The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read Page 16

  ‘And no sign of him since Avignon,’ Connie said. ‘If that was him, which it probably wasn’t.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Anyway, there’s a bus in about ten minutes so I’m off. See you later.’

  She remembered the routine: to buy the ticket in the tabaccheria, and have it date-stamped on board. The bus was on time and full of chattering ladies with empty shopping baskets heading for town.

  Connie was looking forward to a few hours on her own to look round the city, and the shops, and the hairdressers. Although she’d become extremely fond of both Maggie and Gill, there were times when inevitably their company verged on the claustrophobic. And she was still reeling with the information about Ringer and the money. She’d refused Maggie’s wad of notes this morning, and insisted on using her own money. But it was a bit late now, she reckoned, thinking of horses and stable doors.

  Ten minutes later, having alighted in the city centre, Connie spotted a stylish-looking parrucchiere, from where a woman emerged with the most stunning haircut and terrific highlights and lowlights. That’s exactly how I want to look, she thought, as she pushed open the door.

  And, si, Gina would be available in five minutes if the signora would take a seat. Coffee? Oh, definitely, thought Connie. The espresso duly arrived in its tiny cup. Connie had always enjoyed an espresso after a meal, but knew she’d better get used to this ritual where no self-respecting Italian would dream of having a cappuccino after about 10 a.m. However did her Italian grandmother survive on milky instant coffees in Newcastle? Or worse, that Camp stuff that came in bottles! Had she brought her coffee pot with her from Italy?

  ‘Buongiorno! Come!’ Gina was tiny with a mane of lustrous black hair.

  ‘What I’d like,’ Connie said, speaking slowly, ‘is a cut and colour exactly like that lady had, who left about ten minutes ago.’

  Gina appeared completely mystified, until the young woman with the long blonde hair in the next chair came to the rescue with a string of fluent Italian.

  ‘Ah, si!’ exclaimed Gina. ‘Capisco! Signora Mutti!’

  ‘She understands, I think,’ said the blonde, whose head was already half covered in foils.

  ‘Oh, thank you so much,’ Connie said, as Gina got out the colour chart. ‘I’ve been trying to learn a little Italian, but I could never have managed that.’

  ‘You here on holiday then?’ the blonde asked. She was fortyish and unmistakably English.

  ‘Yes, I am. What about you?’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  ‘Well, thanks again,’ said Connie. ‘Or perhaps I should say “grazie mille”!’

  An hour and a half later, Connie and the blonde exited the salon at exactly the same time.

  ‘Thanks again for the translation,’ Connie said, patting her locks, ‘I’m so pleased with the result.’

  ‘It looks great,’ the blonde confirmed. ‘But look, I’ve got half an hour to kill before I’m picked up on the piazza here. Don’t suppose you fancy a coffee or something?’

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ Connie said. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Good. I’m Carol.’

  ‘I’m Connie.’

  ‘You travelling on your own, Connie?’

  ‘No, I’m with a couple of friends. But I’ve come out on my own today.’

  They found a little bar from where Carol could see her pick-up point, sat themselves down under the striped awning, and ordered drinks.

  ‘You speak great Italian,’ Connie said, sipping her freshly squeezed orange juice.

  ‘Yeah, well, I lived out here for a year, looking after kids, to learn the lingo. Did the same in France. Fancied becoming an air stewardess.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No, because when I got home Frank came along, and he was just drop-dead gorgeous. You know how it is when someone takes your breath away?’

  ‘I’m not sure I do,’ Connie admitted. She might have loved Roger once but, for sure, he’d never left her breathless. And, gorgeous though Don was, it had taken her a little time to appreciate his charms.

  ‘Well, anyway, we had a great life together until his heart attack three years ago. I was gutted. And, sadly, no kids; it just didn’t happen. How about you?’

  ‘Divorced,’ Connie replied. ‘Three grown-up children, four grandchildren.’

  ‘Oh, that must be lovely. Have you found a new man yet?’

