The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read Page 5

  Andrea Bocelli was singing ‘Canto della Terra’.

  ‘You like this sort of stuff?’ Gill asked, prodding the CD player.

  ‘I love this sort of stuff,’ Connie replied.

  * * *

  Nearly two hours later a little voice from the rear announced, ‘I’ve just seen a sign for camping ahead. About four kilometres, I think it said.’

  ‘How far is that in miles?’ Connie shouted back.

  ‘No idea, but it doesn’t sound far.’

  Sure enough, about two miles further on there was a large ‘Camping’ sign pointing to an exit road.

  ‘Here we are!’ yelled Connie, turning off. ‘Let’s just hope they’ve got a pitch for us. Thanks so much for your navigational skills, Gill, you’ve been a treasure.’

  ‘Are you knackered?’ Gill asked as she folded up some of the maps.

  ‘Pretty much. It’s been really hard work driving this great big thing, and on the wrong side of the road.’

  Le patron had an office at the entrance to the park which, at first glance, appeared full, with caravans, motorhomes and camper vans packed in regimental rows.

  ‘Bonsoir! Alors, I ’ave one space just for you. For ’ow many nights?’ The balding proprietor wore his few wisps of grey hair neatly tied back in a ponytail, had a droopy moustache and sported a badge proclaiming his name to be Raoul.

  Connie looked at Gill. ‘What do you think – two nights? Three?’

  ‘Why not? Make it three.’

  Maggie had suddenly appeared and was leaning over Connie’s seat. ‘This is a nice out of the way sort of place, off the beaten track. No one would look for us here, would they?’

  ‘Why on earth would anyone be looking for us?’

  ‘Oh, they wouldn’t – I just meant we all said we wanted to get away from it all, didn’t we? Anyway, let me pay.’

  ‘There’s no need, Maggie…’ Connie began.

  ‘No, I insist.’ With that Maggie withdrew a bundle of euro notes from her shoulder bag. Raoul, pocketing the cash, said, ‘Come, Mesdames!’ and led them round the corner into a further park where Connie surveyed, with some trepidation, a space between a British camper van and a German caravan.

  ‘Voila! And, over here’ – Raoul indicated a large building about a hundred yards away – ‘we ’ave ze toilets, and ze showers and ze shop. All for you!’

  ‘Merci!’ said Maggie, suddenly animated.

  Connie backed carefully into the space and turned off the ignition with relief. ‘So far, so good. That’ll give us two clear days here. Paris, here we come!’

  ‘How will we get there?’ Gill asked.

  ‘We’ll find a bus, that’s what we’ll do. I’m not driving this thing up the Champs-Élysées, I can tell you.’

  ‘We could have a taxi,’ Maggie put in.

  ‘A taxi! Blimey, Mags, just how big was this windfall of yours?’ asked Gill.

  Ignoring the question, Maggie said, ‘I’m heading straight for that loo over there and then I’m going to shower.’

  ‘Great idea,’ said Connie as she plugged into the power supply. ‘I’ll do the same and then we can sit down with some gin and tonics and put the lasagne in the oven. Voila – we ’ave ze electricity.’

  It was quite late and so they had the showers to themselves. It was dark by the time they finally emerged, and then Connie pulled down the blinds and popped the lasagne into the oven.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘this loo here is only to be used for emergencies and for wees during the night. At all other times we use any toilets we can find, even if it’s in a field or a hedge, or whatever. I really don’t fancy emptying that tank too often.’

  They nodded in agreement as Gill dispensed the drinks and Maggie arranged the salad in a glass bowl.

  ‘It’s damned hot,’ stated Gill, fanning herself with one of Raoul’s publicity brochures. They’d left the door wide open, but there was little movement of air.

  ‘We’ll sleep with the windows open,’ said Connie.

  Maggie was looking anxious again. ‘Will that be safe?’

  ‘Will what be safe?’ Gill had turned on her. ‘Do you honestly think someone is going to squeeze through these windows to ravage us three old girls? Get real!’

  Maggie put down her glass. ‘We’ll keep the door locked at night though, won’t we?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Connie studied her for a moment. ‘Are you carrying a lot of money then, Maggie?’

