‘You wouldn’t want to be around here at night,’ Connie remarked.
‘I’m not feeling that safe right now,’ said Maggie, hugging her bag even more tightly.
‘No dodgier than Glasgow on a Saturday night, surely?’ scoffed Gill.
‘Now, don’t you two start again!’ said Connie. ‘And just look at this old place here!’
‘That,’ said Gill, consulting her guide, ‘is, or was, the Elysée Montmartre theatre, which was the oldest can-can dance theatre in Paris. Now, according to this, it’s falling into decay, and they’re not kidding, are they? But, follow me; the Moulin Rouge is at the other end of this street.’
None of the other buildings appeared to be crumbling but there was a certain air of degeneracy about the place. Although the streets were wide and clean there was still a feeling of seediness.
‘I daren’t look in some of these windows,’ Connie exclaimed, having done just that and still reeling from a lurid display advertising sex shows. ‘Not exactly subtle, are they? And I really fancy a cold drink as I’m so dry.’
‘Plenty of bars round here.’ Gill was squinting in one of the windows. ‘But this one is definitely dodgy.’
They peered into several other smoke-filled interiors. Nobody appeared to have told the French that they should be smoking outside.
‘This one looks OK,’ Maggie said. ‘Loads of women in there, so it should be safe.’
Connie asked for two beers and a Coca-Cola.
‘You are Eenglish?’ asked the pretty barmaid.
‘Yes, yes, we are. More or less,’ she added, looking over to ensure Maggie was out of earshot. Maggie seemed engrossed in her phone. As Connie looked around she realised she couldn’t see a single male; it must be a ‘ladies only’ establishment, she thought.
‘Ees your first time here?’ The barmaid passed the drinks across the counter.
‘In here, yes,’ Connie replied. ‘But I’ve been to Paris before, some years ago.’ She was conscious of the barmaid’s lingering glances in their direction.
‘Maybe now,’ said the barmaid, running her tongue across her top lip, ‘you will come more often.’
As Connie placed the drinks on the table, Gill, beaming, said, ‘That woman over there has just told me how beautiful I look.’
Maggie slammed her phone down on the table. ‘Are you sure she’s not got a white stick?’
‘Here we go again!’ snapped Gill.
‘Leave it, you two!’ Connie said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable as she looked around. Already disconcerted by the barmaid’s manner, she was now aware of at least a dozen pairs of female eyes swivelling in their direction. ‘I think we should drink up and get out of here as quickly as we can.’
‘It seems OK to me,’ Maggie said, wrapping herself round her shoulder bag again. ‘You don’t think we could be mugged, do you?’
Gill, cottoning on, caught Connie’s eye. ‘Shagged, more like,’ she said.
‘You don’t mean…?’ Maggie was gulping down her drink.
‘I do. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
Just then an elderly woman, clad in a black trouser suit and sporting a collar and tie in spite of the heat, approached their table. ‘Eenglish, yes? May I join you?’
‘No, no, we’re just leaving.’ Maggie was standing up, draining her glass and looking towards the door.
‘We have an appointment,’ Connie said, doing likewise.
‘Tout suite,’ added Gill.
The woman shrugged her shoulders as she walked away.
Outside on the pavement Maggie said, ‘I’ve never downed a drink in a bar so fast in my life!’
‘Me neither.’ Gill let forth a loud belch.
‘And you don’t have to be so vulgar,’ said Maggie.
‘You’re just mad ’cos none of them fancied you!’ Gill retorted.
‘Let’s find a taxi,’ Connie said, laughing.
* * *
As they headed in a taxi towards the Arc de Triomphe, Maggie took the opportunity to read the email again while Connie and Gill enthused at the sights.
You bitch! Don’t think you can get away with this. I’ll get you if it kills me.
Maggie read it for a third time, then deleted it. She switched her phone off; she’d only have it on when she wanted to make a call, as she certainly didn’t need to worry about messages such as this. Anyway, he hadn’t a cat’s chance in hell of ever finding them in this vast country. Still, she’d probably be on the lookout for maroon-coloured Lexuses – if he came across in his own car. Would he dare? Well, he might if he got the number plates changed. And he had a mate who could change them in a matter of minutes. Then she wished she hadn’t been so snappy with Gill. She’d find a way to treat her and be especially nice to her, and anyway it would be a good idea to start spending as much of that money as possible.
