SHORT STORY | TRAVEL | MYSTERY
A Four Day Trip to Paris
Getting close to retirement, Kevin and Isobel take a coach tour to see Paris.
The moist reds of the summer fruit dessert caught my eye. The man who ate the dessert sat at the table opposite. Beside him was a piece of cheesecake. When the woman returned to the table, they looked as different from each other as their chosen sweets.
We were about to board a ferry traveling from Dover to Calais.
“It would be good to practice your French,” I had persuaded my wife, “if we are going to be a few days in Paris.”
Once in France we embarked on a four-day coach trip to Paris. After forty years, and with retirement looming on the horizon, I was taking my wife and a short break.
We left home early, taking the coach from the east coast of England to the south coast, arriving by lunchtime. We weren’t boarding the ferry till the following day, so we went to the cinema that evening, had a drink in the hotel bar, and retired, ready for the first ferry crossing at 7:00 a.m.
That was when I first noticed them. As the ferry pulled away from the berth, we sat at a table in the self-service café. The moist reds of the summer fruit dessert caught my eye. The man who ate the dessert sat at the table opposite. Beside him was a piece of cheesecake. When the woman returned to the table, they looked as different from each other as their chosen sweets for breakfast.
I had eggs on toast, Isobel, my wife, had scrambled, and we both had a coffee. As we chatted, I watched the couple over Isobel’s shoulder. The man, I thought, looked very similar to the one and only Phil Collins, maybe a little chubbier. While Isobel was talking, I started to picture him sat behind a set of drums and singing.
On the other hand, his partner looked like Nicole Kidman, taller than her traveling companion, who may or may not be her husband; she has light copper hair, though half is clipped up, the rest falling in abundant curls down the front of her bright red sweater.
Their outfits seemed different for people going on vacation if indeed they were. But what they wore suggested something entirely different. She, wearing a pencil-slim grey cotton skirt with crisp white blouse, brought to life by a red V-neck sweater, giving her more the appearance of a secretary than my imagined film star. Yet she had a presence about her, as does Nicole Kidman.
They didn’t talk much, a clue to suggest they were married, and when they did speak, it was in clipped phrases, like married folk. But they were in their late thirties, so it was presumptuous of me to consider them married.
They didn’t have children, that’s for sure. I could tell. They were maybe enjoying their first romantic trip to Paris. More suppositions would have followed but Isobel was anxious to explore the ferry. It was her first time on the Chanel ferry, so I reluctantly joined her as she ventured up to the top deck to wave goodbye to the beautiful white cliffs of Dover. The wind blew so much, she had to head to the ladies to tidy up.
While waiting for her, I again noticed the tall, beautiful, russet redhead. I suspected she was doing the same thing, waiting for her husband to come out of the Gents, and was busy searching in her black handbag, throwing odds and ends out and into a garbage receptacle.
I watched her walk away, tall people have a walk of their own, similar to that of a graceful horse, bending their knees more and placing the hoof down gracefully.
Sixty minutes later, as the ferry neared Calais, we tore ourselves away from the many onboard tax-saving shops and headed down a central staircase to await our coach’s arrival. The porters took care of the luggage, and the Isobel had marked our well, stating we would be boarding Coach 2.
Coach 1 could spend two of the four days at Euro-Disney. However, the idea of small children onboard didn’t appeal to us, being childless ourselves.
As we settled into our seats, I noticed the same two were traveling on our coach. They chatted and smiled as they passed along on their way to the rear of the coach. I heard in passing that she had a Scottish accent and sounded more like she was from Edinburgh than Glasgow. He hardly spoke but a couple of words.
Was it my imagination, hadn’t it been a black handbag I had seen her holding when she was waiting outside the men’s toilet because as she passed, she was carrying a small white one. It hung from a long strap over her shoulder and perfectly matched the strappy, white sandals she was wearing.
The coach departed the ferry terminal at 7: 45 a.m. and headed into France. I turned to mention the bag to Isobel, only to find she had put on her headphones already. So, I picked up my book and tried to read.
