Monsieur René surveyed Maggie’s hairdressing efforts and made a sound like ‘eough’, which only the French can make, and which plainly expressed disdain.
‘Non, non, non!’ he added to emphasise the point, as he lifted Gill’s tresses aloft with his fingers. ‘We ’ave much work to do ’ere.’
One hour and fifteen minutes later Gill emerged, in a state of shock, and a hundred euros poorer. She was shorn, and layered. Her hair had never been short or layered in her life before. But everyone in the salon had crowded round to say how beautiful it was, and what miracles Monsieur René had performed. Gill had stared at this unfamiliar woman in the mirror and wondered how many years it would take to grow again.
She felt wobbly and light-headed as she stood outside and tried to see her reflection again in the glass of the window. She had forty-five minutes to kill before she met up with the other two, and now she badly needed some coffee. And probably something alcoholic to lessen the shock. Brandy perhaps.
Gill found the little cafe in a cobbled alleyway between Zizi and the palace. There was one free table under the awning, beside a potted palm. She ordered a coffee cognac and wondered if she had the courage to look at herself in her handbag mirror. She rummaged in the interior of her bag.
‘OK if I share your table?’ A nice-looking man had appeared from nowhere and was smiling down at her.
‘Yes, yes, of course!’ Gill shut the bag quickly and gave him a coy smile.
‘Thanks.’ He sat himself down opposite her. ‘My God, it’s hot, isn’t it?’ He was quite dishy. What was his accent – Irish, perhaps?
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It certainly is.’ She adjusted the top of her sundress to ensure her bra wasn’t showing. Perhaps if he concentrated on her bosom he wouldn’t notice her upper arms.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Gill replied. Now, that’s a well-used chat-up line, she thought hopefully.
He studied the drinks list. ‘This is such an interesting place – have you been to the palace?’
‘No,’ Gill said. ‘I’ve been to the hairdresser’s.’
He glanced up. ‘And very nice you look too!’
She sipped her coffee. ‘Thank you. Are you British?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. He didn’t elaborate further. ‘I’m Bill, and you are—?’
‘I’m Gill. Nice to meet you.’
‘Well, Gill, how do you fancy another drink?’
‘That would be very nice, Bill.’ She gave a little giggle; this new hairdo was making her feel quite coquettish. And Bill wasn’t at all bad; stocky, crew-cut greying hair, nice blue eyes. Probably a little bit younger than she was, unless she’d been really sixty, of course.
He summoned the waiter. ‘Deux cognacs, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Oh, you speak French!’ Gill cooed admiringly. She lifted her hem slightly; after all, her legs were still good.
‘Only the basics, nothing complicated,’ said Bill breezily. ‘Anyway, what’s a lovely lady like yourself doing all alone in a place like this?’
‘Well, I’m killing time really. I’m meeting up with my friends in about thirty minutes.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Because I was considering a visit to Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and it would be so nice to have company.’
‘Isn’t that where all that lovely wine comes from?’
‘It certainly is.’
Gill had a thought. ‘Are you here tomorrow?’ She had no wish to share this nice guy with the other two, but perhaps they could be persuaded to go looking at more palaces and things.
‘I may be on the move tomorrow.’ He sounded vague. ‘I’m hoping to meet up with some friends too.’
‘Oh well, never mind.’ Gill felt a tiny wave of disappointment, dreams of ‘Gill and Bill’ fading rapidly.
‘Tell you what,’ Bill said, leaning towards her across the table. ‘We could always go to Châteuneuf this evening. Ah, but what about your friends?’
‘I’ll give them a call,’ Gill said, unearthing her mobile from the depths of her bag. Then: ‘Oh bugger, there’s no signal!’
‘Look,’ said Bill. ‘Why don’t I just come to pick you up this evening? Where exactly did you say you were staying?’
‘I didn’t,’ Gill replied. ‘But I’ve got it written down somewhere.’ She fumbled in her bag. ‘When I get a signal, I’ll phone Connie – that’s one of my travelling companions – and get the exact directions. I’m not very good at that sort of thing. We’re on a campsite, you see, because we’ve got a motorhome.’ She stood up and waved the phone around.
