‘Mort!’ the French-man’s eyebrows shot up in excitable surprise. ‘Mon Dieu.’ He started and called to a colleague. ‘Pierre, vien ici. Il est mort!’
As a crowd quickly gathered around the car, she quickly realised that her French vocabulary had failed her spectacularly.
Shit, mort! It meant dead, didn’t it?
At least the car gave her some street cred.
‘Non, non. Pardonez moi. Il est mal.’ Everyone looked blankly at her. ‘Mal de Mer?’ She rubbed her tummy. Still more blank looks. Oh God, she was going to have to mime throwing up.
Closing her eyes, wishing she were anywhere else, she clutched her stomach and imitated retching.
The bloody doorman just stared at her and then at the crowd gathering around.
‘Sick. Vomit?’
The footman finally grasped her meaning immediately, pointing from her to Cam.
‘Il?’
‘Oui.’ She nodded, indicating Cam.
‘Ah, je comprends.’ He fired rapid French at the gathered crowds and everyone shot off in several directions seemingly randomly. They reconvened within seconds, organised and with purpose. A wheelchair accompanied by a lady with a big red rug was wheeled up to the passenger door. Two burly doormen pulled and dragged Cam out of the car into the chair, tucking the red blanket around him to keep him in place. Hastily she grabbed Cam’s bag from the car and popped it onto his lap.
When the concierge appeared and held out a hand for the car keys, she dropped her bag on the pavement and complied without thinking.
‘Don’t worry I will take care of everything,’ the concierge assured her. So she left her bag and the keys with him and followed the bizarre procession into the hotel lobby.
It was dark and cosy with sumptuous wallpaper in dark black flock lit with gold and silver. Very classy tart’s boudoir in an art deco sort of way.
A male receptionist, standing ramrod straight, awaited them at the desk and watched the motley crew each step of the way as they came towards him. The expression on his face, turning up his nose and mouth suggested that she wasn’t welcome and had better watch her step before he turned her away. His attitude irked her so much that she lifted her chin and went in prepared for battle.
‘My companion has contracted a nasty case of food poisoning. I have a reservation here for me, my companion and my car.’ She looked down her nose at him emphasising the words, ‘my car.’ In the mirror behind the manager, she could see the doorman frantically signing. The meaning was clear, ‘you should see this car!’
She ignored what was going on behind her, held her head in a suitably haughty and regal position and waited for the manager to appreciate just what she was.
‘The reservation was made in the name of Liversedge on behalf of my uncle, Miles T… she didn’t even need to finish his name. The manager’s jaw dropped in recognition and suddenly he was on the other side of the desk.
‘Mais, certainment mademoiselle. Please accept our apologies. Follow me.’ He snapped his fingers at the staff around. All fell neatly into place, either in support or back to their usual duties.
She was escorted to the lift, Cam, head lolling in the wheelchair a few feet behind.
‘My companion is very ill. He needs a doctor. Please could you arrange for one to visit immediately?’
‘Oui, certainly.’
‘He has food poisoning. Shell-fish.’ She kept up her imperious attitude, even though inside she’d started to flag. Being in a strange country, not speaking the language with a very sick man … not her idea of fun at all.
Looking at Cam’s grey face, she felt sick herself. Did he need a doctor? At what point should she be worried? Should she get some medicine? Seek medical advice. All she knew about people who’d been sick was that they needed fluids but to avoid milk products and to introduce white foods very slowly like rice, plain chicken and plain white bread. She suspected that Cam was a long way off any of those things.
First things, get the doctor’s verdict, she told herself as the lift went up. She was still accompanied by two footmen, pushing Cam’s wheelchair in which he flopped listlessly like an old man. She wished he’d open his eyes. Just so that she’d know he was still in there and not as close to death as he looked.
With every bump and jolt of the wheelchair, she saw pain spasm across his face. At least it meant he was still conscious.
At last they were outside the room. She fumbled with the key and with relief opened the door to see a large double bed in front of her. If she could just get Cam into bed, then she’d feel a lot better.
