THE RESTAURANT ESCAPADE
“Off we go for an adventure!” whispered the inseparable friends to one another as they tossed their suitcases into the luggage compartment. The train departed precisely on schedule and arrived, without a single delay, at exactly eight in the morning.
But let’s start from the beginning.
Summer was in full swing. June had zoomed past like a supersonic jet, leaving behind no coherent memories—just a blur of heat and fleeting moments. Yes, the first month of summer had melted away like ice cream in a sundae glass, swallowed by an endless whirlpool of trivialities. Life races toward its finale just as swiftly—ephemeral, fleeting, and restless.
Then, without warning, July crept up to the doorstep, turned the key, and let itself in.
Those who work Monday to Friday know the agony of those final hours before holiday—your mind already gallivanting on sandy shores while your weary body remains trapped at a desk. Teeth gritted, patience strained, you wait for that glorious moment of freedom.
To soon-to-be holidaymakers, clients seem unbearably fussy, bosses excessively critical, and time stretches like toffee.
“Has someone nailed the clock hands in place?” muttered Samantha, glancing at the wall clock. “Hurry up, holiday!”
Her heart fluttered with anticipation while her soul basked in the promise of lazy, sunlit days.
“I want sweetcorn, pickled mussels, and prawns,” announced Marianne after yet another client left.
The girls also dreamed of treating themselves to a fine Scotch whisky—its rich aroma, deep hue, and lingering aftertaste never failed to impress. Though such a proud and noble drink could play tricks on the unwary, but why dwell on the past?
“Should we swim in the sea?” they mused during lunch break. “Who or what could stop us?”
Given the state of affairs, their choice was obvious: foreign resorts were far beyond their budget, and after a quick Google search, no alternatives seemed appealing. They settled on the English coast.
At last, the dream of these two thrill-seekers—adventurous idealists bottled together—was coming true! But was it really possible?
“Everyone will be green with envy, so not a word about our plans,” they agreed before dashing off to pack.
How does one cram a mountain of clothes, shoes, cosmetics, creams, and other so-called “essentials” into a single suitcase? For women, it’s an unsolvable riddle—akin to Fermat’s Last Theorem.
And yet, there they were—by the sea. Gentle waves lapped at the shore while shrieking seagulls circled overhead, hunting for their next meal. Pure bliss.
Beachgoers soaked in the illusion of serenity, contentment, and peace. Adults lazily nibbled salted peanuts and crisps, washing them down with chilled beer straight from the can. Children devoured buttery pasties and greasy fish and chips with glee.
“Stand straight! Shoulders back! Right foot forward! Look at me! Perfect!” Samantha directed, snapping photos of Marianne by the water.
“Now with the watermelon. Brilliant shot!” she said, wiping sweat from her brow. “Your turn.”
A seaside photoshoot—what an ordeal! The girls had to look tanned, toned, and definitely not puffy-eyed. Everyone knows late-night cider doesn’t do wonders for the complexion, but on holiday, indulgence is mandatory!
“Marianne! What is this? Why do I look like I’m snarling? Couldn’t you tell me to fix my face? God, how do you even hold a phone? Stop tapping a hundred times—just pick a decent angle and shoot!”
Samantha sighed dramatically. “I took lovely shots of you, and this is what I get? One makes me look lumpy, the other unrecognisable. Oh, fine, don’t sulk. I’ll just use the selfie stick and do it properly myself.”
Marianne, fuming, was ready to storm off, but Samantha wasn’t done.
“Who’s got the hump now? Come here, gorgeous—time for a glam shot with melon, lavender, and wine glasses. Smile! Got it!”
Miraculously, the photos turned out rather nice.
“Sam, we ought to celebrate this successful shoot. Fancy a restaurant tonight?” Marianne suggested.
“Brilliant idea! I’m all for it! Let’s order seafood,” Sam enthused, already imagining herself lounging in a chic venue, sparkling wine in hand.
No sooner said than done. Dressed in their finest, the giddy pair set off for the restaurant.
Little did they know, this would be the first of several attempts.
The dining room was nearly empty.
