Chapter 3
‘Okay, everyone, this is where we leave the coach,’ I say, facing the group.
I can see from their faces that they are confused.
Why on earth would they be getting out of the bus inside a tunnel where they can’t see any buildings, let alone Monaco?
‘Trust me,’ I reassure them. ‘We won’t be back with Brain and the coach until midnight when we head home, so make sure you don’t leave anything behind, your ID, a warm jacket, camera,’ I instruct the group as I sling my handbag over my shoulder.
‘See you near the garden at midnight?’ I confirm with Brain, even though this is exactly what we have done five nights a week since April.
‘Yip, see you then,’ Brain confirms.
‘Follow me,’ I shout above the noise of luxury cars whizzing by. Turning on my heels, I lead the flock to a bank of elevators that whisk us quickly to street level. Thankfully, it’s a short walk to the front of the Grand Casino.
Once the group are out of sight, I turn on my strappy heels and, making sure to lift my feet like a dressage horse to avoid tripping on the uneven cobblestones, head to the nearest stairs.
Gripping the handrail, I place one foot securely in front of the other as I descend the two flights of stairs to Loews.
Loews might not be as majestic as the Grand Casino, but I’m unlikely to bump into any Terrific Tours clients.
While there is a casino, there is also a spacious piano bar with panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Mediterranean Sea.
The lighting in the Piano Bar is subdued.
Lamps on each of the low tables cast a glow over couples or groups sitting around them.
Mostly, they sip on flutes of champagne while nibbling savoury snacks from the tiered china platters laden with complimentary salty treats to keep them thirsty.
A straight-backed pianist in a tuxedo plays background music for the patrons, who seem to be mostly speaking French.
I spy a couple leaving a low table and two velvet-covered armchairs next to the window vacant.
I make a beeline for it, sitting down excited to have secured a prime position in the crowded bar.
Looking around, I can see no other empty tables, result!
I’ve only just picked up the menu when a waiter arrives delivering my own small tiered platter of salty treats.
‘Mademoiselle?’ he asks.
‘Un verre de bordeaux s’il vous pla?t,’ I ask, ‘a big one please,’ I add as an afterthought.
I pop a stuffed green olive into my mouth, savouring the briny bite as my eyes track a yacht gliding along the coastline. The waiter reappears with my wine, swift and silent, like he knows I need it. I take a long sip, set the glass down, lean back in my chair and breathe deeply.
A few minutes pass while I decompress, letting the tension in my shoulders ease, the kind that always coils between them when I’m willing Brain not to crash the bus. Once I feel my pulse return to normal, I pull out my book and open it to the dog-eared page I’ve read more times than I’ll admit.
Chapter Three: ‘Men Go to Their Caves and Women Talk.’
I’ve been reading this book like it’s scripture, slowly, painfully, faithfully.
It’s been my emotional CPR ever since Lochie, my (now ex) boyfriend of two years, disappeared into his metaphorical cave just before Christmas last year and never came back out.
Turns out, there was another woman in that cave. So, that probably explains it.
Bastard.
I press back the familiar sting of tears with another deep inhale and a longer sip of wine. Then, like I do every night, I read the words without really absorbing them and hope, desperately, that time will keep dulling the ache a little more.