Chapter 5
I’ve no sooner set up my fold-out chair under a large tree near the cook tent when the first of my hair clients, who booked an appointment with me while they were under the effects of alcohol last night, stumbles out of a nearby tent.
‘Hey, I’m Jonno. I chatted to you last night in the bar about a haircut,’ the young Australian man greets me.
‘Sure, hi Jonno. Do you want to go and stick your head under the shower to wet down your bedhead a bit so I can see what I’m working with?’ I ask as the smell of his stale beer breath hits me full in the face.
‘I just want it shaved,’ he replies.
‘Shaved as in bald?’ I ask, shocked. ‘You’ve still got a long time to go on your tour and lots of photos to take. Are you sure bald is the look you want to go for?’
‘Okay, maybe like a number one then? Four of us are gonna do it, get matching haircuts. It’ll be hilarious,’ Jonno insists.
‘I’m sure your mother will think so. Take a seat,’ I direct him to the chair. Once he’s sitting, I wrap a black cape around his neck, securing it with velcro. ‘You trust your friends to all follow through?’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’ He seems perplexed at the suggestion that there is any risk in his going first. ‘Let’s do this.’
‘Last chance to change your mind,’ I say as I rev the clippers up at the base of Jonno’s tanned neck.
‘Go!’ he commands.
I shave a line of his shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair up the midline of his scalp, giving him a reverse mohawk before working on each side until Jonno is left with a covering of short stubble where his locks had once been.
‘That’ll be 25 francs, please,’ I ask after I’ve removed the cape and brushed a few stray hairs away from around the collar of Jonno’s t-shirt. As he hands me two crumpled bank notes, I offer some advice, ‘Make sure you wear a hat for a while - or you’ll end up with a sunburnt head!’
‘Roger that,’ he smiles before yelling, ‘HEY SHANO - YOU’RE UP.’
Shano crawls out of the tent for his turn, followed by Wayno and Davo, and in less than two hours, I’ve got 100 francs in my pocket.
‘Thanks, guys,’ I bid my four new semi-bald friends farewell as I pack up my chair. ‘And don’t forget those hats, guys… seriously.’
After returning the tools of my trade to my cabin, I head to the cook tent. Monica is mopping the dining tent section’s floor after the breakfast service. Tara sits at a table, staring blankly at the white canvas wall as she eats a piece of baguette smothered in peanut butter .
‘Get the sheets out on time?’ I ask, taking a seat opposite Tara.
‘I’m never drinking again,’ Tara responds in a serious tone.
‘So that’s a no then?’ I smile. ‘Want coffee?’ I ask loud enough for Monica to hear too.
I pour boiling water from the kettle into three melamine mugs, and add a heaped spoonful each of coffee and sugar and a dollop of milk, stirring until the slick of coffee granules mostly disappears.
Three steaming coffees in hand, I sit back at the table with Tara, Monica slides along the wooden bench seat beside me, and I pass them their drinks.
‘I swear I’m going to kill Tim,’ Monica moans. ‘We were ALL at the bar until the same time last night yet I managed to get up and cook breakfast, Tara kind of gets up almost on time for the sheets and HE is still nowhere to be seen, at,’ she checks her wrist, ‘11.30 fucking am’.
‘I missed the laundry pick-up again,’ Tara moans, ‘but Tim was supposed to help me. If he had, I would have made it. Gabrielle from reception yelled at me AGAIN in French.’
‘What did she say?’ I ask, keeping my face neutral.
‘I don’t know Bella, it was in FRENCH,’ Tara replies despondently.
We sip our coffee in silence for a few minutes, each deep in our own thoughts. My mind drifts to the handsome Jock. I wish I’d kept a better eye on the time last night so our goodbye didn’t have to be so rushed.
Almost like she was reading my mind, Monica asks, ‘Did you get Mr Perfect’s phone number?
‘No,’ I sob. ‘Now I’ll probably never see him again. He looked too good to be true anyway. He’s probably an axe murderer or something,’ I console myself.
‘Bound to be,’ Monica agrees. ‘Or a cheating asshole like your father.’
‘Ouch, that’s a low blow. I don’t tell just anyone about that, you know, I’d rather you just carried most of the weight of my secret so it makes my life a little easier, not bring it up at random times, please.
’ While I keep my tone on the light side of upset, Monica’s reminder of my father’s infidelity still stings.
‘Good morning,’ Tim chirps as he bounces into the tent, his arms filled with a stack of papers. A fit young woman with long blonde hair and clad only in a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a tiny bikini top trails him.
‘Hi,’ she says shyly.
‘It’s only barely morning.’ Monica accuses. ‘It’s actually much closer to lunchtime. Where were you at the actual time of breakfast?’ She angrily asks Tim, before directing a curt ‘hi’ in the direction of the barely dressed girl.
