Hell, she’d completely forgotten her impulsive call to reception last night. Too much Sancerre. It had seemed the most wonderful idea at the time. The perfect solution to her lost luggage problem. Gnawing at her lip, she checked her watch. With an hour to go it would be rude to cancel.
She glanced at Cam, still asleep. It wasn’t as if he would miss her. Maybe she should go. After all she did need clothes, she couldn’t keep pinching Cam’s T-shirts. In fact she should buy him a couple.
If she’d know how swish Galeries Lafayette was inside, Laurie may not have summoned the courage to walk in, let alone seek out a personal shopper. The huge department store sparkled with jewelled light from the gorgeous overhead dome around which were balconied floors overlooking the ground floor. The effect was sumptuous and regal and slightly intimidating, which didn’t help as Laurie didn’t like being intimidated.
The air was redolent with a thousand perfumes which drifted upwards from the make-up concessions a long way below.
‘Hi I’m Mandy.’ The girl introduced herself once Laurie had found the correct department. ‘You’ll be an 8, I’m guessing,’ she said prowling around Laurie, assessing her from every angle after Laurie explained what had happened to her bag. ‘Which makes a 38 in France.’ She clapped her hands together in seeming delight startling Laurie.
‘No, I’m a ten. Sometimes a twelve.’
‘UK 10, American 8, Italian 42 and German 36.’ The American girl grinned, even without her clipped New York accent, her teeth would have given her nationality away. ‘I’m an expert on dress sizes. And,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I don’t get to dress many your size. Usually rich matrons with waistlines that have seen way too much rich living. I could have a lot of fun with you. You’ve got a great figure. In fact you’re a natural clothes horse. Lovely slender neck. Nice shoulders. Not much of a waist but good slim hips and those legs, whoa girl. What size feet are you? 38? 39?’
A twinge of unease nudged her. Jeans. T shirts. Bra, knickers, socks. That’s all she needed.
‘UK 6, which I know is a 39.’
‘Great. And colour palate? What do are you looking for?’
Colour palate. What in hell’s name was that? She shrugged. ‘I’m not really sure. Look I just want something to travel in for the next few weeks. Capsule wardrobe. The boot of the car is tiny. I only had two pairs of jeans, some T shirts, fleeces and a dress. A pair of sandals and these.’ She pointed to her purple Converse high tops, the trendiest thing she owned. They’d been left, brand new in their box, in the library and six months on no one had ever collected them. For the record, she had put £10 in the charity box for the local hospice. Thankfully they hadn’t been in her bag but wedged in the boot of the car.
‘Ooh, I love a challenge.’ Mandy’s beam grew wider, if that were humanly possible. In fact Laurie was starting to wonder if she was some kind of Pollyanna alien. Nothing seemed to faze this woman. ‘You just leave it to me. With your colouring, there’s lots to play with …’ she sighed, a wrinkle appearing on her brow and Laurie immediately felt guilty. ‘… your hair is a gorgeous colour.’
Laurie could feel the ‘but’ hanging.
‘… the style, really could use some work. It doesn’t do you any favours. God I’d love to have hair like that.’ She pushed her fingers through the ponytail, shaking it out. ‘Thick, wavy.’
She danced behind Laurie, positioned her in the mirror and with quick light fingers, pulled each side of her hair up. ‘Look. See. A few layers would lighten it up around your face. It’s so heavy at the moment, it drags your face down. Bit like Morticia. Too severe. Would make it much more feminine and enhance your face. Hide your ears.’ Mandy smiled sympathetically as she said it adding, ‘You’ve got the most fab cheekbones.’
Her breezy, enthusiastic stream of chatter robbed her blunt comments of any offence.
‘Hmm, I have a brilliant idea. You just wait here.’
Mandy darted off to a nearby counter and picked up a phone.
Within seconds she was back with a mile-wide beam.
‘Sorted, you are one lucky chick. Marc is free. He’s almost never free. Top, top stylist here. Normally you have to wait months to see him.
‘Then we’ll get you into some decent clothes. I can tell you’ve had to borrow those jeans and that bra. Poor you. Good job someone lent you a decent T shirt. You look a mess but don’t worry, Mandy’s here.’
‘What?’ Laurie was starting to feel like Alice and that she’d fallen through a rabbit hole. It was probably too late to own up to the jeans and bra being her own. The T shirt of course was Cam’s which she’d ‘borrowed’.
‘Marc will do your hair … and then,’ Mandy beamed as if it were Christmas, ‘when you come back here, we’ll have … we are going to have so much fun. I’m thinking blues, perhaps coral.’ Again she sized Laurie up, the dark raven eyes darting here and there, as if taking in every angle of Laurie’s body.