My book didn’t get much attention, however, Isobel kept interrupting with; “My word, Kevin, have you seen such beautiful scenery?” and similar gasps as we sped through Northern France.
We had two drivers doing hour-long stints. We also had a pretty attendant onboard, giving us commentary as we passed through some idyllic towns and villages. Every couple of hours this pretty young thing, dressed in her company uniform, came round with tea, coffee, and soft drinks.
I needed to pee, and went back to the onboard loo, Nicole and Phil were chatting happily with other travelers. The loo was occupied. While waiting, I imagined Phil to be in some kind of office work. He certainly wasn’t a builder or laborer; he didn’t have those kinds of hands and, indeed, not the tanned skin of an outdoor worker.
Nicole, however, came over more as a people person, not a social worker; she was too finely dressed, no, something like a personnel manager. But the picture I was building was interrupted by the voice of the non-driver, telling us we were arriving in Paris; ten minutes and we would leave the coach. I would have to hold myself until we were inside the hotel.
Isobel and I hurried to check-in and took our luggage to our room on the second floor. We barely had time to freshen up before circling the Arc de Triumph on a different city tour coach.
It was a four-hour trip to the Louver Art Gallery. When we pulled up, I jumped down to take pictures before we went inside. We skimmed through the photos when we took a rest inside the Gallery. We both realized I had Nicole in a couple of the shots. Her slim, tall figure wearing the distinctive red top was easily picked out as she bowed down to speak to an elderly woman. We spent the last hour on the Place de la Concorde before boarding the coach back to the hotel.
At 9:00 p.m., though both tired, we set off to find a restaurant for dinner, and on the Rue de Napoleon, we sat in the window of a quiet restaurant and watched the Paris nightlife pass. We ate chicken salad and followed it down with our favorite ice cream and still water.
Isobel practiced her French on the waiter. Mine was so rusty I left her to it. At the dinner’s end, I heard her ask for, L’addition si vue plais. The small, chubby waiter smiled broadly.
The following day, we were up early, at 7:00 a.m. We had pre-booked half-day site-seeing tour of Paris, which included a boat trip on the river Seine. A trip for which we were excited and looked forward to taking. The coach dropped us off outside the Notre Dame Cathedral close to 8:00 a.m., and we were ready for breakfast.
We escaped the tour assembled persons and instead fled to a nearby café. We enjoyed fresh French bread filled with cheese and various cold slices of meat.
As we left the café, I could see the distinctive figure of Nicole, and pointed her out to Isobel. She wore a cardigan, though it was comfortably warm, a similar red to yesterday’s sweater, and they followed along with others behind the guide with his rolled-up umbrella.
We hurried across the road to tag onto the back of the group before entering the Cathedral, but not before dodging street sellers who jangled rosary beads in our faces and shook glass domes of the Cathedral in front of us to block our escape path. While Phil walked behind, Nicole was exceptionally kind, helping the older couples down the Cathedral’s steps.
That afternoon, after the boat trip, which was as interesting as advertised, we headed back to the coach, going off to the Eiffel Tower. The square beneath the tower was a hive of activity. Here it was that the street sellers got pushy.
Isobel bought a lovely pencil drawing of the tower and surrounding area, and soon we returned to the coach and departed for the Palace de Versailles.
The enormity of the place and the vast, cobbled courtyard soon had tired our legs and we happily returned to the coach and then to our hotel. Entering the reception, we heard raised voices. Two ladies, both I recognized from the coach, were clearly distressed, speaking in broken French.
I understood enough to know they were complaining they had been robbed. The hotel staff explained that pickpockets were at work when in Paris and visiting crowded areas.
The receptionist appeared to be making progress and had them fill out forms. We carried on to the elevator.
We were exhausted and decided to stay close to the hotel and found a nice, cozy Italian place. It did not disappoint. I had a Carbonara, and Isobel, a risotto.
Returning to the hotel, I stupidly pushed the wrong floor button in the elevator. We didn’t notice until the card wouldn’t open the door. Naturally, it wouldn’t. We were on floor three. Laughing at each other, we returned to the elevator, passing Nicole and Phil, and I asked if they had enjoyed their day.
