Chapter 6 #2
The mood is sombre as I enter the cook tent. Monica looks forlorn, Tara looks confused, and Tim is visibly shell-shocked. They sit around a dining table, Carlos stern at one end, a very formal A4 diary open in front of him, pen in hand poised above it.
‘Hi,’ I greet everyone.
‘Have a seat, Bella,’ Carlos directs me.
‘I was just saying, I got on a ferry yesterday after dark, and I’ve been driving since then to get here.
You can bet your ass that I’m going to sleep for a week after this meeting.
’ Given the mood of the group, the joke falls flat.
‘Tim, go and get me your last month’s accounts, please. ’
‘Hi,’ Brain says cheerily as he wanders in, seemingly oblivious to the mood.
As Brain sits, Tim stands and walks sheepishly to the corner cupboard.
He slowly opens the cupboard door and stares inside for a minute before grabbing an armful of papers.
A few fall out of the pile as he walks, floating the floor behind him.
Carlos tenses, I sense he’s trying hard to keep a lid on his anger.
Tim places the pile of faxes, receipts and scrawled handwritten notes on the table in front of Carlos.
‘Did your accounts balance last month, Tim?’ Carlos asks.
Tim shakes his head.
‘Did they balance the month before that? Or the month before that?’ Carlos presses.
Tim looks forlornly at the floor, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
‘I think I might know why your accounts don’t balance, Tim,’ Carlos states.
Tim looks up hopefully for a moment, like Carlos might have found a reason that this accounting chaos isn’t his fault and his fault alone.
‘This.’ Carlos holds up one sheet of paper.
Three of us lean closer, squinting to see what it is.
Tim’s shoulders hunch further over; he’s deflating in front of our eyes like a balloon with a slow leak.
‘This,’ Carlos stabs a finger at the paper he holds up, ‘is your CV, Tim? A CV that says you are a qualified accountant in Canada. Based on this CV,’ Carlos shakes the paper angrily, ‘we hired you for this job.’ Carlos is on a roll; he’s had 12 hours driving to rehearse how he’s going to handle this, and he’s nailing it.
‘Now, part of this is on us,’ Carlos puts a twig of hope out to Tim.
‘We didn’t call your previous employer to check your credentials before the season started. But we have now,’ he says ominously.
‘I, I, I can explain,’ Tim stutters.
‘You can explain how you claimed to be a qualified accountant when you are, in fact, a barista?’ Carlos stares Tim down.
‘I FUCKING KNEW IT,’ Monica shouts and points angrily at Tim. ‘I knew something was fishy about you!’
‘Thank you, Monica, but I can handle this,’ Carlos says.
‘Sorry, Carlos, back to you.’ Monica says, lowering her finger but continuing to glare at Tim.
‘I’m really sorry, Carlos… guys,’ Tim says, looking at us all, tears welling. ‘I just really needed the money. Please don’t fire me,’ he begs.
‘I would love to fire you,’ Carlos booms. ‘But luckily for you, we just don’t have any other staff that I can send here.’
A surge of panic courses through me.
Is Carlos going to give me more work?
I don’t want the apple cart of my little routine tipped up. Last night was bad enough. I still need to track Jock down and make sure he knows I didn’t stand him up on purpose. Imagine if I got switched from being the Monaco specialist to having to do the bloody accounts.
‘Surely there’s something we can do to give Tim a chance?’ I suggest with my own best interests at heart.
Monica shoots me a dirty look.
‘Here’s what we are going to do,’ Carlos says, referring to his diary. ‘Monica, you are now the rep in charge. You run the show and do the accounts. I have absolute faith in you.’
‘Thanks, Carlos, I won’t let you down,’ Monica beams.
‘Tara and Tim, you will BOTH be doing cabins and cooking. That means you are BOTH to be up early doing the sheets, do I make myself clear?’ Carlos says sternly.
‘Can I be his boss?’ Tara asks. ‘I’d like a little bit of power around here.’
‘Sure,’ Carlos agrees on a whim, seeing an opportunity to further punish Tim. ‘Tim, Tara is now your boss.’
Tim deflates yet further as Tara beams at her promotion.
‘Bella and Brain,’ Carlos starts.
I hold my breath.
‘Status quo, keep doing your thing,’ he smiles. ‘I’m getting great feedback.’
‘Great, yes, thanks, Carlos,’ I babble.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ Brain whispers.
9 pm - The Piano Bar - Monte Carlo
I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
Where is he?
Maybe I should go for a walk and see if I can find him.
But where would I even start?
The Marina?
One of our regular gelato stops?
But what if I leave to find him and he comes here?
I’m so nervous, I’m drinking twice as fast as normal, and I haven’t even touched the snack tier.
‘Another wine, please,’ I stop the waiter as he passes.
‘Oui madame,’ he responds. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Have you seen my friend?’ I ask. ‘The handsome, actually very handsome, dark-haired man I’m normally here with?’ I sound desperate, I can hear it in my voice.
‘Non madame. Not tonight. He was here last night for a long time, but then he left with a tall blonde woman.’