‘But—’
‘Don’t worry, don’t thank me until you’ve seen what Marc’s done. He’s an absolute genius.’
‘I—’ She might as well be fighting a demolition ball, although it felt as it had already hit her and she was like one of those cartoon characters plastered to the side of said ball, having to go where it took her.
‘Come on, chop, chop.’
Laurie found herself propelled into the lift and minutes later, in a large leather chair in front of a mirror, with the diminutive Marc, lifting her hair this way and that, muttering to himself in French. On either side of him two girls with matching perfect bobs, hung on his every word, nodding like a pair of lapdogs. One had already combed her hair.
This had to stop, it didn’t need cutting. She liked it fine the way it was. Neat, tidy and practical and she wasn’t going to be bossed about by some prima donna, French hairdresser bounding about in tight leather trousers and a ridiculously low cut T shirt, showing off a very hairy chest. It was a bit Simon Cowell meets Napoleon.
‘I just want a trim.’ She enunciated the words to make it clear. ‘Nothing else.’
Marc waved the two girls away, pulled up a nearby chair, swung his legs over it so the back faced him and rested his elbows casually on the top of the back.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, the effeminate voice vanishing.
‘Laurie,’ she answered puzzled by the instant change of his demeanour.
‘You are the client. I’m here to do exactly what you want. This is your hair. No one should ever feel they are being forced. There is nothing worse than having a haircut you hate.’ He smiled at her. Rich brown eyes, so large and limpid they really did remind her of a spaniel. ‘I want every woman to leave my salon feeling a million dollars. If you say you want a trim, then that is what I will do.’
The earnest tone of his voice made her wonder if maybe she’d been a bit uptight and ridiculous as she sank into the soft buttery leather chair.
‘If you want a new style, this I can do also. I am here to please you. Make women realise their true beauty and I tell you, Laurie, may I call you Laurie, your hair is very beautiful. Either way I will not let you leave here until you are completely happy. But in my heart of hearts, I would be doing you a disservice, if I were not to advise you with my professional heart, that your hair would suit you so much more with layers here,’ he indicated the sides, ‘and here. It would give your hair the bounce and life it deserves.’
Laurie looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair had been like this forever. Hair grew, didn’t it?
‘O… K … you can … cut it, but not too short.’
‘Short,’ said Marc in horror. ‘Never. I will take a little bit,’ he indicated with thumb and finger. ‘But ah, the difference. You will love it. I promise you.’ He jumped up, reverted back to pocket dynamo, and began barking orders and instructions to the two girls.
Laurie crossed her fingers under the long black gown. It would always grow.
‘Wow, you look amazing.’
Laurie grinned, feeling sunshine in her heart. Her whole head felt lighter and she couldn’t help the bounce in her walk which set her curls bobbing which she kept fluffing up with her fingers. Who knew what a difference a haircut could make! It could all go horribly wrong when she washed it the first time, but at this moment, she absolutely loved it. She’d never loved her hair before. It had just been there.
‘Told you he was a genius,’ smirked Mandy, as Laurie came to a standstill in the changing room. Genius didn’t begin to describe him. When he’d finished she’d almost cried.
‘Right. Selection of pants, bras, socks over there. Shoes here and separates here. I’ve lined up some outfits for you to try on and then we’ll accessorize as we go.’
Outfits and accessories? Laurie caught a glimpse of her new hair in the mirror and barely recognised herself. It looked pretty and feminine, glossy and stylish the way that Miles’ wives had always managed to look when she was a teenager. She thought of them at the funeral, chic in their gorgeous rainbow of colours … and her serviceable navy suit.
The rail in the changing room had very few items hanging on it. She’d expected Mandy to go to town and make the most of the sales opportunity by filling the changing room with a huge array of garments. Instead there were no more than ten hangers on the rail.
‘First up, white linen trousers. Nice heavy linen which won’t crease too much in the car, will keep their shape but will be lovely and cool. Teamed with this very pretty cornflower blue T. Three quarter lengths sleeves and a low scoop neck with buttons down.’ Mandy gave a wicked grin. ‘You can button it up as much as you like or team it up with a vest underneath with all the buttons undone. It’s quite different.’
What made the blue T-shirt different was the price. Thirty-five euros for a T shirt. That was £30!