He appeared to be studying her avidly. ‘Connie, did you say?’
‘That’s right. We’re going to Italy in Connie’s motorhome.’
‘You are? That’s really interesting. I’d like to hear lots more about that.’
‘Do you drive a motorhome then, Bill?’ Gill imagined a model containing an enormous double bed.
‘No; that’s my car over there.’ He pointed at a maroon-coloured Lexus parked a good way along the street.
‘A Lexus,’ Gill repeated. Oh my God, she thought, could this be Ringer? ‘Nice cars,’ she mumbled distractedly.
‘Yes, they are. Good and reliable. And fast.’
A Lexus! And now she was fairly certain she could detect a Scottish accent. Could it be Ringer? What a bloody idiot she was! She should never have given him any information. She was beginning to feel faint as she stood up.
‘Thanks for the drink, Bill. I’d better go meet my friends now.’
‘Well, I’m coming with you,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘Otherwise how will I know where to pick you up? You aren’t going to be able to get a signal on your phone round here, are you? Anyway, I’d really like to meet them.’
‘Why don’t I just take your number, Bill, and I’ll phone you later to give you directions.’
Was it her imagination or was her regarding her closely? ‘Where did you say you were meeting them?’
‘Um, well, I didn’t,’ Gill stuttered. ‘But look, I’m desperate to spend a penny. Can you wait for me while I pop inside to find a loo? Then we can go there together. I won’t be a minute.’
She was aware of him watching her as she made her way into the dim interior of the cafe. She bypassed the not-very-nice toilet and almost collided with the waiter, who was emerging from the kitchen with a tray of coffees.
‘Oh, sorry! Sorry!’
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you cannot go into ze kitchen…’
‘Please!’ she said, edging past him. ‘Is there a way out at the back there?’
‘Yes, but—’
Gill didn’t wait. She hadn’t moved so fast in years as she rocketed through the kitchen, tearing past a couple of open-mouthed staff and out through a door at the rear into a dustbin-lined alley. She looked desperately in both directions. Please God, she prayed as she turned right, let this bring me out somewhere recognisable! And while you’re at it, God, please let him still be waiting at the front!
She emerged via a narrow passageway, just across the road from Zizi, and not far from the palace. Then she began to run again. I’m going to have a heart attack any minute, she thought. The sweat was trickling down between her bosoms and the straps of her new gold sandals were digging into her feet, which had swollen with the heat. Neither she nor the sandals were designed for sprinting.
‘Oh, thank God for that!’ she panted as she saw Connie and Maggie waiting a short distance away, watching her in astonishment.
‘You don’t have to run, Gill,’ Maggie called out. ‘You’re not late.’
‘Love your hair!’ exclaimed Connie.
‘Hair?’ Gill was gasping for breath. ‘Oh yeah, my hair.’ She’d forgotten all about her hair. ‘Never mind that, we have to get away from here, now!’
The other two exchanged looks. ‘Whatever’s the matter, Gill?’
‘I’ll tell you if I ever get my breath back. Come on,
pronto!’
* * *
Gill had told Connie that a guy had made a pass at her, and he looked menacing, and she’d been afraid. Connie was mystified. It wasn’t like Gill to be put off any man so easily, so he must have looked very very menacing.
Now that Gill and Maggie were sitting outside, wine glasses in hand, Connie decided to have a few minutes to herself and withdrew The Box from the drawer underneath the settee which doubled as her bed. She looked again at the dark-eyed, dark-haired Maria in her white dress and wondered what she might have looked like in later life, as there appeared to be no further photographs, not even of her wedding. Perhaps Maria and her grandfather had eloped? But how had they met? No package holidays in those days, when only the very rich ventured to Italy on the Grand Tour. Well, she’d contact this Pozzi person when she got to Italy. As he or she probably only spoke Italian, delivered at machine-gun speed, she’d need to befriend someone to help with the translation. She’d only got as far as the future tense in her Teach Yourself Italian book. ‘I will come to Naples tomorrow’ was unlikely to be very useful in establishing who this Pozzi person was and how he or she might be connected to these elusive Martiluccis.
