The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘I need to get off!’ Gill repeated. ‘You’ll have to take me back!’

  Where the hell were they going? Was she being abducted?

  ‘You are Gill, aren’t you?’ Pietro’s voice was heavy with exasperation.

  ‘Yes, but where are we going?’ Gill stared out in panic at the receding coastline.

  ‘You’re our chef for today?’

  ‘Chef!’ Gill leaned against the work surface for support. ‘Chef! Are you kidding? Is this some sort of bloody joke?’ I’m definitely going to be having that heart attack any minute now, she thought.

  ‘No, it is not a joke!’ Pietro shouted, getting red in the face. ‘You are supposed to be cooking lunch. Why else would you be on board?’

  ‘Because you asked me,’ Gill snapped.

  ‘Because you said you were Gill! And you have these bags of vegetables, no?’

  ‘I am Gill! And I have bags of dresses!’

  ‘Then you are the wrong Gill!’

  Pietro was pulling at his hair, by which time the girls were clutching each other in hysterics.

  ‘This is no laughing matter!’ he shouted. ‘Dio mio, we will have to go back! We have no cook! They will go crazy!’

  With that he disappeared up the steps, two at a time. There followed raised voices, much scuffling and a distinct change in engine noise.

  Gill, speechless, stared at the uncut courgettes and peppers on the galley worktop, while Céline and Fifi wiped their tears of laughter with kitchen towel.

  * * *

  ‘She’s late,’ Connie remarked, consulting her watch. ‘Heaven only knows how many outfits she must be buying.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Maggie. ‘There must be worse places to wait. Will you just look at some of these yachts!’

  Connie indicated a bench. ‘We might as well sit down. My feet are complaining. It’s not that it was a particularly long walk, but it’s the heat, I think. My ankles didn’t used to swell like this years ago, did yours?’

  ‘No, they didn’t. And I didn’t need to keep looking for loos either.’ Maggie’s first priority was always to find a toilet, which inevitably meant buying a drink at a cafe just to use their facilities, and which rather defeated the object since she then had to go again shortly afterwards.

  ‘Never mind,’ Connie said. ‘We look better than that old girl over there.’

  The old girl in question, surrounded by carrier bags, was short and fat, with cropped grey hair, and she filled every inch of her checked trousers.

  ‘Perhaps she’s waiting for her boat to come in,’ Maggie giggled.

  Connie looked at the glamorous young people on their decks. ‘She’ll wait a while.’

  ‘Have you ever been on one of these yachts, Connie?’

  ‘No, never. Have you?’

  ‘No, but I might be able to buy a little teeny one now!’ No, I wouldn’t, she thought. This showy lifestyle wouldn’t be for me.

  ‘Hey, look!’ Connie pointed out at the entrance to the marina. ‘Look at this beauty coming in!’

  They both gazed in awe as the sleek blue and white yacht came slowly in and moored in the empty space directly in front of them.

  ‘“Il Delfino”; that’s Italian for “The Dolphin”,’ said Connie, fresh from her studies.

  ‘Wow!’ said Maggie.

  At that moment an attractive but very angry-looking young man, clad only in tight white jeans, leapt ashore brandishing a rope. He shouted at the woman with the bags, who nodded.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t exactly look like a barrel of laughs,’ Connie said. ‘And what about the old girl! You can never tell from appearances, can you?’

  Having secured the boat at the little walkway, the young guy retreated as a large, bald, mahogany-coloured man emerged from the main cabin, accompanied by an ordinary-looking woman with a couple of carrier bags.

  ‘She doesn’t look much like a jetsetter,’ Maggie remarked. ‘She looks a bit like Gill.’

  ‘Yes, she does. And I bet Gill would give her eye teeth to be on a yacht like that!’

  ‘Her false teeth, you mean!’ Maggie said, and they both dissolved into giggles.

  Now the bald man was shaking the woman’s hand and she seemed to be waving at them.

  ‘Why is she waving at us?’ Maggie asked, screwing her eyes up against the sun.

  ‘Because I think it is Gill,’ said Connie.

  ‘You’re having me on!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Are we hallucinating or something?’

