‘He’s still in the Caribbean. We met when I did a stint over there but then I was offered this role and I couldn’t turn it down. It’s almost impossible to get a job on the Winter Wonderland Express, and it can lead to so many other opportunities within the company. But I miss the lovable goofball.’ She lets out a sigh. ‘Also, the long-distance won’t be forever. I’m hoping I can get him a job here too so we’re not apart for too much longer. While the workdays are long, the stops along the way are worth it, especially on this new Christmas themed route. And guests are always fascinating and tip generously. Oops, shouldn’t have said that! Scratch that from the record.’
I laugh. ‘I bet you’ve got some tales to tell.’
Sabrina waggles her brow. ‘I’m going to write a book one day,Confessions of a Travel Insider. But don’t tell anyone or I’ll get blacklisted. I’m joking! Sort of. I mean, I’ll change their names and details. But aren’t travel escapades of the rich and famous oh so juicy?’
I sense Sabrina is only being so open because she feels sorry for me. A voice down the hallway calls for her. ‘Wait!’ I hold out a hand. ‘I need to know more about these juicy escapades!’
Sabrina creeps forward and drops her voice. ‘Well, between us, that’s Mrs Delacroix yelling out for me. She’s one of the wealthiest women in France and is well known for her scandalous affairs.’
‘Why are they scandalous?’
Sabrina picks up her gingerbread head and holds it under her arm. ‘Firstly, she’s married, and her travel companion is not Mr Delacroix. The man she’s bunking with just so happens to be thirty years her junior. Apparently, she’s in an open marriage and anything goes. More power to her, I say! Lover boy is not bad either, if you’re into that whole Timothee Chalamet look.’
My eyebrows shoot up. ‘That is juicy! So I take it she’s the person with more money than all the Kardashians combined.’
‘Nope.’ She laughs. ‘But don’t tell a soul. I really shouldn’t be speaking so freely, it’s just with you being in the industry, you’ve probably seen it all too.’
‘The few wealthy clients I’ve had requested NDAs so I can’t even tell you their names or where they’ve travelled to without risking a lawsuit. I’ve had a few celebrity doozies over the years, some sweet, some utterly dreadful with their demands. All part of the job.’
Her face falls. ‘And you can’t tell me who, not even a hint?’
I laugh at her expression, but so far Sabrina hasn’t exactly been tight-lipped and I take my job seriously in that respect, even though their names would blow her hair back. ‘Not even one! Truthfully, those kinds of clients are few and far between. I mostly deal with…’ A lump forms in my throat. God, when will my body stop betraying me? ‘…honeymooners.’ And just how will I cope with that once I get back to work after Christmas? Maybe I can pivot to post-divorce holidays? Is there a market for that?
‘I’ll get some gossip out of you eventually.’ She flashes a grin. ‘Why don’t you go and join the Christmas activities? Have some festive fun. If all else fails, drink your body weight in gingerbread martinis. I’ll have your cabin sorted when you get back.’
6
17 DECEMBER, CALAIS, FRANCE
I leave Sabrina to unpack my suitcase, feeling slightly uneasy about what she might find, like the range of feminist serial-killer thrillers I tossed in at stupid o’clock this morning after ditching all the romances I’d previously packed. Titles like:How to Slay on Your Wedding DayandHomicidally Ever After, a couple of tomes I bought tongue-in-cheek to make Miles laugh in the lead up to our big day. I hope Sabrina doesn’t get the wrong idea what with him plunging to his death down the gap and all…
I head towards the noise, passing through the dining carriage, where gingerbread people hold trays of colourful Christmas cocktails aloft.
‘Can I offer you a Mistletoe Margarita or perhaps a Jingle Juice?’ says a staff member dressed as the reindeer Rudolph, complete with bulbous red nose.
‘Thanks,’ I say, with a laugh at the festive drink names and the wild staff costumes. They really have gone all out in making the atmosphere Christmassy and fun, if a little kitschy. ‘A Jingle Juice please.’ I take the proffered glass and sip. It tastes like fruity punch mixed with Moscato, cranberry juice and fresh mint.
The dining carriage is packed with guests enjoying a range of Christmas canapés. ‘Can I tempt you with a smoked salmon blini or madeleines with lemon curd?’ I take a salmon blini, popping the bite-size morsel into my mouth, enjoying the rich crème fraiche layered with the saltiness of the salmon.
A woman wearing a ballgown, an actual ballgown, is parading up and down the small area, as if she’s a catwalk model. Is this a fashion show for guests? It seems unlikely. I try to edge past her, but she spins and flicks her hair, which manages to catch me straight in the eye. My vision blurs, then doubles as I rub at the sting.
A few steps away, a man in a suit lays prone on the plush carpet, camera in hand, encouraging her. ‘Katya, darling, tilt your chin… Smize, the way the model Tyra Banks does, smile with your eyes.’ Smize?! What fresh hell is this? Are they simply passengers taking up almost all the thoroughfare to get pics for the ’gram? Ah, these must be the influencers Sabrina alluded to. By the hostile glares directed their way from other guests, they’ve been taking up the walkway for quite some time.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, failing to get around the woman’s elbow as she drops her hip and poses once more.
She totally ignores me. I tap her on the shoulder and motion for her to move so I can get past.
With a frustrated sigh, she says, ‘Wait until Igor gets the shot.’
Being nomadic by nature, I run across people like this all the time. The trick is not to give an inch, or next minute they’ll act like they own the place. The rules are, there are no rules when it comes to travel photos.
Once at the Colosseum in Rome, I waited patiently for my turn at a photo platform to capture the arena backdrop. When I finally got to the front of the line, a horde of people pushed past until I was smack bang at the back of the queue again. A little war cry was needed that day, one that defies all rules of language. It’s a dog-eat-dog world in tourist-land.
‘No. Igor is the one who should wait, for me and all the other passengers to pass,’ I say haughtily, ‘then you can continue your photoshoot.’ I give her a stiff smile, even though I’m not exactly in a people-pleasing mood.
I nudge her to the left and step over Igor’s large frame. Honestly, they couldn’t have picked a tighter space for their photos. Also, they could have done this in their cabin. Igor is determined not to move a muscle or give up his position on the ground, so it’s not surprising that I manage to catch his leg with the heel of my boot.
‘Ow!’ he cries out.
