The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read Page 12

  ‘There are so many places you won’t be able to get to with that bloody great thing,’ he said cheerfully, with a nod in Bella’s direction. There followed an exchange of numbers and much advice from Larry on where they might park Bella.

  ‘This isn’t Brighton or Bournemouth, you know,’ he said, ‘you’re not going to find zillions of caravan sites.’ He was probably right. ‘Anyway, you’d better head for the Luberon if you’re set on all that lavender.’

  They waved goodbye to him with sighs of relief, as he towed Felicity out onto the road.

  ‘He means well,’ said Maggie.

  * * *

  They arrived at the perfume capital of the world at exactly the right time, with the fields of lavender in full, glorious, scented bloom.

  It took Maggie’s breath away. She’d always loved perfume; even as a little girl she’d help herself to her mother’s Evening in Paris or Yardley’s Lavender, both of which she considered to be the height of sophistication. In later years, she’d sampled most of the well-known perfumes before settling on Chanel No. 5. You couldn’t go wrong with Chanel No. 5 and Maggie had treated herself to the perfume in Paris. Not the eau de parfum, but the real deal. And several bottles at that.

  In Grasse, they bought sachets and oils and soaps and lotions. They visited the International Perfume Museum, and even discovered that jasmine and roses – the key ingredients of Maggie’s Chanel No. 5 – were grown in protected fields around the area.

  They were unprepared for and completely mesmerised by the sight and smell of the unbelievable purple miles of lavender, which seemed to stretch to the horizon in every direction.

  ‘It’s the best time,’ they were told at one of the lavender farms. ‘From now until the middle of July, before the harvest. And the tourists.’

  ‘There’s no shortage of tourists now,’ Connie remarked. ‘So heaven only knows what it’ll be like next month.’

  ‘And in August,’ Maggie added, ‘when everyone in France goes on holiday.’

  Most of the lavender farms were family-run and, having asked the elderly owner’s permission, they left Bella in the tiny car park of one of them, where fortuitously it was well hidden from public view.

  They strolled along the roads between the fields, breathing in the scented air, the only sound being the tinkle of sheep’s bells in the distance, and the occasional bleat of a goat.

  ‘Wow, it’s hot!’ Maggie exclaimed, collapsing onto a grassy bank.

  ‘My feet!’ moaned Gill.

  It was always Gill’s feet. She should get herself some decent trainers, Maggie thought, instead of all those ridiculous strappy sandals.

  Just then some goats made a fleeting appearance.

  ‘Perhaps we can get some goat’s cheese,’ Maggie suggested.

  Connie stretched out her legs. ‘Good idea!’

  ‘Horrible stuff!’ said Gill.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to eat it,’ Maggie retorted. ‘I’m sure we can find you a bit of mouldy old cheddar somewhere.’

  Gill snorted.

  ‘You’re putting on a little weight, Maggie,’ Connie remarked. ‘And it suits you.’

  ‘It must be contentment,’ said Maggie. She was pleased because she’d always been on the skinny side. And yes, it might well be contentment because, for the first time in years, she felt relaxed and happy. What was it, she wondered, that someone had once said? That it wasn’t the destination that was the best part, it was the getting there. That, of course, was before the days of being herded like cattle through airports. Now she didn’t even care too much that Ringer was on their heels and might well catch up with them, because she was hopeful she could outwit him and, besides, she had enough cash in her bra alone to get well away.

  She’d always been clever. When she got her Highers in school the teachers all agreed she should go to university. She hadn’t gone, of course, because the family couldn’t afford it, and then Dave came along. But she’d have liked to study law; the legal system fascinated her and sometimes, when she was watching courtroom dramas on TV, she wished she’d managed to get on the right side of the law.

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ Connie was saying. ‘We should be moving.’

  When they got back to the little car park, Bella was the only remaining vehicle. As they were unlocking the door, they heard the sound of a tractor approaching and recognised the farmer driving it.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Maggie got to him just as he turned the noisy engine off.

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘Could we stay here tonight? Ce soir? S’il vous plaît?’

  He jumped down and studied the three of them for a moment.