Even with her reading glasses on, Connie found it difficult to decipher the faded writing on the letters. Perhaps one of those little magnifying glasses would help her to read the faintest pen strokes. She’d look up the word and go shopping for one as soon as they got to Italy.
* * *
‘Describe him again,’ Maggie ordered, as she and Gill sat under the awning with large glasses of Burgundy. Connie was inside and Larry had gone out with the sister-in-law again, much to their relief.
‘Well, he was average height – a bit taller than me.’
‘Go on.’
Gill was massaging her blistered feet. ‘And he had a sort of crew-cut.’
Maggie frowned. ‘Ringer’s head is normally shaved.’
‘I suppose it could have grown a bit since we left,’ Gill remarked. ‘Particularly if he wanted to look different. Blue eyes, quite good-looking. He was wearing shorts and—’
‘Shorts! No way!’ Maggie interrupted, shaking her head. ‘His left leg’s badly scarred; he never wears shorts!’
‘And he was wearing a stripy short-sleeved shirt. And a Rolex. I noticed he was wearing a Rolex.’
‘Well, yes, he has a Rolex, but so have lots of people,’ Maggie retorted.
‘Not lots of the people I know,’ Gill said. ‘And I’m pretty sure he was Scottish, although he didn’t sound very Scottish. Not like you.’
Maggie was chewing on a nail. She was well aware that Ringer could tone down his accent if it suited him. And that’s exactly what he would do.
‘Oh God!’ moaned Gill. ‘I’ve just remembered I told him I was travelling with someone called Connie in a motorhome heading for Italy.’
Maggie groaned inwardly. Trust Gill, she’d tell any man anything to get herself a date. Well, if it was Ringer, she thought, then he’s certainly going to be on to us now. And, fond as I am of Connie, I don’t know how she’d be likely to react if she knew.
‘I think Connie might go to the police,’ Gill said, as if reading Maggie’s mind, ‘if she knew what was going on. No need for her to know, is there?’
‘What on earth are you two whispering about?’ Connie asked, appearing out of the doorway.
‘I’m just trying to convince Gill how nice she looks with short hair,’ Maggie said. ‘And she’s still arguing about it.’
Twelve
GRASSE
At breakfast the following morning, Gill was clearly having some difficulty in coming to terms with the fact that her admirer’s intentions may not have been entirely romantic. If it was Ringer. And, if it wasn’t Ringer, she’d let a very fanciable man slip right through her fingers.
‘Perhaps I should have stuck with him,’ Gill lamented to no one in particular.
‘Never mind, Gill,’ Connie soothed. ‘He probably had a wife and six kids somewhere.’
‘I’ve got six kids,’ Gill retorted.
‘Yeah, well, perhaps he had halitosis,’ Maggie added helpfully, making a face at Gill to tell her to shut up.
‘It’s all very well for you two,’ Gill said. ‘You’ve left your bloke behind, Maggie, and you’re not bothered about meeting anyone else, are you, Connie?’
‘No,’ Connie replied. ‘Not after forty-one years with the same person. I’m enjoying my freedom.’
‘But,’ Gill persisted, ‘don’t you sometimes just feel the urge, the need… you know…’
‘I only feel that sort of need when I’m with a person who turns me on,’ Connie said. ‘And there aren’t many like that around, particularly at my age.’
‘Haven’t you fancied anyone since your divorce?’
Connie grinned. ‘No, not so much since my divorce as before my divorce. That was one of the reasons why I decided to leave Roger.’
Maggie and Gill both turned to stare at her.
Gill finally found her voice. ‘So where is he then, this fancy man?’
‘In Cornwall, probably. That’s where he lives.’
Connie thought again about Don Robertson, as she often did; his tall, toned body, his dark eyes, his wry sense of humour.
‘Connie,’ Maggie said patiently. ‘You need to tell us all!’
‘Yes, you do,’ Gill added. ‘You know all about us. All we know about you is that you were married forever and you know how to arrange bloody flowers!’
