Getting Lost Read online

  “Pig’s arse I’m too old. How old are you?”

  “A well-mannered gentleman like yourself should know better than to ask a lady her age.”

  “A lady, yes, but you?”

  Touché! Yes, Stella was going to have fun with this lot; down-to-earth, insulting, and intent on enjoying themselves. For a moment, lost in the good-natured banter, Phoebe Lancaster slipped her mind. “Twenty-seven, but I’m sure I don’t look a day over twenty-one.”

  “No, not one day. Millions maybe. Will you be joining us tonight?”

  “Some nights I come along, so does Russo—with and without the coach—but tonight we drop you off at a club. I’ll tell you where the hotel is, how much a cab should cost, and you find your own way back.”

  Stella hated nightclubs. The music drove her mad. For the most part, it was her job to go out with the group, but on some nights her job was to travel back to the hotel with Russo and any members of the group who wanted an early night. “Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of other nights when I can watch you all get rolling drunk and make complete arses of yourselves.” They all laughed. Stella sealed the deal with another wink toward Belinda, asking for incriminating photos the following morning.

  Her dash back to the front of the coach was interrupted when she was accosted by an opinionated Texan, Piper Dixon. Pippy was anxious. Her fluffy brown hair appeared to perch atop her head like an ill-fitting wig and her blotched face was strained. She appeared genuinely frightened.

  “E-ex-excuse me, St-St-Stella, can you please explain…I demand to know w-w-what you intend to do about that w-w-woman.”

  Please God! And she stutters as well. Give me strength.

  Stella remained calm and professional as always. “What woman are you referring to exactly?”

  “Th-th-that woman!” Her head jerked toward Phoebe. “Th-th-the m-m-murderer.”

  From the list, Stella recalled Pippy was roughly twenty-four or twenty-five. She was travelling with two other girls, cousins if her memory served her correctly, both listening intently to this exchange, but neither focusing directly on Stella. She guessed Pippy’s questions weren’t thought up all by herself.

  “Honey,” Stella said gently—she found insecure young girls especially liked to be singled out with pet names. “I can assure you, if Phoebe was a murderer, she wouldn’t be on this coach. Many people are wrongly charged with crimes they didn’t commit. I presume Phoebe is a victim of this. Give her a chance. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl.”

  Smiling awkwardly as if she wanted to say more, Pippy must have thought better of it because she remained silent, allowing Stella to return to her seat.

  *

  Cruising along the motorway through the World War I battlefields in the Valley of Somme, Stella briefly provided some history concerning the area and its coloured past. She noted with interest a change in the atmosphere as most passengers relaxed, chatting amongst themselves. That is, everyone except Phoebe. Amanda, the girl beside her, had swung her legs into the aisle and was chatting with a couple opposite. Phoebe had plugged in her iPod, insolently oblivious to the people around her.

  Stella found time to Google Phoebe Lancaster on her iPhone. The recurring facts she discovered were disturbing. Rebecca Dean (the daughter of media magnate, Oscar Dean), had been murdered. Stabbed. According to police, Phoebe and a man called Simon Threadbody were the last people to see her alive. During the days following the murder, Phoebe was interviewed, charged, but later released. Newspaper coverage in Australia was enormous. Every major paper had her photo splashed on the front page.

  “We’re an hour away, chief.” Russo reminded her she had work to do, and she welcomed the distraction from the unsettling information.

  Stella stood, microphone at the ready. “Okay, Russo, pick a song for this lot to wake up to.” Stella pumped herself up to put on her best tour manager guise, engage the group, and equip them for their two nights in Paris.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Russo clicked through the iPod, pleased to replace the mellow tunes with something more upbeat. “How about this one?”

  “Parlez vous Francais” by the Australian band Art Vs Science throbbed through the sound system and was a great choice. Stella watched, grinning, as everyone jumped to attention, suddenly wide-awake.

  “Right, you lot, that’s your wake-up song, for now.” The group collectively cheered and then whined playfully at its abrupt beginning and the harsh volume. “Don’t blame me. It was Russo’s selection, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen to argue with him.” It was so easy. Stella commanded their undivided attention, and she loved every second of it.