  ‘Pourquoi? Why?’

  ‘Because it is getting dark and we have nowhere booked to stay tonight. Comprenez?’ Maggie gave him what she hoped was a sad, appealing look. ‘We are three ladies, all alone. And we will pay. Money. Argent!’

  She wondered if he’d understood. Finally, he stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Yes, for tonight only. I am Claude.’

  He had white tufty hair and very blue eyes. He nodded as they all shook hands solemnly.

  ‘I am Maggie, and this is Connie and Gill.’

  ‘Ma-gee,’ he repeated. Then, as an afterthought: ‘You have food?’

  The French, Maggie thought, always get their priorities right. ‘Yes, yes,’ she replied. ‘We have food. We’ll be no trouble.’

  ‘Ask him if we can use his loo,’ Connie murmured.

  ‘You have a toilette, Claude?’

  ‘Of course!’ He paused and shrugged. ‘Maybe it is not so clean. I am alone, you see.’

  ‘Let me clean it for you!’ Maggie said eagerly, as the other two gawped at her in astonishment. ‘I’m good at cleaning, Claude!’

  ‘She’s good at everything!’ Connie added.

  * * *

  ‘He wasn’t kidding,’ Maggie said later, wiping her brow, as she replaced the toilet cleaner and bleach. ‘But at least we can use his loo now without feeling guilty.’

  ‘Or catching something nasty,’ added Gill, who was busy chopping onions. ‘Or forgetting not to shut the door and getting stuck inside.’ She still managed to get stuck in there, at least once a day. It was proving difficult to remember not to pull the door shut behind her.

  ‘And he’s letting us use his electricity supply,’ Maggie added. ‘I’ve paid him for everything so he’s a happy bunny.’

  Connie was slicing mushrooms and adding generous amounts of red wine into the minced beef simmering in the cooking pot.

  ‘Tell him he’s welcome to join us if he fancies some spag bol,’ she said. ‘Except actually its tagliatelle-bol because no self-respecting Italian would dream of having spaghetti with bolognese sauce.’

  ‘Perhaps he won’t eat Italian,’ said Gill. ‘Some of these French are supposed to be peculiar about everyone’s food but their own.’

  ‘He’ll jump at the chance,’ Connie said, stirring the pot. ‘He’s got his eye on Maggie.’

  ‘Och, what nonsense!’ Maggie said, going noticeably pink. ‘He just knows a good loo cleaner when he sees one.’

  Claude had no hesitation in accepting their invitation to supper. Connie reckoned he couldn’t have cared less what nationality the food was; he ate with relish, rarely taking his eyes off Maggie. When he spoke, usually with his mouth full, he told them how much he missed having a woman in his life since his Marianne had died.

  ‘Four years ago,’ he mumbled as he shovelled in another forkful of pasta. ‘And I make all this lavender for her, for Marianne.’ He waved an arm to indicate his domain. ‘My father like to grow it, I like to grow it, and later my elder son will return from Marseille and he too will grow it.’ He gazed sadly at Maggie. ‘And now I only grow it for the tourists.’

  ‘Maggie loves lavender,’ Connie said, winking at Maggie. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘When I was young we had one wee lavender plant in our back yard,’ Maggie said with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘My mam
would put bunches of it in the wardrobe to keep away the moths, and then she’d put some in the airing cupboard so the sheets and towels would smell nice.’ She turned to Claude. ‘It reminds me of my mam, and when I was a wee girl in Glasgow.’

  Claude wiped his mouth. ‘You are from Scotland, Ma-gee?’

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The music of Scotland I like very much. I have in the house a record of Jimmy Shand and his band, brought to me from Scotland. You would like to hear?’

  ‘No, no, Claude, but thank you very much for the offer,’ Maggie said hastily, trying to ignore the others’ snorts. ‘Fact is, we’re all pretty tired so, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time we said bonne nuit.’

  Half an hour later as they got ready for bed, having trooped in and out of Claude’s loo, Maggie said, ‘Poor man, he’s just lonely.’

  ‘Perhaps he frightens the ladies away with that Jimmy Shand record,’ Connie suggested.

