Chapter 2
Why is it that I have all day to get ready, and I can still run late? I ask myself, not for the first time, as I check that I have everything ready to go for my night in Monaco.
Sunglasses for the drive? I look around my room before touching my head where they rest, helping to keep my thick auburn hair out of my eyes, tick.
I check my wallet for enough Francs cash to buy snacks and a drink. A crisp hundred franc note and a few coins should be enough, tick. I place the wallet into my handbag, hanging off my shoulder.
I pat the bag; it doesn’t feel bulky enough. Something is missing. I glance around my room. My book! I swoop my tattered copy of ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ book off my bedside, sliding it into my handbag and heading out the door.
‘They are all yours,’ Carly smiles as she steps off the green coach and onto the campsite driveway. Brain is already in the driver’s seat with the engine running while he fills out his driver’s paperwork.
‘How many passengers?’ I ask my colleague.
‘You’ve got 40 on board, try not to lose any,’ Carly winks.
‘Any problem children?’ I whisper as I lift a foot clad in a black high-heeled shoe onto the first step of the coach, steadying myself by grabbing the door.
‘They all have problems, and for tonight, the problems are all yours,’ Carly winks before heading straight to the campsite bar. I use my arms to help propel myself into the coach and up the next couple of stairs.
‘You ready Brain?’ I ask.
‘Nearly Bella, I just can’t remember what the date is,’ he asks, looking up at me with his big doe eyes. Lucky he’s cute, as there’s not a lot that goes on behind those adorable windows to his very kind soul.
‘It’s July 4th,’ I smile.
‘Thanks, Bella, you’re a star,’ he smiles and writes the date on the circular piece of card that he slots behind the speedometer of the coach, turning the key to secure it in place.
I wobble a little on my strappy high heels as I step up onto the aisle of the coach, securing my pert bottom onto the safety rail in front of the first row of seats.
Once I’m wedged safely, I give Brain a thumbs up.
He releases the brake, and the coach moves slowly toward the campsite gate.
Carly smiles and waves from the bar to her flock of tourists.
As we inch past, she raises a glass of what looks to be milky pastis to her smiling lips.
I adjust my position, moving one foot across the aisle to widen my stance, careful not to give any of the passengers an eyeful of my lacy g-string up my short black sequined skirt. I raise one hand, grasping the magazine rack above my head, lifting the microphone in my other hand to my chin.
As I switch the microphone on, static crackles through the speakers.
‘Bonsoir à tous - good evening everyone,’ I plaster on a broad smile, hoping my dimples are doing their thing and making me look friendly.
‘My name is Bella, and I have the pleasure of taking you to Monaco tonight. Who’s excited?
’ My enthusiasm is met with blank stares.
Carly and Scooter’s flock seem a bit of a dull bunch.
‘Happy Independence Day for any Americans on board,’ I keep my smile plastered in place.
‘Did you know that this area that we are in, the C?te d’Azur, became a popular destination for wealthy Americans, including artists, writers, and socialites during the late 19th and early 20th centuries?
The presence of these wealthy American visitors contributed to the development of luxury tourism along this coast, with the construction of grand hotels, casinos, and resorts to suit the Americans’ taste. ’
‘Most of us are from ‘Straylia,’ a young man the size of a small building yells from the middle seat of the back row.
‘Right, good to know,’ I pause, searching my brain for an Australian fact to share. ‘I saw Michael Hutchence in the post office in Nice a while ago.’
‘Grouse,’ the small building man replies, smiling broadly.
Brain slows to a stop at the toll péage, hands the attendant 22 francs in coins before lurching off with a graunch of gears.
The foot I’m using for stability across the aisle of the coach is dislodged, and I swing backwards momentarily like one of those jewellery box ballerinas.
As Brain picks up speed, the momentum swings me back around to face the group. I re-cement my foot in place.
‘Right, for safety reasons, I’m going to sit down for the rest of the drive to Monaco,’ I advise.
‘On the way, I’m going to point out things of interest and tell you a bit about the history of the principality so small you could fit two Monacos into the Gare Loch.
That’s a body of water in Scotland where I grew up,’ I add for clarity.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure we are going to be driving in a straight line long enough for me to extricate myself from the safety position, totter down the steps and get myself without incident into the jump seat.
Judging that I’ll have time, I tentatively step into the aisle and swivel towards the windscreen, careful not to get myself tangled in the microphone cord.
Holding on tight to the safety rail, I successfully navigate the two steps, push the jump-seat down and get my bum onto it safely in one fluid movement.
As my feet dangle into the stairwell, I pull the lap safety belt across my chest and latch it securely.
I’m not sure it would actually do anything if Brain crashed.
I heard once that the front of tour coaches is designed to crumple to protect the passengers.
Seems unnecessarily cruel, but hopefully we won’t have to worry about that scenario.
The sun is sagging low in the sky, and bright enough that I need to retrieve my Ray-Bans from their case inside my black leather handbag. Placing them gently on my face, I enjoy the relief they give my pale blue eyes from the intense glare.
‘We’re going the coastal route, right? I quietly ask Brain.
‘Do we have to?’ He glances at me anxiously. ‘I hate all those turns.’
‘I know, Brain, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip for these people, remember. They want to see scenery, not motorways.’ I inwardly groan at having to have this conversation with him five times a week.
The guy has to do two drives. One to Monaco, one back.
Most drivers have to drive every road all over Europe, and this driver can’t cope with these two bloody drives that take about an hour each.
It’s no wonder he got kicked off the European Training Trip.
‘We will come back on the motorway.’ I smile reassuringly at him, trying to put him at ease like I do every time.
‘How do you always manage to get your way?’ Brain asks.