  Connie laughed. ‘No, and I’m most definitely not looking for one. I’m loving my freedom too much. Have you found someone?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing,’ Carol said. ‘Six months ago, I met this lovely bloke – a lot older than me though. And he’s not short of a bob or two, which is always nice, isn’t it? He’s out here on a long business trip at the moment and I flew out to Nice to join him for a week. We’re heading for Portofino. You ever been there?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. Years ago we bypassed it on the main road heading south from Genoa.’

  Carol drained her coffee. ‘Well, he’ll be here shortly. Can we give you a lift anywhere?’

  Connie shook her head. ‘That’s kind of you, but it’s only a short distance to where we’re staying and there’s a good bus service.’

  ‘Are you sure? He won’t mind. Are you on a driving holiday or what?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a—’

  ‘Excuse me interrupting, Connie, but here he is!’

  A large, dark red Lexus had pulled up opposite.

  Connie took a deep breath as she got to her feet. ‘It’s been great meeting you, Carol. You enjoy Portofino!’

  ‘Oh, do come and meet Bill. I’m sure we can save you messing about with buses.’

  ‘No, really, I won’t, because I have to get some groceries before I go back. But thanks for the offer.’

  Connie strained her eyes to see the driver, but could only make out short hair, a blue shirt and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure? Bye then, Connie!’

  And then they were away, Carol waving from the open window.

  Connie, feeling a little wobbly, leaned against the table. Could it possibly be? Was Carol the bimbo? Highly unlikely. There must be no end of blondes in no end of red Lexuses round here. Did she say his name was Bill? Wasn’t that the name of the guy Gill met in Avignon? Did this man haunt hairdressers or something? After Carol told him of her encounter with someone called Connie, would he come back looking for her?

  She didn’t plan to wait to find out, but ran towards the bus stop.

  Seventeen

  LIGURIA

  ‘We can’t possibly stay here,’ Maggie stated.

  ‘But we don’t know for sure it was him, do we?’ Gill was filling the kettle. ‘There must be millions of Lexuses…’

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ Maggie said. ‘And I have a distinct feeling he’s around.’ She’d decided not to mention the telephone calls in Nice.

  ‘But she didn’t look like a bimbo,’ Connie put in. ‘I mean – sorry, Maggie – but she was nice!’

  ‘Delightful, I’m sure,’ Maggie said drily.

  Connie had repeated every detail of her encounter with Carol several times. ‘I only said I was travelling with friends. And that I was getting the bus. I said nothing about the friends or that we were in a motorhome.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I was going to tell her, but he came along at that exact moment. So, just as well.’

  ‘But he’ll be told your name is Connie, and he’s doubtless putting two and two together.’ Maggie sighed. ‘And there aren’t that many caravan sites round here, so he’d have no difficulty finding us. We have to leave. Now.’

  ‘But, if it is him, he’ll only follow us along the coast anyway. So where do we go from here?’

  Maggie thought for a moment. ‘Genoa,’ she said. ‘It’s a big city, with quite a few sites around. Perhaps we might even find a quiet spot where we can lie low for a few days.’

  ‘But I haven’t been into Sa
n Remo yet,’ Gill wailed.

  ‘And you aren’t going to,’ Maggie retorted. ‘Let’s get packing.’

  * * *

  It was nine o’clock and becoming dark when, as they passed the sign for Genoa, they also saw the sign for La Gioia, a ristorante, purely by accident. Connie made the diversion only because they were starving and, as they turned from the busy road into a quiet lamp-lit lane, she said, ‘Perhaps we might even be able to find a layby round here somewhere.’ She didn’t sound hopeful. ‘Just for tonight.’

  ‘Well, he certainly wouldn’t find us round here,’ Maggie said, squinting through the windscreen at the dark foliage on either side of the road.

  The restaurant was large, dimly lit, and packed with noisy Italians.

  ‘Always a good sign,’ Connie remarked. ‘These people are fussy about where they eat.’

  They had to wait ten minutes for a table but Stefano assured them, ‘It will not be long.’ He was one of two good-looking waiters, moving at speed around the tables; a point not lost on Gill.

  ‘God, isn’t he gorgeous!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to love Italy!’

  ‘Here’s another one young enough to be your son,’ Maggie muttered. ‘Probably even your grandson.’