  Maggie grinned. ‘Nothing wrong with Jimmy Shand. And you know how the French like their accordions.’

  Before Claude trundled away on his tractor the following morning he gave them directions to ‘the farm of my son’. This son lived a very short distance from Cannes. He was sure that Jean-Paul would be happy to let them park there, and that they would like to buy his vegetables and his wine.

  ‘They probably need their loo cleaned,’ Maggie murmured as he waved them goodbye.

  ‘This talent of yours could probably get us parked all the way to Italy,’ said Gill.

  ‘Ah, but he did fancy her,’ Connie put in.

  ‘You missed your chance there,’ Gill said. ‘You could have spent the rest of your days sniffing lavender and feeding him pasta.’

  ‘And listening to Jimmy Shand,’ added Connie.

  And they all giggled at the thought.

  Thirteen

  CANNES

  Claude’s son, Jean-Paul, and his wife, Amélie, had a small farm very close to Cannes. There was a vineyard, an olive grove, an assortment of fruit, vegetables and poultry, and a large, woolly dog of indeterminate breed called Guy. There was little doubt about Guy’s masculinity as he seemed intent on mounting everything in sight: the table leg, Connie’s leg, Maggie’s leg, Gill’s leg. Guy was not picky.

  Apparently Claude had telephoned ahead with his approval of the ‘so-charming lay-dees’, who needed somewhere to park and who would pay, of course, and would very likely buy eggs and fruit and wine. Although Jean-Paul spoke reasonable English, it took a little explaining from Maggie to make him understand that they would prefer not to be seen from the road.

  ‘Why?’ Connie asked. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Traffic noise,’ said Maggie. ‘It always keeps me awake.’

  Eventually he got their drift, shrugged, and found a spot for Bella well concealed behind a cluster of farm buildings. And with the added bonus of an outside loo, which had Maggie digging out the bleach again.

  Connie was relieved to stop for a few days; to wash Bella down, if she could borrow a hose, and to examine her for bumps and scratches. She still had problems reversing the vehicle, which had resulted in a few minor scrapes, but fortunately there seemed to be no dents.

  Apart from Guy’s unwanted attentions it was an ideal spot, from which they could walk into Cannes where, at the station, there was a regular train service all along the Riviera coast, all the way to Italy.

  ‘We should stay here for a few days,’ Connie said. ‘It only takes about forty minutes to get to Nice and Monaco. Let’s face it, we don’t want to be parked too close to Larry, and that’s if we could even find a site at Nice.’

  ‘Take your choice between two randy males then,’ Maggie said. ‘Guy or Larry?’

  ‘Oh, give me Guy every time,’ Connie replied. ‘He’s quite happy with a table leg and a biscuit.’

  ‘I’m surprised Larry didn’t make a play for you, Gill, with that new hairdo,’ Maggie said.

  ‘I don’t need Connie’s cast-offs,’ Gill retorted.

  ‘He was never exactly cast-on as far as I’m concerned,’ Connie commented. ‘And I think he’d have driven you mad in a very short space of time, Gill.’

  * * *

  Although she’d never admit it to the other two, particularly Maggie, Gill was very pleased with her new look. Her short haircut did, as predicted, take years off her, and she’d cut down on the make-up too – partly from necessity, as it kept sliding off in the heat. Besides, she’d acquired quite a tan. Her kids would hardly recognise her! And she felt happier than she had in years. And that, she thought, always puts a smile on your face and a bounce in your step, even at seventy. Well, she might as well admit it: she would be seventy shortly, and she was beginning to realise that it might be preferable to look young for seventy rather than old for sixty.

  Anyway, there was no fooling these two. She should never have let them see her passport, which she’d thoughtlessly lifted out of her shoulder bag, along with everything else, when she’d thought she’d lost her purse back in Avignon, which of course she hadn’t.

  Maggie had grabbed it with the speed of light. ‘I love looking at people’s passport photos,’ she said. ‘God, Gill, that beehive did you no favours!’

  So they knew. But she was only a couple of months older than Connie and a whole year younger than Maggie, so there was nothing much to worry about.

