Chapter 11 To Catch a Thief
To Catch a Thief
Monte Carlo. The Millionaire’s – no, Billionaire’s – Playground.
Just the name conjures up visions of glitz and glamour, with its world-famous casinos, celebrity super-yachts and the speed and excitement of the annual Formula One Grand Prix.
Nestling on the glittering shores of the Riviera, this legendary district of Monaco, a tiny principality and home to the world’s wealthiest, is characterized by wealth, luxury and extravagance.
Imagine arriving in style: the breathtaking views of the Mediterranean as you’re whisked from Nice Airport during your exhilarating seven-minute helicopter ride.
Or whizzing along the stunning coastline in a fancy sports car; the wind in your hair, exhilaration in your veins.
Part of the endless stream of bright red Ferraris, canary-yellow Lamborghinis and blacked-out Range Rovers, sweeping up to the entrance of the opulent, five-star hotels.
Or, wait – what about the local bus?
Cue the sound of a needle being dragged off a record player.
Sitting with your luggage on your knees for what feels like for ever as you wind along the coastline, trying to stave off motion-sickness and cramp in your legs . . .
Squashed up against the window, Maggie rested her cheek on the glass, gazing out at the scenery but not seeing any of it, lost in thought.
‘I suppose it makes sense,’ she said, suddenly out loud. ‘Where else would you go to catch a thief?’
‘Huh?’ Dozing off next to her, Flick opened her eyes and pulled out an AirPod. ‘What did you say?’
‘To Catch a Thief. You know, the famous thriller directed by Alfred Hitchcock and filmed in Monte Carlo.’
‘Oh, right,’ Flick nodded. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘Never heard of it?’ Maggie frowned over the top of her carry-on suitcase.
The wheels were beginning to dig into her thighs.
The bus was packed so they’d had to put their luggage on their laps.
‘It’s a classic with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly.
Actually, what’s even more interesting is Grace Kelly went on to marry Prince Rainier III of Monaco and become Princess Grace of Monaco. ’
‘Who’s Grace Kelly?’
Maggie shifted her body to turn to her younger travelling companion.
‘You don’t know?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘She was a beautiful Hollywood actress in the fifties, who gave up acting to marry a prince and become a princess. It was a real-life fairytale.’ An image of Grace in her iconic wedding dress flashed across her mind.
‘What’s she doing now?’
At which point Maggie’s face fell. ‘She was tragically killed in a car accident.’
‘Doesn’t sound much of a fairytale to me,’ shrugged Flick, closing her eyes again.
Which brought Maggie up short. Hang on a minute . . . She had the sudden, disorientating feeling of seeing something from a totally different angle, together with the thought that, actually, Flick might be right.
‘Anyway, it should be called To Catch a Con Man,’ continued Flick. Opening one black-liquid-linered eye, she squinted at Maggie and gave a wry smile. ‘It’s a much catchier title.’
They’d landed at Nice Airport over an hour ago and, after a bit of confusion, using Maggie’s distant memory of GCSE French and Flick’s iPhone they’d finally managed to switch onto the right bus to take them to Monaco and, from there, Monte Carlo, its most famous district.
The journey was only supposed to take about an hour – not that much longer than a cab and at a fraction of the cost – but they’d been on it for what felt like for ever, stopping in various villages as they made their way along the coastal roads.
Resting her elbow on the armrest, her hot cheek against the glass, Maggie gazed absently out of the window, while Flick dozed next to her.
Maggie envied her youthful ability to be able to fall asleep anywhere, at any time.
She’d slept on the plane too, falling asleep as soon as they’d taken off.
Maggie felt too anxious about everything.
Was that a product of age? The constant seeing of life through a lens of worst-case scenario. Or was that because of Him?
With knots in her stomach, she’d ordered a gin and tonic from the in-flight drinks cart.
It wasn’t even lunchtime, but she’d needed something to take the edge off, to try to calm her nerves.
Instead it had made her feel lightheaded and nauseous and she’d thrown up in the toilets. So much for taking the edge off.
