Paint Me A Lie (Paint Me A Lie #3)

Chapter 1

As I meander, I notice that the campsite is almost deserted.

The four tours in residence at Camping Le Mistral last night have either left for their next destination or to explore the C?te d’Azur for the day.

I can see only one remaining bright green coach parked behind the large marquee tent, which is used for both cooking and dining.

I wonder if the driver is still passed out in one of the tiny road crew cabins, making the most of his chance for a sleep-in.

At this rate, the heat will drive him out sooner rather than later.

The tiny windowless rooms become ovens by the middle of the day.

I reach my destination and knock, unnecessarily loudly for the size of the cabin, on the dark-stained wooden door under a hanging sign that reads, ’Terrific Tours Head Rep’.

I flick off my sticky sandals that now have strands of dry grass attached to their soles.

I wiggle my brightly painted pink toes as I wait for my cue to enter.

‘Can you close the door behind you, please, Bella?’ Tim asks me quietly after yelling at me to come in. Stepping into the room, I trip over a heap of dirty clothes dumped by the cabin door.

‘Do you ever tidy up in here?’ I ask, casting my eyes around Tim’s small room.

His wardrobe door hangs ajar, revealing a small selection of haphazardly hung shirts.

Beside it, a shabby wooden chest of drawers is open, clothes spewing out.

Sitting on his unmade double bed are the rest of the Terrific Tours site crew, ‘general dogs body’ Tara, head cook Monique and shuttle driver Brian, AKA Brain.

They acknowledge my arrival by shuffling closer together, making room for me on the corner of the messy bed.

Tim slouches in an office chair that is dwarfed by his gangly frame.

He swivels towards a small desk covered in paperwork needed for the campsite accounts.

Absentmindedly, he brushes a curl of dark hair off his forehead before he opens a lined A4 notebook and starts reading the notes he’s made in preparation for this meeting he has called.

‘I’ve asked you all here today as I’ve had some complaints from the campsite manager,’ Tim’s voice is serious.

‘The French love a bloody good moan, don’t they?’ Tara rolls her eyes, which are as blue as the sea we live next to.

‘This isn’t the first time, though, eh?’ Tim’s Canadian accent becomes more pronounced. ‘They say the bed sheets are coming out way too late from the cabins after the groups leave, and they are missing the only laundry pick-up they get for the day.’

‘Well, maybe if you helped like you were supposed to, Tim, we’d get them out sooner,’ Tara snaps.

‘Monica could also help,’ Tim turns his attention to the Head Cook.

‘I’m pretty fecking busy feeding 100 odd people twice a day,’ Monica snaps back. You’re supposed to help in the kitchen too, Tim, ya know. I haven’t seen you there at all this week.’

Tara nods in encouragement.

‘Why are we even here?’ I ask, tilting my head towards the man sitting next to me.

‘Me and Brain are employed as Monaco specialists. That means we ONLY do the night tours to Monaco. Our day starts at 7 pm and ends at about 1 am. We are, deservedly ,’ I emphasise the word, ‘still sleeping when the sheets need to be done.’

‘Yeah,’ Brain supports me, even though he risks angering his drinking buddy Tim, who is often still at the bar when we return from the principality.

Being a barfly doesn’t help Tim’s ability to get up early and strip beds, help in the kitchen, or do much of anything other than pretending to be really busy doing the accounts.

‘We’re supposed to be a team, Bella,’ Tim says, trying to make eye contact with each of us around the room.

‘Aye, well, there’s no I in team, Tim,’ I state.

My Scottish accent, which has been mostly nullified with hours of elocution lessons from my English stepfather, makes itself known when I’m angry.

I’ve even confused myself with my last sentence, and I can see from the look on Tim’s face that he’s equally baffled.

‘TEAM? TEAM?’ Monica screeches. ‘Give me a fucking break, Tim. If you spent less time holding up the bar till all hours, shagging anything that moved, and some that don’t, you’d have more time to help around here with the fucking sheets…

and in the fucking kitchen.’ Monica stands.

‘Let’s go, Tara,’ she directs the bewildered young Australian.

Monica storms to the door and holds it open, waiting for Tara, daring her to choose sides.

Tara shrugs her tanned shoulders and follows Monica out the door.

Monica slams it behind them so hard that the entire cabin rattles.

‘Well, that went well,’ Tim sighs, slumping further in his chair.