Page 28 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘What, you think he’s opened a savings account at the Post Office?’

Flick coloured. ‘I meant a digital currency account, something untraceable.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe. Does it matter? I doubt I’ll ever see a penny of it.’ Maggie shrugged; she’d wasted so many hours, days, weeks, months, her mind on a loop, going over and over it. ‘The police thought he might have a hidden stash somewhere or a gambling habit, apparently that’s quite common.’

‘Well, that’s easy then!’ Flick looked triumphant.

‘Huh?’

‘Where would you find a gambler in Monte Carlo?’

And there it was. Staring them both straight in the face. They both spoke at the same time.

‘The casino.’

Sorry Not Sorry

There was just one small problem:

‘The Casino de Monte-Carlo has a strict dress code.’

Twenty minutes later and they were in Place du Casino, with its fountain and palm trees, standing outside one of the most famous buildings in the world. With its iconic golden facade and sweeping main entrance, it was surrounded by expensive sportscars and crowds of starstruck tourists.

And two women on the hunt for a romance fraudster.

‘To enter this legendary venue, visitors are required to wear smart attire in the evening,’ continued Flick, who was googling and reading aloud from her iPhone. ‘Details can be found on the official website.’

‘Patrons wearing shorts, jeans with holes, running shoes, flip-flops and sandals will not be admitted,’ finished Maggie, who’d picked up a leaflet from tourist information on the way.

They both paused from reading and turned to each other, taking in each other’s outfits. Collectively they were wearing every banned item on the list. Minus the holey jeans, thought Maggie, but she had a pair of those in her suitcase.

‘Fuck.’

‘Gordon Bennett.’

Both cursing at the same time, Flick turned to Maggie. ‘Who’s Gordon Bennett?’

Maggie shrugged. ‘I have no idea. It’s just an expression.’

Flick stared at her. What was it with the older generation and their use of bizarre sayings?

‘Sorry. It’s what my dad used to say. Sometimes when I get nervous it just pops out.’ Maggie fanned herself with the leaflet. It must be a hundred degrees. She could feel her chest going all blotchy, like it did when she got all hot and bothered.

At the mention of Maggie’s dad, Flick felt a stab of sympathy. Her mum was never far from her mind either. ‘You don’t need to apologize,’ she said more kindly.

‘Sorry, I know, it’s just—’ Maggie caught herself apologizing again, shaking her head with an awkward laugh. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t stop saying sorry these days.’

‘It’s not your fault. We live in a patriarchal society. Women are taught to over-apologize, for taking up space, or having an opinion, or being ambitious. Basically everything men do without thinking. You know men hardly ever feel guilty?’

‘They don’t?’ Maggie looked at Flick in astonishment.

‘No, I’ve asked Rory. He looked at me like I was bananas. “Guilty? For what?” And yet women are constantly made to feel guilty for everything.’

‘And now I’m feeling guilty about feeling guilty,’ admitted Maggie, which made Flick laugh.

‘See. A total waste of our time. Talking of which –’ she glanced at her watch – ‘we need to get a move on if we’re going to find something to wear for tonight.’

‘You mean, we have to go clothes shopping?’