Nice felt a world away from Northern England.
The bright sunshine, blue skies and searing heat had hit as soon as they exited the aircraft and walked across the tarmac.
Thankfully, the arrivals hall was air-conditioned and so was the bus.
She’d forgotten how hot it could be abroad.
Or maybe that was just the hormones talking.
Bloody perimenopause. Her internal temperature was constantly being turned up and down, as if a couple had taken up residence inside her body and were arguing over the central heating thermostat.
Now, watching the blur of palm trees and glittering sea she felt the adrenaline slowly starting to ebb away. Felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease and her body relax. And for a brief moment she felt an unfamiliar feeling of being disencumbered. Of feeling curiously lighter.
Before remembering why she was there and her stomach twisted itself up again.
Maybe she’d been too impulsive. Yesterday, after her conversation with George, she’d called Flick.
She wanted to help; maybe by telling her story it would protect another woman.
Maybe it would aid in his arrest. Maybe it would even help get back some of her money, or at least her dad’s watch.
Whatever the motive, she agreed to being interviewed.
Just no horrible photos in the newspaper, please.
You know the ones. Where perfectly normal-looking women were forced into fuddy-duddy wrap dresses and nude court shoes and made to look middle-aged and miserable so people could post mean comments online.
Though to be honest, these days Maggie felt middle-aged and miserable without any help from keyboard trolls.
It was then that Flick had proceeded to tell her the whereabouts of her ex.
She’d been both surprised and not surprised, if that made sense.
Of course he’d left the country. Of course he was in Europe, on the French Riviera, living it up while she was in a mouldy caravan in the corner of a muddy field in northern England, trying to make ends meet dog-walking and living off her credit cards.
And yet, while she felt angry and outraged at the unfairness of it all, there’d also been a sense of relief.
That he was far away, somewhere else, out of the picture.
Part of her hoped she’d never see him again.
A big part of her. And yet, something inside of her – a flicker of her old self before everything fell apart – had reappeared in that caravan, like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
And before she quite knew what was happening, she was offering to go with the reporter.
Packing an overnight bag. Catching the bus to the airport.
It felt good to be finally doing something.
Since losing everything, she’d gone from a woman who lived her life, to a woman who just reacted to events.
She had things happen to her, instead of making things happen.
Leaving to go somewhere, armed with her passport, felt like flexing an old muscle.
She didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know what she was doing.
But doing something felt better than doing nothing.
Having agency. Isn’t that what they called it now?
The bus rounded another corner, revealing another flash of the Mediterranean, and she took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.
The doubts were creeping back in again. She felt exposed and uncertain.
Back in the caravan, life felt constrictive and suffocating, but it also felt safe.
Nothing bad could happen as everything bad had already happened.
She was at rock bottom; there was nowhere further to fall.
Forget Great Expectations, she had no expectations.
Still, it was only for twenty-four hours. Just one night and she’d be back home in the caravan. Though, with the enforcement notice fresh in her mind and tucked in her handbag, who knows how long she’d have a home.
Finally, after pausing at various bus stops in lots of different villages – Villefranche-sur-Mer, èze, Cap d’Ail; Maggie read all the names in her best French accent – and passing lots of swanky hotels, the bus came to a halt.
‘OK, I think this is us,’ said Flick, eyes snapping open as if she had an in-built timer and motioning for Maggie to get up.
‘Great.’ Maggie gratefully lifted her suitcase off her knees.
God knows why it felt so heavy, she hadn’t brought much.
To be honest, she didn’t have a clue what to bring.
After all, she was only there for one night.
Plus, most of her stuff was in storage. The caravan had so little space, she’d packed all her nice clothes away, along with the rest of her belongings.
Boxed them up. Wrapped them in masking tape.
Stacked them up on top of each other in a tiny little unit in a vast yellow building on an industrial site somewhere off the ring road.
She often wished there was somewhere like that you could put feelings.
Pack them all away with the rest of your furniture. Turn off the light. Forget about them.