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“Damned straight.” I grinned at her.
“We just have to decide who’s running point,” Natalie said.
Mary Alice raised her hand. “Me.”
She had her stubborn face on and I understood why. If she could get out there anddosomething about the situation we were in, it would go a long way towards making her feel like she was getting her life back.
We all nodded agreement and she went on. “Helen, we’ll need a second pair of hands—”
“I’ll do it.” I cut Mary Alice off quickly.
Natalie spoke up. “I think that should be up to Helen.”
“I don’t. I said I’ll do it,” I countered.
“Jesus, what did you have for breakfast? A bowl of Honey Bunches of Bitch?” Natalie grumped.
Helen put a hand to her arm. “It’s fine. If Billie wants it, she should do it.”
“I do.” Nobody argued. I wasn’t about to rat Helen out for losing her nerve in Jackson Square, but I wasn’t willing togamble the success of this mission either. She could take a back seat until she’d proved herself.
Our plan meant another errand run and a fair bit of preparation. I started with the jar I’d unearthed in the garden shed—an old glass carboy that somebody must have kept for brewing cider or storing wine. I scrubbed it out with a long-handled brush and snapped on a pair of vinyl gloves. I filled the carboy with water from the outside tap and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, breaking off the filters. I used a knife to slit each of the cigarettes, carefully emptying the tobacco into the jar, watching the brown flakes swirl into the water. It was oddly relaxing, disemboweling each cigarette into the carboy. A few of the hardier birds were singing and the winter sunshine was the color of a pale lemon. I might have even whistled a few bars of “American Pie” as I gave the sludge in the jar a good shake and covered it. I set it in a bright patch on the step like I was making sun tea. I would bring it in at sundown and set it on the back of the stove to keep it warm, steeping it as carefully as the best top-leaf Earl Grey.
I went back into the kitchen, stamping my feet and blowing on my fingers, to find Helen making a series of phone calls.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“We tried to make a booking online, but the spa is full,” she muttered.
I opened my mouth but she made a shushing motion at me as someone apparently picked up the phone on the other end. “Yes, is that the Spa at Courtempierre-les-Bains?” Helen had adopted a cut-glass English accent, deliberatelymispronouncing the French in a way that only British aristocrats can get away with. “This is Lady Henrietta Ridley and I am ringing to see why I haven’t yet received a confirmation email of my booking. Ridley. Ridddddddley,” she said, drawing out the syllable in apparent annoyance. “What? Of course I am certain. My assistant, Cassandra, made the booking last week. For all I know, you are the person with whom she spoke. Now, kindly confirm my booking.”
There was a faint series of squawks from the phone, and Helen cut in sharply. “My good man, do not make excuses. The booking is for four ladies, myself and three companions. We wish to take the waters and perhaps a little light massage, but that is all. We will be coming torest. I presume you can accommodate that?” More squawks. “I realize it is a busy time of year, but it is hardly my fault that you have lost the booking. By all means, yes. Put me on hold,” she finished acidly.
“Are we getting rooms or not?” I hissed. She looked at me, frowning, and shrugged her shoulders. The entire enterprise hinged on being able to get access to the spa. Minka was sitting opposite with the laptop we had picked up for her in Poole. I signaled her to pull up the spa’s feed on social media. The latest post was an image of a snowy landscape with a thermal pool gently steaming against a crisp blue sky.
I skimmed the comments—hearts, praise hands, little emoji with towel turbans—until I found what I needed.Can’t wait to see you this weekend for my hen party!chirped Debbi Williams, followed by a chicken emoji and heart eyes. I went to her profile and found her location listed as Cardiff. A few more clicks and I saw the engagement pic, Debbi glowing inthe arms of a pleasant-looking guy as she flashed a small, bright diamond at the camera. A few posts later was a group photo of Debbi with five other girls captioned,My best mates and bridesmaids!Six girls altogether, which meant at least two rooms and probably three. It would do just fine.
I scrolled back to the spa page and clicked the link in their bio to their website. Just then Helen started to speak again. “Yes, I am still here, and I intend to be here until you find my booking.” I made a frantic gesture at her to keep stalling, and she launched into a genteel tirade while I kept hitting buttons until I found the link to the phone number and dialed.
I motioned to her that it was ringing and she broke into her own rant. “Go and answer that other line immediately. I cannot hear myself think. Yes, I will hold.”
The desk clerk answered my call in French and German but switched to English immediately, his voice harried.
“Yes, this is Debbi Williams from Cardiff. I have a booking for this weekend for a small block of rooms for a hen party. I’m afraid I have to cancel. No, I don’t have the confirmation number handy, but I suppose I could look. It might take a few minutes...” I trailed off, but the desk clerk cut in.
“It is policy to use the confirmation number to cancel a booking,” he began. The Swiss and their rules. I rolled my eyes at Helen.
“It’s not my fault he canceled the wedding,” I said, letting my voice break on a sob. “I’ve had to tell all our friends and it’s been so humiliating, and now you’re going to make me pay for this booking that I can’t afford anymore because he left with all of our wedding money—”
The desk clerk might have been Swiss, but he was also a man, and I haven’t met a man yet who could handle a crying woman—especially when he already had an irritated woman on the other line and I was handing him available rooms on a silver platter. I threw in a few stuttering, dry-eyed sobs for good measure. “He cheated on me, you know. With my sister,” I sniffled. The poor desk clerk didn’t stand a chance.
“I suppose I could make an exception just this once, Miss Williams,” he said hastily.
I started to babble my thanks, but he cut in. “We have canceled your booking. Thank you and we hope to welcome you to the Spa at Courtempierre-les-Bains on another occasion.” He hung up and went straight back to Helen. Even muffled, his tone sounded relieved and Helen practically purred.
“Well, I am very glad we could get that straightened out. Yes. We will see you this weekend. Two rooms. And a complimentary scalp massage for my trouble? How kind.”
She hung up and turned to me. “Who the hell is Debbi Williams?”