Half an hour later, as they were wandering along the Champs-Élysées, Maggie espied a hair salon.
‘Gill,’ Maggie said, ‘do you fancy having a hairdo? My treat.’
Gill looked confused for a moment.
‘Go on,’ Maggie urged. ‘I didn’t mean to be nasty to you earlier. I’d feel so much better if you’d let me make it up to you.’
‘Oh, I can’t let you do that!’
‘Of course you can! And, like I said, it would make me feel so much better.’
‘Well, in that case, thanks Maggie, that would be great.’
Maggie withdrew a bundle of notes from her bag and handed them over. ‘I know you like your beauty treatments and I want to share my good fortune.’
As Gill disappeared into the salon Maggie said to Connie, ‘With a bit of luck they’ll get rid of that awful beehive. It’s not even straight – the Leaning Tower of Pisa’s got nothing on our Gill!’
Connie laughed. ‘She’s desperately trying to hang onto her youth, I think.’
They walked a further few yards, exclaiming at the beautiful window displays, before Connie stopped in front of a boutique window. ‘Will you just look at that?’ she said to Maggie, pointing at the dress on display.
‘You can have it, you know, whatever it costs,’ Maggie said, as she and Connie gazed at the sea-green dress. It was understated, elegant and cut to perfection, and it stood alone, like a sculpture, against a cream velvet background.
‘That is so you!’ Maggie said. ‘And that green would enhance the colour of your eyes.’
There was nothing so vulgar as a price on display.
‘There’s a saying somewhere,’ sighed Connie, ‘that if you need to ask the price, then you can’t afford it.’
‘But we can,’ Maggie said. ‘I have the dosh.’ She could see how much Connie wanted the dress.
‘I admit I’m sorely tempted, but wherever would I wear it? No, Maggie, no, but thanks for the offer.’
‘We’ll find somewhere for you to wear it. There’s no law that says you can’t try it on. Come on!’
‘I feel far too scruffy to go over the doorstep!’
‘Listen, it’s your money they’re interested in – come on!’
Hesitantly Connie followed Maggie across the threshold and into a cool, perfumed, subtly lit interior.
‘Bonjour!’ A mahogany-coloured saleslady rose reluctantly from where she had been sitting at a large, ornately carved white desk. She was stick-thin, immaculately made up, and wore a black dress, pointy shoes and a disdainful expression. Connie appeared dumbstruck.
‘My friend loves the dress in your window,’ Maggie said.
‘Eenglish!’ The woman looked from one to the other.
‘My English friend,’ Maggie said with mock patience, ‘would like to try on that dress in the window.’
The saleslady’s eyes widened. ‘You know the price?’
‘No,’ said Maggie, ‘we don’t. So, please tell us.’
‘Ees nearly five ’undred euros, Madame!’
Maggie could hear Connie gasp. ‘That’s fine. I thought it might be a bit more. What size
are you, Connie?’
‘I can’t…’
‘I’m thinking a size sixteen, maybe,’ Maggie went on, standing back and studying Connie.
‘Well, yes, I’m usually a sixteen but—’
‘So we’ll try the sixteen, please. If I remember rightly that’ll be a size forty-four.’
The saleslady appeared to be taken aback as she gazed at her two T-shirted customers.
‘I will find ze largest size,’ she said pointedly, before disappearing behind some panelled doors.
‘I can’t let you do this,’ Connie whispered. ‘This is ridiculous!’
‘You are going to have that dress,’ Maggie replied, ‘and that’s that. No more arguments! But I’ll need to come into the changing room to get some of these notes out of my bra; they’ve been scratching me all day.’
‘I ’ave ze forty-four and it is ze biggest size we ’ave,’ said the woman, reappearing with the dress on a hanger. ‘You are most fortunate,’ she added.
Connie, holding the dress at arm’s length, headed for the changing room.
