Chapter 6
My life has taken on a very pleasant routine that I never would have expected when I arrived on the French Riviera all those months ago.
I get up mid-morning and make some cash by cutting hair in the middle of the day, then five nights a week, while completing my paid work, Jock and I meet at the Piano Bar.
We enjoy a drink, sometimes two or three, and chat for a couple of hours.
If I have sensible shoes on, we might go for a walk around the streets of Monte Carlo, sampling the array of gelato flavours and checking out the rich and famous.
While I’m a little disappointed he hasn’t tried to make any moves at all yet, his reliable, constant presence and his interest in getting to know the real me have been a breath of fresh air.
Things have even been calm and routine at camp, with Monica expecting nothing of Tim and him more than meeting her low expectations.
Tara has managed to get the sheets out on time (mostly), and Tim seems to be keeping on top of the accounts and overseeing the running of the Terrific Tours operation.
Of course, this harmonious state of affairs couldn’t possibly last.
‘Hi,’ I greet Monica and Tara as I enter the cook tent.
Monica is wearing cut-off denim shorts and a bright green Terrific Tours staff shirt covered by a dark green apron tied tightly behind her back.
Her brow is lined with sweat as she faces the big industrial stove, hotplates frantically flipping turkey steaks.
Tara stands beside her in an identical outfit, mindlessly stirring a large tray of furiously bubbling ratatouille.
‘Maybe turn the heat down a bit, Tara,’ Monica instructs. ‘Nobody likes burned ratatouille. Hi Bella,’ she turns to look at me briefly. ‘You look fucking hot! Hoping for some action tonight?’
‘A girl can dream, right?’ I laugh.
‘That boy would be mad not to bang you,’ Tara chirps in.
‘Thanks, Tara. I think.’ I reply. ‘The arriving group is cutting it a bit fine, aren’t they? Have they broken down or something? ’
‘Fucked if I know. They’d normally have been here half an hour ago,’ Monica moans. If they don’t hurry up, the turkey steaks AND the ratatouille will be beyond saving.’
At that moment, Tim saunters into the cook tent.
He wears a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned down to the waist of his orange board shorts, revealing a tanned torso which is not short of an ab or two.
His bare feet are covered in sand, a little of which he deposits with each step he takes, much to Monica’s disdain, if the look on her face is anything to go by, giving away that he’s just come back from the beach.
‘Hey,’ he greets us casually.
‘Hey yourself,’ Monica spits back. ‘Any word on what time this group is rocking into camp?’
‘No,’ Tim replies. ‘I haven’t heard anything today.’ Tim’s relaxed face becomes a little strained. ‘Let me just check the faxes.’
Tim trails more sand as he saunters to the cupboard in the corner of the tent.
He turns the key in the door, opens it and pulls out a stack of faxed information from Head Office.
He looks at one page at a time, scanning the information before moving it to the bottom of the pile and repeating the process with the next one.
He stops and stares at a page.
‘What’s the date today?’ he asks.
‘21st of July,’ I reply helpfully.
‘Oh fuck!’ Tim looks up slowly from the fax. ‘I’m really sorry, Mon.’
‘What do you mean you’re really sorry?’ Monica steps towards Tim, raising the fish slice in her hand menacingly.
Tim turns and replaces the stack of faxes in the cupboard, closes the door and turns the key .
‘I must have missed the fax. I’m really, really sorry,’ he says again.
‘What did the fucking fax say Tim?’ Monica takes another step towards him, brandishing her weapon. Tim edges slowly towards the cook tent door without turning his back on Monica.
‘It said that the tour that was supposed to be coming tonight has been cancelled,’ Tim says nervously.
‘Cancelled? CANCELLED?’ Monica screeches. ‘You mean I’ve worked all day and cooked all these fucking turkey steaks for NOTHING?’
‘I’m really, really sorry, Mon, honestly. I’ll buy you a drink later to make up for it, eh?’ Tim says before legging it out of the cook tent and across the grass to his cabin, his Hawaiian shirt flapping behind him.
‘And I made up 50 beds for nothing,’ Tara moans.
‘What a fucking useless, incompetent, waste of space, coward,’ Monica states as she slowly puts down the fish slice, turns off the burners on the stove, unties her apron, throws it on the floor and gives it a kick for good measure.
‘Tara,’ can you please tell everyone you can find in the campsite that there is a free dinner tonight in the Terrific Tours tent. ’
‘How am I going to let Jock know that I won’t be there tonight?’ I ask Monica and then instantly regret it. Her face is thunder, and my boy issues are the least of her worries.
‘I’m going to make a phone call - see you at the bar in half an hour. We are going to get drunk. Very, very drunk,’ Monica says before storming out of the tent.
