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Then, miraculously, our prospects for the break improved.
“Biba, darling!” Gail called from down the hall one morning as I reread Passage to India for the tenth time on a turn-of-the-century maroon leather chaise. “I’ve just had the most delightful convo!”
I perked up as she bounded into the lounge. “What’s up?”
“Aunty Mary and I just spoke. She and Uncle Tommy want to visit. They got a cheap flight to Geneva, then they hired a car and motoring to Wachsbrunnen. They’re getting in on Thursday, and they want to take us on a day trip!”
“Day trip?”
“They found an inn near Lac Leman. We’re going to stay the night. They’re treating us to some shopping and a nice dinner!”
I was speechless. Suddenly, it dawned on me how much this school had come to feel like a prison. The idea of going to a real, honest-to-God town with shops and restaurants, with people who had no connection to Stormcloud Academy … felt like a jailbreak!
“That’s amazing!” I squealed. “We could dress up! I could shower!”
“I know, right!”
We were like two little girls, hopping up and down and hugging. We were escaping the crushingly stern confines of this stone and oak manor and the in loco parentis tyrants that ran it. For just a little while, we would just be Biba Quinn and Gail Monfort, young ladies with the world before them.
For some peculiar reason, Thomas and Mary Monfort asked to pick us up in the village. Their rented Citroen bobbled comically over the cobblestone roundabout the Wachsbrunnen center.
“You must be Biba,” Aunt Mary greeted me with a tight hug. “I do hope I’m saying that right.”
“Totally right,” I answered. “You must be Mary.”
“So I am, and this is Tommy.”
Gail’s uncle remained behind the wheel, consulting the road atlas. He waved absently. They were both sweetly bland middle-aged English country folk, dressed in denim and wool for a trip through the mountains. Their speech had just a bit of Cornish to it. Lots of dropped Hs and rolled Rs. From what Gail told me, though, her father’s family all had Oxbridge educations, and that time at university tempered their accents.
“Best get a move on,” Thomas called. “The GPS is all muddled, so we’re going analog for navigation.”
“Biba, love,” Mary said, taking my hand, “I’m useless with that map. Any chance you could do the navigating while Gail and I catch up in the back.”
I agreed, though I warned Uncle Tommy, I might direct us off a cliff.
“You can’t be any worse than my loving wife, dear.”
The trip to Evian-Les-Bains took us over the border from Switzerland into France. The Citroen had virtually no trunk space, so I had to sit with my valise on my lap and the atlas perched on top, tracing the route with my finger.
Descending from the harrowing height of our Alpine school, I found my ears popping. It had been so long since I’d seen lawns of uninterrupted grass or bodies of water. We passed countless farmhouses and service stations on our dull journey, but it was worth it when we reached Lac Leman.
The region felt like the old-world luxury our classmates enjoyed. Every picturesque waterfront home had a Lamborghini or BMW in front of it. Affluent townspeople sat in outdoor cafes, sipping espresso or mini carafes of wine, munching on baguette sandwiches.
Gail and I were involuntarily giggling, willing time to slow down so we could savor our miniature holiday.
Evian Les Bains was a dream. It was scenic in the way that all towns in this part of the world were. I was embarrassed to admit that I’d become nearly bored with the idea of old-world European beauty. I wanted some consumerism, and I wanted it now!
That was where the town surpassed mine and Gail’s wildest dreams. It was nothing but quaint eateries and boutiques.
Uncle Tommy checked in at our inn while we had a serious fashion mission. Aunt Mary insisted on buying each of us a new dress. I locked in immediately on an elegant sheer gray-and-blue paisley print mini-dress. It had a black slip and a tan leather belt. Its high neck gave me a serious, sophisticated look.
I know this sounds silly, but I kind of needed to look worldly and confident. After weeks of being treated alternately as a child, a leper, and a back-alley prostitute, it felt good to dress like a real adult woman.
The Monforts arranged rooms at the Chalet Suites. They secured a double bed suite for Gail and me. It wasn’t huge, but it certainly beat a broom closet. Even knowing we were only stopping in to get ready for dinner, I couldn’t resist flopping down on my soft, four-post queen bed.
“Oh my Lord,” I howled dramatically, “this feels better than anything in the world!”
“That’s saying quite a lot, Miss Quinn,” retorted Gail with a wink.
