Page 34 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘That’s what I love about being on holiday,’ Jill says. ‘Mad things happen out of nowhere.’
A bottle of blanc de blanc that Théo has apparently ordered arrives, and once they’ve clinked glasses and taken sips, Cyril stands, bows, and offers Wendy his hand.
‘Oh, no…’ Wendy splutters through laughter. ‘I can’t dance rock-and-roll at all.’
‘If she can do it, you can do it,’ Jill says, pointing at a woman in her late seventies, being twirled around the dance floor by a bejewelled man channelling Liberace.
‘No, I mean I don’t know how,’ Wendy says. ‘I’ve never danced with a partner in my life. Not so much as a tango.’
‘Is OK,’ Cyril says, taking her hand by force and yanking her to her feet. ‘All you do is follow me.’
‘That was the most fun I’ve had in years,’ Jill slurs, as the two women stumble along the wet pavement back towards town. Itis almost midnight and, this being a rainy Thursday in November, the streets are all but deserted. ‘But Christ my feet hurt.’
‘Mine too,’ Wendy agrees. ‘How old do you think he was, by the way? I kept wondering.’
‘Mine?’ Jill asks. ‘Or yours?’
‘Cyril. He must have been in his seventies, right?’
‘Mid-sixties, I’d say. Just ravaged by drink and cigarettes, which should be a warning to us all. But it’s hard to tell. Théo said he’s sixty-four, which came as a bit of a shock. I thought he was more my age.’
‘And did he really not try anything on?’ Wendy asks, tripping up the kerb and grabbing Jill’s hand to steady herself.
‘He did not,’ Jill says. ‘Not so much as a grope. They really were perfect gentlemen.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Nah,’ Jill says. ‘Not really.’
Wendy laughs. ‘I know you. You’re feeling snubbed.’
Jill snorts. ‘By the end I was starting to find him quite attractive.’
‘Beer goggles,’ Wendy says, ‘or rather, spritz goggles,’ and Jill finds this so hilarious that she momentarily has to stop walking so that she can double over and laugh.
‘Spritz goggles,’ she repeats, when she can speak again. ‘That’s exactly what it was.’
It seems to take forever to reach the car park, but eventually Jill stops walking and points. ‘That’s the one, right?’ she says. ‘That’s where we parked the car. I remember because of those funky lamps.’
‘Yess!’ Wendy agrees. ‘Now all we have to do is find the car.’
‘And you’re sure you’re OK to drive?’ Jill asks, as the lift descends.
Wendy, who has eaten a plate of chips at some point during the evening, and who quite valiantly refrained from drinkinganything else from that point on, suspects she’s over the limit. In fact she’s sure she must be over the limit. All the same, shefeelsreasonably straight. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says, analysing her own gait as they leave the lift. ‘I think I’m OK…’ She tries, successfully, to walk along a painted line on the floor of the car park.
‘Perfect,’ Jill says. ‘See? Now my turn.’ Jill’s mere attempt at walking in a straight line is enough to make her crumple to the floor in a fit of giggles.
‘Good job you’re not driving,’ Wendy says, as she holds out a hand to haul her friend back to her feet.
‘I don’t think they bref-le-lies people in France anyway,’ Jill says, enunciating with difficulty. ‘You know what continentals are like. Drink driving is almost compulsory.’
‘Bref-le-lies?’ Wendy repeats mockingly.
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ Jill says.
‘Luckily, I do.’
It takes ten minutes of traipsing up and down various ramps for them to locate the Renault, and by the time they’re seated, the icy chill of the car park and the stress of worrying about finding the car have left Wendy feeling perfectly sober.