  “So let’s get down to business,” she continued. “The first sheet I’m handing out is extremely important. It’s your Get Lost sheet. On it are the names of every hotel we will be staying in and the dates on which we will be staying there. I can’t urge you strongly enough to go and get lost. You don’t have to go where we take you. This is your holiday, remember. I am your guide, not your—”

  “Mother!” everyone cried collectively.

  “Precisely. We are all different in the things we enjoy. If you think a place I’m scheduled to take you doesn’t interest you, don’t come. I’m not here to make you do anything you don’t want to do. Holidays are all about choices. You all have the choice to do whatever you want, whenever you want. So, view your Get Lost sheet as your freedom guide. If you do go off exploring, or miss the coach, I will presume you have made other arrangements and will meet us at the hotel. If, however, you intend to disappear for longer than a day, please call me so I don’t alert the authorities unnecessarily. My number is on the bottom of the page, and I’m reachable all over Europe.”

  “I’ll bet you are!” Matt yelled out from the back.

  Stella grinned, but continued. “This brings me to departure times. It is unfair and inconsiderate to expect Russo and me to hold up the holiday of nearly fifty people because you can’t make it to the coach on time. So, if we say the coach is leaving at two thirty, what time do you suppose the coach will leave?”

  Again in unison, the entire group yelled with enthusiasm, “Two thirty!”

  “That’s correct. You catch on quickly. If you aren’t at the departure point, I’ll presume you’ve found something more exciting to do. Please—and I can’t stress this enough—please do not call me if you’re running late and ask me to hold up the coach. Bribes also won’t work, Matt!” Stella threw this one to him for a laugh.

  “But we have your direct number, right?” Matt yelled.

  Stella sighed. There was always one in the group. “Yes, Matt. You have my direct number.”

  “Wow, we can call you anytime we like. Awesome.”

  “No, Matt. Not anytime. Besides, you will be having so much fun, speaking to me should be the last thing on your mind. Honestly, folks, there is so much to do in these places, actually getting lost is a great way to discover things that will never make it into the guidebooks. Which brings me to my second sheet of paper. This contains information on a map of Paris. You can see from the headings, it covers the major sights found in every tourist book. They’re in every tourist guide for a reason. They’re simply spectacular. Now, tonight we’ll have dinner at the hotel, drive into the city centre, see a little known tower, I’ll bore you with some history and information, and then, if you’re in the mood, we’ll drop you off at a nightclub and you can all dance the night away.”

  Whistles and yahoos filled the coach. “Righto, Russo, take us in!”

  Stella was satisfied her group was back on track. The coach was abuzz with anticipation, Paris was only minutes away, but she was a bundle of nerves. The source of her apprehension sat calmly and attentively—a little too attentively—in the sixth row. Stella detected an arrogant, almost knowing expression upon Phoebe’s face, until it turned into a smile. The knot in Stella’s stomach tightened with attraction. Phoebe Lancaster smiled at her, a genuine smile even, and disappointingly, her body reacted. Phoe
be held her gaze. The brilliant smile was addictive. Stella stumbled into her seat. She couldn’t remember the last time she consistently felt the pang and excitement of attraction. But Phoebe Lancaster? Please, God, don’t let me feel this for her.

  Chapter Three

  The expression of wonder upon the faces of a group catching their first glimpse of the impressive Eiffel Tower was a sight Stella never tired of. Bursting with excitement, the awestruck travellers would rush off the coach, almost always running to stand under the tower and pose for countless photos. A group ticket in hand, Stella would round them up and watch, from possibly the most spectacular structure in the world, as Paris turned from dusk into a sparkling, radiant city.

  This group were no exception, other than the notable omission of the mysterious Phoebe Lancaster. Phoebe had surely visited Paris before, probably staying in the most expensive hotels, but earlier in the evening, as they approached the rather modest Hotel de Concorde, she displayed no emotion whatsoever. Upon arrival, others rushed around, in and out of rooms, up and down to the bar, but Phoebe remained sombre in the background.