  ‘Well, yes, a few pounds.’

  ‘How many pounds exactly?’ asked Gill.

  Maggie swallowed. ‘Well, about a hundred thousand.’

  ‘What?’ Gill slammed down her glass and Connie’s drink went down the wrong way.

  When she’d finished coughing she stammered, ‘A hundred thousand!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maggie.

  ‘From a scratch-card?’ asked Gill.

  ‘Yeah.’ Maggie opened the oven door. ‘Look, the lasagne’s ready!’

  ‘A hundred thousand pounds! Wow! That’s great, Maggie! I presume it’s in the bank?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Maggie said as she dished up the lasagne. ‘I’ve got it with me. Only because if I leave it in the bank Ringer will spend the lot. We have a joint account, you see.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me that you have a hundred thousand pounds here, in Bella?’

  Connie’s appetite plummeted as she realised they were now sitting ducks for any thieves around. So that was why Maggie was so worried about locking doors and things!

  Maggie sat down opposite her. ‘Don’t worry, Connie, we can have a lovely time with this money, stay in top hotels if we want!’

  ‘But Maggie.’ Connie put her head in her hands. ‘Couldn’t you open another bank account or something?’ She watched as both Maggie and Gill wolfed down Lou’s lasagne. Why was she the only one worried? She might be exhausted but she felt sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Maggie mumbled through a mouthful of food. ‘There’s no problem. I’ve hidden the money all over the place. And I can carry quite a lot of it. We’re going to have a great time spending it. I have never, never had money like this to spend on myself before, and I want to enjoy it. And I don’t want to give Ringer the opportunity to get his hands on a single pound of it.’

  * * *

  Getting into bed was something of a major operation. Everything had to be stowed away before the sofa was transformed into Connie’s bed, and then Gill had to decide whether she would sleep on the lower bunk or on the narrow divan alongside Connie’s. Connie prayed she’d choose the bunk.

  ‘I’ll try the bunk tonight,’ Gill said eventually, ‘because I’m so bloody tired I could sleep standing up. That’s if it’s not filled up with bank notes.’ She grinned at Maggie.

  ‘No, it isn’t, but I have put a layer of them underneath the mattresses, and some in my stowage, and my bra, and my money belt and my shoulder bag. And a few other places besides.’

  As Maggie got ready for bed, Gill said to Connie, ‘This doesn’t seem right somehow.’ She was dismantling her beehive, which had been askew for some hours. ‘If it was me I’d have opened a bank account before I left.’

  ‘Well, maybe we can persuade her to do that. They must have British banks in Paris.’

  Connie just wanted to go to bed, but first she tapped out a quick email to her children telling them they’d got to the Paris area safely and all was well. At least La Bellezza was living up to expectations, and the bed looked comfy and inviting. In fact, everything worked more or less as it should. Everything, that is, except the loo door, a fact that was brought home to Connie and Maggie when Gill became the first to check the plumbing just before they went to bed. There followed much thumping and shouting.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Maggie asked crossly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Connie asked through the door.

  ‘I can’t get out!’ Gill wailed.

  Connie turned the handle and the door opened to reve
al a red-faced and distressed Gill.

  ‘Good Lord, Gill, you only have to turn the handle!’

  ‘I did, I did! But it wouldn’t open!’

  ‘Right, try again,’ Connie ordered, shutting the door firmly.

  There was more clicking and clunking. ‘It won’t open!’ Gill repeated.

  Connie opened the door again. ‘Come out, Gill.’

  They exchanged places. Connie went in and closed the door.

  ‘You’re right,’ she confirmed. ‘It won’t open from the inside.’

  Maggie got up from the settee and rummaged around in the cutlery drawer. ‘I know the screwdrivers are in here somewhere.’ Then, finding them, she spent the next ten minutes fiddling with the handle on both sides of the door before giving up.

  ‘We’ll get it fixed somewhere,’ Connie said, with visions of Maggie, who appeared to have the dodgiest bladder, having to be rescued throughout the night. ‘In the meantime, just try to remember to leave the door ajar whenever you go in there.’

