From Italy With Love Read online

  It left them plenty of time to get to Paris, although he checked his watch; he didn’t want to get caught up on the Peripherique. It was hell at the best of times, let alone in rush hour.

  As the sun rose in the sky, the afternoon got hotter and hotter. He rolled down his window, trying to get some air into the car. The heat didn’t seem to bother Laurie, she looked perfectly happy in her ubiquitous uniform of baggy T shirt and jeans.

  For some reason, the road seemed much harder work; all these bends made his stomach roll uneasily and as he took another curve in the road, he felt quite nauseous.

  Behind them a Citroen tooted furiously and then with a burst of speed as soon as they were on a straight stretch, veered round them.

  ‘Bloody idiot. What’s his problem?’

  ‘Are you OK, Cam?’ asked Laurie and out of the corner of his eye he could see her peering anxiously at him. His eyes felt too heavy to look at her properly.

  ‘Yeah, fine, why?’ The words came out listless and heavy.

  ‘Well I just wondered why you’d dropped right back to 50 km on this road.’

  ‘Do you want to drive?’ he snapped, trying to overcome the rising queasiness in his stomach.

  ‘No, you’re fine.’ She turned her head and stared out of the window, a sign he now knew meant she was pissed off. Not that she ever said it.

  He felt the car roll into another corner. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered as his stomach protested violently, cramping hard. He’d never been carsick in his life. This road really did take the biscuit. He winced as his stomach griped again and took his foot off the accelerator. The car stuttered, the engine whining in protest. Shit, he hadn’t changed down a gear. What gear was he in?

  An exasperated sigh came from the passenger seat.

  ‘Try sitting in this seat, lady, before you start huffing and puffing at me,’ he growled.

  ‘Cam, you’ve slowed down to 20 miles per hour here.’

  A flash of cold hit him, followed by a flush of heat that brought sweat beading onto his forehead. He could feel it rolling down his cheek.

  In the distance, he heard her ask again, ‘Are you OK?’ Her voice almost disappeared against the background buzz. Waves of nausea rode him and he felt his jaws tighten, almost locking.

  ‘Cam,’ she shouted as they veered towards the grass verge. ‘Stop the car. Stop the car.’

  He did just that, pulling over still in fourth. With an angry sputter, the engine protested and promptly stalled.

  ‘Sor—’ even as he tried to say the word, he was fumbling with the door handle.

  He had it open. And almost fell out. He staggered on jellylike legs towards a verdant hedge and then, as if sucked into a cyclone, he felt his whole system buck. He had no control over the vomit that forced itself up like a tsunami, as wave after wave of cramping pain hit his stomach. Unable to manage his legs any longer, he sank to his knees as once again his stomach heaved, forcing everything upwards. Sour acid swirled in his mouth, his nostrils and then his stomach relented, relaxing. He took a deep breath, sucking in the air, realising he was breathless. No sooner had he reflated his lungs, his stomach clenched again bringing with it another wave of nausea.

  He threw up again. And again.

  Shuddering with weakness, he gave up the attempt to stay upright and keeled over to the right, away from the pool of vomit, praying fervently that there was nothing left to bring up. His stomach still cramped, painfully and his mouth tasted like shit.

  ‘Cam,’ her diffident voice drifted in to his head but he could barely grasp it.

  ‘Here.’ He felt her lift his head and prop it up as a water bottle touched his lips. ‘Just swill your mouth out. Don’t swallow.’ He felt something cool wipe his forehead but his lids were too heavy to open, he just wanted to lay there and die. The bottle nudged his lips, insistent and annoying. He tried to push it away but someone gripped his wrist with a strength he couldn’t beat. Water trickled between his dry lips but he could hardly bring himself to do a thing. The cool fresh taste eased around his mouth and he grunted and in response, the hands holding his head in a vice-like grip, turned him so that mercifully the water spilled out again. His body felt limp and boneless. And there was the bottle again. Water again. Couldn’t they just leave him alone? Leave him to die. If only he could just sink into the ground.

