Cecilia - Two
The heat had me marinated in sweat before I’d even opened both eyes, and the fan in the corner was doing about as much good as a butterfly flapping its wings.
Somewhere across the cobbled street, church bells chimed faintly.
It was already twenty-seven degrees Celsius.
This, apparently, was the price of freedom.
“If you blew on my face all night, it would have produced more air than that fucking fan,” Siena groaned as she came into the bedroom from the bathroom with her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth.
I laughed at her comment and flung the sheet off me, as best as I could where it had stuck to my sticky skin. I made my way to the doors that led to a minute balcony and pulled them open, hoping for a gust of wind to cool me down, but there was nothing but more hot air.
“I’m surprised you’re already up,” I said, turning back to face Siena.
I watched as she pulled the mass of her waist length, curly red hair into a bun on the top of her head, furiously tying it with a hairband that was working overtime.
Her hair was absolutely stunning and always fell in perfect ringlets down her back, even though my hair was just as thick as hers, Siena’s was a burnt umber colour, whereas mine was blonde.
Siena and I tended to be opposites, both in appearance and personality.
Where I had green eyes, she had brown. She was more extroverted and I was more introverted.
But we shared our height – a standard five foot four, our loyalty and the undying notion that we were more sisters than best friends.
“I cannot sleep in these conditions and between the Haribo sweets and piss-poor sandwich we shared on the plane, I am famished,” she replied and at the mention of food, my stomach let out a loud grumble.
I glanced at my gold watch and realised it was nearly seven in the morning. I remembered we had booked a wine tasting in Saint Emilion for nine – the first activity in our European summer.
“We have to get to the pickup zone by eight-thirty!” I reminded her as I walked to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face.
“Babe, we’ll be on time,” I gave her a look because Siena and ‘on time’ did not go in the same sentence together. Of all the years I have known her, she was always running behind.
“More importantly, we’re in France, we’re young, we’re single and we’re about a five-minute walk away from a bakery. A French bakery. I can already taste the croissant in my mouth,” she articulated, nearly moaning and I had to admit, so could I.
“Give me ten minutes!” I called as she wandered to pick out an outfit and I shut the bathroom door, taking note of my appearance: hair stuck to my sweaty forehead, pyjamas skewed and sleepy dust in my eyes.
But I was smiling. Properly smiling. And in ten minutes, I’d be holding a warm pastry in one hand and a coffee in the other, so for once, I didn’t mind what stared back at me.
Ten minutes later, I was dressed, slightly less sticky, and lacing up my trainers while Siena spritzed something lavender-scented around the room like it might erase the heat.
“Ready?” she asked, swinging her tote bag over her shoulder and slipping on her sunglasses like she was starring in an indie film.
“As I’ll ever be. Let’s go find your croissant.”
The streets of Bordeaux were just beginning to wake.
Shopkeepers rolled up shutters with a clatter, and a man on a bicycle zoomed past carrying a baguette under one arm like some sort of stereotype made flesh.
The morning air was still heavy but not quite oppressive yet, and the buildings glowed softly in the golden light, their pale stone facades catching every ounce of sun.
Siena pulled out her phone. “I found a place called Boulangerie des Rêves . That’s… the bakery of dreams. If it’s not life changing, I’m filing a complaint with the French government.”
We turned a corner and were met with the smell— the smell—of fresh bread and warm sugar. My entire body nearly sighed.
Inside the bakery, everything looked like it had been painted in butter.
Pastries gleamed behind glass, delicate and golden.
We ordered with a mix of bad French and enthusiastic pointing, and soon we were sitting outside with croissants, pain au chocolat, and two flat whites that Siena insisted on calling “ fancy lattes.”
“Oh my god,” I mumbled through a bite, flakes crumbling onto my lap. “I’m never eating supermarket pastries again. British food is a scam.”
Siena nodded, too engrossed in her pain au chocolat to answer immediately. “I feel like Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love . Only with more under boob sweat.”
I laughed, leaning back in my chair and watching as a pair of pigeons squabbled over a breadcrumb. The world felt soft around the edges. No sharp corners. No anxious pit in my stomach waiting to ruin things. Just morning light, good coffee, and the feeling that something was beginning.
“Can you believe we actually did this?” I said.