  ‘Coo-ee!’ Gill called out. She stepped ashore, shaking the hand of the woman with the bags, who then went promptly on board.

  ‘I’ve just had a lovely glass of champagne!’ she said cheerfully as she joined Connie and Maggie, who were gawping at her open-mouthed.

  ‘What in heaven’s name were you doing on a boat like that?’ Connie asked.

  Gill filled them in with the details. ‘I didn’t know they were looking for a cook,’ she said. ‘I thought he just wanted to show me around.’

  ‘Why on earth would he want to do that?’ Maggie asked.

  Connie was still laughing and wiping her eyes.

  ‘Dunno,’ Gill said. ‘What’s so funny, anyway?’

  ‘You are!’ Connie spluttered. ‘You’re priceless!’

  ‘So, what happened when this Pietro discovered you were the wrong Gill?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Well, he went ballistic. But it wasn’t my fault, was it? He had to go up to tell Sir Somebody that he wasn’t going to get any lunch if he didn’t turn the boat around. But Sir Whatever-his-name-was was ever so nice to me. He told me all about how he’d chartered the boat for a fortnight from some rich Italian car magnate. He just thought it was all a big joke. He was full of apologies and gave me a lovely glass of Bollinger while we came back to the marina. I wish I could find myself a man with a yacht like that!’

  At this, both Connie and Maggie howled with laughter again. Then Connie stood up and gave Gill a hug. ‘What would we do for entertainment without you?’ she asked.

  Fourteen

  NICE

  The day following Gill’s mini-cruise, they boarded one of the many trains heading eastwards along the coast to Nice, where Larry was to meet them at the station. Connie had informed him on the phone that they’d just like a stroll along the Promenade des Anglais and a wander round the old city, knowing that Larry would have plans for Vence, and the mountain villages.

  ‘He means well,’ Connie sighed, gazing out at the incredible blue of the sea from the train window. ‘He just likes organising people.’

  ‘Bloody bossy more like,’ said Gill.

  ‘And he drives like a maniac,’ Maggie added, with memories of the gorge. ‘And you can bet your boots there’ll be loads of twisty mountain roads round here.’

  Connie had been here before. ‘Some are,’ she confirmed.

  ‘And he also wants to get your knickers off,’ Gill informed Connie.

  ‘Oh, that’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ Connie replied. ‘And I can assure you he hasn’t got a cat’s chance in hell.’

  ‘He’ll try,’ warned Gill.

  ‘He’s very trying,’ Maggie added.

  At the station in Nice, Larry hugged them all in turn, Connie longer than the others, planting wet kisses on hastily turned cheeks as he aimed for their mouths. He beamed at them, resplendent in his Fred Perry shirt, baggy khaki shorts, and short grey socks underneath his brown leather sandals.

  ‘I thought today we’d do Nice,’ he announced, as they strolled along the promenade. Everyone here looked healthy, tanned and casually elegant behind their outsized sunglasses. ‘And tomorrow we’ll go up into the mountains, because there are some places you gals simply must see. And then there’s Monaco of course; terribly vulgar and lots of ghastly people live there, but worth a look around nevertheless. Wonderful casino though, if you have a million or two to get rid of, haw, haw. You can pass a week round here very easily.’

  ‘We’re not staying a week,’ Conni
e said firmly. ‘Only a couple of days. We want to get to Italy.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ Larry asked. ‘Italy will still be there next week.’

  ‘We want to get there for my birthday,’ Gill piped up.

  ‘Why?’ Larry stopped in his tracks. ‘What’s wrong with France?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with France,’ Connie replied. ‘It’s just that Gill fancies having her birthday in Italy.’

  This was news to all of them as Gill’s birthday, just a week or so away, had not been discussed in any detail, other than that Gill wanted it kept very low-key. There had been no word about Italy. Until now.

  Larry gave one of his derogatory snorts.

  ‘But we appreciate all your kind offers,’ Connie added. ‘Perhaps we’ll be able to see a few more places on the way back.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ Larry asked.

  There was complete silence as they all stopped and looked at each other.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Connie said truthfully.