  ‘The point is,’ Gill replied, gazing at Stefano, ‘he isn’t either my son or my grandson. And there’s no law says I can’t enjoy looking.’

  At that point a table became available and Stefano whisked tablecloths off and on, and replaced glasses and cutlery in a theatrical display of efficiency.

  ‘Now, ladies,’ he said, ‘you come.’

  ‘I’d have no trouble coming with him,’ Gill whispered.

  Connie giggled. ‘You’re incorrigible!’

  They sat down, serenaded on all sides by the clinking of glasses, the rattle of cutlery and noisy animated conversation.

  ‘Ah, for il secondo,’ said Connie, ‘they have fegato. Nobody cooks liver like the Italians.’

  ‘Ugh!’ said Gill, finally settling for il pollo, which Connie assured her meant ‘chicken’.

  ‘Probably battery-reared and scrawny as hell,’ Maggie teased.

  Nevertheless they waded their way through course after course, although Connie admitted defeat when it came to il dolce.

  ‘Well, I’m having tiramisu,’ Gill announced.

  When Stefano appeared waving a second bottle of wine, Connie said, ‘Better not; we’re driving.’

  He raised a perfect black eyebrow. ‘Where you go so late tonight?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea,’ Connie admitted. ‘We have a motorhome, caravan, er’ – she struggled for the word – ‘a roulotte…’

  ‘No problem!’ Stefano replied airily, deftly removing the cork. ‘We have little place for ten caravans’ – he held up ten fingers – ‘behind here.’ He waved at the wall. ‘We have just finished the building of it.’ He mimed ground-flattening motions. ‘Soon we have big sign up on main road, and in tourist book. But you are the first! Il primo!’

  The three looked at each other in amazement.

  Connie could scarcely believe what she was hearing. ‘And we could stay here tonight?’

  ‘Si, si, no problem!’ Stefano hesitated. ‘There is toilet, but no shower yet. Is OK?’

  ‘Is very OK,’ Connie replied.

  ‘It’s more than OK,’ said Maggie. ‘And so is another bottle of wine.’

  * * *

  They woke the next day to find Bella the sole occupant of a large, cleared, grassy area surrounded by trees, where Connie had parked cautiously the night before, following Stefano’s instructions but totally unaware of their surroundings in the dark. They’d used the toilet and collapsed into bed, knowing the chances were virtually nil that Ringer, or anyone else for that matter, would ever find them there. For the first time in days Maggie felt safe.

  As she sipped her tea, Connie said, ‘I wonder how far from the centre of Genoa we are?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘Not so far, I would have thought. We were in an urban area when we saw the sign and you can hear the traffic in the distance.’

  They both listened to the rumble, punctuated only by occasional snores from Gill.

  ‘I’ve got used to her,’ Maggie said, grinning. ‘And these earplugs really work.’

  Connie admitted to being very relieved that Gill had never again threatened to sleep on the narrow divan alongside hers at the front, particularly as she, Connie, didn’t sleep deeply and wasn’t as patient as Maggie. Maggie suspected that Gill – literally – liked to be on top of her make-up and beauty equipment, stored beneath her bunk, although lately she hadn’t been using so much of either, and looked the better for it.

  ‘When’s her birthday?’ Maggie asked as she made herself a second cup of tea.

  ‘About four days’ time, I think. Should we do something special for her?’

  ‘Well, she’s been going on about finding a beach, so perhaps we can find her some sand somewhere. But what on earth can we buy her?’

  ‘A man!’ Connie laughed. ‘That’s all she really wants!’

  ‘A blow-up bloke!’ Maggie snorted.

  ‘We can have a lovely meal somewhere,’ Connie said. ‘Perhaps Viareggio – there’s a beach there. But what about today? Shall we try to get to the station in Genoa and get a train to Santa Margherita and then the boat to Portofino? Well, on second thoughts, perhaps not Portofino!’

  Maggie sighed. ‘No, probably not a good idea.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘But you two could go.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Connie, ‘but Carol would recognise me, and he would recognise Gill. Sorry, I know I should call her “the bimbo”, but she was really nice. And we’re not going without you, Maggie.’