  The single rooms were last on the hotel’s allocation list. Only when a handful of people remained in the foyer awaiting room keys, did Stella notice Phoebe was dead last. It was too late to worry about altering the order of allocation now.

  “So that just leaves you, Phoebe, and room number 4051.” Stella attempted a light, casual tone as she extended her hand holding the electronic room card.

  “And you.” Phoebe smiled.

  “Pardon?”

  Phoebe slowly extended her hand. “It leaves you and me alone again.”

  A nervous shiver tingled beneath Stella’s scalp, travelling the entire length of her body before dissolving in her toes. Alarmingly, a different sensation altogether settled like a stone in the pit of her stomach. Stella came to the undeniably dangerous realisation that she truly was attracted to Phoebe. And Phoebe’s attributes were certainly easy on the eye. Stella hadn’t been attracted to anyone, not like this, in such a long time, and the feeling was disturbing. Sure, she’d had women, decreasing in frequency of late, but this attraction was something new and dangerously distracting. Upon reflection, though, in various shapes and forms, Phoebe wasn’t anything Stella hadn’t had the chance to bed in the past. But the poise and the power were what had Stella’s head spinning and groin throbbing. It was so alluring, Stella felt a little out of control. She had seen no real evidence to even suggest Phoebe possessed anything other than well-honed intimidation techniques, but there it sat, almost tangible, in her gut. Power and class. Phoebe excited her. Fuck, typical, a bloody murderer makes me wet. Jesus!

  Stella glanced around. “Yes. We seem to be very much alone.”

  “I presume Melanie and I aren’t sharing a room like you previously warned?”

  Stella hadn’t mentioned the room allocations since they left the UK, but it didn’t surprise her to learn Phoebe remembered. “No. Everything has been sorted.”

  Phoebe leaned in close. “That’s good then, isn’t it?” She smiled. “Don’t you want to run along?”

  Stella’s gaze lingered for a treacherously long moment on Phoebe’s cleavage, her simple white linen shirt gaping. Then their eyes met. “I’m not in any hurry. Why are you still here?”

  Phoebe straightened and her expression softened. “Drink?”

  “What?”

  “You’re the tour manager. I imagine your room comes equipped with the minibar that I’m also imagining has been removed from our lowly rooms.”

  “Well, yes, it does.” Stella was stumbling over her words. “You want to come to my room for a drink? Alone?” Smooth, Cruz. Real smooth.

  Phoebe smiled, warmly this time. “Yes. Your room. Alcohol. You and I drinking it.”

  “I can’t.” Stella watched as Phoebe’s eyes turned grey. “Don’t misunderstand me; I want to, but Russo and I only have a small window of time alone before dinner to discuss work stuff.” Phoebe’s eyes softened imperceptibly, but Stella noticed it because she was looking for it. “Rain check?” Rain check? Are you mad? Do you really want to be alone with this woman? Unfortunately, the answer was yes. She was apprehensive, but the thought of them alone in her room was nothing short of appealing.

  “Maybe.” Phoebe turned and walked away. Over her shoulder she said, “You should be careful what you wish for, Stella.”

  Stella’s knees nearly buckled at the low, husky voice.

  *

  It was fortunate Stella had experienced the view from the Eiffel Tower on more occasions than she could remember. When accompanying groups to the breathtaking top level, she spent more time taking photos and posing for others to even spare a look over the beautiful city. And Paris was beautiful. Some argued it was dirty, predictable, or a tourist façade for the forgotten, lower class locals, but Stella didn’t share that opinion. She loved its people, the food, the cafés, museums, galleries, shops, everything. It was, in Stella’s eyes, terribly romantic. The French made wonderful lovers, and as she posed atop the Tower, Matt’s hand only centimetres away from inappropriate on her rear end, Stella thought of Phoebe.

  It was a fifty-fifty split—no surprises there—as Stella and Russo returned to the hotel with half the group. The revellers had been safely delivered to Club Pulse, a friendly night spot whose bouncers always ensured Stella’s groups left in one piece. It was a convenient business arrangement. Stella took all her groups there, and Louis, the manager, ensured they had a good time and was guaranteed regular patronage. Stella received her little kickback when she met up with Louis for a drink the following morning.