Connie hadn’t realised that she’d spoken so little of herself. Did they think she was a bit boring? Just another old Silver Single, or whatever elderly divorcees were called these days?
‘OK, I’ll tell you then. My marriage was stagnant. Yes, that’s the word – stagnant. So I decided to take myself off in my little car, and leave them all to it, while I sorted myself out. I drove all the way up to the north of Scotland and back again.’
‘And did you decide what to do?’ Gill asked.
‘Oh yes, but only on account of the people I met and the experiences I had on the way. They all helped me to see life more clearly, what was important and what wasn’t. And it was on this trip that I met Don.’
‘Don?’ said Maggie. ‘Let’s hear about him!’
‘Well, sex with Roger was, by this time, non-existent. And it never bothered me unduly because I’d stopped fancying him and it had never been great anyway.’ She paused. ‘I met Don briefly when we were roped in as extras on a film shoot, and then, shortly after that, my car broke down just outside Inverness. And guess who came along in his Merc to rescue me? Tall, dark, handsome, and ten years my junior!’
‘Wow!’ said Gill.
‘I had no choice but to accept his offer of a lift. My car had given up the ghost and I thought I’d take a lift to the nearest station and then head back home. That, of course, would have been the sensible thing to do.’
‘But you didn’t do the sensible thing?’ Maggie asked.
‘No, I didn’t. I’d stopped being sensible.’
‘Hallelujah!’ cried Gill.
‘He said he’d give me a lift home – via the scenic route.’
‘I’ll bet!’ said Gill.
For a brief moment Connie was back in Arisaig on Scotland’s stunning west coast, with its golden sands and panoramic view of the islands: Skye, Rùm, Eigg.
‘The weather was glorious, and we found this beautiful place. And we made love.’ Connie paused. ‘And I’d never experienced anything like it in my life! Never!’
They both stared at her expectantly.
‘And then?’ Maggie asked.
‘And then we had a few magical days together. And then I left him behind.’
Gill looked thunderstruck. ‘You left him behind? Why the hell would you do that?’
‘Because I didn’t want to fall in love with him,’ Connie replied, aware for the first time that this was, in fact, the truth. ‘He was a ladies’ man, a lothario; he’d been married and divorced
twice and everywhere we went the women were ogling him.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ sighed Gill.
‘It wouldn’t have worked in a million years. We both knew that. But he’d awakened in me feelings, physical feelings, that I never knew existed! And, for that, I’ll always be grateful. Always. But he was just one of the experiences I had that made me realise I didn’t have to endure a dull, boring marriage.’
There was a moment’s silence before Maggie asked, ‘And you’ve never set eyes on him again?’
‘Oh, just occasionally,’ Connie replied, smiling. ‘When he comes up to London we sometimes have a day or two together. In fact, he was with me for a day shortly before we left.’
‘And that’s enough for you?’ Gill asked.
‘That’s enough for both of us,’ Connie agreed. ‘But I might just see him in Rome.’
It would be fun to see him in Rome, she thought, but not as important as it once would have been.
* * *
‘You must all come with me to Nice,’ Larry said, looking directly at Connie, as he tapped on their door a little later. ‘Once I’ve got Felicity nicely settled I’ll be free to take you gals around, what?’
‘Well, of course we’ll call to see you,’ said Connie. ‘But now we want to go to Grasse, for the lavender. And Gill wants to go to Cannes.’
Larry guffawed. ‘Cannes! Bloody place is full of poofs and posers, and the film festival’s over, you know.’
‘I’d still like to go,’ Gill said. ‘I’ve always fancied going to Cannes.’ She no longer fancied him though. Apart from the fact he’d set his sights on Connie, he was such a bore, always trying to organise them. And that posh accent and haw-hawing were getting on her nerves. He sounded like someone out of an old British wartime film; you couldn’t believe people ever spoke in those precise clipped accents.
‘I can’t go dragging Felicity round half of Provence,’ Larry sighed. ‘But promise you’ll come to see me in Nice. Promise?’
They all nodded solemnly. It didn’t do to argue with Larry and, anyway, they could make it a very short visit.
The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read Page 11