  ‘We don’t want to think about that,’ Maggie said.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll even want to come back,’ sighed Gill, gazing around at her spectacular surroundings, the sea and the city sparkling in the morning sunshine.

  Larry gave an exasperated sigh.

  Connie couldn’t imagine him ever going anywhere without a strict timetable, always knowing where and when he was going, and the exact date he’d be coming back. Just like Roger, her ex. How very sad, she thought, when it isn’t necessary at all. And how very liberating this trip is, that we haven’t even thought about coming back!

  ‘Is Felicity happily settled?’ she asked politely, as they headed into the shadowed streets of the Old City.

  ‘Oh yes, my dear,’ Larry replied. ‘Charming spot. I shall take you there later for tea.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Connie said quickly, silencing the about-to-protest Gill with a glance.

  The man meant well. Here was another lonely soul, and how sad that none of these eligible old boys had fallen for Gill yet, she being the only one actually looking for a man. But, try as she might, Connie couldn’t for the life of her imagine a more unlikely duo than Gill and Larry.

  And she’d quite forgotten how charming this city was. Larry accompanied them with a non-stop running commentary, which was constantly interrupted by one or all of them heading into the little shops. Connie and Maggie had each purchased a colourful Provençale tablecloth, and Gill had found a filmy white top. These shopping detours were punctuated by much sighing from Larry. Connie and Maggie would gladly have spent more time in the picturesque and colourful Marché aux Fleurs, but Larry shepherded them on relentlessly.

  ‘It’s only flowers,’ he said dismissively, before leading them to the cathedral in all its baroque glory. ‘Now, here lie the remains of the martyred Saint Reparata,’ he informed them. ‘Would you like to hear her story?’

  ‘Another time, perhaps,’ Connie said, following the other two, who were hastily heading for the door.

  Outside again, Larry consulted his watch with a worried frown on his face.

  ‘We mustn’t be late for lunch,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Connie asked. ‘Have you booked somewhere?’

  ‘Of course!’ Larry replied shortly, and off he headed through a maze of tiny streets, some of which were little more than alleyways with cobbles underfoot, crowded and noisy. Clothing, jewellery, shoes, fruit and vegetables were all displayed in windows, doorways and stalls.

  Connie would have liked to browse around there for a while but, glancing at Larry’s face, decided against it.

  * * *

  It was there that Maggie saw the dress. It was dark brown, linen and sleeveless, and dangled alluringly from the doorway of what appeared to be a particularly chic boutique. Maggie supposed she really ought to have a dress. Most women had a dress. At the moment, her wardrobe consisted only of T-shirts, shorts, trousers and one cotton skirt.

  ‘That would really suit you,’ Connie confirmed.

  ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ Maggie stood back for a minute. ‘I haven’t bought a dress in years.’

  ‘Time you did then.’

  Maggie was aware of Larry gnashing his teeth, determined to stick to his self-made schedule.

  ‘Look, you all go on,’ she said, determined to keep the peace. ‘I’ll catch up with you shortly.’

  ‘We’ll be at La Bouche d’Or,’ said Larry, pointing vaguely ahead. ‘It’s only a couple of minutes’ walk.’

  ‘You OK with that?’ Connie asked. ‘I can stay if you like.’

  ‘No, no, you go with him, for God’s sake! If I can’t make up my mind we’ll come and look at it again on the way back.’

  Maggie continued to gaze longingly at the dress before venturing inside. She’d need a smaller size.

  ‘Ah, oui, plus petite!’ The saleslady reappeared within seconds with the smaller size. ‘You try!’

  And so Maggie found herself in a tiny changing booth with a tarnished mirror and barely room to turn around. With difficulty, she donned the dress and emerged into the tiny shop in search of a better reflection. And she liked what she saw in a non-tarnished mirror. She glanced at the label; it was a lot of money for such a simple dress. Well, I have a lot of money, she thought happily.

  ‘Eez beautiful,’ said the saleslady. ‘And now you need ze shoes! I have here ze pair which will be perfect!’

  Maggie stepped into some high-heeled gold, silver and bronze sandals, which looked exquisite with the dress. How on earth did that woman know her size?