Siena wiped her fingers with a napkin and looked at me. “Honestly? Not even a little. I kept waiting for one of us to back out. Or for your ex to show up with a boombox outside your window begging you not to go.”
“Adrian would never use a boombox,” I said, snorting. “He’d send a passive-aggressive Spotify playlist.”
She cackled, nearly choking on her drink.
It was the kind of laughter that made people turn their heads. I didn’t care. I wanted to bottle that sound and play it on repeat the next time life got messy. This—this was the good stuff.
We finished up and wandered back to the flat, grabbing our day bags and water bottles before heading toward the pickup spot for the wine tour.
“Do you think it’s rude to ask for seconds at a wine tasting?” Siena asked, tightening the straps on her bag.
“I think it’s rude not to. ”
The air-conditioned car was a gift from God.
After fifteen minutes in the back seat, my skin was finally starting to resemble something less than a puddle.
Siena and I had been collected outside the tourist office by our wine guide, a soft-spoken French man named Julien, who wore a linen shirt and aviators like he’d just stepped out of a vineyard-based perfume advert.
“So, we’ll drive about forty-five minutes through the countryside,” he said as we pulled away from the city. “There are many beautiful villages along the way, and when we arrive in Saint-émilion, we’ll begin the first tasting before exploring the town. Sound good?”
We both nodded, already loving him.
The other two people on the tour were a honeymooning couple from Germany—Felix and Lukas—who had immediately made the car smell faintly of expensive aftershave and enthusiasm.
They looked effortlessly chic in matching tan linen outfits, one wearing tortoiseshell sunglasses, the other with a camera already out and clicking.
“We’re doing three tastings in three days,” Felix grinned as he turned to face us. “This is the relaxing one.”
I raised my eyebrows. “There’s a relaxing wine tasting?”
“Oh yes,” Lukas said. “There’s one tomorrow where you walk through a vineyard for three hours in the heat. This one? Air-con. Wine. No hiking. We are thriving.”
Siena clapped her hands together. “We chose wisely. ”
Julien started pointing out countryside landmarks as we drove past rows of vines, sleepy stone houses, and the occasional overly proud rooster.
Siena leaned over and whispered, “I’m all for an education, but are we going to start drinking soon?”
I smirked. “I kind of thought I’d have my beer goggles on by now.”
Felix turned in his seat and grinned. “Ah, British girls. Yes, this is definitely the calm version.”
“We’re easing in,” Lukas added. “Day one: pretend to be sophisticated. Day two: drink like it’s your birthday. Day three: accept your hangover fate.”
We laughed, all four of us instantly falling into that comfortable holiday rhythm where you make fast friends because life is just sunnier that way.
By the time we arrived at the vineyard, we were well-acquainted, Lukas had even shown us their wedding photos “Sixteen groomsmen, sixteen , we don’t recommend it”, and Siena had somehow convinced Felix to follow her on Instagram.
The tasting room was cool and smelled faintly of wood and wine barrels. We were guided through two red wines and a sparkling white, which we were told “paired beautifully with oysters,” though I was mentally pairing it with “a good cheese toastie and a nap.”
I leaned into Siena, swirling my glass with zero technique. “I mean, it's delicious. But I couldn’t tell you the difference between notes of cherry and notes of cherry-flavoured shampoo.”
“Same,” she whispered. “I think my palate topped out at ‘mmm, red.’ ”
Julien, thankfully, seemed unbothered by our lack of refinement.
After the tasting, we were given free time to explore Saint-émilion.
The town looked like something from a postcard: winding cobbled streets, ivy-covered walls, and shuttered windows that begged to be photographed.
We wandered through a square where every table was covered in wine glasses and small dogs and eventually found a little stall selling ice cream.
“I need this,” Siena said dramatically, fanning herself. “Do you think pistachio counts as one of my five a day?”
“Only if you get the double scoop.”
We sat in the shade with dripping cones and happy hearts, watching tourists take selfies under a stone archway.
“Should we get another drink?” I asked, squinting toward a wine bar shaded with vines.
“Cece,” Siena said seriously, “this is the first sensible suggestion you’ve made all year.”
We were halfway through a carafe of chilled rosé when we heard voices behind us.
