Page 6 of The Paris Trip

‘Oh, you are kind, Mademoiselle,’ the lady said in good English, but with a charming French accent. She lifted a shaking hand to shield her eyes from the sun. ‘Yes, I took a bad step and twisted my ankle. I’ve been here some minutes… Nobody else has stopped to help me.’

‘How horrid.’ Maeve felt awful for her. ‘Can you stand?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Here, take my hand and we’ll find out.’ Maeve helped the old lady to her foot to her feet and supported her, one arm around her shoulders. ‘How’s that?’

‘Bien, let me try a step or two… Ah, non!’ The lady winced, unsteady on her feet and unable to do much more than hop. It was clear her ankle was badly twisted.

‘Oh dear. Can I fetch someone for you?’

‘Merci, oui. My grandson has a car. He’s meant to be meeting me soon, in the next street along, but I’ll never get there in this state.’

‘I could go and find him for you.’ Maeve didn’t much like the idea of leaving her alone though. ‘I know… Do you have a mobile phone? Perhaps in your handbag? You could call and let him know what’s happened. Then he could come and collect you.’

‘How silly of me. Yes, of course.’ She bit her lip. ‘My phone, it’s in, erm… ma poche.’ The lady had reverted to French, clearly in too much agony over her twisted ankle to find the English words. With a pained frown, she fumbled in her jacket pocket, finding the phone and calling the number. ‘Will you wait with me until he arrives, mademoiselle? I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.’

‘No, of course I’ll wait,’ she said, then muttered, ‘If he’s not too long.’ She was feeling slightly anxious and wished she could check the time on her phone. But the phone was in her rucksack, and it would look rude to stop and rummage about for it. She’d noted the time as she left the museum to post her letters though and knew that she’d need to be back at the coach quite soon or face ridicule from her fellow travellers. Especially after being so stern with Petunia about not turning up late again.

Though she could hardly leave this unfortunate lady hobbling along the street alone, could she? And there would still be time to make the deadline if she walked briskly.

The lady was speaking rapidly into her phone in French, presumably to her grandson. There was a pause, then she tutted loudly and spoke in a more agitated fashion, spitting out words that Maeve couldn’t quite follow, but they sounded almost angry.

Perhaps her grandson couldn’t pick her up immediately.

Worried again about the deadline approaching, Maeve felt a flicker of dread and hoped he wouldn’t keep them waiting too long. She strongly disliked being late for anything. Besides, it would be too awful if she missed the coach leaving and had to make her own way home. Apart from anything else, her suitcase was already stowed on the coach, ready for the usual Customs inspection at Calais, so she would have no clean clothes until she got home.

‘He’s on his way,’ the old lady said, putting away her phone. She was looking relieved. ‘But how rude of me. I’m Madame Rémy.’ She held out a hand, and Maeve shook it. ‘Might I know my rescuer’s name?’

‘I’m Maeve Eden,’ she said, smiling. ‘Enchantée, Madame.’

The noisy racket of a motorbike approaching didn’t attract her attention until it slowed and abruptly swerved her way. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a leather-clad arm reaching down to grab her rucksack, sitting beside her on the pavement.

‘Hey!’ she shouted in panic, making a grab for the bag as she suddenly realised what was happening. But she was still shaking Madame Rémy’s hand, and in the precious seconds that it took to gently disentangle herself, the bag had been stolen and the motorcyclist was revving away.

‘Thief! Voleur!’ Incensed, Maeve dashed after the motorcyclist, who had mercifully been forced to slow as a car swerved in front of him. ‘Come back here!’

To her relief, her rucksack was still dangling from the rider’s hand. As the rider struggled to negotiate the blockage, she lurched forward, making a grab for it. At that moment though, he lifted it away from her and simultaneously opened up the throttle. In the next few seconds, he sped away down the street, the roar of the engine deafening.

Maeve, who had thrown herself headlong after the biker in one last desperate attempt to retrieve her property, lost her footing on a loose grating.

With a despairing cry, she tumbled forward, cracking her head on hot dirty tarmac…

CHAPTER TWO

She came to with an aching head, blinded by full sunshine in her face, being lifted out of the road by two men. One was a burly, middle-aged gendarme, judging by his uniform, moustachioed and wearing a grim expression. The other man was lean and dark, in black jeans and black shirt, somewhere in his early thirties. His dark hair was surprisingly long for a man, silky strands brushing his shoulders.

Maeve focused on that silky black hair without comprehension, blinking in pained surprise as she tried to process who these men were and why they were manhandling her.

‘What… Whatever happened?’ she muttered as they lowered her onto the alcove seat in some very welcome shade. Her legs were shaky and she put a hand to her aching head, which felt as though someone had tried to split it open with an axe. ‘Good grief. Feels like I… I cracked my skull.’

‘Stay still and try not to speak, Mademoiselle,’ the silky-haired man told her in such fast-paced French she could barely follow what he was saying. But it seemed to be along the gist of, ‘You’ve banged your head. And don’t move too much either. It could be dangerous.’

Maeve didn’t argue, for she did indeed feel sick and dizzy. She wasn’t even sure how she’d got there. The two men moved away, muttering together, possibly about her, and she closed her eyes with a groan, struggling unpleasantly against nausea.

After a while, she found it possible to open her eyes without pain lancing through her head, and her breathing became less laboured. She studied the quiet Parisian street in baffled silence, not recognizing a single thing and having no clue what she was doing there.

Gradually, memory came back to her and she recalled the coach tour, the Louvre visit, the elderly lady with the hurt ankle, and she jerked upwards, staring in consternation down the street. ‘My rucksack. I remember now. There was a motorcyclist.’ Panic ripped through her. ‘He… He stole my bag. Oh no!’

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