Escape to the French Riviera

Chapter Thirteen

I am fast asleep in my lavish four-poster in the midst of the most delicious dream about Elias. We are on the yacht, all cuddled up on that round bed of his, when he leans over and hands me an adorable little kitten with the most enormous blue eyes looking up at me. I am about to kiss Elias in my dreamy haze when there is the biggest bang, followed by shouting in French.

Now, normally, in the morning, I have to open one eye first – always the left one – and this slowly follows with the right eye. However, this morning, I am forced to abruptly open two eyes, and I quickly pull the duvet up around me to protect myself from the screaming woman standing at the foot of the bed.

‘ Sortez, sortez! ’ she screams. I remember seeing a sign saying something like that on an aircraft once, and I’m sure it must have meant exit. I think she wants me to leave, and I am afraid she is going to drag me out of bed hair first by the wild look in her eyes. I put my hands up in the air as if to say I surrender and climb out of bed searching for my kimono to wrap around me. What if Gianni hasn’t told his wife that someone is staying here, and she thinks I am having an affair with her husband? I try not to panic. Surely, she will understand that I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for sleeping in their marital bed. The more my eyes focus, the more I realise that the woman looks like one of the big portraits that hang on the living room wall.

‘Speak English?’ I ask meekly.

‘I thought you were from Poland?’ she says gruffly. Okay. I am so confused.

‘No, Wales. You know, Pays de Galles .’ I am suddenly thankful for learning where I am from, along with merci from some old language cassettes I had years ago.

‘I don’t care where you from. You should not be sleeping in my bed!’ Her voice is still a few octaves too high for my liking, so I quickly apologise. I now wish I had stayed in my old room when Soraya left. Perhaps they didn’t expect their visitors to use the master bedroom. My heart is racing, my mouth is dry, and I would do anything to have the girls here for backup.

‘Yes, I’m so sorry. I’ll get my things out of here as quickly as possible.’

The woman stamps up and down, grabs some of my clothes that are left on the white leather loveseat near the bed and throws them at me.

‘Out!’ she shouts.

I stumble about and grab all my bits as the woman reverts to screaming in French once again. I didn’t realise Gianni’s wife would be this feisty, but I suppose she did find a strange woman in her bed.

Once I have all my bits from her room, a moisturiser bottle that I had left in the en suite comes flying towards my head. I duck and find myself apologising for her attempted assault.

‘Why the agency send me such stupid people?’ she shouts.

‘The agency?’

I look towards the front door, feeling that I may need to make a sharp exit from here and notice a whole stack of designer luggage has been left by the doorway. I am guessing the lady of the house is back from her trip. Maybe she has left Gianni in Dubai alone. If only she would calm down a bit, I might be able to explain what I am doing here.

‘You’re fired,’ she screams.

‘Fired? I don’t work for you.’

‘Listen to me.’ Her face is getting menacingly scary now. ‘You work for me. Not the other way around. Now, I have to clean bed! How dare you sleep there!’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Look, I’m very, very sorry.’

‘Get out. You’re the worst housekeeper the agency ever sent me. I will make a big complaint with the company.’

‘Housekeeper? I’m not a housekeeper.’

‘I can see you’re no housekeeper! Now take your merde and get out!’

I desperately grab the clothes that are falling all over the place as the lady gets closer and closer, then pushes me towards the door. I may have packed quickly for last-minute holiday offers over the years, but nothing like this. Luckily, I spot my phone on the top of the table by the door and snatch it before she slams the apartment door on me. I stand in the corridor, dazed. What on earth just happened? One minute, I was in a deep sleep, dreaming nice things about Elias, and the next, I’m thrown out of my holiday accommodation.

On my hands and knees, at a safe distance from the apartment, I put everything I managed to grab into my little suitcase. I comb through my hair with my fingertips and try to compose myself as I walk downstairs through the posh reception area. I look like someone doing the walk of shame. I am so confused and slightly panicked. How on earth could this happen? By the time I’m out on the street, I burst into tears.

I search for the nearest cafe so that I can calm my thoughts and consider what I should do next. I suppose the first thing to do is try to get on the next flight home. I could never afford accommodation here.

With my head in my hands, I manage to order a coffee, and then I hear my phone. At least my day can’t get too much worse, as Michael is still blocked. I see it is a voice note from Soraya, who I need to talk to more than anyone right now. I press play to listen to what she has to say.

‘The weirdest thing has happened. Andrew had a message from Gianni, right. He messaged Paulo to let him know you were staying at the apartment a bit longer… And this is really weird, but Paulo said that none of us ever turned up. He said he was at the airport that night, and we didn’t come off the flight. He didn’t think to let Gianni know. He assumed the plans had changed and Gianni was too busy to tell him we weren’t coming. Where are you now?’ I stare at the phone open-mouthed and pick up my phone to ring Soraya.

‘Funny you should ask that. I’m on a streetside cafe, feeling a bit homeless as I’ve just been kicked out of the apartment by a furious French lady who I presume is Gianni’s wife.’

‘But Gianni is gay.’

‘Well, there was a portrait of the woman on the wall in the lounge. Remember?’

‘Yeah, well, I assumed that was his mam or something. Maybe it’s his mam, then? Give me five minutes, and I’ll ask Andrew to clear all of this up. I have no clue what’s happening. Try not to panic. I’m sure there is a very easy way to solve all of this, and you’ll be back in there in no time.’

I drink my latte and bite on the little macaroon that came with it. I have a feeling this is all the breakfast I am going to be having today, thanks to my new status as a vagrant.

Ten minutes later, Soraya calls me back. She clears her throat three times before she speaks, which I know means she doesn’t want to say out loud what she is about to.

‘So… Andrew spoke to Gianni. Oh my god. I feel like I’m to blame for everything. It’s all my fault. I was a bit… let’s say… sozzled when we landed, and I think we got in the wrong car with the wrong driver and stayed in the wrong apartment. It’s not Gianni’s. He doesn’t know where we stayed, and to be honest, neither do I. When he paid for the restaurant, he assumed we were staying in his apartment, but it’s only now he’s spoken to Paulo and found out we didn’t show up there. I did think it was a bit strange, as Gianni is such a perfectionist. I can’t imagine he’d leave his place a bit upside down, and I did wonder where the big engine coffee table he bought from us was. I assumed he’d shipped it to one of his other homes. I’m mortified. The problem is, Gianni doesn’t have anyone there with the keys for his place now, as Paulo’s gone to visit his sick mother in a small village somewhere. So I can’t get you access. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Please forgive me. Shall I try and book your flight home for you? It might be best if you come home right away.’

‘I think that’s a good idea. What time’s the next flight?’

‘I’ll check and see what I can do and look for flights now. Stay where you are.’

‘Well, I’ve got nowhere else to go now, have I?’ I laugh, despite not seeing the funny side of this at all.

I drain the last of my coffee and wait for Soraya to call me back. I am supposed to be going for dinner with Elias this evening and feel disappointed that I will have to let him down, although that’s the least of my concerns in the grand scheme of things.

But then I realise something even worse. My laptop isn’t with me. It’s still inside the apartment, and I can’t possibly leave without it.

How on earth can I convince the screaming French lady to give it back? I can’t afford to leave it there. I feel sick and realise that staying on alone was the worst possible thing I could ever have done. I might have known that fancy, glamorous trips were never meant for me. I attempted to fit myself into a world where I never belonged, and this was the result.