  ‘Cam,’ the voice came again. ‘Cam.’

  He felt ineffectual hands prodding him, pulling him, felt his foot twist uncomfortably. He managed to open one eye but all he could see was the grass and a woman’s shoe. A very ugly black sandal.

  Merciful oblivion swamped him.

  Cam lay face down on the grass verge, huddled in a crescent shape that was almost foetal. She was conscious of the buzz of bees in the nearby hedgerow and the scream of a bird in the sky but little else. No other cars for sure. No signs of nearby civilisation, a tractor, church bells. Nothing had passed since they’d pulled over.

  Sweat soaked his forehead and the neck of his T-shirt was wringing. He’d passed out cold. Glancing back towards the car, she measured the distance. She could probably drag him that far but loading him into the awkward, low seats was another matter. She pulled ineffectually at his shoulders hoping he might stir, but he was a dead weight and clearly out for the count.

  Scanning the road ahead, she couldn’t see anything – no handy farmhouse or farmer tilling a nearby field. Even her mobile phone was useless.

  She looked down at his grey face.

  Well no one was coming to come along and rescue them, and she didn’t have France’s answer to the AA on her. First of all she had to get him into the car. She’d seen a tarpaulin in the boot. That would do the trick. Using it like a blanket, she shunted Cam’s limp body left and right until she managed to get him onto it. Then relying on its smooth underside she pulled and dragged him right up to the passenger door. Although the low slung seat meant she didn’t have to physically lift him too high into the car, it was still going to be impossible for her to get him in by himself.

  ‘Wake up Cam. You’ve got to wake up.’ She patted his cheek gently, forcing the water bottle between his lips.

  With a splutter and angry push of hands, he roused briefly.

  ‘Cam,’ she said firmly. ‘You have to help me.’ Blearily he opened one eye as she grasped him under the shoulders and heaved him towards the car. Although he roused enough to take heaviness out of his limbs, it was tough going. With a combination of pushing and shoving his immobile form, somehow she managed to get him into the seat. Buckling a seat belt around the leaden body took just another five minutes.

  She sat back on her heels, perspiration running down her face. She’d done it. Got him in, although it had taken the best part of an hour. Just achieving that milestone made her feel she’d accomplished a mountain climb in one day. That was just the start. She refused to think about anything else. One step at a time.

  With him in the passenger seat, that left only one place for her to sit. She slid into the driver’s seat, gingerly placing her hands on the steering wheel. She glanced over at Cam and then back at all the dials on the dashboard. Olio, Acqua, Benzina. She looked around. The road was empty. No one to see her bunny hopping down the road. It was all very well on the private track with no one to see and no other road users or obstacles but now she was driving on the other side of the road in a strange place. God help her.

  She looked again at Cam’s slumped form in the seat beside her. Grey in the face with a listless pulse in his jawline. He really didn’t look well.

  Step by step. The sat nav was already programmed to reach the hotel, complete with valet parking, which had been arranged by Miles. The logical thing would be to head for Paris and get the hotel to call a doctor as soon as they arrived. She could drive … it was only if she got stopped she’d have some explaining to do … and even then they might not ask for her driving licence. And if they did, would the French police know it was only a provisional licence?

  Anyway, any idiot
could see it was an emergency. Cam’s colour now matched putty with a greenish sheen to his waxy skin.

  Her hands trembled. Swallowing hard, she grasped the keys and turned them sharply in the ignition. A low groan from Cam killed any further indecision. She jumped slightly as the engine roared into life, the vibration erupting under her seat.

  I can do this, I can do this, she told herself, gripping the steering wheel hard. Taking a deep breath, she tried hard to remember her driving lessons and Miles’ instructions. Clutch in, handbrake off, ease clutch up.

  Like a spring-loaded catapult the clutch shot up, her foot slipped off and the car hopped forwarded like a demented kangaroo and then promptly stalled with an outraged whine.