Both footmen loitered in the door.
‘Oh for goodness sake,’ she muttered. Were they after a tip? What now? She sighed and took her handbag off her shoulder and dumped it on the coffee table. Crossing back to the bed, she peeled back the covers and waited, making it quite clear there would be no tips until Cam had been transferred from the wheelchair into the bed.
The protracted vomiting had obviously left him spent, the minute his head hit the pillow he fell into a deep sleep. She looked at him breathing deeply and evenly. Out for the count. He looked grey and in the short space of time since they’d arrived, the lines on his face had deepened.
She glanced down at his clothes. The jeans were filthy, mainly mud from the grass verge he’d collapsed on and his usual white T shirt was exceptionally grubby. Oh God, she couldn’t tuck him into the crisp white cotton sheets like that. The clothes were going to have to come off.
T shirt first, then she’d summon courage to do the bottom half. Needs must. Nurses did this sort of thing all the time.
Taking the bottom of the cotton hem, she lifted it and slid the front upwards, before sliding her hand under his back to pull up the bunched fabric. His arms weighed a ton but she managed to lift them over his head. He stirred and muttered, struggling against her slightly but was too weak to do much and didn’t even manage to open his eyes.
Focusing on the T shirt and not on the gorgeous torso revealed, she bundled it into the hotel laundry bag. It would be pervy to look at a defenceless man. Wrong. Completely wrong. Robert would be … Robert wouldn’t be anything because he wouldn’t ever envisage her in this situation. She would never have envisaged herself in this situation.
Even though she knew she shouldn’t but because she could, she gazed down at Cam’s motionless body. Her mouth went dry. It had to be said she’d never imagined herself within touching distance of a body like this. He was like every fantasy man rolled into one, the stuff of movie stars. Dark hair dusted the golden skin of his lean chest before arrowing down, across the sharply defined muscles of his stomach, into the snug-fitting jeans.
Would he wake if she touched that expanse of skin? Or if she let her fingers smooth along the collar-bone? She’d never felt this stark bolt of desire before and couldn’t help drinking the sight of him in. What would it be like to run her tongue around the flat dark nipples, teasing the light circle of dark hair? Trace her fingers over his ribs and then up over the firm pectorals, touching their firm, satin smoothness? Stroke her thumbs over the lean hip bones above the waistband of his jeans?
Heat flushed her skin and for a moment she felt light-headed, her fingers itching to touch. Instead she forced herself to consider the belt buckle of his jeans. She needed to finish undressing him and get him into that bed and covered up. Pronto.
With clumsy fingers she set to work on the belt and then not looking up at his face, she busied herself with the zip. Reaching round his waist to shimmy the jeans down his hips, it was impossible not to touch naked skin. He was cool and a little clammy, so she worked quickly sliding the jeans off his hips to reveal snug black briefs which she tried hard not to look at. Moving to his feet, she pulled off his socks and tugged the denim down.
He groaned and doubled over, his arm grasping his stomach.
‘Cam?’
He groaned again but didn’t answer.
She pulled the duvet around him and tucked him in. Grey pallor tinged his cheeks and damp curls clung to his clammy face.
Gingerly she perched on the edge of the bed for a minute studying the strong masculine jawline. He was all man that was for sure, his mouth with the fuller lower lip was a firm slash across his face, framed with bold cheekbones. And she should be ashamed of herself, the man was sick and here she was ogling him. What the hell was wrong with her?
Watching him sleeping wasn’t going to get her very far. Hopefully reception would send a doctor up quite soon.
Leaving his side, she turned around and took in the room properly. It was more like a suite, with two sofas facing a coffee table and a very large flat screen TV. Walking over to the window, she discovered that the double French doors opened out onto a tiny balcony dominated by a brasserie table and two chairs.