As soon as he finishes the sentence, I can see he regrets sharing that piece of information, concern covers his kind face. Tears burn the back of my eyes. I blink quickly to stop them from escaping.
‘I’m sure she was a relative or something?’ he adds. ‘A large wine?’
I nod, and he hurries away.
When the wine arrives, I check my watch again.
10 pm.
He’s not coming.
Tears again sting the back of my eyes. I breathe deeply to stop them escaping.
Maybe he’s being a classic chapter 6, ‘Men are like rubber bands’. This could be him pulling back, and at any moment, the elastic will kick in, and he will be back.
Not only back, he’ll want to commit just like it says in my book/bible.
I take another large gulp of wine.
Who am I kidding?
It’s a tiny rubber band, he’s pulled back, it’s snapped, and he’s pinged into the arms of a tall blonde woman who can probably eat without wearing half her food.
I down the remnants of my glass of wine, stand and turn to leave.
I need some fresh air and time to get my tour manager face on for the drive home.
I walk straight into a black leather jacket covering the torso of a well-built man .
I look up into Jock’s handsome face, our eyes lock.
‘I didn’t think you were coming. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here last night.
The tour was cancelled and I didn’t have any way to let you know,’ I’m blabbing, but I can’t help it.
A hot tear breaks free of the well and rolls slowly down my cheek.
Jock lifts one hand, cupping my jaw, he wipes the tear away gently with his thumb.
He raises his other hand to cradle the other side of my face.
Without breaking eye contact, he slowly lowers his face towards me.
He brushes his lips gently across mine.
Ever so gently, he kisses one corner of my mouth, his 5 o’clock shadow prickly against my skin.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he breathes. ‘You haven’t eaten anything.’
As the corners of my lips turn up slightly in a smile Jock kisses me fully, his hands pressing my face to his. That tingling feeling returns, coursing through my whole body.
The blinding light from a camera flash breaks the moment.
‘What the fuck,’ Jock mutters, looking angrily towards the source of the light.
A balding middle-aged man in a tatty suit, with a camera around his neck, turns and scurries out of the bar.
‘That was weird,’ I say, ‘what a perv taking photos of two strangers kissing.’
Jock looks deep in thought as his eyes follow the man making a hasty exit.
After another round of drinks is on the table, we talk a million miles a minute like we haven’t seen each other for weeks.
‘I was so worried when you didn’t come last night,’ Jock admits.
‘I thought you might have gotten sick of me, especially as I hadn’t made a move.
I wondered if you thought I was a prude, or gay, or something, but I really wanted to get to know you first, Bella, to take our time, and for this not to be a mistake. ’
‘Ah bless,’ I smile, throwing an olive in my mouth, my appetite now safely returned.
‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t let you know,’ I say when the olive is safely and cleanly devoured.
I suppress the urge to ask who the blonde was that he left with last night, but decide that’s a question for another time.
‘It did give me some time to think though,’ Jock says cryptically, handing me a piece of paper. I take it and unfold it. ‘It’s a phone number you can leave a message for me at.’
I rummage in my handbag, digging out a pen. Flipping a coaster over, I write the name of the campsite, the address, the phone number and ‘Biot’, ‘that’s the name of the nearest train station,’ I explain. ‘Just in case you’re ever coming to visit.’ I look at him hopefully as I pass it to him.
‘I’ll visit one day, Bella,’ he replies, sliding the coaster into the back pocket of his jeans, ‘but… tomorrow, I have a surprise.’
‘I love surprises! What is it?’ My inner 5-year-old asks.
‘If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?’ Jock laughs. ‘Meet me at our bench seat tomorrow night.’
The thought that we have a ‘bench seat’ at the marina makes me a little gooey inside, and I can’t help but smile like a lunatic.
Midnight
‘Hi everyone,’ I say into the microphone as Brain scrapes the curb as the coach moves away from the footpath and heads towards his favourite motorway.
‘Did everyone have a great night?’ I ask.
Enthusiastic cheers are my reply. ‘Fantastic. Does anyone have any music requests for the drive home?’ I ask .
‘Dreamstreet,’ someone yells from the back.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I reply. ‘Now sit back, relax and enjoy the smooth ride of the motorway most of the way back to the campsite.’
After I’m securely fastened in my seat, I reach forward and unlock the dashboard cupboard on the tour manager’s side of the coach.
Anita has a black folder filled with CDs, which I pull out and flick through the plastic-slotted pages.
I come to a CD that has clearly been illegally burned and has ‘Dreamstreet’ scrawled on it in black, vivid pen.
I pull the CD out of the clear sleeve, sliding it into the coach stereo.
When the song starts, I adjust the volume so the music is not so quiet that everyone will go to sleep, but not so loud that eardrums will burst. I tune in for a minute to the lyrics;
‘When I hurt you,
I feel like I’m failing,
That’s when you know where I’ll be,
…daysailing’
‘Weird song,’ I comment to Brain before I turn the volume control for the front of the coach down to nearly silent. ‘Give me Coldplay any time, am I right?’ I ask my colleague.