  There was a further silence before Maggie said, ‘We can’t keep changing our plans because of Ringer; we’ll take a chance. Come on, let’s go! Bugger him!’

  * * *

  They decided to stay three nights at Stefano’s hidden campsite. Maggie felt more relaxed than she had for days, probably because they were so far off the beaten track. She had offered up a little prayer to ask that they be kept safe. And it appeared to have worked. And, as a bonus, blond, green-eyed Bruno, Stefano’s partner (‘There’s no justice in the world,’ Gill had moaned), was happy to drive them to the station in Genoa.

  ‘You phone me when you want to be picked up,’ he instructed them as they got out of his smart red Alfa Romeo. Stefano and Bruno were a godsend in every way. Not only did they run a terrific restaurant and a mini caravan park, but they were in the process of building a little shop ‘for you to buy your bread, next time you come’. In the meantime, Stefano delivered fresh bread and milk to Bella each morning, while Bruno chauffeured them to the supermercato and even supervised their purchases. ‘You don’t buy your pasta here – mamma mia! I take you to a much better place!’

  Now the train wound its way round the rocky coastline towards Santa Margherita Ligure, where they navigated their way down a long flight of steps to the resort below. It was one of the loveliest places Connie had ever seen, with its little harbour and, opposite, hotels, restaurants, bars, shops and houses; cream, yellow, ochre and pale green, all with contrasting shutters and terracotta tiled roofs, and interspersed with palms, lemon trees and banks of flowers, set against the backdrop of the green-blue wooded hills and the unreal azure of the sea. There was even a small beach, densely populated with supine bronzed bodies.

  ‘A beach!’ sighed Gill.

  ‘Too small, too busy,’ Connie remarked. ‘But we’ll find a beach eventually, Gill.’

  As they strolled along the main promenade, Maggie said, ‘This is stunning. Like a film.’

  Connie had spotted a particularly attractive bar across the road. ‘What we need now,’ she said, ‘are Bellinis.’ She turned to Gill. ‘Peach juice and prosecco – you’ll love it!’

  Gill did. They all did. And later, three Bellinis apiece, they made their way somewhat unsteadily across to the little pier wh
ere the tourist boats loaded and unloaded, and bought three return tickets to Portofino.

  ‘We are crazy,’ said Gill as she scrambled onto the boat.

  ‘Quite mad,’ Connie confirmed.

  * * *

  Portofino was also picture-postcard perfect.

  ‘Small, but perfectly formed,’ muttered Maggie, as the boatload of tourist day-trippers made its way past the selection of yachts. Click, click, click went the cameras and phones. Again, there were gold and terracotta buildings, colourful awnings, and dinky little shopping lanes leading off the main street, which straggled up towards the hill with its pines and cypresses.

  ‘You can smell money here,’ said Maggie, suppressing a hiccough.

  ‘You can smell food here too,’ said Gill. ‘And I’m ready for my lunch.’

  ‘We’d better find somewhere off the beaten track,’ Connie said. ‘Just in case you-know-who should come waltzing along. I imagine they might have got here last night too.’

  ‘Where do you suppose they’d be staying?’ Gill asked, as they sat down in a suitable venue. She was studying the wine list. ‘Think I fancy the Pinot Grigio myself.’

  ‘We’re getting pissed,’ said Connie.

  ‘We’re already pissed,’ Maggie stated.

  ‘God, this is all so beautiful,’ Connie said, glancing around at the well-dressed tourists and the pricey little shops. Even the waitress was a Sophia Loren lookalike. ‘I’m beginning to feel inadequate,’ she added.

  ‘You are never inadequate, Connie McColl,’ Maggie said slowly and clearly, glass of Pinot in hand. ‘Never! And this idea of yours was the best in the world! The best!’

  ‘The best!’ echoed Gill, taking a large slurp from her glass.

  ‘I love you both!’ Connie said, feeling distinctly misty-eyed.

  ‘I love you, too!’ said Gill. And then, turning to Maggie: ‘And even you! I love you too!’

  ‘I’m loving you more with each gulp,’ Maggie added, raising her glass. ‘We’re all loved-up!’