“Where did you end up?” Nicole asked with apparent interest. It was easy to see she enjoyed chatting with people.
“We chose to go to the Palace of Versailles,” I replied.
“So did we!” she said. “It really blew me away.”
“It was much bigger than I was expecting, and the gardens were amazing,” Isobel said.
“Yes,” Nicole replied, “you would really need a week to have a good look around.”
“Well, it tired us out, so we just had dinner at the Italian on the corner. It was very good. Have you eaten there?”
“No,” Nicole responded. “Maybe we will try it.” Phil just smiled.
We wished them goodnight.
We ate our continental breakfast in the hotel restaurant the following morning and were surprised to hear a hushed argument concluding with the father of the family telling his son it was his own fault for not looking after his money.
“Just because they are Euros doesn’t mean you can leave your wallet lying around,” he scolded the embarrassed boy before seeing us paying attention.
“I didn’t,” the boy retaliated. “It was definitely in my pocket.”
We finished breakfast and made our way into the lounge to watch for our coach, which would take us to Paris for a leisure day. Some of the same people were gathering on the pavement outside the window. True to form Nicole was chatting to a petite, thin elderly lady and bending to make eye contact beneath the lady’s large, bright red sun hat. As Nicole related, what seemed to be an amusing story, the old girl wrapped her arms about Nicole in a friendly manner. As usual, Phil was tucked in behind the elderly lady and smiled at them both.
Minutes later, Phil entered the lounge and sat on an adjacent settee. I seized the moment with, “did you enjoy the summer fruit dessert?” and explained we were sitting at a nearby table on the ferry. “It looked delicious.”
He seemed caught off his guard, then, “it could have had a few more strawberries.”
Our plan for today was to revisit the Louvre Art Gallery to see the Mona Lisa. As we entered the Gallery’s ostentatious glass dome entrance, we descended the circular staircase to have our bags searched and then on to follow our internet map to find the Italian Exhibition. The Mona Lisa was much smaller than we expected and constantly surrounded by flash photography.
We then headed to a café in the Louvre gardens, and after a light lunch, we indulged in too much retail therapy. After a lovely dinner in another amazing restaurant, we returned to the hotel to over-hear the family of that morning’s argument, consoling another family that, too, had lost some traveler’s cheques. Finally, Isobel steered me to the elevator.
“I’m sure the hotel can handle it.” Isobel said, not one for getting involved in any scene.
The last day of our trip came too soon, and our coach collected us soon after breakfast to allow time to stop at a cash and carry on the way back. Before leaving the large warehouse, we bought French wine, Belgian chocolates, and assorted cheeses.
People wandered around in the warm air, taking a moment to stretch their legs. I noticed the elderly lady with the large bright red sun hat. I went up to her and, in a friendly fashion, asked if she had enjoyed the trip. The poor woman explained that she had been robbed of her traveler’s checks.
I told her I had heard such a thing had happened to other people on the trip, including a young lad.
“I wasn’t able to buy anything, and I saved some checks just for this,” she said, and I saw genuine tears on her cheeks.
I consoled her, and Isobel suggested we open the chocolates and share them with the lovely old girl.
Do you remember having those checks before the lovely woman with the red cardigan approached you in the Gallery? I just happened to see you talking to her.”
“Yes, she was very kind. I needed some help,” she said. I had my suspicions.
I spoke to Isobel about my observations. She dismissed the idea with, “Do you want to get involved?”
But I had it all figured out; the connection was complete. Nicole carries out the pickpocket and hands Phil the proceeds. I felt obligated to inform the police on reaching Dover.
As we docked, two burly Police Officers boarded the ferry. I lost sight of them, only seeing them return. The old girl wearing the big red sunhat was being led away in handcuffs, accompanied by Phil.
I looked at Isobel. “What do you think all that is about?” I asked.
“Honey, let’s not get involved.”
“You know,” I said, “back at the warehouse I was going to give the elderly lady our last traveler check,” and put my hand in my back pocket to show her.
It was empty.
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