‘Good,’ I said shortly. ‘Listen, Nicole, I’m going outnow for shopping and stuff. Can you be a love and make him some toast when he comes down? If he wants any, that is.’
‘There is no bread,’ she announced with extreme gravity. There’s one thing you should know about the French: having no bread is a national crisis. Something to do with the Revolution. Luc could tell you all about it.
‘Some eggs, then? There’s a couple left in the fridge.’
‘Okay. I do this for you, my friend.’
‘Thank you. You are the best friend ever.’ Giving her a quick hug, I shot off before anybody else, i.e. Tom, could appear on the scene.
Outside it was still dark and rather cold, the security lights of the Villa Matisse and the neighbouring houses flaring like guttering candles in the dim air. There was nobody about, everywhere silent and deserted. To avoid the possibility of bumping into Tom making his jolly little way along the avenue, I opted for crossing the road and taking a narrow snicket cutting between the two properties opposite and leading down the hill. A pitch-black tunnel, bound on both sides by high hedges, it looked distinctly uninviting but, telling myself it was far too early in the day for Jack the Ripper – or his French counterpart – to be around, I started jogging down it. Twenty minutes later, having negotiated various similar little passages and pathways, I gained the seafront and turned into the nearest café. Two workmen standing at the bar appraised me without interest before turning back to their coffee and cognac. Sleepily and without speaking, the barman served me coffee – without the cognac – along with a hunk ofbaguette, a foil-wrapped pat of butter and plastic sachet of jam. Despite the generic quality of the latter, it tasted good, the bread fresh and crusty, still faintly warm from theboulangerie. French bakers work all night, every night. Sitting at a chipped Formica-topped table and idly watching the television on the wall over the bar playing the news with its sound turned off, I ate at a leisurely pace, resolved to delay my return to the Villa Matisse for as long as possible. Apart from the shopping and ATM, I had no idea quite what I was going to do with myself hanging around in Nice, but I was going to leave it until well past eleven in the hope Tom would have gone home and no longer be there.
He had not, and he was.
‘Good morning, Madam Chef!’ he shouted as I entered the kitchen.
Avoiding looking at him, I gave a curt nod as I marched across to the counter with the bags of shopping and dumped them down.
‘Welcome, the Fanny Cradock of France!’
Nicole moved from the sink to help unpack the shopping, raising her eyebrows at me in mingled disgust and despair.
‘Although, if I recall correctly, she was a lady hoicked with her own petard.’
Luc came in. ‘I think you mean “hoist”, Tom,’ he said mildly. ‘The idiom ishoistwith one’s own petard.’
‘Alix knows what I mean, don’t you, Alix?’
Hearing the gloating note in his voice, I turned my head slowly to look at him. His piggy little eyes weregleaming with satisfaction, the card player holding the ace. Abruptly, it occurred to me that although he was a stupid man, he would be possessed of the sly cunning that often accompanies stupidity and would therefore have calculated that even if I had worked out what he had done, there would be nothing I could do about it. Turning away, I closed my eyes and gripped the edge of the counter, suddenly feeling sick.
‘Are you well, Alix?’
I opened my eyes. Her hand on my arm, Nicole was peering up into my face in concern. Speechless, I shook my head slightly at her. Then my phone rang. I couldn’t think who would be calling me at this time of the morning but, glad of the distraction, I scrabbled in my bag to retrieve it.
‘Alix?’
‘Giancarlo?’
‘Alix, I am afraid Carl has had an accident.’
To this day, I don’t know what happened in the following few seconds, but somehow I found myself sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, the phone still clutched in my hand and Luc standing behind me gripping my shoulders. I became aware I was not simply breathing heavily but actually gasping as though my heart had stopped beating or both my lungs collapsed. Her eyes wide with fear, Nicole placed a glass of water in front of me. Shakily, I lifted it to my lips and tried to take a sip, but I couldn’t swallow properly.
‘Hot, sweet tea,’ Tom was chuntering in the background. ‘She’s had a shock and that’s what she needs – hot, sweet tea for shock.’
Releasing my shoulders, Luc pulled out a chair up next to mine, sat down and gently removed the phone from my hand.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked quietly. I put the glass down and stared at him, unable to speak for a moment.
‘My son’s had an accident,’ I croaked at last. ‘He’s got a head injury. He’s in hospital.’
‘Hot, sweet tea—’ began Tom.
Luc rounded on him. ‘Tom, will you please be quiet?’ He swivelled back to me. ‘Where is he?’ he asked calmly.
‘Milan. He’s in hospital in Milan.’ Jumping to my feet, I lurched slightly, my balance all over the place. Luc put out a steadying hand, but I held him off. ‘I’m sorry, but I must leave immediately. I must go to him.’ I seized my phone. ‘I must call a taxi to the airport or train station. Whichever is quickest. I must go now.’
‘I’d be more than delighted to drive you wherever you care you go.’ Tom spoke as cheerily as if we were off on a picnic.
‘No!’
