Page 30 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

But Flick was already pulling out an emerald-green halter neck dress, holding it up in front of Maggie and enthusing, ‘Look at the colour! It’s perfect with your hair!’

‘It’s not me.’

‘Exactly!’

Maggie looked at her doubtfully. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you get to be someone else for the evening. Someone who wears bling and goes to a casino and hasn’t lost everything to some pathetic fraudster, including their confidence and self-worth. By wearing this you’re showing him that all he got was your money and your dad’s watch. That you’re made of stronger stuff and he didn’t break you. That you’re someone who says fuck you and not sorry—’

Flick broke off, her chest heaving, and looked at Maggie, waiting for her to say something. It hadn’t meant to turn into a speech and she wondered if she’d gone too far when, without a word, Maggie grabbed the dress and marched over to the cash register.

‘Wait? You’re not going to try it on?’ she called after in astonishment.

‘Nope.’ Shaking her head, Maggie looked back and smiled. ‘You had me at fuck you.’

Place Your Bets

There’s something rather thrilling about only spending one night in a foreign country. It feels spontaneous, impulsive, decadent almost.

Especially when that one night happens to be in Monte Carlo.

As dusk fell the legendary district began to work its magic. The day-trippers and the shorts-and-T-shirts tourists disappeared, glittering lights illuminated the crescent-shaped harbour and an impossibly glamorous crowd began to appear. Everything was bigger, bolder, brighter. The warm evening air felt charged with excitement and, to the people having their photos taken on the steps of the casino or sipping cocktails on the terraces of Café de Paris, it felt like you were at the centre of the universe.

But Monte Carlo divides people: into those that love the thrill of it all, and those that see it as a symbol of everything that is wrong with the world.

Flick was most definitely of the second camp.

‘Honestly, this is why the world is in such a mess,’ she grumbled, as they made their way from their Airbnb towards the casino later that evening. ‘Too much bling and excess. Too many rich people. Too many cars—’

Her voice was drowned out by the loud roar of a bright green Lamborghini as it revved its engine – a deliberate move by the driver so that everyone would turn and stare.

‘And we wonder why the environment is in chaos and the planet is in freefall,’ she huffed, waving her arms around to no one in particular. ‘Do they even know what a carbon footprint is?’

Maggie walked beside her mutely, trying to make agreeable noises, while secretly being very much in the first camp. She was entranced by Monte Carlo. As they made their way around Port de Fontvieille, lined with luxury yachts and super-sleek sailing boats, the marina felt almost like a fairyland of polished decks, white sails and exotic boat names.

‘I mean, look at that!’ said Flick, pointing at the giant cruise ship moored in the outer harbour of Port Hercule, the deep-water port that stood in the shadow of the Rock of Monaco.

‘Wow, yes,’ nodded Maggie. Rising out of the water with too many decks to count, the Galaxy Goddess was like a huge floating hotel. ‘That’s incredible.’

‘Incredible?’ snorted Flick. ‘It’s an environmental catastrophe. Did you know that going on a cruise is actually worse than flying?’

‘Says the woman who flew to Monte Carlo for the night,’ retorted Maggie. ‘How’s your carbon footprint?’

Which shut Flick up. ‘OK, point taken. I’m being a hypocrite.’

‘You said it.’ Maggie grinned, because at least she could admit it.

They’d got ready in their rather shabby Airbnb. Taking quick showers before the hot water ran out. Trying to do their hair when the plugs and mirrors were on opposite walls, so you had to be a contortionist. Now, dressed up in their outfits, Maggie felt a bit like Cinderella going to the ball. It would be exciting if she didn’t have to keep remembering why they were here – then it became terrifying and she felt sick with nerves.

But for now, she was enjoying staring at all the bling and the excess and the ridiculously loud and expensive cars. It was hard to compute that only a few hours ago she was in her wellies, in a muddy field, and now here she was, walking along the harbour front, in a sequinned halter dress. And with blisters.

‘I’m going to have to take these off,’ she winced – her heel was rubbed red raw.

They’d both bought new footwear. Maggie had gone for a nice pair of heels – a rather foolish choice, she realized now, for two reasons: firstly she was old enough to have bought, never worn and given away enough high heels to know that unless you spend an absolute fortune on a pair, they were always excruciatingly uncomfortable and impossible to walk in, and these were less than thirty euros; and, secondly, when on earth did she last wear a pair of heels? She couldn’t remember.

Whereas Flick had been a lot more sensible and gone for a pair of flat sandals after deciding that trying to hide her trainers under her dress probably wasn’t the wisest idea.

‘I told you to buy some of these flats,’ she was saying now, in that rather annoying way she had of I told you so.