There was a pause during which Luc and Nicole looked silently at me. I cleared my throat.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said in a normal voice. ‘I didn’t mean to shout, but I want a taxi.’ I passed my phone back to Luc. ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘My French isn’t good and I’m feeling… I’m feeling…’ I got a grip of myself. ‘Look, would you please call a taxi for me to the airport? I’ll try there first.’
‘No.’ He got to his feet. ‘I will drive you. Tom,’ he said, addressing the three of us in turn, ‘bring the Citroën round to the front of the house. Alix, go upstairs and packenough for at least one overnight stay. And Nicole, you go with Alix to help her.’
‘But I can drive her, boss,’ whined Tom.
‘Tom, just do what I say, please.’
‘The Citroën, sir? You want the Citroën?’
‘Yes – now, please.’
‘Well, she’s running very nicely, you know? You should have a—’
‘Now, Tom!’
As Tom shuffled sulkily out towards the back door, Luc turned back to me.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m going to go and pack myself some stuff for overnight. I’ll meet you outside.’
‘But… but,’ I stammered, bewildered, ‘you’re surely not thinking of driving me all the way to Milan?’
‘That is precisely what I’m thinking – and doing,’ he added. ‘It will be easier and quicker than any other way. If the traffic is not too bad, we should be there in around three and a half hours.’ He looked askance first at me and then Nicole as we continued to stand as if dumbstruck.
‘Come on!’ he chided. ‘Get moving! Both of you!’
Fifteen minutes later, we were on the road.
At first we didn’t speak, Luc threading the old Citroën through the Nice traffic with a competence clearly born of long experience. Vaguely, through a haze of anxiety, I clocked he was a good driver, fast but safe, and considerate to other road users. As he manipulated the car round the Grand Corniche, placing it perfectly for every hairpin bend, I gazed dully out onto the Mediterranean Sea, sparkling in the now brilliant sunshine, obscene in itscheerful glory. Quite soon, however, we turned inland and hit the motorway where Luc increased speed and spoke for the first time.
‘I realise you don’t want to talk,’ he said. ‘But can you tell me whether you know which hospital it is in Milan?’
I glanced sideways at him. I had to make an effort, if only because he hadn’t gone in for any of the standard platitudes, the ‘don’t worrys’ or the ‘everything will be okays’, for which I was infinitely grateful. I moistened my lips with my tongue; they felt dry and stiff.
‘Giancarlo said he’d text me with the name of the hospital and its address as soon as Carl comes back from the brain scan.’ Trying to be helpful, I said, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t pay too much attention to Milan when I flew in with Carl, but I know it’s quite a big town, isn’t it?’
Luc’s mouth twitched. ‘Yes, quite big,’ he agreed.
My phone suddenly pinged and I seized it from the dashboard. ‘Oh!’ I cried a second later. ‘He’s okay! He’s fine! Giancarlo’s message says they’re keeping him in overnight for observation but Carl’s fine – he’s fine!’ And unable to stop myself, I burst into tears.
Luc immediately slowed the car, pulling off the motorway onto an approaching slip road at the top of which he came to a halt on the hard shoulder and yanked on the handbrake.
‘I am so bloody glad to hear that,’ he murmured, for a second closing his eyes as if in relief.
Controlling my sobs, I gulped, swallowed, scrubbed at my tears with my sleeve and blew my nose noisily on a paper tissue.
‘You and me both,’ I croaked.
‘What else does Giancarlo’s message say? Can you tell me?’
I squinted at the text. ‘He says they think Carl might have very mild concussion but there’s no evidence of any…’ I took a deep breath. ‘No evidence of any brain damage and therefore no serious cause for concern.’ Bemused, I looked up at Luc. ‘It sounds like he simply… well, simply knocked himself out.’
With a wry shake of his head, he patted me on the shoulder nearest to him. ‘Oh, Jesus, kids – they do for you, don’t they?’
I nodded vigorous agreement. ‘And how. But—’ I broke off.
‘But what?’