  And she wasn’t finished yet. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I have ze necklace you must wear.’ She then produced an elaborate metallic concoction, which matched the sandals and set the dress off to perfection.

  Maggie pirouetted some more. There was no denying it; she looked good. Connie would be proud of her. All she needed now was some make-up and a hairdo.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have it all,’ she said.

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything. And, this dress, does it come in any other colours?’

  ‘There is also ze cream, and ze red, and ze—’

  ‘I’ll have the cream, please.’

  The woman appeared confused. ‘You want ze cream, and not ze brown?’

  ‘I want them both,’ Maggie replied, heading back to the changing booth to remove some notes from her bra.

  ‘And ze shoes, and ze necklace…?’

  ‘Everything!’

  ‘Ah, oui! Certainement!’

  Maggie, carrying a large bag, emerged from the tiny shop having been kissed on both cheeks by the jubilant saleslady. What extravagance! What the hell! And they were going to Italy, so who knew what opportunities there might be to wear these dresses. And hey-ho, she thought, there’s another few hundred euros you won’t be able to get your sticky fingers on, Ringer Bell! Not unless you’ve taken up cross-dressing!

  She pushed her way through the throngs of tourists in the direction the others had taken, half hoping there might still be some sign of them, but of course there wasn’t. They’d probably have ordered their meal by now, with Larry in charge. Maggie decided to go straight ahead. She could always phone if she got lost. What was the restaurant called? Something ‘gold’?

  There were fewer shops here, so she could imagine Larry legging it and shepherding them along, determined to deprive Connie and Gill of any further retail therapy. It was a long, narrow street with tall, ancient buildings and large, ornate wooden doors. There were columns of nameplates alongside countless doorbells, signalling a more commercial area. Would Larry really have brought them up here? Perhaps not. Maggie stopped and looked around, finding herself alone on a road going nowhere that she could see. It felt dark and oppressive and, in spite of the heat, Maggie found herself shivering. Just then her mobile rang. She’d switched it on in case she needed to call Connie. And this most likely would be Connie, thank God, she thought.

  ‘Connie?’

  There wa
s a moment’s silence and then a familiar voice that she had no wish to hear said, ‘I know where you are, you bitch. And I’m coming to get you.’

  Maggie froze. How on earth could he know she was here? She clicked the phone off and leaned against a wall. Then it rang again. She didn’t recognise the number but, with shaking fingers, she felt compelled to listen.

  ‘Are you there, bitch? Don’t think you’re going to get away with this. I’m going to take you and your nasty little caravan apart – just remember Kenny Flynn.’ And he was gone.

  Maggie, thoroughly frightened, began to retrace her steps along the now deserted street. Was he around here somewhere? Would he suddenly emerge from one of these sinister-looking doorways? Suddenly this whole street seemed dark and forbidding, and she began to run, back towards the sunlit square. Dear Lord, had he been following her? Of course not! He must be bluffing.

  But she did remember Kenny Flynn: a small-time criminal, who Ringer had poetically described as ‘greedy as shit’. Some years back he’d gone along with Ringer’s gang on a Post Office raid and had unwisely headed off with most of Ringer’s share of the money. Ringer went ballistic and spent several weeks hunting Kenny Flynn down. Later Maggie was never able to work out whether or not Ringer had managed to retrieve his loot, but she did remember Kenny Flynn had come to a sticky end by falling into a large vat of glue in an East End warehouse. Ringer, of course, denied all knowledge of who had killed Kenny.

  Maggie looked around frantically as she emerged into the square. People were still strolling in the sunshine, children were shouting, a dog was barking, and somewhere someone was playing Edith Piaf’s ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’. Still shaken, she clicked on Connie’s number and, with great relief, got directions to La Bouche d’Or, which was only a couple of minutes away. She found them sitting at a table outside, shaded by banks of hydrangeas and dangling greenery.

  ‘Did you buy the dress?’ Gill asked, surveying the large bag.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Maggie, relieved to sit down. ‘Two dresses, in fact.’

  ‘Two!’ Gill gawped.