“Ladies!” Lukas waved, appearing like a linen-clad mirage. “May we join you, or are you gossiping about your exes?”
“Bit of both,” I said, shifting to make room.
They sat down and immediately ordered another bottle of the same wine. Within minutes, we were mid-conversation about the strangest things we’d ever done drunk .
“I once cried at a kebab because it was too beautiful to eat,” I confessed.
“I’ve licked a statue,” Siena added. “I was trying to absorb its history.”
“I proposed to Lukas after four shots of schnapps,” Felix offered, raising his glass. “The second proposal. I already had the ring.”
Lukas beamed. “I said yes both times.”
The wine went down too easily, the ice cream had melted to oblivion, and for an hour, we sat in the golden French sun like old friends who’d known each other forever.
We were dropped back in Bordeaux just after six, tipsy and sun-warmed and nowhere near ready to go home.
“Do we go back?” I asked as Siena looked around, squinting into the glow of the early evening.
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. We’re twenty-six and in France . That Airbnb has a fan that sounds like it’s dying and no wine. We are not going back yet.”
So, we found a bar near the river—a little one with metal tables and a bright red awning—and Siena plonked herself into a chair with a view of the bridge.
“I’ll get this round,” I offered, already heading toward the entrance.
Inside, it was cool and loud and chaotic.
The drinks menu was scrawled on a chalkboard behind the bar, mostly beer names I didn’t recognise—bold, angry fonts in foreign languages that all somehow sounded like they’d knock me out in one sip.
I hovered awkwardly, wishing I could be the kind of girl who asked questions, tasted samples, flirted with the bartender for a recommendation.
A normal person might’ve said, Hi, I don’t know what to order, can you help?
Instead, I panicked.
There was one beer with a purple sticker on the tap handle. I liked purple.
So I pointed.
“Deux, s’il vous pla?t.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow but poured them anyway, two tall pints of something deep red and violently fizzy. As soon as I saw them, I knew I’d made a grave mistake.
I pulled out my phone and did a quick Google. It was a red ale. Eight percent. Possibly fruity. Possibly hellish.
Great.
I smiled tightly, paid, and carried the drinks out like a woman marching toward her doom.
Siena sat up straighter when she saw the colour. “Sorry—what the fuck is that?”
I giggled. “I should’ve just ordered a margarita.”
We clinked glasses and took a sip.
We both grimaced.
“It tastes like flat Ribena and regret,” Siena said, dramatically wiping her tongue with a napkin.
I wheezed. “Why didn’t I just ask what was good?”
“Because you’re British. And emotionally repressed.”
“I hate that you’re right.”
She stood abruptly, downed what was left in her glass, and set it back on the table like a gauntlet .
“No,” she declared. “This is a sin. It’s sacrilegious to be drinking piss-poor alcohol with a view like this.”
She waved vaguely at the river, the twinkling city, the sunset-streaked sky.
“I’m getting us cocktails.”
She returned ten minutes later with two giant margaritas and a smug expression. “You’re welcome.”
We sat there until the sun melted into the horizon. Talking about everything and nothing, the way you do when the world feels too good to be real. The drinks made us louder. Everything felt slightly unreal and beautifully alive.
By the time we started the walk back toward the Airbnb, the streets were still warm and golden.
That’s when we saw them.
Electric scooters, neatly lined up in a row under a streetlight.
Siena turned to me, her face lit with mischief.
“Do we?”
“We definitely shouldn’t,” I said.
“Correct. But are we going to?”
I grinned. “Absolutely.”
We downloaded the app, unlocked one, and climbed on like idiots—me clinging to the back of Siena, both of us at least two drinks over any legal limit.
The scooter wobbled as she tried to steer with one hand and shout “ vive la France! ” at the same time.
We flew over the bridge, hair whipping in the wind, our laughter echoing off the water.
“I’M GONNA DIE,” I yelled, gripping her waist .
“YOU’RE NOT GONNA DIE,” she screamed back. “UNLESS I CRASH, WHICH IS, LIKE, A LITTLE LIKELY.”
Somewhere behind us, a very unimpressed local muttered something about tourists.
We didn’t care.
We were free. Slightly drunk. Absolutely reckless. And for the first time in what felt like years, I didn’t feel like I was holding anything back.