Even the carpet beneath her feet seemed so much deeper than anything she’d ever seen. Keen to see everything, she checked out the bathroom and let out a sigh. Bathroom perfection – a walk in shower with a dozen different heads, two sinks, low lighting and a long low bath, complete with Jacuzzi jets.
At least she’d be comfortable while Cam was out for the count.
Itching to try the shower and wash away her travel grime, she started to strip off. Where was her bag?
Damn. Pulling her T shirt back on, she went back to the lounge area. Where was it? The concierge must have forgotten to bring it up.
Making up her mind, she lined the waste paper basket under the window with one of the hotel’s laundry bags and placed it beside the bed. She also left a towel there and a brief note saying she’d be back soon, although looking at him, she doubted very much that he would be waking up for a while.
The concierge frowned haughtily as if she’d maligned his honour. ‘Monsieur had the bag on his knee. That is the only bag I saw.’
‘No, I had one. I left it with you when I gave you the keys for my car.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside, on the pavement. I put it on the pavement.’ Nooo. She tugged at the necklace around her neck. Surely he’d picked it up. Her bag had all her clothes, clean knickers, toothbrush and the black dress. OK, that might not be such a great loss but she couldn’t spend the rest of the trip in these jeans.
‘Outside?’
‘Oui.’ Quite why she tried French, she wasn’t sure. He seemed to be understanding her just fine. Unfortunately.
‘Ze pavement?’
‘Oui.’
Non, I took the keys for the so beautiful car…’ A brief flash of horror crossed his face. ‘Madam. Pardon.’
He rushed from behind the desk out through the lobby, down the stairs onto the busy pavement. Laurie followed a few steps behind to find him anxiously scanning the street this way and that.
He caught sight of her and lapsed into a torrent of passionate French punctuated by a steady stream of ‘pardons’.
Breathe. It wasn’t the end of the world. She could cope. Her passport, purse, money and Kindle were all in her handbag. Nothing was irreplaceable. She could buy more knickers, T-shirts and jeans.
Although perhaps she ought to let the concierge know, as his wild gesticulation and furious pace of French put her in mind of some bizarre combination of Fawlty Towers and Monty Python.
The manager was called, the under-concierge was called and the head receptionist. They convened in the lobby, where Laurie waited not understanding a word of the conversation.
She couldn’t help feeling it wasn’t anybody’s fault, just a communication breakdown. It could be reasonably argued that she had abandoned the bag. It could also be argued that the concierge had taken one look at the car and forgotten everything else. Six of one and half a dozen of the other. Although how you translated that into French, she had no clue.
The upshot from the manager, who kept shooting daggers at the concierge, was that Laurie should claim on her travel insurance. The hotel was not responsible for luggage left outside the hotel, only for luggage left with the concierge within the hotel.
After all that had happened today, Laurie couldn’t summon the energy to argue. Did she even have travel insurance? Best to check with Ron.
A quick call to the solicitor’s office in England got her no further ahead as Ron was out. Leaving a message with Mrs Lacey, she explained the situation and asked him to call as soon as he got back.
The plus point from the fracas was that the manager hastily agreed to hurry the doctor up.
In the meantime she would have to rinse out her underwear in the bathroom tonight and pray her knickers dried by morning.
The uber-chic pharmacy made her even more aware of her travel-weary, unwashed state. It seemed only to stock expensive face creams and perfume at first sight but then she realised the glossy walls hid cupboards full of well-packaged creams. The white-coated assistant that stepped forward was immaculately made up and just looking at her made Laurie feel grubby and under-dressed in her well-worn travelling clothes.
She blushed, wondering how bad she looked.
‘Can I help you?’ the French woman asked in perfect English. God, how did they do it? What was it that gave her nationality away? She looked down at her rumpled T shirt and shabby jeans and loose fitting ballet flats and then back at the woman’s five denier hosiery, low-heeled glossy court shoes and snow white coat. Her thick brunette hair was caught neatly in a barrette; not a single stray hair had escaped.
‘My friend is ill? He has food poisoning and the doctor suggested I get him some …’ she read from the scrawled note the doctor had left her.
