The Road Trip
‘So, have we got everything?’
‘Yes.’ Finishing putting the suitcases in the boot, Maggie and her hangover slid next to her in the passenger seat in dark sunglasses. ‘Apart from our minds, but we lost those hours ago.’
Choosing to ignore her, Flick turned the ignition, put the car into first and pulled out of the car park. And straight into oncoming traffic.
Put it this way, there were screams.
‘They’re on the wrong side of the road!!!’
‘No, you’re on the wrong side of the road!!!’
As the two women yelled and shrieked at each other, Flick quickly swerved into a layby, narrowly missing a silver Ferrari. The Fiat stalled. The Ferrari blasted its horn. Both drivers looked at each other. Flick had gone as white as a sheet and was shaking.
‘How about I drive?’ suggested Maggie. ‘And you can navigate.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine with a bit of practice,’ Flick feebly protested.
‘Or dead,’ replied Maggie, opening the car door and getting out. Because if her hangover wasn’t going to kill her, Flick’s driving was.
Without further discussion they swapped seats.
‘So how long’s the drive?’ Checking her mirrors, Maggie safely pulled out onto Avenue Princesse Grace.
‘Seven hours, forty minutes,’ replied Flick, peering at the directions on her phone. For the first time in her life, she actually felt relieved not to be in the driving seat.
‘Ouch, that’s a long journey.’
‘How about we listen to some music to help pass the time?’
Flick turned on the radio and the next few minutes were spent scrolling through stations.
Cue terrible pop music with a curious amount of synthesizers and news channels in French which, despite Maggie’s GCSE and Flick’s translation app, neither could fully understand.
Every so often spirits would be raised as a classic Rolling Stones record or a catchy Dua Lipa hit blasted over the airwaves and the volume would be turned up together with the mood in the car.
Only for the song to be drowned out by static a few seconds later as the signal became weak and then disappeared.
There was a metaphor for life in there somewhere.
Finally Flick gave up and turned it off.
‘I’ve got Spotify.’
‘OK, great.’ Focused on navigating a roundabout, Maggie followed the directions onto the autoroute. ‘What shall we listen to?’
Flick fiddled with her phone, scrolling through various playlists. ‘What are you in the mood for?’
‘Something that won’t make my headache worse.’ Maggie rubbed her temples.
Despite the trifecta of caffeine, croissants and paracetamol – the usual guaranteed cure – her headache was proving to be like one of those guests at the end of a party who refuses to leave and takes up residence in your kitchen.
‘How about this band? They’re pretty chill.’
Music flooded the car. At least, Maggie assumed it was supposed to be music.
‘God, they’re terrible,’ she said, wincing, after a few minutes. ‘How about we listen to some eighties instead?’
‘Eighties?’
‘What’s wrong with the eighties?’
‘Big hair. Leg warmers. Acid-wash jeans . . . seriously, I’ve seen Mum’s old photos.’
‘Ah, the good old days.’ Maggie smiled fondly, then caught Flick’s expression. ‘Just kidding. The fashion was awful, but the music was amazing. God, I used to have such a crush on Simon Le Bon.’
‘Is that the guy from Britain’s Got Talent?’
There was a beat. Surely she hadn’t heard that right?
‘No, it is not!’ she cried, in disbelief. ‘That’s Simon Cowell!’
Uh-oh. Flick tried to hide beneath her sun visor.
‘Are you telling me you don’t know who Simon Le Bon and Duran Duran are?’
Flick pretended to have something in her eye as Maggie drew herself up indignantly behind the steering wheel and went on about how if she hadn’t heard ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’, and no, her singing it drunkenly in the street didn’t count, she hadn’t lived.
‘Seeing as we can’t agree on music, what about listening to a podcast?’ Flick suggested, a few moments and one imaginary eyelash later.
‘OK.’ Maggie shrugged, still slightly in a huff.
‘How about some true crime?’
‘I don’t need to listen to true crime, I’ve been living in a true crime.’
Fair point, thought Flick, as Maggie threw her a sobering look.
‘I know,’ suggested Maggie, ‘what about a celebrity podcast instead? There are some new ones I’ve been reading about.’
‘You mean, the ones where rich and famous people we can’t relate to interview other rich and famous people we can’t relate to?’ remarked Flick.
Maggie laughed then. ‘I take it you’re not a fan of celebrities?’
Flick shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just the people I find the most fascinating aren’t even remotely famous. They’re ordinary people who are just quietly going about their lives, but they have all really interesting stories to tell, they just haven’t got a voice . . .’
Breaking off, she stared out of the window as the French countryside sped by in a blur. ‘That’s why I wanted to become a journalist. To give a voice to those that haven’t got one. Because everyone’s got a story to tell, you just have to listen.’
She shook her head, invigorated now.
‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching chat shows but mostly famous people are just there to promote their new film or album or book.
Same when you read their interviews. I’m not really interested in hearing another Hollywood actor’s life story; I’m interested in people like us. You know, normal people.’
‘Not sure I call what we’re doing normal,’ retorted Maggie, putting her foot down and overtaking a truck.
‘Exactly!’ Flick turned back to look at Maggie, her face energized. ‘But that’s why it’s so interesting. It’s like your story. One day you were just like everyone else, living your everyday life and the next it’s all stolen from you—’
‘And you’re on some mad caper across Europe to try and get it back,’ finished Maggie with a grimace. ‘That doesn’t make me sound normal; it makes me sound like I’m nuts.’
‘No, it does not,’ rubbished Flick. ‘Women will relate to you. If it can happen to you, it can happen to them, too.’
But Maggie didn’t look convinced.
‘They’ll find it shocking and unbelievable but mostly inspiring.’
‘I’m hardly an inspiration, more like a complete idiot for making such a massive mistake.’
‘I think you’re inspiring.’
Maggie glanced across to see Flick looking at her and felt oddly touched.
‘I just never want anyone else to go through what I went through.’
‘And that’s exactly why I wanted to interview you, so you can explain why and how it happened, so you can warn other women.’
‘Oh, it’s a long story.’
‘Well, we’ve got seven hours and forty minutes and six hundred and seventy-nine kilometres,’ said Flick, pointing at the sign ahead that said Roma. ‘It’s either that or Eye Spy.’
‘What? You want to interview me now?’
‘I’m not going to record it. Just tell it to me, in your words.’
She heaved a sigh. ‘God, I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Oh, that’s easy.’ Flick smiled. ‘In journalism, they call it the inciting incident.’
Maggie glanced at Flick with interest.
‘It’s something, however big or small, that happens in your life which sets in motion a sequence of events.’
Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, Maggie focused back on the road ahead.
‘In other words, how it all began.’