Chapter 4 #2
‘I’ll have what she’s having,’ Jock requests of the waiter before returning his attention to me. ‘So, Bella from Garelochhead, tell me about yourself. If you don’t mind talking, that is.’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ I smile coyly. I take a long sip of my wine, giving my brain time to stop my mouth from babbling. ‘I studied hairdressing in Glasgow after school, did that for a few years and then stumbled across a job advert to work in tourism on the French Riviera.’
‘That’s very brave for a girl from a small village. What did your parents think?’ he asks.
‘Welllll,’ I pause, wondering how much of myself to reveal to this stranger.
‘My dad did a runner, chasing some young skirt from Loch Lomond, when I was a bairn, but later my mam married a gem of a man, even though he was English,’ I roll my eyes, which Jock reciprocates, acknowledging the country of our births’ distaste at our nearest neighbours, ‘when I was 12. My mam and step-dad encouraged me to get out and see the world. My mam moved to Helensburgh from Garelochhead, and that’s as far as she will ever go.
Me, I want to see the world, experience life, try different tastes, do different things… You know?’
Jock’s wine arrives. He’s silent for a moment as he takes a drink, his eyes never leaving me. ‘I do know Bella, I do.’
‘So what do you do?’ I ask, reaching for another olive.
‘Erm,’ he hesitates for a moment, ‘ I’m staying in Monaco for a month,’ he replies.
He obviously won his internal struggle not to blab every last thing about himself in the first sentence. Or maybe it’s only me that can’t stop thoughts from going through my brain and straight out of my mouth unedited?
‘Doing what?’ I press.
‘This and that,’ he replies loosely. ‘For one, I’ve got a job with my uncle, who paints interiors. So I’m helping him with this big painting job.’
Jock looks uncomfortable with the conversation. Is he embarrassed about being a painter, I wonder?
‘You must be good at it then,’ I reply, trying to put him at ease.
‘Why do you say that?’ he asks.
‘You have no paint on your hands.’ Impulsively, I reach out and run the tips of my fingers down the length of the back of his tanned hand nearest to me.
There goes that tingling under my skirt again.
Careful, Bella, I caution myself.
‘Ha,’ he laughs, ‘good soap. So what do you do on the Riviera?’ He asks, moving the conversation away from himself.
‘Well, I work for a tour company, but I don’t do actual tours. I’m what’s called the ‘Monaco Specialist.’
‘Monaco Specialist, sounds fancy,’ Jock smiles, ‘go on.’
‘It’s not as exciting as it sounds,’ I laugh nervously, wondering if it sounds exciting at all.
‘I work for a company called Terrific Tours. A lot of their tours stay at the campsite in Antibes for two nights. For those tours, their regular tour manager and driver will bring the group to Monaco on one of the nights, and they do dinner, visit the palace and stuff like that. But about five tours a week only have one night at the campsite. Because they have to leave early in the morning for their next day of touring, the driver would be over the hours they are allowed to drive under European law if they came to Monaco till midnight, and the tour managers need a break, so…’
‘That’s where you come in?’ Jock seems genuinely interested.
‘Exactly! For those tours me, and a driver called Brain, bring the group to Monaco and take them home again, usually while their regular driver and tour manager get lagered in the campsite bar,’ I laugh.
‘In my free time during the day, I make extra money doing haircuts for bedraggled and overgrown travellers.’
‘What does Brain do while you are chatting up strange men in the Piano Bar?’ Jock asks.
…
We have cleared the entire tiered tray of snacks, downed another two glasses of red wine each and talked about everything from fashion to our favourite football teams.
‘Another wine?’ Jock asks as he scans the now nearly empty bar for a waiter.
I glance quickly at my wrist.
11.30 pm.
‘Fuck! I have to go.’ I unzip my purse and place a blue 50 franc note on the table in front of Jock.
‘Is that for the wine or my company?’ he jokes.
‘The wine. Sorry, I have to rush off, but I’m already going to be late if I don’t break an ankle running in these stupid shoes.’ I stand and take a second to gain my balance on my high heels.
‘Will I see you again?’ Jock asks.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow night,’ I reply over my shoulder as I head to the door, doing an unintentional Cinderella impersonation .
Midnight
‘The motorway home, right?’ Brain asks.
‘Yes, Brain. Same as every night,’ I reply, after I’ve counted that we have all 40 passengers on board. ‘Brain?’
‘Yea?’ he replies as he scrapes along the curb and into traffic. ‘What do you do in your free time here?’
‘You know, not much,’ he replies, staring intently at the road ahead.
July 6th - 1am
After a quick change out of my Monaco clothes and into my campsite clothes, I push through the swinging bar doors - the place is heaving.
As I predicted, the Australian girl who complimented Brain on his driving earlier is now in a darkened corner of the room hanging on his every word.
Quick work from her, I’m impressed. Tim is by the pool table surrounded by a bevvy of beauties while Monica is perched on a bar stool glaring at him over her pint of beer.
Tara sits next to her, chatting to the barman.
I stand between Monica and Tara, putting my arms around them.
‘A pint of lager, please, Aymeric,’ I ask the friendly French barman. ‘You have to let it go, Monica, the guy is an idiot.’
‘I know he’s a fucking idiot. But he’s a hot fucking idiot,’ she replies taking a large drink of her beer.
‘It was a one-night thing, good while it lasted, hopefully. Tim’s not the sort of guy who is going to do a summer relationship.
Not when he flaunts his power as the boss around here and has the notice of a roundabout of girls gagging for his attention every night.
’ I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly before releasing my arms from my colleagues to rest my elbows on the sticky wooden bar.
‘Fun night?’ I ask Tara.
‘If you call burning the turkey steaks and dropping a pot of ratatouille a fun night?’ Tara responds before bursting into a fit of giggles.
‘For the hundredth time, it’s not bloody funny, Tara,’ Monica rolls her eyes. ‘We had to serve everyone half a turkey steak and no ratatouille, it was lucky we had a shit load of potato bake or everyone would have been starving.’
‘Come on, it was a little bit funny,’ Tara pushes Monica to crack a smile. ‘What about you Bella? Fun night? You made it back alive, so that’s a really good start,’ she giggles again.
‘Making it back alive is always a win. It actually was a really fun night!’ I can’t help but break into a big smile.
‘Spill!’ orders Monica.
‘Well… I met a boy….