Page 8 of The Paris Trip

‘Oui, c’est moi.’

Leo Rémy. The artist.

Maeve blinked, wondering what he meant but it hardly seemed a good time to ask. Besides, her head was aching again. Perhaps she really did have concussion.

Once the burly policeman had gone, reminding her to call at his police station in a day or two for any updates, Leo Rémy helped her towards his car. It was indeed the vehicle that had slewed across the path of the motorcycle, a sleek black car with blacked-out windows.

‘Hospital first,’ he reminded her, helping Maeve into the front seat of the car as carefully as though she were an invalid.

To her chagrin, Leo insisted on accompanying her into the hospital casualty department, a visit made even more awkward by her complete lack of documents. With no way of proving her identity or nationality, and with no method of payment available to her, Maeve struggled to assure the receptionists, nurses and doctors in turn that she had an NHS card guaranteeing free health care in France and would produce it as soon as the police caught her voleur. (Assuming they ever caught him or retrieved her belongings, that is, she thought grimly, but tried to stay positive.) The receptionist in particular had not seemed very confident in what she was saying and, in the end, Leo had to intervene, using his own bank card to pay for her treatment and ignoring Maeve’s repeated demands to be told his bank details so she could reimburse him as soon as humanly possible.

Once payment had been made, she was treated with impressive speed and efficiency, and only discharged from the emergency department once the doctors had concluded she was showing no signs of concussion. But she was given a list of worrying symptoms to watch out for – blurred vision, headache, dizziness, confusion or drowsiness – and told to come back for another check-up if anything didn’t feel right within the next few days.

Refusing to leave her to make her own way there on foot, Leo drove her to the British Embassy, even though it was late at night by then. But she had nowhere else to go, did she?

It was clear he didn’t want to leave her there, especially with the place mostly in darkness, but she’d decided enough was enough. The man was a perfect stranger, and although it was very kind of him to be driving her about like a taxi service, she was chafing at the bit to feel like less of a passenger in life and to take charge of her own destiny again.

‘Merci, Monsieur,’ she told him, holding up a firm hand as he attempted to follow her to the embassy entrance, ‘but I’ll take it from here. You’ve been very kind.’

Leo began to protest, but sighed and gave a weary shrug when Maeve glared at him. ‘Bien, but please take my telephone number, at least.’ He handed her a business card. ‘In case of any problems.’

‘Thank you. And… well, thank you,’ she said, flushing as she considered how rude she’d been. It wasn’t like her to be rude. But she had suffered a bang on the head and a tremendous shock, so maybe she should allow herself a little leeway on this occasion. ‘I’m really very grateful for all your help today, Monsieur Rémy.’

‘Leo,’ he corrected her, shook her hand, and headed back towards his car. ‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle Eden. Bonne chance.’

She hesitated as he walked away, suddenly uneasy, and had to restrain herself from calling him back.

It was ridiculous, of course. But now that the coach tour had well and truly departed for Calais, having probably reached it and the ferry by now, Leo was the only person she knew in Paris. Well, him and his elegant grandmother, Madame Rémy. And watching as he drove away with a final wave of his hand left her feeling distinctly alone and friendless.

CHAPTER THREE

Her hands in her jacket pockets, Maeve waited with a fake smile on her face until his car had disappeared out of view before making her way to the door. She didn’t want him to suspect how vulnerable she felt. Which was silly. If she couldn’t accept help now, of all times, when could she? There was being independent and there was being pointlessly wilful, and perhaps this time she was erring on the wrong side of stubborn.

The embassy did indeed look shut for the night, with only a few dim lights visible through narrow windows. But there were two uniformed security guards patrolling outside the closed front entrance door to the embassy who gave her sharp assessing looks as she approached the building.

One guard barred her way, saying in English, ‘Sorry, Miss, but the embassy is closed now. You’ll need to call the out of hours helpline.’ He pointed to a sign on the wall.

‘I don’t have a phone.’

He looked taken aback. ‘I suggest you come back in the morning, then.’

‘But this is an emergency.’ Briefly, she explained her situation, and the man listened carefully, and then turned away to make a quick phone call.

When he came back, he shook his head, looking glum.

‘Sorry, Miss,’ he repeated, ‘but no one’s free to see you tonight. There’s a private embassy party going on and most staff have the night off.’

Fury flashed through her. ‘Marvellous. I do hope there’s dancing. And fruit punch.’

The guard pulled a face. ‘I can see you’re upset. But nobody’s actually dead, you see, so… ‘

‘I might be dead if I have to hang about the streets of Paris all night with nowhere to sleep,’ she pointed out. ‘I have no money and no documents.’

‘I understand that, yes.’ He shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed. ‘Look, the best I can suggest is for you to wait outside here until first thing in the morning. Not ideal, but that would guarantee you being seen as early as possible. Besides, perhaps someone will become available before then if you wait? You’ll be pretty safe here. Especially with us about.’ His grin died at her stern expression, and he glanced nervously up at the clear dark skies above the city rooftops instead. ‘At least it’s not likely to rain tonight.’

With only a perfunctory word of thanks, she stomped away down the street, cross and dispirited, before realizing that she still had nowhere to go and no money. She walked for some time, trying to put off the inevitable. But there was only one thing she could do, unless she wanted to spend the whole night outside. She was growing chilly and felt bone-tired. Besides, Leo’s card was burning a hole in her pocket. And the last thing she needed was a hole in her pocket on top of everything else…

Swearing under her breath, she returned to the guard and asked with restrained politeness if she could use his phone to make a local call.

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