Chapter 4
The rumbling sound of a coach engine wakes me from an unintentional afternoon nap. I lift my book/bible off my chest, where it must’ve fallen when I lost consciousness.
Fuck! What’s the time? A rush of adrenaline propels me into an upright position to study the clock on my bedside table.
Phew! For a terrible moment, I thought the coach engine was the one leaving tonight that I am supposed to be on.
Rising from my bed, I slide on a pair of sandals and leave my cabin.
The sun is still intense, and I feel little beads of sweat forming at my hairline almost immediately.
The green Terrific Tours coach is parked next to the cook tent, its door open. Tara is on the microphone letting the group know about the campsite facilities and what time dinner will be, while the tour manager waits outside studying a clipboard.
‘Oh, hey Liza,’ I greet one of my favourite road crew.
‘Bella, hi.’ She greets me warmly before we exchange the traditional kiss on each cheek. ‘I’ve got all the latest news for you.’ Liza reaches into her handbag and pulls out a folded-up copy of The Daily Mail. ‘And by latest news, I of course mean a week old,’ she laughs, handing it to me.
‘Thanks! This is the first English paper I’ve seen since I got here. That’ll give me something to do before I take this lot off your hands. Got anything planned for your night off?’ I ask.
‘Pencil and I,’ she starts pointing towards her driver, who is still positioned behind the wheel, waiting for Tara to finish talking so he can switch everything off and start unloading the bags.
‘We think we might start drinking as soon as you start babysitting. Probably go ugly early and hit the hay well before you get back. I’m here for two nights on my next time round, though, maybe we can catch up properly then? ’
‘Sounds great.’ I give Pencil, so named because he’s not very sharp, a wave. ‘I’m taking this lot at 7 pm?’ I check, turning my back on the coach. ‘How’s it going with Pencil?’ I ask in a whisper.
‘Yip, 7 pm,’ Liza says at her normal volume before lifting her clipboard in front of her face and whispering, ‘kill me now.’
‘Oh, God. Hang in there, hun,’ I mumble. Then at normal volume, ‘How many passengers?’
‘Only 27 on this trip. And they are all lovely. You’ll have no problems at all. See you later,’ Liza says as Tara passes her the microphone like a baton and Liza steps back onto the coach.
‘Hey Bella,’ Tara greets me. ‘Oh, is that a newspaper? Can I have it after you, please?’ She begs.
‘Sure can. I’m going to read it now. I’ll drop it off for you later.
…
After returning to my cabin, I sit up on my bed to avoid any more accidental naps and unfold The Daily Mail.
The front page of the June 29th, 1997, copy immediately grabs my attention.
It seems Mike Tyson has an ear fetish, or is hungry for ears and tried to bite off Evander Holyfield’s on live TV - gross.
I spend an hour devouring every page with news from mainly England, but it’s as close to home as I get.
While I read about the new government, it’s the celebrity section that I crave.
Who doesn’t want to know Princess Diana’s every move or what the Spice Girls are up to?
6 pm - I slide jandals onto my feet, throw a towel over my shoulder and pick up my toilet bag on the way out of my cabin, dropping the newspaper to Tara on my way to the communal showers while the group eat their dinner.
After dousing my body in cold water, but keeping my head dry, I wrap myself in the towel, returning to my room to get dressed.
After choosing and putting on a plain set of white underwear, I select a sage green shift dress with spaghetti straps, tugging it over my head and falling to just above my knees.
Noticing my lower legs look a little scaly, I lather on some moisturiser before pulling my unruly hair into a ponytail.
Looking in my makeup mirror, I apply liner with a small wing to my upper lid, finishing off the eyes with dark mascara.
I line the outside of my lips with a dusky pink pencil, filling the inside with a shiny gloss.
That’ll do, I think, as I start my ritual of checking I have everything in my bag.
6.55 pm
‘They’re all on board and ready to go, Bella,’ Liza tells me as I join her outside the coach.
‘Thanks, Liza, you didn’t have to count them, I could have done that,’ I smile.
‘Oh, I want to make sure there’s none of them here to see how drunk I’m going to get in the next two hours,’ Liza laughs. ‘See you next time, babe.’ And with that, she disappears into the cool dark of the bar.
‘You look lovely tonight,’ Brain compliments as I hoist myself up the first step. I wonder if he knows how he can release some air and lower the coach so it’s easier for people to actually get onto his bus, but I decide to leave that for another day.
‘Thanks, Brain.’ I reply absentmindedly.
‘I mean, you always look lovely, Bella. But that colour looks really nice on you.’