  Seven

  GAY PAREE

  In the morning Connie sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes and consulted the clock. It said 8 a.m., and then she remembered it was 9 a.m. over here. She’d slept badly, unable to turn off her turbulent thoughts. The bed had been comfy but it was too warm for the duvet she’d brought along and she’d kicked it off during the night. Now it was already hot, the sun sneaking its way in around the edges of the blinds. She swung her legs out of bed, opened the door in the hope of a breeze, and just then a tousle-haired Maggie, with Minnie Mouse emblazoned across her T-shirt nightie, came tiptoeing in.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you’re awake, Connie. I could murder a cup of tea.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Connie. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Not bad. But, my God, doesn’t that Gill snore! I’ve never heard such a racket. It took me nearly an hour to get off and then I suppose I must have got attuned to it. She’s quietened down a bit now.’

  Connie had been hearing a snorting sound, which she’d assumed was coming from somewhere outside. ‘Well, Maggie, in that case I won’t want her in here near me either.’

  ‘Perhaps we should draw lots,’ said Maggie, depositing teabags into two mugs, ‘and get some ear-plugs as well.’

  ‘But Maggie, I’m so worried about all that money. What on earth are you going to do with it all?’

  ‘We are going to spend it, that’s what we’re going to do.’ She fiddled with her phone. ‘I’m trying to get the BBC news, just to see what’s going on back home.’

  At that moment, an almost unrecognisable Gill appeared, her hair hanging round her shoulders, and clad in a pink silk nightie. Apart from panda-like smudges round her eyes she was barefaced.

  ‘Morning, Gill, how did you sleep?’ Connie asked with a grin.

  ‘Hardly slept a wink.’

  ‘Well, you sure didn’t sound like you hardly slept a wink,’ Maggie said with some feeling.

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t snore!’

  ‘Must be the excitement of the trip then,’ said Maggie. ‘A one-off, perhaps?’

  Looking at the unembellished Gill, Connie wondered how long it would take her to be ready to face the world again. Apart from the panda eyes, Gill looked younger and prettier without the layers of make-up and the starchy hair.

  ‘Shall I pop across to see if they have any nice French bread or croissants for breakfast?’ Maggie asked.

  When Maggie disappeared outside, Connie said, ‘Gill, I’m still worried about all this money hidden around everywhere.’

  ‘I don’t intend to lose any sleep over it,’ Gill said, making herself a cup of tea. ‘You worry too much, Connie. Poor Maggie deserves a break, you know. We really should just help her to enjoy it. We can have a lovely trip now, and not worry about dosh. Just think of her as our rich friend!’

  Later Maggie, having fetched the croissants, came back and downed another cup of tea, said, ‘Gill’s been hogging that mirror back there for over half an hour. Just as well it only took me five minutes to get ready.’

  Connie thought how pretty Maggie must have been once; petite, ivory skinned, beautiful red hair. Had that wretched Ringer drained the very colouring out of her? Serves him right that he can’t get his hands on her scratch-card money.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, fully made up and beehive in position, Gill reappeared, like a galleon in full sail, in an enormous turquoise kaftan.

  ‘Wow!’ said Connie. ‘Aren’t you the glamorous one!’

  Both she and Maggie were clad in cotton T-shirts and cut-offs. As always in the summer, she’d dabbed on a little tinted moisturiser and applied some mascara, an operation that took about five minutes. Maggie looked exactly the same as when she got out of bed.

  ‘Well, we’re going into Paris, aren’t we?’ Gill said defensively, looking at them both with some disapproval.

  Maggie had begun to look anxious again. ‘Maybe I should stay here.’

  ‘This money,’ Connie sighed, ‘is going to give you no pleasure whatsoever if you insist on standing over it from morning to night. I promise we’ll lock everything up securely.’

  ‘Why don’t we all take some with us?’ Maggie suggested. ‘Come on, ladies, shove a few notes in your purses, or your bras, or somewhere.’

  They were all excited at the prospect of Paris. Connie had been several times, beginning with that so-called educational school trip. (She and Helen Palmer had ‘escaped’ from the orderly crocodile in Versailles and, as a result, got ‘lost’. It had been difficult to convince Miss Sims that this was accidental, which, of course, it wasn’t.) Maggie’s one and only trip to Paris had been with Ringer in the early days of their relationship, when they were still besotted with each other, and had seen more of their bedroom than they had of any of the sights. And Gill had never been and was probably the most excited of the three.