‘Well, obviously because I’m the boss,’ I joke, ‘but mainly because this is what you get paid to do.’
I click the microphone back on.
‘Now that we have passed through Nice, we are going to take a corniche road. These are winding roads, cut into the side of a steep hill or along the face of a coastal cliff. Three corniche roads head to Monaco, we are taking the middle one, known as the Moyenne Corniche,’ I explain to the group.
Brain groans beside me as he grinds down a gear or two as the coach starts to climb.
‘Lucky we have Brain behind the wheel to get us safely to Monaco.’ I smile at him, willing for it to be true.
He gives me a quick smile back; he knows that my talking him up will greatly increase his chances of getting lucky in the bar later tonight.
Nice shrinks behind us as we climb and wind, climb and wind.
To our left, across the road, rough-hewn cliffs tower above us; on our right, a narrow footpath and a tiny low wall are all that separates us from plummeting to the ocean below and certain death.
I cast my eyes up in silent prayer to Saint Christopher to keep this traveller safe, as I do every time I’m on this road with Brain.
I hear ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ behind me as the group looks down over the roofs of mansions with crystal-clear swimming pools in their backyards, shimmering in the early evening sunshine.
‘Monaco, and the city of Monte Carlo, where we are heading, has been ruled by the Grimaldi family for eight centuries. The current ruler is Rainier the third, who has been Prince since 1949. In a true Hollywood love story, Prince Rainier met American actress Grace Kelly in 1955, and they married in 1956. Together they had three children and seemed to be living a pretty happy life until September 13, 1982,’ I pause for dramatic effect.
‘This was the day that, not far from here, Princess Grace was heading down the Corniche to drop her daughter at the train station. Yes, she could have had a chauffeur, but as her nifty little 1971 Rover didn’t have enough room for three people and luggage, Princess Grace made the fateful mistake to drive. ’
Brain graunches down a gear, narrowly missing the kerb as he makes a turn at the same time. My hand around the microphone tightens, my knuckles going white. I’m sure I don’t get paid enough for this level of danger.
‘Coming around a bend very much like this one,’ I continue, ‘it is said that Princess Grace had a medical event and her car careened off the cliff.’ I can hear gasps from behind me, hopefully due to the story and not Brain’s driving.
‘Sadly,’ I put on my most forlorn voice, ‘she died from her injuries and Prince Rainier was never, ever, the same again.’
‘Should’ve had Brain driving for her,’ I hear a female with an Australian accent call out. The passengers cheer, and at that moment, I’d bet 100 francs that it is she who will end up in Brain’s small, smelly cabin tonight.
After safely finishing the climb, we begin the short descent into Monaco.
I remove a cassette from my handbag and slot it into the tape deck.
It’s cued up and soon Abba’s ‘Money, money, money,’ blasts over the stereo.
I pause the song as we approach the port.
Brain slows the coach to a crawl. ‘We are now on the starting grid for the Monaco Grand Prix,’ I put on my best Murray Walker impersonation.
Brain revs the engine again, and again, before putting the coach into gear and planting his foot on the accelerator.
The front of our chariot rises, and the back drops as we speed off down the start of the track to the cheers of the group sitting behind us.
After a quick sprint, Brain slows again so we can enjoy the view.
After his moment of glory, I click back on the microphone.
‘Off to our right, you can see Monaco’s marina, home to superyachts of the rich and famous. Have a look and see which one you would choose if money were no object. Me, I’d have that big blue one with the gold trim, called ‘The Rock Star’, can you see it?’ I ask.
‘I’d have that little yacht, I think,’ Brain muses, ‘I like to keep things simple.’
‘I like simple things as well, Brain, but sometimes a bit of luxury would be nice too, don’t you think?’ I smile. ‘Especially when you’re living in a campsite.’
Talk of the little yacht jolts me back in time.
Garelochhead - sometime in the Scottish summer of 1977
‘Gie it a shove, Isla,’ I implore my twin.
‘It’s heavy, gie us a haun!’ Isla pleads.
I carefully picked my way towards the carbon copy of myself on the wet sand to avoid shells that could slice my bare feet.
‘Old man Cameron will hae our hides if he sees us,’ I say as I join Isla behind the small wooden daysailer, pushing it with all the might that my skinny 5-year-old arms can muster.
The boat inched towards the always icy water of the loch.
‘Whit are we gonnae dae if we get it in the watter?’ I asked.
‘Just go for a wee sail,’ Isla laughed and pushed again.
The bow dug into the claggy sand, halting our already slow progress at the line of the low-tide water.
A familiar sound echoed around us. ‘Bairns, where are ye? Bairns! Come on, it’s time for ye tea.’
‘Darn,’ Isla curses, ‘Mam ruins all our fun.’
I grabbed Isla’s delicate hand in mine, leading her away from the boat, which was now at risk of floating off when the tide rose.
We tiptoed around the jagged rocks, which got larger as we got closer to the grass bank that lines the beach, the wet hems of our matching homemade gingham dresses clinging to our skinny thighs.
We wiped our feet frantically on the grass so Mam wouldn’t get mad at us for tracking sand into the house, again.
A short walk from the beach, and we were inside the tiny cottage we called home and sitting at the small Formica dining table.
‘I hope you’ve been gud girls,’ Mam said, putting in front of each of us a slab of shortbread dusted with sugar and still warm from the oven alongside a glass of fresh milk.
A touch on my arm brings me back to the present.
‘Bella, we’re here,’ Brain says.
I shake my head, taking a second to get my bearings. The coach has stopped, and we are parked inside a brightly lit tunnel.
‘Right. Shit. Sorry. I was miles away,’ I apologise, lifting the microphone to my mouth.