There are no signs, and no man is important to my future, she told herself. I’m going to Bordeaux.

  Besides, maybe the man I need is there.

  There were fewer Irish-registered cars on her new route, and Deira supposed that most of them had stayed in the more northern parts of Brittany. Staying in Brittany would have been the most sensible choice of all, she thought. But now she was committed to the west coast. In normal circumstances, a five-hour road trip wouldn’t have bothered her – she’d often driven to Galway and back, which took about the same amount of time as the journey to Bordeaux – but despite the painkillers, the ache in her side was persistent and tiring.

  About forty minutes after leaving Rennes, she pulled into a service station for another break. The heat from the sun, after the air-conditioned comfort of the car, surprised her. She stood with her back to it, allowing the warmth to penetrate her bones, and hoped it was benefiting her poor bruised ribs.

  After walking around to stretch her legs, she sat at one of the wooden trestle tables in the grassy area behind the services. Sitting was fine. Nothing hurt when she was sitting.

  She took out her phone.

  She’d missed a call from Gillian, and realised that her sister had phoned at around the same time as she’d made her previous stop. She hadn’t noticed that the slider button on the phone had moved to ‘mute’. It must have happened when she fell, she thought, because she hadn’t muted it herself. Gill had left a voice message, despite the fact that Deira always told her never to bother, and that sending a text was far more efficient. She hesitated before accessing it, not really wanting to hear anything her sister had to say.

  ‘Hi,’ said Gillian. ‘There’s a slight change of plan about Bex and Dublin. I was going to run it by you, but since I can’t get hold of you, I hope it’s OK. I’m driving her up myself. She got a call after I talked to you to ask if she could come to the interview tomorrow morning. I have your house key, so I hope you don’t mind us staying there tonight. Enjoy your holiday. Bye.’