  The last time Connie had visited the city had been with Roger to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary. Four culture-packed days, including Versailles again (no chance to stray this time), with hours and hours in the Louvre. Roger was a committed tourist although mercifully it had proved impossible to fit in every museum and art gallery on his list. But they had had some lovely meals and she had been permitted a couple of hours to mainly window-shop, her only purchase being a blue silk scarf from Monoprix.

  Connie knew this visit was going to be quite different.

  ‘Today,’ Gill announced, ‘we should go to Montmartre and look at all these naughty clubs and things.’ She’d acquired a pile of leaflets and had decided to become their self-appointed guide. ‘And we can visit the Sacre Coeur, of course, for our bit of culture.’

  They took a taxi because, according to Raoul, the bus only came twice a day, and sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t. ‘C’est la vie’, with much Gallic shrugging.

  The taxi deposited them at the Sacre Coeur, the three marvelling at its beautiful, imposing white exterior and panoramic views of the city. They wandered round the hushed interior and then emerged, blinking, onto the southern viewpoint, silenced by the magnificent view.

  ‘Will you look at that!’ exclaimed Connie. ‘I’d forgotten just how spectacular this is! I haven’t been here for years.’

  And there it all was; the panorama taking in the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame – the lot. Paris was magical. Then Connie noticed, next to Maggie, a beautiful young couple, arms entwined around each other, the girl tanned with long, shiny, copper-coloured hair, and the boy tall and dark, with brooding good looks. Connie felt a pang of pure envy – how good it would be to be young again!

  Gill nudged her. ‘Penny for them, Connie?’

  ‘Oh, just wishing for a moment that I was their age.’ Connie indicated the young couple with a nod of her head.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Gill, following her gaze, ‘we didn’t look anything like that when we were young, did we? We didn’t have tight jeans and crop tops, or whatever you call them.’ />
  ‘We didn’t have much in the way of tans either,’ Maggie chirped in. ‘Certainly not in Glasgow. And I had one of those awful frizzy perms.’

  ‘When we went dancing at the Palais,’ Gill went on, ‘they were all Teddy boys. Draped jackets, drainpipe trousers, suede shoes and enormous sideburns.’

  ‘I expect you had a similar hairdo to what you have now,’ said Maggie, eyeing the beehive.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ snapped Gill. ‘Of course it wasn’t the same.’

  ‘I liked the way it looked loose this morning,’ Connie remarked.

  ‘If it was cut into a good shape,’ added Maggie, unaware that Gill was glaring at her in fury.

  ‘What’s this?’ Gill was seething. ‘Are you having a let’s-get-at-Gill day? Just because you’ve got all that bloody money doesn’t make you a style expert. When’s the last time you went to a hairdresser, or a beauty salon or anywhere else that might improve your appearance?’

  ‘I don’t go to any of them,’ Maggie retorted. ‘I cut my own hair and, because it’s quite curly, no one really notices.’

  ‘Ladies, ladies!’ Connie felt the necessity to mediate. ‘You’re both lovely in different ways. Now, if you’ve had enough of this view, how about some lunch?’

  As they headed down the steps she wondered if they were going to bicker all the way to Italy. Maggie wasn’t as mild-mannered as she’d originally thought. Had Nick been right? Was it at all possible for three elderly and diverse ladies to co-exist in such a confined space and not drive each other nuts? Well, it was far too late to do much about it now.

  Lunch, and the wine that accompanied it, soothed any ruffled feathers and soon the three of them were planning to see some of the seamier spots of Montmartre. Later they’d do the Eiffel Tower and have a wander up the Champs-Élysées. Tomorrow they would do the Louvre and the Musée D’Orsay and introduce a little culture into their trip. There seemed to be a dearth of taxis and Gill suggested they use the Metro to navigate their way towards the Barbès-Rochechouart area. They emerged from the Anvers station to a maze of cobbled streets, bars, kebab shops, and all manner of sex shops and peep shows.