Giggles exploded out of me and I grabbed the pillow off my bed to cover my mouth. Lou did the same and we laughed long and hard. Hopefully, they didn’t hear us—they were right next door.
Half an hour later, the whole tour group gathered outside what I had dubbed “the circus tent”, a giant yellow and white striped tent where we’d eat dinner that night and both Parisian breakfasts. My dreams of café au lait and pain au chocolat had vanished. I seriously doubted there was an espresso machine in there—clowns and a trapeze, more likely.
Ventureseek reps sped amongst us with stacks of plastic cups pouring scant measures of what was likely cheap bubbles. I took one from an Aussie girl and gave her a smile. It wasn’t her fault my mattress had a plastic cover.
Cup in hand, I turned to my three new friends—Lou and I had decided to keep the other two after all. “A toast—to new friends and to Paris’s finest garden sheds.”
To their credit, even Danielle and Jaelee smiled at that, tapping their cups against mine and Lou’s. I took a sip and grimaced—make that extremely cheap bubbles. Traveller, traveller, traveller.
“What do you think they’re going to serve us for dinner?” asked Danielle.
A sardonic look passed over Jaelee’s face as she murmured, “From the look of the place, hotdogs and tater tots.” Her American accent hit the “r” hard.
“Summer camp?” I asked.
“Ages seven to sixteen.”
“Is it like in the movies?”
“Exactly.” She proffered a snarky smile and I thought how nice it was being eye to eye with someone. As a shortish woman—five-foot-one-and-three-quarters—I look up to most people. I mean this literally, not figuratively. It is my experience that most people suck.
Danielle pestered one of the reps for more bubbles, so we each got a top-up. I was glad we’d decided to keep her.
“So, Dani …” She cocked her head at me, a furrow between her brows. “Sorry, I probably sound English, but I’m actually Australian and it’s a bit of an Aussie habit, shortening names.” I pointed around our quartet. “Jae, Lou, Cat …”
She appeared to be considering whether she wanted to spend the rest of the tour being called “Dani”. From her expression, she didn’t. “So, ‘Danielle’, then?”
“Actually, I don’t mind it. You can call me Dani.”
I was surprised, but pleased. “So, Dani. You’re travelling alone too?”
“Yes,” she said pointedly. “My best friend, Nathalie—well, we were supposed to be on this trip together, but she eloped instead.”
Three pairs of wide eyes stared at her, unblinking.
“She got married?” asked Jaelee.
“Yeah, well, not yet. Tomorrow, actually. In Mexico. I … I wasn’t invited.” I thought leaving an alcoholic husband was having a hard time. Well, it was, but so was this. Dani chewed on the rim of her cup.
“Well, that sucks. I’m sorry, Dani.” I could already tell that Lou was a terrific commiserator.
“Okay. We’re clearly going to be a foursome, so let’s get the preliminaries out of the way.” Jaelee took charge. Pointing to Dani she said, “Crappy best friend.” Dani seemed to take the label in her stride and sipped her bubbles.
Then to Lou, “You. Go.”
“Alcoholic husband, probably separating, taking some time by myself—to decide, so, yeah …” We all nodded solemnly.
“Now you.” Jaelee pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me.
“Well, it’s nothing like any—”
“No rationalising. Just go.”
“Apparently my flatmate’s in love with me, but I don’t feel the same way and I’m on the run.”
She nodded with approval. “Good.” Good? “So, me …” She paused—for effect, I was sure.
“The love of my life just married someone else.”
Frigging hell. Somehow, I’d managed to gravitate towards three women who’d had the shittiest of shitty things happen to them, and there I was, just a lowly love fugitive.
Still, any lingering doubts about booking the tour on a whim had vanished. As I drained the last of my cheap bubbles, I took a moment to appreciate my new gal pals. We’d have the next two weeks together, and no doubt we’d spend a good chunk of the time talking about all the shit going down.
In the absence of Sarah, I’d hit the jackpot.
***
“And if you look to the right …”
There was a collective gasp as fifty-three people got their first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower from the Champ de Mars, silhouetted against a darkening orange and pink sky.
Georgina was right—I was loving the Paris night tour.
I’d been to Paris before—lots of times. It was the sort of place I could get to for next to nothing and it had been the destination for several last-minute girls’ weekends away. Discounted flights on easyJet—carry-on only—then staying in a cheap hotel or an Airbnb in one of the not-so-nice parts of the city, sharing a bedroom and sometimes even a bed.
My London-based bestie, Mich, taught at the same school as me and was my usual partner in crime—or enabler, whichever one corresponds with me spending an indecent amount of my disposable income on last-minute travel.
In Paris, we’d shop in the mornings—mostly looking in windows and salivating—then find a little hole-in-the-wall bistro where we could eat chunks of baguettes slathered in cheese and drink cheap red wine.
We’d hang out for a few hours and halfway-to-sloshed, we’d step out into the late afternoon to wander the streets and “ooh” and “ahh” over how French everything was. Maybe we’d fit in a gallery visit—Oh my God, I’m standing in front of an actual Monet. Wow, the Mona Lisa!—or a quick excursion to see some iconic landmark, before finding another hole-in-the-wall bistro for a late dinner of cassoulet and more red wine.
For day two, rinse and repeat.
Then, still tipsy, we’d catch the train to the airport late Sunday evening and fly home, dragging ourselves to work the next day—utterly shattered and swearing we’d never eat another piece of cheese as long as we lived.
And there was the trip to Paris with my ex, Scott. It was where we broke up—well, not right away. I think we knew we were breaking up when we arrived, but instead of being adults and ending it, we hobbled along for another few days until we’d flogged that poor dead horse into the dust.
Actually, that trip to Paris had been nothing more than a blur, a string of emotionally wrought snapshots that I rarely let see the light of day.
But I could tell, even on the first day, that this tour would be vastly different from my previous trips—and not just the trips to Paris—all of them.
For a start, I saw more of Paris that night than I’d seen in all my previous trips put together. The tour route took us to some of the most famous—and infamous—sights in Paris, and Georgina’s commentary was impressive, peppered with fun facts and historical titbits, making it all come to life.
No, Georgina, I did not know millions of people were buried in the catacombs, or that the Académie française voted every year on which words to add to the French language.