“Let’s take that table by the window—sea view,” Marianne suggested.
“Apologies, but that’s reserved,” the waitress said. “How about this one by the pillar?”
“Such a promising start,” Marianne muttered, scanning the menu. “I really wanted to dine with a sea view. Bet she lied so we’d pay extra. Oh well, here’s fine, right?”
“What? Two hundred seventy grams of grilled scallop salad for the price of my second-hand Fiesta?” Sam gasped.
“Prawn and rocket salad, two hundred forty grams. For that price, I could buy a plane ticket!” Marianne huffed.
“Let’s check the wine list. Maybe something reasonable,” Sam muttered, flipping through glossy pages.
Silence fell.
“A hundred fifty grams of wine for fifty quid? Blimey, these prices are astronomical. Marianne, you know us—one glass won’t cut it. We’ll end up maxing the credit card, and I vowed no holiday debt,” Sam sighed, pushing the menu away.
“Let’s sneak out and find somewhere else,” Marianne whispered. “I’ll go first, then you.”
Once outside, they burst into laughter.
“Like a pair of schoolgirls. At least we got the photos—no one will guess we ditched. Come on, I spotted another place round the corner. I’m starving,” Sam said, tugging Marianne along.
First, they snapped a few shots on the restaurant’s “VIP” red carpet.
Seated inside, Marianne frowned at the menu.
“Sam, love, I’m up for anything—except starvation and Valium. But listen, darling, a decent meal here costs a month’s wages, bonus included. Fancy a bathroom break? Grab our bags in five, meet by the fountain.”
Attempt number two: another failure. Maybe third time’s the charm?
“Look how busy this place is! Surely the prices are doable,” Sam said, dragging Marianne inside.
The host seated them by a massive aquarium where goldfish—or so it seemed—winked conspiratorially.
“What’s bad luck, and how do we fight it?” Sam muttered, scanning the exorbitant prices. “How do we salvage this night? If we go down, we go down in style! Marianne! Pay attention—time for a performance. My four years at drama school won’t go to waste. Watch and learn!”
With a theatrical flourish, Sam snapped the menu shut, crossed her legs (showcasing her sun-kissed knees), and tossed her head back, letting her fake-diamond earrings shimmer.
“Darling,” she cooed to the waiter, “fetch us an aperitif. A glass of Pétrus Pomerol 2001, if you please. A bold red to complement our seafood.”
She turned to Marianne. “Your usual, dear? Château Mouton Rothschild Pauillac 2000?”
Marianne nodded sagely.
“Now, beluga caviar, two bluefin tuna steaks with sesame oil, wasabi, and lemon. Tell the chef not to overcook it. And a dozen Kumamoto oysters, please. For dessert, the carrot cake with truffle mousse. Oh, and do hurry—we tip generously.”
The waiter scribbled frantically before his jaw dropped.
“One moment—I’ll fetch the manager,” he croaked, sweating.
“What are you doing? We’ll get thrown out!” Marianne hissed.
“Relax. The way out is the way in. We’ll manage,” Sam said confidently.
Minutes later, the nervous waiter, chef, and manager approached.
“Ladies,” the manager began, “we don’t carry those dishes. Might I suggest paella, mussels in cream sauce, or risotto?”
“How disappointing. Bring us two glasses of Lokoya Cabernet Sauvignon Howell Mountain 2007. Surely you have that?” Sam snapped.
“Afraid not,” the manager said politely. “But please, accept complimentary Veuve Clicquot Brut as our apology.”
“French bubbly? Hard pass,” Sam scoffed. “Since you’ve nothing suitable, we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
With queenly poise, they glided out.
Outside, Marianne groaned. “Why the theatrics? Free champagne!”
“Nothing’s truly free,” Sam retorted.
“Home, then? Grab some instant noodles, cheap Prosecco, and a can of tuna. We’ll whip up a ‘salad.’ And honestly—your acting was flawless. Even I believed you.”
“Who knows, who knows. Let’s hit theThey clinked their plastic flutes under the stars, laughing at the absurdity of it all, as the tide rolled in and washed their worries away.