  Shit, this thing was alive. She looked down at the pedals with a little more respect. OK, gently did it. For all her bravado on the test track, being on a real road was a thousand times scarier. Then, she’d been running on adrenaline and pride.

  Starting the engine again, this time she was ready for the clutch and quickly pushed the gear stick up into first; it felt jerky as if it might jump back at any second, then gingerly but firmly let the clutch lift. To her delight the car began to move forward and kept going until she found herself on the other side of the road. Shit. Steering. She’d forgotten about that as well. Grasping the wheel, she ended up over-steering and almost finished up on the verge and then realised she had no idea what side of the road she should be on.

  And while she had to contend with all that, the protesting whine of the engine told her she should have been thinking about moving up a gear. Fighting against the tight gear box, she missed second, shoved the car into fourth and it shuddered to a virtual halt. Quickly she rectified it and the car jolted again.

  She shot a glance at Cam, who flopped forward. Oh Christ. She gritted her teeth, grasped the gear stick and speeding up to get into third.

  Cam had slipped back into the seat and while he didn’t look comfortable, he didn’t look uncomfortable.

  At least he couldn’t see how badly she was driving, although it was starting to come together. There. That felt better already. Checking all the dials in front of her she was able to work out that she was only doing thirty-five kmph. Why did it seem so much faster?

  She decided to stick at her current pace. This felt OK.

  Gradually her speed increased and she was able to start taking in the road signs and directions. Everything pointed to Paris, maybe it was best to press on there.

  Any further indecision was killed by the need to concentrate on driving. The speed limit signs heralded a settlement up ahead but as she drove into the outskirts she quickly realised that it was a tiny town with very little to recommend it. Dithering for a moment, she looked up and down the street. No sign of a hotel. Cam hadn’t stirred for the last fifteen minutes and while he still looked grey and groaned periodically, he seemed to be asleep. And the sat nav lady was still urging her on.

  Sod it, she’d carry on.

  Although her shoulders were rigid with tension and her neck cramped from leaning forward too hard, once she’d got used to it the driving wasn’t so bad. In fact she barely acknowledged the traffic around her; she was too busy concentrating on driving. Although it had been ages since she’d driven a car out on a road and her hands shook unsteadily, she did take secret satisfaction every time she managed a gear change. There were a few false starts and the gears crunched horribly as she didn’t quite get her foot off the clutch in time and every time she glanced at Cam, she was a tiny bit glad he remained unconscious.

  Driving the Peripherique was every bit as bad as she’d heard. The M25 to the power of ten complete with French drama and general craziness. Cars zipped this way and that, making her head spin as she tried to keep an eye on the traffic in both wing mirrors and rear-view mirror.

  For an hour she gripped the steering wheel as if it were her shield as she battled her way through the onslaught of traffic. Fighting to keep the car in a low gear, she feinted the gear stick like a sword as she alternated between first and second.

  When the sat nav finally bleated, ‘destination in 500 metres’, she let out a huge sigh and took the final turning off the main road.

  Halfway down the street, she spotted the hotel and almost slumped in her seat with relief. Mission accomplished. Her hands ached from hanging onto the steering wheel so hard and her bottom felt like it had been welded into the seat. How on earth did Cam manage? He was a hell of a lot of taller than her and yet he hadn’t once complained about the cramped conditions. Now she knew why they took such regular breaks.

  She pulled up outside the hotel and let out a relieved breath. Made it. The last half hour had been hair-raising and most definitely grey-making. Now she’d arrived, she felt a quiet sense of satisfaction, not that Cam had any idea of what she’d just been through. Her thighs were shaking and her pulse racing

  She sat for a moment, waiting for some energy to propel her legs to get out of the car and surveyed the entrance of the hotel. A huge canopy swung out over the road to scoop in visiting cars and a small set of steps unfolded towards the car.