Even so, she did as Mandy bade and slipped off Cam’s white t shirt. The minute she put the trousers and top on they felt as if they’d been made for her. The cornflower blue was the perfect colour and when Mandy looped a soft cotton scarf in whites, blues and lime greens around her neck, it transformed the simple outfit into something else. A pair of lime green ballet flats that Laurie would never have even looked at, let alone considered buying raised it to a whole new level. Then Mandy insisted she try on a pair of cream kitten heeled sling-backs which were quite simply the most divine pair of shoes she’d ever worn.
Staring at herself in the mirror, she could scarcely believe it was her. What a difference clothes could make. Maybe there’d been something in the shampoo Marc had used. She had no idea what the entire ensemble would cost … and sod it she really didn’t care. She would take all of it, even the lime green pumps and the cream kitten heels. In fact, definitely the lime green pumps … just because she could.
‘Right then, let’s get started,’ she said stripping off again.
Mandy knew her stuff and two hours and a pair of black Capri pants, linen trousers, shorts, three T shirts, a red cardigan, a lime green cardigan, several more scarves and two more pairs of shoes later, Laurie felt like hugging her. Shopping had never been so much fun or so reckless.
Mandy was so good that Laurie had already resolved to take everything.
‘This is amazing.’ She twirled in the mirror. ‘I love it all.’
Although she did gulp slightly at the cost – €844, although as Mandy explained with cost per wear factored in and that figure divided by the number of outfit permutations, you were actually looking at only €38 per outfit. See, not that bad at all, besides, the sum barely made a dent in the pile of euros Ron had provided her with.
Mandy had also found her a basic stock of cotton underwear and plain T shirt bras, as well as two bra and pants sets, which definitely fell into the lingerie category. Tempted to dismiss them as being impractical, she couldn’t help touch the satin and lace and was lost. She had to have them.
The final outfit was a lovely, slinky, red jersey dress which she wouldn’t have looked at in a million years but Mandy insisted she try it on. It fitted like a second skin and flared out with every step she took. Incredibly pretty, it made her feel feminine and sexy. With black heels in softest suede, it looked fabulous and she knew she just had to have both.
After all who knew what this trip would throw at her. She felt prepared for anything with the haul of clothes and best of all, it would all fold down to virtually nothing and pack into the leather holdall, that she’d picked from the selection Mandy had thoughtfully provided. Just like the one Cam owned.
Sipping black coffee on the fifth floor in one of her new outfits, Laurie felt as if she belonged among the smart Parisians. Who knew that trying on clothes could be so much fun? Although having a personal shopper was a little different from trying stuff on in Next. It was amazing the difference an expensive cut could make.
A brief foray into the make-up basement left her emerging blinking and feeling her brain had been scrambled. She’d splurged, and that was the only word for it, on Clarins mascara, Clinique eye-shadows and blushers and Yves St Laurent Touche Éclat, which she read about a million times but never even tried before. Mandy had tipped off the make-up lady on the Clarins’ counter and she’d been expecting Laurie. She rounded up all the ladies on the different concessions, who pressed various freebies and samples into her hand. Yvette, the Clarins lady, had taught her to shade and shadow her face in natural colours, so that her make-up was barely there.
Once she got started, she couldn’t seem to stop and when she left Galeries Lafayette, emerging into brilliant sunshine, Laurie wanted to giggle out loud. It was absurd but she felt taller. Everything looked brighter. Her walk bouncier. A man passing caught her eye and where once, she would have ducked her head, she caught his gaze full on and smiled, feeling the smile take hold deep down, spreading through her. He grinned back, making her smile broaden.
On impulse she turned and headed south towards the Seine and then stopped abruptly. She really ought to get back to Cam. She looked back at the way she’d come. There was so much of Paris to see. And she needed postcards from both sides of the river. And an ice cream. She looked at her watch. Four hours since she’d left him.
If she walked really quickly, the slightly longer route back wouldn’t take that much more and she could cover quite a lot of ground. With a determined pace she set off. Stately buildings lined wide boulevards, so different from home with their attic dormer windows. Leighton Buzzard seemed a world away. So did Robert.
What would he make of her new clothes?
Quickly she turned a corner and caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. She’d love to visit the top. Maybe another time. She craned her neck to get the most of the view as she hurried along the pavement before stopping to buy a postcard for Ron. Maybe she should send one to Robert … or would that be rubbing salt in the wound?
She couldn’t picture Robert in Paris any more than she could picture him liking her new clothes. They’d stand out in her wardrobe. The colours contrasting with the pre-dominance of navy blue and black, white and cream. She stopped. She couldn’t picture Robert in her room any more. The idea of living on her own had really taken root.
She felt a numbness. What to do? She couldn’t think about him now. It was cowardly but she tucked the thoughts away.
As if she’d conjured it up a beep on her phone alerted her to a text from him.