Midnight - campsite dancefloor
‘Wut iv he finks I don’t like him?’ I slur, leaning on Monica’s shoulder for balance.
‘Shut up and dance,’ she orders, pushing me off her shoulder and continuing her bouncing up-and-down dance moves.
‘No Mon, really, wut iv he finks I don’t like him? Cause I do Mon, I really do.’
Monica stops bouncing. She places her hands on my shoulders and looks me square in the eye, ‘He’s not your dad, Bella. Not every man is like your dad, a scumbag who will up and leave at the drop of a hat. If Jock likes you too, you will find each other again.’
‘Fanks Mon.’ I envelop her in a hug, which also helps me to stay upright.
‘I looooooove this song,’ Tara swoons, twirling erratically into a group of Spanish tourists.
‘Wut iz this music? I’ve never heard it before?’ I ask, trying to pick up the rhythm and get my body to move in time with it.
‘Where the fuck have you been Bella?’ Tara looks at me like I’ve just landed on the planet. ‘This is Dreamstreet, the hottest new boy band ever.’
‘Have you heard of them, Mon?’ I ask, raising my hands above my head and moving my hips in time to the beat. I feel someone touching my bum. I turn my head to see a middle-aged man trying to dance in time with me, his groin brushing rhythmically up against my pert behind.
‘Hola, hermosa,’ he breathes onto my neck.
‘Fuck off grandad,’ Monica shouts at him, pulling my arms, turning me safely away from him.
‘FUCK OFF I said,’ she screeches when he doesn’t move fast enough for her liking.
‘Who hasn’t heard of Dreamstreet? I’ve got their CD.
They’ve just finished a world tour with a massive concert under the Eiffel Tower in Paris.
Apparently, it was epic.’ Monica finishes like she hasn’t just stopped a Spanish Armada advance.
‘Peter Piper, their lead singer, is mobbed by women everywhere he goes, but I prefer Syd, the bass player, more. I have a thing for tall, gangly men with shaggy dark hair.’ Mon looks casually around the bar.
I might be drunk, but I know she’s trying to see what, or who, Tim is up to.
‘You haf a CD player? I wish I had a CD player,’ I swoon.
‘I wonder if Jock thinks I stood him up tonight? I wonder if he finks I don’t like him?
I wonder if he found someone else at the bar to keep him company?
Why haven’t I asked him if he has a phone number?
Can we sit down?’ I ask, suddenly exhausted.
‘Actually, I think I’m going to be…’ I run to the bathroom.
BAAARRRFFFF. BLAACCH. BLEURGH.
‘Are you okay, babe?’ Mon asks, holding my thick red mane behind my head and out of the toilet bowl I’m leaning into.
‘I think that’s all the ratatouille out,’ I reply.
BLAACH.
‘Maybe not,’ Monica replies, rubbing my back in soothing circles.
Tuesday 22nd July - 2 pm
‘There you go, dude,’ I say to the Australian boy giving off surfer vibes. At his request, I’ve just trimmed his long blonde locks by about a millimetre.
‘Awesome,’ he smiles, looking at his reflection in the small mirror I’m holding up for him. He hands me a few crumpled-up bank notes and wanders off towards the shower block.
I pack up my chair, comb, scissors, and return the mirror to my over-the-shoulder bag and wander back to my cabin.
My head pounds with each step, my mouth is as dry as sandpaper, and all I can think of is a long nap and time to freshen up before work tonight.
As I step onto the asphalt to cross the campsite driveway, my lack of attention nearly results in me being run over by a bright red Mondeo with yellow British licence plates.
The driver winds down the window, and I prepare myself for a verbal tirade about my jaywalking.
‘Hey, Bella. Glad I nearly ran you over. We’ve got a team meeting in 10 minutes in the cook tent,’ the driver greets and instructs me simultaneously.
‘Oh fuck,’ I splurt out. ‘I mean hi, Carlos. Sure, I’ll just put this stuff away and see you there.’
Carlos Stevens is in his early 30s, tall, dark but greying at the temples, with steely blue eyes.
He’s also the man in charge of European Campsite Operations and works out of the Terrific Tours London office.
Usually, he’d do circuits of the Terrific Tours stopovers and campsites a couple of times a year.
These visits are always supposed to be surprise inspections but as soon as his bitch red Mondeo gets on a ferry at Dover his movements are telegraphed by faxes or phone calls between sites alerting everyone that Carlos is on the move.
These jungle drums allow everyone time to make sure their operation is clean, and running smoothly and no unauthorised activities, like shagging passengers or outdoor hairdressing and illicit haircuts are going on.