‘I hope I’m not too sweaty,’ she said to Maggie, as she removed her T-shirt and examined her armpits. She fanned herself for a moment, then removed her jeans and slipped the dress over her head.
‘Wow!’ said Maggie a few minutes later, when Connie emerged into the shop. ‘That dress has your name on it!’
The dress looked beautiful, and so did Connie. Its lines skimmed her body and gave her the immediate appearance of having dropped a dress size. And the colour accentuated the green of Connie’s eyes and flattered her skin tone.
‘Ees very nice,’ the saleslady conceded.
As Connie re-entered the changing room, Maggie came in behind her, pulling the door across before hauling up her top and extracting a load of notes from her bra. ‘I’ll just go and pay.’
By the time Connie came out, holding the dress carefully, the saleslady was actually smiling.
‘So bootiful!’ she enthused. ‘Ees perfect for you.’
She made a big performance of folding the dress in reams of tissue paper while Maggie peeled off the appropriate number of notes.
‘That’s made her day!’ Maggie said as they left the boutique with a large, classy carrier bag embossed in gold writing on navy blue.
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Connie said. ‘It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever had. Or am ever likely to have.’
‘Listen,’ said Maggie. ‘You’ve bought Bella, you’ve brought us along with you, and this is just a way of saying thank you to you. I haven’t done anything to earn this money, I’ve just been lucky.’
As they continued walking, Maggie wondered how long that luck would last.
* * *
Connie was increasingly worried about the cash Maggie was so desperate to spend. She’d let Maggie pay for the site fees, the taxi, the lunch, and now this ridiculously expensive dress. But, dear God, she did love the dress. It was so beautifully cut that no one would ever know that Connie McColl had a flabby tummy and chunky thighs. That’s what you paid for, of course. And she didn’t remember Gill arguing when Maggie suggested the hairdo.
‘Can we take a taxi to the Rive Gauche?’ Connie asked, consulting her watch. ‘Gill’s going to be a couple of hours yet.’
And so they made their way to the Paris of an earlier Bohemian era, of artists, writers and philosophers, now an area of beautiful boutiques, houses and galleries. And where artists still displayed their works on the pavement, and Connie espied a small watercolour depicting a French village scene. She loved the blue-shuttered houses, the cypress trees and the market where lots of tiny ladies, Lowry style, were buying their vegetables. In particular she loved the colours; the hazy blues, misty greens and golden stone of the buildings.
‘Ooh!’ she gasped.
‘How much?’ asked Maggie.
The artist – middle-aged, pony-tailed and smoking furiously – looked at them, narrowed his eyes and, without removing his Gauloise, said, ‘Two ’undred euros.’
‘We are not Americans,’ Maggie informed him. ‘That’s far too much!’
‘I was only admiring it…’ Connie protested.
‘I like it too,’ Maggie said, ‘and I’d like to see it adorning one of Bella’s walls.’ She turned her attention back to the artist. ‘One hundred euros, maximum.’
‘Non, Madame. Non, non, non.’
‘Anyway, where would we put it?’ Connie asked, trying to imagine where there might be a few inches of wall without a mirror or a cupboard or a window.
Meanwhile the artist was studying Maggie, his eyes still narrowed. He removed his Gauloise and sighed loudly. ‘One ’undred, seventy-five.’
‘One hundred.’
Again, much Gallic shrugging. ‘Non, non, non!’
‘I am Scottish. Écossaise – comprenez? We like value for money.’
‘I am French. So do I. Lowest price, for you, is one-fifty.’
‘I’m happy to pay one-fifty,’ Connie whispered. She was aware that she’d hardly spent any of her own money since they left England. But neither of them were paying any attention to her.
Maggie moved closer to the artist. ‘You know it’s not worth a hundred even. But, look, I will give you one hundred and twenty-five right now. Pronto!’ She began to count out some euro notes.
‘Is not enough!’
‘Then we will go.’ She took Connie by the arm and was about to walk away.
‘OK, OK!’ he called after them. ‘One ’undred twenty-five. How you say – robbery in the daylight?’