The woman waved her hand as if to dismiss any doctor’s knowhow. ‘How long has he been sick?’
‘Since lunchtime.’
She then rattled off a series of questions about his condition, how long he’d been vomiting for before concluding with a friendly professional smile. ‘Sleep is probably the best thing. It’s the body’s way of recuperating.’
Her English was as flawless as her advice. It was exactly the same as the doctor’s.
‘You should get him to drink some fluids. This is a special hydrating solution which will help.’
By the time Laurie had finished she had a carrier bag full of medical goodies and a fine selection of face creams, lotions and potions, most of which were free samples the pharmacist had pressed upon her when Laurie had told her about her missing luggage.
The language barrier had proved easily overcome and the pharmacist’s detailed advice made her feel much better than the doctor, who had shrugged a lot. At least she could play nurse with a bit more confidence now.
As she made her way back to the hotel, she’d skirted a market buzzing busy with people carrying bulging string bags, zig-zagging from one side of the market to the other, chattering and pointing at all the delicious fresh produce.
Unable to resist the rich spicy scents wafting from a charcuterie stall, she halted her journey. Another five minutes wouldn’t make so much difference and she was intrigued by the gourmet feast on display. From pale delicate meats, to rich blood red slices, the stall had the biggest selection of meats and pâtés she’d ever seen. May be she could buy some to have for supper. She’d already passed a bread stall which had called with its fresh baked scent and there was the cheese which looked wonderful, as well as all the fresh fruit and vegetables. The peaches, plump and fleshy, looked irresistible.
It was so different from schlepping around Sainsbury’s. It would probably be a good idea to buy in supplies for the room, so she wouldn’t have to leave Cam on his own again.
With bread, cheese and fruit and other goodies stashed in plastic bags, she suddenly realised another twenty minutes had elapsed. She really ought to get back.
To her relief and slight irritation, Cam was still sound asleep when she got back to the room which felt stuffy and dark after the sunshine and scents of the vibrant market.
She threw open the French doors to let in some fresh air and stepped out onto the miniscule balcony. The sound of the street below made her feel slightly less alone.
At least Cam hadn’t been sick any more.
Conscious of the loss of her bag, she rinsed out her knickers, squeezing out as much moisture as she could. She put the shaving light on in the bathroom. If Cam woke and needed the bathroom it wouldn’t be pitch dark in the room.
Settling down with her bread, cheese and wine, she suddenly remembered the bottles of wine Philippe had pressed upon them. There was one in Cam’s bag.
Feeling incredibly decadent, she opened the bottle and poured herself a glass of the pale straw Sancerre. It was every bit as good as she remembered. And very moreish.
By eight o’clock she’d almost finished the bottle … in fact it seemed a terrible waste to leave that last bit, although when she poured it, it filled her glass to the brim.
Cam still hadn’t woken. Several times during the evening she crossed to the bed to check he was still breathing. Whoops, the table leg caught her out. Had it always been there? The room span a bit but she managed the twenty steps. His colour looked better although his face suddenly seemed a bit blurry round the edges … or maybe that was her. In fact everything seemed a bit blurry.
The wine was very delicious though. Shame Cam didn’t have two bottles in his bag.
Bag. She needed to replace her bag. Shopping. Where did one shop in Paris? Blurrily she remembered her Kindle Fire. The interweb. She could google ‘where to shop in Paris when all your clothes have been nicked by some bastard’. For some reason the touchscreen seemed to have a mind of its own and she couldn’t get the words typed in, in the right order. Abandoning the searches, she picked up the hotel magazine.
Personal shopping at Galeries Lafayette. Now that sounded good. Get someone else to do the donkey work. She didn’t like shopping. Too complicated, too much choice and she’d never got the hang of knowing what suited her. That’s what happened when you grew up with your dad and he didn’t know anything about girls’ clothes. This sounded the bees’ bollocks.
Picking up the phone she called reception.