Chapter 3

Actually, yes she could. Say she wasn't warned, I mean. Reality and my sister can be strange bedfellows at times, one reason I suppose she headed into marketing.

The call that first Cap D'Agde night was taken in Paul's office, so we could all talk to her on speaker phone. The girls hadn't introduced themselves yet, before she started talking. Clearly, she was under the influence of alcohol.

"George, I'm going to kill you."

An impressively large percentage of our conversations contain this line somewhere, most frequently as her opening line. Seeing as I'm still not taking a dirt nap yet, I'll assume my sister is just venting and really doesn't mean it.

"Good to hear your voice, too, Ginny. How is France these days?"

"Very French. Look, dammit, you knew about this place, didn't you? And you DIDN'T warn me."

"I take it you reached Cap D'Agde OK?"

"Yes, I'm alive. It's a wonder, though." Pause, while the sound of someone taking a sip of a liquid was heard. "I almost had a heart attack when I got here."

"I take it you didn't Google the place name like I suggested."

"I never had time." Her voice then dropped to an urgent, panicky whisper. "They're all NAKED here! Did you know RALPH is a nudist? My boss, is, a, NUDIST!"

"Your boss is named Ralph?" A little light had flashed inside my head.

"Yes, Ralph Hemingway."

"He has a wife, three kids, all under 10?" I asked.

"His wife is older than that, but the kids are all under 10. He's been showing their pictures to us." Yep, my sister was four sheets to the wind.

I recalled Ralph, a bluff, pleasant man with a petite and always-happy wife and three cute kids, the eldest about 10 years old. We were members of the same non-landed club. I honestly had no clue what he'd done for a living, nor did I have the slightest hint that my sister worked for his company.

"Apparently he saw that damned magazine you loaned me, and assumed I was one TOO! That's why he had the meetings changed to here. Turns out, one of our potential investors owns a hotel here — that's how we got last-minute rooms."

More noises of slurping liquids. Picturing her curled up on the bed with a glass of wine in her hand, I took a shot in the dark. "So, what kind of wine is that you're drinking? Merlot?"

She obviously was reaching for the bottle to read the label. "Cote des Rhone. The French do make good wine."

She continued, "Look, how do I handle tomorrow? I'm supposed to make three presentations, and my beloved boss was kind enough to tell us that our presentation will go over better if we dress like the potential investors." She gulped, but not from quaffing more tipple. "How do I handle this?"

"Look in their eyes. You can look at your notes or at the presentation on the screen, but no more than normal. Don't look anywhere else."

"But I'm going to be naked — in front of MY BOSS! He'll see me naked — he'll look!" She kind of sobbed. "What will he think of me?"

"He'll be wearing what, exactly?"

A pregnant pause on the line later: "Oh. Ah, I see your point."

"Just to make conversation, what are you wearing right now?"

"Um, let's see. Baby doll pyjamas."

"Remove them," I said authoritatively. You're going to be naked all day tomorrow, you need to get used to that as soon as possible. Put them back in the suitcase; you won't need them at all for at least another night."

The rustling of clothing was heard, and then the 'clicks' of a suitcase being opened and shut again. "OK, I'm scared witless, but I've done it."