‘Thanks,’ I smile, grabbing the microphone from its cradle on the dashboard. ‘You ready to go?’ I ask him.
‘I was wondering, Bella,’ he starts.
‘Don’t even say it, Brain,’ I threaten while smiling. ‘I swear if you say motorway I’m going to crown you with this microphone.’ I wave it menacingly over his head.
‘Just kidding,’ he says, releasing the brake and starting the slow crawl out of the campsite. We both know he wasn’t kidding.
‘Hello, Liza and Pencil’s group,’ I greet my 27 new friends after I’m safely positioned on one side of the aisle of the coach, facing them.
‘My name is Bella, and tonight I’m going to tell you a bit about Monaco as Brain, behind the wheel, takes us safely up perhaps the most scenic drive you’ll have on your tour.
’ As always, I say a silent prayer that this will be the case as I launch into my spiel.
9.30 pm
Loews Piano Bar is mobbed again, so I can’t believe my luck when I spot two people leaving the same table I had last night.
‘Merci,’ I say to them as I land my behind on one of the chairs milliseconds after an elegant middle-aged woman moved away from it, it was so quick that the plush velvet is still warm .
‘S’il vous pla?t,’ the waiter asks, ‘same as last night?’
‘Oh hi, you recognised me,’ I blush.
‘Oui, you come here at least 5 nights a week,’ he smiles kindly. ‘You sit, you drink wine, you read the same book, always alone.’ He smiles and places a tiered tray of snacks in front of me. ‘Always finish the snacks.’
‘I come here for work,’ I feel the need to explain. ‘And the book is, um, research, and, well, a girl’s gotta eat.’
‘I no judge, I just notice.’ His kind face makes me believe him.
‘Yes, a big glass of red wine, please,’ I smile at him while reaching for the snack tray.
After the wine has arrived, I start my usual ritual.
I get my book out, place it on my lap, ready to read.
I take a long sip of wine, then relax back in the chair, taking a couple of deep breaths.
With my hands on the book ready to go, I pop an olive in my mouth and allow myself to get distracted momentarily, watching sailing craft returning from a day off the coast. Using every last ounce of light post sunset to get back into the Marina as the sky turns pink.
‘You like sailing?’ a male voice with a familiar accent sounds beside me.
‘I used to,’ I reply wistfully, turning to look at him.
The air is sucked out of the room and suddenly I’m finding it quite hard to breathe.
Holy fuck.
This guy is hot.
With a capital H.
Tall, at least 6 feet, dark and very, very handsome.
My hairdresser’s eyes assess his crowning glory, his hair has been well cut in a short style, a professional job I’d say. His dark eyebrows frame dark blue eyes that are piercing. A dark 5 o’clock shadow covers his square jaw, but it doesn’t conceal the sexiest cleft chin I’ve ever seen.
‘As much as you like olives?’ he smiles.
I feel something liquid on the side of my mouth. Fuck, have I literally drooled out some olive juice? I ease my tongue out of the corner of my mouth to try and catch it.
The handsome man’s eyes don’t leave my mouth.
With as much poise as I can master, I pick up a tiny napkin from the table and dab it on the corner of my mouth. ‘Better?’ I ask.
‘Much,’ he laughs. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’ he asks. ‘This is the only free chair, and I could really do with a drink and some downtime. Don’t worry, we don’t have to talk.’ He sits on the plush chair beside mine before I even have the chance to answer.
Not that I would have said no.
Despite having a steady stream of men through the campsite this summer, my only interaction so far has been a drunken snog with a tour manager called Roger.
His reputation, which was well known on the Terrific Tours circuit, meant I wouldn’t let his fumbling attempts to get inside my clothes get to the point where he found any of my fair skin.
Surreptitiously, I slide my book off my lap and into my handbag beside me.
‘My name’s Jock,’ the handsome man says, putting out his hand and breaking his previously signalled silence.
‘I thought the accent was familiar,’ I reply, putting my small hand in his.
‘I’m Bella.’ Our eyes lock as we slowly shake hands.
I feel a tingling sensation under my sage shift dress.
Man. This guy is good. ‘Scottish?’ I ask, sliding my hand slowly out of his, enjoying the feeling of his skin gliding against mine.
‘Aye! You too?’ he asks, smiling .
‘Yes, I’m from near Helensburgh. A small town called Garelochhead, you probably have never heard of it,’ I laugh.
‘Nooooo way!’ Jock exclaims. ‘I’m from Rhu, just down the road. How have I never had the luck to meet you before?’
The waiter places a round paper coaster on the table in front of me, and on top of it, he sets down a large glass of red wine.