  Unfortunately, Pippy had chosen an early night. She was, much to Stella’s dismay, sitting directly behind her. It became impossible for Stella and Russo to hold a conversation without Pippy interrupting every five seconds, so, begrudgingly, Stella turned to give Pippy her undivided attention. Twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

  “I just love the Eiffel Tower, d-d-don’t you?” Pippy leant over the barrier separating her from Stella’s single seat. It was a good half metre higher than Stella, and to her disgust, her gaze focussed on the mass of nasal hair darting from Pippy’s nose.

  “Yes, it certainly is quite spectacular.”

  Pippy smiled, as if she must be the first person in the entire world to appreciate the marvellous structure. “I s-s-suppose you check on us all before b-b-bed? M-m-make sure we’re all safe and sound?”

  With practiced control, Stella reined in her amusement and refrained from rolling hysterically on the floor, asking, “Are you fucking insane?” but unfortunately, Piper Dixon wasn’t the first idiot to think they were in school camp. “Sweetheart, we’re all adults here. As I said before, you can all do what you like.”

  “So you won’t be ch-ch-checking on Miss Lancaster, just to m-m-make sure she’s okay?”

  Phoebe’s absence from the city tour and the Eiffel Tower had not gone unnoticed. Stella refused to acknowledge she was a little disappointed when Phoebe failed to board the coach, but she had sat in on many conversations throughout the evening, all speculating on the mystery that surrounded their absent companion. “Is something worrying you, Pippy?”

  “N-n-no. I thought about w-w-what you said earlier, and I’m going to t-t-talk to her at breakfast. She c-c-could use a friend right now. I want to get to know her.”

  The advice Stella really wanted to give, not solely to Pippy, but to everyone on the tour, was to leave Phoebe alone and stay out of her unpredictable way. Unfortunately, this was not possible. Nor was it what she personally felt compelled to do. Stella opted to remain neutral in all matters regarding the elusive Phoebe. “I think you should do whatever you feel is right, honey.”

  “I’m just the person to br-br-bring her out of her shell and introduce her t-t-to the rest of the group. I’m already g-g-getting on fabulously with everyone!”

  “From my experience, the more friends you make, the better time you are likely to have.” A
lthough not exactly a lie, Stella switched the focus to safer ground. “Actually, I’m keen to check out a section of the catacombs that’s been restricted for the past decade or so. Perhaps you and your cousins would like to come along in the morning. It’s only a short distance on the Metro.”

  “Really? I’d l-l-love to come.”

  Russo swung violently into the driveway of the hotel, jolting all the sleepyheads to attention.

  “So,” said Pippy. “We’ll make arrangements in the m-m-morning for our little j-j-jaunt?”

  “Sure. I’ll let you know at breakfast what’s happening for the day.”

  One by one, the exhausted snack-sized group trudged off the coach as Stella and Russo bid them all good night. Finally free of clients, she packed her satchel of work documents to ensure she was prepared for the following day, leaving Russo to clean the coach.

  “Hey,” Russo called from the backseat. “You want me to check in on you, seeing as though you appear to have lost your touch? Sleeping alone is no fun.”

  “Yes, please,” Stella sarcastically replied.

  “One night, Stella. That’s all you’ll need with me.”

  “It’s almost tempting, Russo, just to see if you could satisfy me.”

  Russo sighed. “On second thought, you scare the hell out of me. I reckon I’d fail to perform.”

  “And don’t I know it.” Stella grinned. “Night, Russo. Sweet dreams.”

  “Night, Stella Bella.”

  *

  Although it was late, Stella stretched out on her bed, a gin and tonic in one hand, and confirmed via text to meet Manuel, the Notre Dame guide, at ten the following morning as usual. She then e-mailed the Ou Est Le Can Can to confirm numbers for the cabaret the following evening. Finally, with her work completed, she logged on to the Internet. This time she searched specifically for Rebecca Dean.