‘This is Sage.’ Tim waves a hand towards his companion. ‘She’s an accountant, and after I got talking to her at the bar last night and explained how I was a little behind with the monthly accounts. Sage very kindly offered to help me.’
‘I thought YOU were an accountant?’ Tara asks.
‘Yeah, yeah, I am,’ Tim replies quickly, ‘but you know I just was getting behind.’
‘You can’t tell he’s an accountant,’ Sage laughs.
I immediately warm to her.
‘What a mess this guy was in.’ She playfully punches Tim on the arm.
‘Shit at accounts and doesn’t turn up to help with breakfast or the sheets. What use are you again?’ Monica barbs.
‘Lucky he’s cute, eh? And pretty good in bed,’ Sage winks.
I place my hand on Monica’s thigh under the table to prevent her from rising and throwing fists.
‘Right, now we’ve got these sorted,’ Tim dumps his armful of papers onto a shelf in a cupboard in the corner of the tent, ‘we’re heading down to the beach.’ Tim, sensing his life may be in danger, grabs Sage by the hand and makes a quick exit.
‘Something doesn’t add up with that guy,’ Monica says as she watches them walk away hand-in-hand.
‘He can’t add up, that’s our problem,’ I laugh. ‘Let’s finish our coffees and go to Biot for a nice long lunch, eh?’
7 pm
‘How many passengers?’ I ask tour manager Steve as he hands me the coach microphone after he wishes his group a fun night in Monaco.
‘52 - a full coach,’ he says at normal volume, then under his breath, ‘a bunch of assholes.’
After the coach door has closed and we are moving down the driveway Steve smiles broadly at his bunch of assholes and waves enthusiastically before flicking the disappearing coach the bird.
I’ve put extra effort into my appearance for tonight in the hope of bumping into Jock.
A fitting, black linen pantsuit clings nicely to my curves.
Its thin straps show off my delicate, pale shoulders, and the neckline plunges just enough to be intriguing.
I’ve piled my auburn curly mop on top of my head in a messy bun and taken a few extra minutes to make sure my makeup highlights my eyes and shines on my lips.
‘Shall we go on the motorway up?’ Brain asks.
I take a calming breath so deep my pale freckled cleavage strains against the V-neck of my black linen pantsuit. ‘Brain, I am never, ever, ever… ever, going to say yes to going to Monaco on the motorway.’
‘Never, ever?’ Brain asks.
‘Never, ever, never, ever,’ I confirm, handing him 22 francs for the toll booth. I raise the microphone to my bright red-painted lips and begin the same spiel I say every time we drive to Monaco.
…
‘See you at midnight,’ I bid farewell to Brain as 52 strangers follow me into the elevators and then on the short walk to the front of the Grand Casino.
Once I have given instructions to Steve’s assholes, who actually seem quite nice, to meet me at this very spot at 11.
45 pm, I turn on my sensible-soled, nude-coloured, slightly high heels and walk with purpose down the two flights of cobbled steps towards the Piano Bar.
With each step, my excitement and anxiety grow in equal measure wondering if Jock will be there.
I push through the heavy, tinted glass doors and look around expectantly.
Tonight, there are plenty of empty tables.
I wander through them looking for the smart haircut and broad shoulders of Jock.
My excitement is replaced with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on, disappointment? Sadness?
I knew he was too good to be true.
Fucker.
Now I hope he is an axe murderer and that I’ve had a lucky escape.
I plonk myself down at a window-side table and stare out at the dark, foreboding Mediterranean Sea.
The massive super yacht that I told Brain was my favourite, the ‘Rock Star’, slowly manoeuvres into the marina pulling up at its berth.
An enormous cruise ship is moored just offshore, dwarfing the beautiful Rock Star and all the smaller yachts floating around it.
Orange tender boats bob about, ferrying cruise passengers back and forward from their sea-bound home to the shores of Monaco.
‘Mademoiselle?’ The same waiter from last night greets me, placing the usual tiered platter of salty snacks on the table.
‘Gin and tonic s’il vous pla?t,’ I ask. I need something stronger than wine to wash away this letdown. ‘Make it a double.’
‘Bien,’ the waiter replies, scurrying back to the bar.
Robotically, my hand goes from the tray of snacks to my mouth and back as I stare out at the sky that is darkening as quickly as my mood. Before I know it, I have demolished the gin and tonic and all of the stuffed olives, black olives, chunks of salami and honey-roasted peanuts.
Nothing like eating your feelings, eh, Bella? I admonish myself.
‘Do they not feed you at that campsite?’ I hear a familiar voice ask.
‘Jock!’ I say, too enthusiastically jumping up to greet him. ‘I was beginning to think I would never see you again.’
Fuck, that sounded both pathetic and desperate.