Free Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) by Celia Kennedy Page A

public figures survived having their lives scrutinized.
    “Are you okay in there?” Hillary called from the other side of the door.
    I opened the bathroom door. “I am now!”
    We spent the day avoiding the paparazzi pretty lazily. Blankets, books, a roaring fire, and plenty of chatting provided entertainment. Fortunately, there was enough food in the house to survive the day.
    After eating leftover pasta for dinner, Marian turned on the television with the hope that there might be some program that we could understand. “Oh, look, there are cable channels with movies in English!” she said excitedly.
    “What’s on?” I asked, ready to be mindlessly entertained.
    Marian, in charge of the remote control, said, “Our choices are Casino Royale , The Queen , Lady Chatterley , Little Miss Sunshine , The Bourne Supremacy , and Bridget Jones’s Diary .”
    Deciding to go with my request for an ass-kicking movie, we set about collecting food to nibble on before watching The Bourne Supremacy . Kathleen, having become completely Frenchified, unwrapped a room-temperature wedge of Camembert and another very smooth cheese made of sheep’s milk. Tiziana placed sliced fruit on a plate, while Marian and I brought an assortment of chocolate to the party. Hillary was content to sip a glass of white Bordeaux.
    Just as the movie began, Tiziana’s phone rang, and she quietly answered and left the room. We were so engrossed by the chase scenes, people beating each other to a pulp, and how good Matt Damon was that we didn’t notice she hadn’t returned. It was when the credits were rolling that she sauntered back into the room looking like a cat that had drunk a bowl of cream.
    “How’s Gianni?” we inquired. She looked a little dazed, gave a little shimmy, and reported that the world was a wonderful place.
    Marian, who had spent the day peeking out the window to check on the paparazzi, got up and pulled the curtains back slightly. “Looks like the last few have finally given up.”
    “Thank god for that,” Kathleen replied. “We would have had to tunnel into town for food tomorrow.”
    The following morning, I stumbled down the stairs and made a pot of coffee. Then I sat in silence, holding a mug, and watched snowflakes fall. Eventually the others joined me, and we all talked about what the day’s plan ought to be.
    I stretched my legs out in front of me and straightened my spine. “You know what? I’m through with hiding. I didn’t do anything wrong. I say we fluff ourselves up, go shopping, have lunch, and get back to normal.”
    In support of my decision, we leisurely readied ourselves, collectively took a deep breath, walked out the door, and had our photographs taken by a plethora of paparazzi. The noise wasn’t nearly as deafening as the day before. We did our best to ignore all of it and drove off in our SUV without running anyone over.
    “Bloody hell! They’re following us,” Marian reported.
    “Of course they are. We have Des Bannerman’s lover in our car,” Kathleen teased.
    “I suggest we treat them like annoying children. Ignore them and they’ll go away,” Hillary suggested.
    Hillary’s comment made me wonder if it was going to be possible to wander the streets of Chamonix. I thought I might have taken an overly simplistic outlook on this. The image of a bull in a china shop flitted through my mind. Looking around the car, I could tell the girls were happy to get out of the chalet, so I decided not to give in to cowardice. I would follow Hillary’s lead and apply the “annoying children” concept.
    Eventually, we found a place to park the car then spent a few hours wandering the shops to find gifts for family and friends. Eventually, starving, we sat down to eat.
    After flouncing down in her chair, Kathleen jokingly asked, “Has anyone been counting? I wonder how many photographs have been taken today. The newspapers tomorrow will undoubtedly have an itemized list of all purchases we made,