She shoved her phone back in her pocket. She’d answer later.
Birdsong and distant traffic greeted him and for a moment he thought he was in his own bed, except this was much more comfortable. At home he still had the lumpy mattress from the knackered old spare bed that he had taken from the house he’d shared with Sylvie – before she’d run away to someone who could provide for her properly; for her emotional needs.
He slumped back into the welcome embrace of the pillows. His head felt like a bowling ball and his neck ached like a bitch from trying to hold it up. What the hell had happened? How did he get here? Pieces began to filter back. Heat washed over him. Shit. Being violently ill on the side of the road. The pincer grip of cramps on his stomach. Lying down on the verge wanting to die? And that was literally the last he remembered. Had he imagined Laurie’s gentle hands, or her soft voice urging him to drink some water. From the corner of his eye, he could see a bottle of water on the nightstand beside him. Reaching out an arm as heavy as lead, he made a hesitant stab at picking it up and pulling it to his dry lips. He felt like shit. His stomach protested, curling up in tense awareness of the water he gulped down. Gradually the room around him came into focus. Standard hotel fare. Lamps on either side of the big double bed. Crisp white sheets. Functional furniture. An upholstered chair with matching curtains. Anonymity reigned supreme. He could have been anywhere in the world except, he remembered now, he was in France with Miles’ niece.
He opened his eyes wider to scan the room. No sign of her. Was she in the bathroom? The door was open. He hauled himself out of bed realising he needed to pee.
‘Laurie?’ his voice rasped, husky from idleness. He tried again, ‘Laurie.’
Rising to his feet took considerable effort. Hell he was weaker than he’d thought. The room span and he had to grab the bed to stop himself falling backwards onto it. For a moment he tried to summon up his energy. Nothing. He was running on empty. His limbs seemed to have become spaghetti since driving this morning. It was this morning they’d left Chateau Le Miroir, wasn’t it? It felt a million years ago now.
The sunlight filtering through the half drawn curtains and the noises outside the windows suggested it was daytime. How long had he been here? A couple of hours? They’d stopped for lunch. It must be early evening. He had no idea. He had a vague recollection of Laurie’s voice urging him to drink water. So where was she now?
Surely she wouldn’t have abandoned him. The pile of empty sachets by the water caught his eye. Medicine? He picked one up and studied it. Of course. She was out getting additional supplies. He could imagine her. Face serious, intent on making herself understood in schoolgirl French.
He stood up and he felt the floor beneath his feet rock slightly. The urge to pee had grown and with hesitant steps he crossed the huge divide of all of a metre and a half to the bathroom.
Having relieved himself, he stopped when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Bloody hell. What day was it? No one looked this bad after a day’s illness. Gaunt hollows underscored his cheekbones, at least a day of ragged stubble straggled across his chin and his skin was tinged with a zombie-like grey pallor. He looked like death had warmed him, abandoned the attempt and left him to rot.
No wonder he felt so crap. Getting into the shower was daunting but he hoped the pounding of water might energise him or at least lift this dull fug that had taken over his brain.
Standing under the spray took every bit of effort he’d been worried about and some more. Finally towelling himself dry, he sank onto the toilet seat, every limb aching. At least his brain felt a bit sharper. Sharp enough to realise that the last time he remembered, he’d been fully dressed. To get into the shower, he’d only needed to remove his briefs. The other thing he noticed was the solitary wash bag in the bathroom.
Looking round, he realised there was absolutely no sign of Laurie anywhere.
Duh! What an idiot, she’d hardly share a room with him?
Lifting the phone receiver and calling reception didn’t provide the answer he’d expected. There was only one room booked in the name of Matthews or Browne. This one. So where the hell was she? Where was her stuff?
The room contained nothing of hers. Not a single item. Something contracted in his already tender stomach. Had she cut and run?
No. Not her. Where could she go without him? Laurie was too sensible to drive off without him. Not like Sylvie, who would have been quite capable of flouncing off in the car in a state of tear-stained high-emotion. Although she probably would have totalled it within half a mile. Maybe Laurie had chickened out completely? Fallen at the first hurdle, so gone home. The hotel reception could easily arrange airline tickets and transport to Charles De Gaulle for her.
He sank back into the bed barely able to hold his head up any longer and closed his eyes. Surely she hadn’t gone home. He tried to focus on his thoughts. No, not her. Fighting to open his eyes again, an image of her lifting her chin in defiance, her eyes sparkling popped into his head. No, she wouldn’t give up. Not without some kind of fight.
He lay there watching the clock tick as more and more permutations of what could have happened to her rattled through his head.