* * *
Connie’s legs were aching as they waited outside the salon for Gill to reappear. ‘Do you suppose she’s had it cut?’ she asked Maggie.
‘Not a chance.’ She peered in the window to see Gill coming towards the door. ‘Oh my God!’
Gill’s locks were now a silvery-blonde, as opposed to the previous brassy yellow, which was an improvement; but the beehive had been replaced by an intricate upward display of curls and ringlets, which was not.
Gill looked quite coy. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’
‘I like the colour,’ Connie said tactfully.
‘Why didn’t you get it cut?’ Maggie demanded.
‘Because long hair is far more feminine,’ Gill snapped.
Maggie snorted. ‘You look like an aged can-can girl. Whose idea was it to have all these curls?’
‘Mine,’ said Gill.
Connie walked round to survey the back view. ‘Will it stay like that until tomorrow? Anyway, as long as you’re happy, Gill.’
Gill was eager to change the subject. ‘What’s in all these bags?’
* * *
It was early evening when they got back to Bella and Maggie announced she wanted to ‘pop along to the shop’. She returned fifteen minutes later, followed by Raoul dragging a trailer loaded with packages.
‘Four folding chairs, one folding table, one green and white awning,’ Maggie announced. ‘You like?’
‘I like very much,’ said Connie, who was still trying to find the best spot to display the picture.
‘Raoul had them on sale. And it all folds up into this big canvas bag thing, which can be stowed where the bikes would go, if we had any. It’ll only take minutes to set it all up and then pack it away again.’
Connie was overwhelmed but pleased at Maggie’s generosity; this could prove to be a real boost to their cramped living quarters, particularly once they were out in the French countryside. There wasn’t enough room in Raoul’s site to set it all up properly, so they ate supper inside with the door and windows open. It was an oppressive evening; you could feel the threat of thunder in the air. They ate bread, cheese and pâté, washed down with wine. Maggie was relaxed once she’d discovered her hidden caches were intact.
‘That Raoul’s quite attractive,’ Gill observed as she dug into the Brie.
‘That droopy grey moustache would put me off,’ said Connie. ‘Probably got last night’s dinner still
stuck in there somewhere.’
Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever turns you on, I suppose, Gill.’
‘He’s not in the same league as Fabio, of course,’ Gill continued. ‘Now that’s sexy.’
‘When did you see him last?’ Connie asked.
Gill screwed up her eyes. ‘Oh, about twenty years ago. He was working in London for a big Italian car company but then they transferred him back to Rome.’
‘He’s probably fat and bald now; I should forget him if I were you,’ Maggie said.
‘Would it be all right if we asked Raoul over for a drink?’ Gill asked tentatively.
Connie lay back on the divan and closed her eyes. Why hadn’t she bought that tiny single motorhome and set off on her own?
‘He just seems a bit lonely,’ Gill went on. ‘Shall I go over and ask him?’
Maggie sighed. ‘Well, OK, just for half an hour or so. If that’s OK with you, Connie?’
‘Provided he knows when to leave,’ Connie replied with feeling, as Gill set off.
Shortly afterwards she reappeared, coming carefully through the door so as not to dislodge the silvery-blonde masterpiece atop her pink, flushed face. She was clutching two bottles of wine.
‘What’s this?’ asked Connie. ‘We already have plenty of wine.’
Gill placed the bottles on the kitchen work surface and plonked herself down.
‘We’ve just been chatting in the shop and, do you know, he’s really nice when you get to know him. I felt a bit sorry for him ’cos his wife left him a year ago, so I felt he was some kind of kindred spirit. And he was so pleased to be asked.’
‘I bet he was,’ said Maggie.
Raoul, looking more dapper than usual with neatly groomed hair and moustache, appeared at the door brandishing yet another bottle of wine.
‘Bonsoir, Mesdames!’
‘Bonsoir, Raoul! Have a seat.’ Gill accepted the bottle of wine and continued pouring glasses of Merlot, while Raoul squeezed his bulk behind the table and helped himself to an olive.
‘It would have been nice to sit outside,’ Maggie said with some feeling. ‘But you haven’t left enough room to swing a cat between us and the Germans.’
The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read Page 6