‘Yeah. We’re fine,’ slurs Jasmine.
The two girls slump in the back of the car, leaning on each other, already almost snoozing. How much have they had to drink?
Despite their inebriation, I smile as I look at the two sisters, snuggling up close like two peas in a pod. But then, as usual, my hormones begin to rage.
‘What happened to my top, Jasmine?’
This quickly wakes Jasmine from her doze.
‘It’s alright, it’s not what it looks like.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Grenadine. This woman had a cocktail. I was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was an accident. Sorry, Mam. It’ll come out. At least it’s not red wine, hey?’
I try hard to control myself from screaming and take a deep breath. I remind myself that the girls are safe after another night out on the town with who knows what dangers lurking. The main thing is they are okay. Their drinks weren’t spiked, nobody dragged them somewhere only a mother’s imagination could conjure up and they are in the car coming home with me. But, still, as I look at my brand-new top, I can see that this is one stain that isn’t going anywhere.
I grip the steering wheel and force myself to meditate. Well, when I say meditate, what I mean is that I remind myself that I love my girls, and they are only here for five more days. I have wine on demand, and there is always that family pack of Minstrels I bought for myself. I can get through this visit without a menopausal breakdown.
As we stop at the traffic lights near the marina, I look in the mirror at the two of them, who are now both fast asleep. It reminds me of how they used to sleep in the car when they were small after we had taken them on a long day out to Longleat or some adventure park. Here they are once again, looking like my two angels, and despite their little annoyances, I wouldn’t swap them for the world.
Chapter Three
Once the girls return to uni, the plans begin full force for our trip. Soraya has decided on Monaco, and Gianni has happily agreed to let us stay there for the weekend. She says we will use the apartment as a base and maybe his chauffeur can drive us to the surrounding areas if we want to explore further. Apparently, Gianni’s driver is happy to pick us up from the airport at the very least. Soraya has suggested he might even be the man of my dreams. I have told her not to dare try fixing me up. I remind her that I am there to have a good time and enjoy her birthday. Whilst I might want to write about romance, that is the last thing on my mind for my own life. And there is certainly no chance of an affair with a chauffeur called Paulo just because he drives a big fancy car belonging to Gianni.
Carol and Soraya have excitedly bought beautiful new clothes for the trip, while I have tried numerous times to soak the stain out of my pink top, but to no avail. I was hoping there might be a sale in Primark before we went, but as our departure date beckons, I realise that I will just have to make do with what I have. It’s been years since I had a summer holiday, and half my clothes are too tight. I throw everything out of my wardrobe and have a sort-out. I look at all the clothes I kept thinking would fit me again one day. Looking at a size ten pair of jeans, I realise there is no hope of that. I wish I could wave a magic wand and squeeze into my favourite white denim skirt. It used to look lovely with a tan. I examine the seams in the hope that a dressmaker might be able to make it three sizes bigger, but there’s not that much material spare.
At Easter, I swap chocolate eggs for boiled ones, and the day before our flight to Nice comes around, the waistband on the larger of my summer skirts is just about manageable.
As part of my mission to get back out into the world, I decide it is time to announce to the creative writing WhatsApp group that was formed in the pub on the last night of the course that I am going to write my book. Despite us all getting along well, the group, which is in an archive on my phone, has been very quiet lately. Perhaps I am not the only one who lost inspiration once the course ended. I decide that my news might hopefully motivate them.
Hi, everyone! How’s your writing going? Anyone have any writing news?I wanted to let you all know that I’m starting the book I talked about.Wish me luck! X
Now it’s official. I have announced that I am doing it. I press send and immediately start to get cold feet. Oh well, if the worst comes to the worst and I am a complete failure, I guess all I have to do is leave the group and hope I never bump into any of them anywhere ever again. I watch as the notification shows that five of the group have read my message. They haven’t responded! Couldn’t someone at least give me a thumbs up?
My confidence takes a bashing again. Am I making a mistake? I think of Michael standing there in those yellow chinos that looked far too young for him and the new haircut he got with the shaved sides as he stood and ridiculed my dream of writing when I casually mentioned I was doing a course. Why would anyone be interested in my writing news? We were all strangers, but I thought we had bonded; obviously not. Should I listen to Michael? Does anyone really care if I write this book or not? Probably not, but I know in my heart that I care. As I doubt myself, I also worry about the thought of my holiday tomorrow. I was never made for a posh break in Monaco.
To calm down all the doubts, I open a bottle of wine that was on special offer at the supermarket and scroll through other people’s social media posts.
After two glasses, my creative crisis shifts a little, and I tell myself that I am not giving up. It also helps that Christian, a lovely young chap on the course, has messaged to say that he wishes me luck and that he has decided to give up on his writing for now. I am sad to hear this. He says he has a new job collecting trolleys in the supermarket, and he’s doing a lot of extra shifts, but he hopes one day he will have the time to fulfil his dream.
I think how this redundancy has given me the gift of time to write, and I must make the most of it.
By morning, one of the lovely ladies, Judy, has written a message saying that she can’t wait to hear more about my book and she’s happy to be a beta reader if I need another pair of eyes to look over it. My faith has been restored, and I write back to her thanking her for being so kind.
I smile to myself as I pack my laptop in my hand luggage and confidently stride out of the flat for Andrew to collect me downstairs. He is already waiting in his Bentley 4X4, and Soraya and Carol are giddy with excitement as Soraya opens a bottle of champagne for our journey even before we reach the traffic lights to get out of Swansea.
‘Got to start as we mean to go on. Come on, girls,’ says Soraya handing me a plastic glass. I am almost afraid to take it in case I spill anything on the beautiful cream leather seats. But Soraya pushes it towards me as we go over a speed hump, and I grip the glass for dear life.
‘Cheers, my loves. This is to the best girls’ holiday ever,’ says Soraya.
‘Cheers. Thank you so much for inviting us, and thank you, Andrew, for paying. It’s so generous of you.’
‘It’s alright. Only the best for my Soraya and her mates,’ he says.
I swoon as I look at the two of them. Maybe my novel should be about these two. That would definitely give the readers a nice happy ending. Twenty-five years together and he still treats her like a princess. They must be a match made in heaven as despite working with each other every single day, they still get on like a house on fire. I wonder if Soraya would mind me writing their love story? I’d probably have to change the bit about how they met in a kebab shop after a night out at the Top Rank. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic of meet-cutes when he took a bite of her kebab at three a.m.
I turn to Carol as she starts hiccupping.