  Up to now Gill had spent very little of her own money and had a fierce urge to do some shopping. Cannes was, after all, one of the playgrounds of the rich and famous, and must be stuffed with enticing boutiques. Not only that, Maggie had given her a wad of notes before they went to bed last night and had said, ‘Go on, buy yourself something, Gill. And thanks for being so supportive about Ringer and for not telling Connie.’

  She’d lost a little weight, she had a new hairdo, and she could hardly wait.

  ‘I’m going to go on ahead,’ she said to the others. ‘I want to have a good look round the shops.’

  ‘OK,’ said Connie. ‘Let’s meet up at the marina at midday, say. I’ve borrowed a hose, so I’m going to wash Bella down before I go anywhere.’

  Jean-Paul pointed her in the right direction and Gill set off. ‘Just keep the sea to your right,’ he’d instructed her.

  It was all so beautiful: the incredible blue of the sea, the dark pines and the vivid flowers, all set against the dark grey-blue background of the mountains. The walk took longer than she’d reckoned because she kept stopping to admire her surroundings and then got a bit lost finding her way to the centre of the city, it being considerably larger than she’d expected. But, oh boy, it was worth it! Lovely shops, expensive of course, but at least they catered for ladies with large bosoms. They probably get a lot of them round here, Gill reckoned, thinking of all those bikini-clad starlets. And so, for once, she had no problem in finding two dresses that fitted her curves.

  She had an hour to kill before midday and couldn’t afford to spend any more money, so she headed towards the marina. She loved looking at yachts, imagining who might own them, and what they might be like inside. And there were plenty of yachts here, each one seeming intent on outdoing the one next to it. They were sleek and beautiful, as were the few people she saw on their decks: suntanned, bare-footed, with sun-kissed hair – not sun-bleached – and there was a huge difference. Several hundred euros’ worth of difference.

  Il Delfino caught her eye. It was one of the larger craft, painted in blue and white and flying an Italian ensign. Wow – what a boat! Gill stopped and stared just as a bronzed young man, clad only in very tight white jeans, appeared on deck.

  ‘Hey!’ he called out. ‘Come on board! You must be Gill!’

  Gill looked round in confusion. There was nobody else there, but how did he know her name?

  ‘Yes,’ she stuttered, ‘but how—’

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said impatiently. ‘Let me show you around quickly. I am Pietro.’ He spoke perfect English with a very attractive Italian accent.


  As if in a dream, Gill, clutching her carrier bags, wobbled her way across the little gangplank. She’d give a lot to see inside, but how on earth did this guy know her name?

  Her new friend glanced down at her feet. ‘You’re not wearing spiky heels or anything, are you?’ He indicated the expensive wooden deck.

  Gill shook her head, glad she’d decided to wear flat shoes for her walk into town. She was tingling with excitement. Just wait until she told Connie and Maggie about this! She must be looking even better than she thought!

  She followed him across the deck, bypassing the enormous salon, which she very much would have liked to see, and into a wood-panelled, elegant dining room, the polished table set up for twelve lunches. She hardly had time to savour her surroundings before he said, ‘Come, now! I’ll show you the galley!’

  Gill would have liked to see the salon and the bedrooms in this floating palace, but perhaps he’d show her those after the kitchen. Maybe this was some sort of tour and she was the last person who’d shown up. Perhaps she’d be joining the others later.

  She followed him down the staircase into a long, streamlined galley kitchen, where two suntanned, blonde-haired, giggling girls in tiny tops and shorts were busy chopping vegetables.

  ‘This,’ Pietro said, with a wave of his hand, ‘is Céline and Fifi, and they will be assisting you today.’

  Assisting her? To do what? As she was about to ask what the hell was going on, she realised, with consternation, that the boat was moving. Where she could see the yacht moored alongside only a minute or so ago, there was now only sea.

  ‘We’re sailing!’ she exclaimed.

  Pietro looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘That,’ he said drily, ‘is what boats do.’

  ‘But I need to get off!’ Gill shouted. ‘I’m meeting my friends in a few minutes!’

  There was silence. The girls stopped chopping and turned to look at her.

  ‘What are you talking about?’