  Cam was still sound asleep or whatever he was. He looked dishevelled and travel worn. Would the immaculate doorman in his dark black and grey livery take pity on them and help Cam up to a room? Hopefully her schoolgirl French would be sufficient to explain that ‘mon ami est mauvais’ so that the staff wouldn’t assume he’d been on a drunken binge. Mixed expressions crossed the doorman’s face, admiration for the car and concern at the passenger lolling sideways in his seat.

  She mustered her best smile, wishing she had a French dictionary which would give her the correct word for food poisoning. All she could think of, was Mal de Mer. Perhaps if she said that and mimed eating food, she might get the message across.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’

  ‘Bonjour Mademoiselle. Bienvenue a L’Hotel du Leine.’ The footman managed obsequious and impressed at the same time.

  ‘Mon ami …’ she pointed to Cam in the passenger seat. ‘Il est mort.’

  Chapter 12

  ‘Mort!’ the French-man’s eyebrows shot up in excitable surprise. ‘Mon Dieu.’ He started and called to a colleague. ‘Pierre, vien ici. Il est mort!’

  As a crowd quickly gathered around the car, she quickly realised that her French vocabulary had failed her spectacularly.

  Shit, mort! It meant dead, didn’t it?

  At least the car gave her some street cred.

  ‘Non, non. Pardonez moi. Il est mal.’ Everyone looked blankly at her. ‘Mal de Mer?’ She rubbed her tummy. Still more blank looks. Oh God, she was going to have to mime throwing up.

  Closing her eyes, wishing she were anywhere else, she clutched her stomach and imitated retching.

  The bloody doorman just stared at her and then at the crowd gathering around.

  ‘Sick. Vomit?’

  The footman finally grasped her meaning immediately, pointing from her to Cam.

  ‘Il?’

  ‘Oui.’ She nodded, indicating Cam.

  ‘Ah, je comprends.’ He fired rapid French at the gathered crowds and everyone shot off in several directions seemingly randomly. They reconvened within seconds, organised and with purpose. A wheelchair accompanied by a lady with a big red rug was wheeled up to the passenger door. Two burly doormen pulled and dragged Cam out of the car into the chair, tucking the red blanket around him to keep him in place. Hastily she grabbed Cam’s bag from the car and popped it onto his lap.

  When the concierge appeared and held out a hand for the car keys, she dropped her bag on the pavement and complied without thinking.

  ‘Don’t worry I will take care of everything,’ the concierge assured her. So she left her bag and the keys with him and followed the bizarre procession into the hotel lobby.

  It was dark and cosy with sumptuous wallpaper in dark black flock lit with gold and silver. Very classy tart’s boudoir in an art deco sort of way.

  A male receptionist, standing ramrod str
aight, awaited them at the desk and watched the motley crew each step of the way as they came towards him. The expression on his face, turning up his nose and mouth suggested that she wasn’t welcome and had better watch her step before he turned her away. His attitude irked her so much that she lifted her chin and went in prepared for battle.

  ‘My companion has contracted a nasty case of food poisoning. I have a reservation here for me, my companion and my car.’ She looked down her nose at him emphasising the words, ‘my car.’ In the mirror behind the manager, she could see the doorman frantically signing. The meaning was clear, ‘you should see this car!’

  She ignored what was going on behind her, held her head in a suitably haughty and regal position and waited for the manager to appreciate just what she was.

  ‘The reservation was made in the name of Liversedge on behalf of my uncle, Miles T… she didn’t even need to finish his name. The manager’s jaw dropped in recognition and suddenly he was on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Mais, certainment mademoiselle. Please accept our apologies. Follow me.’ He snapped his fingers at the staff around. All fell neatly into place, either in support or back to their usual duties.

  She was escorted to the lift, Cam, head lolling in the wheelchair a few feet behind.

  ‘My companion is very ill. He needs a doctor. Please could you arrange for one to visit immediately?’

  ‘Oui, certainly.’

  ‘He has food poisoning. Shell-fish.’ She kept up her imperious attitude, even though inside she’d started to flag. Being in a strange country, not speaking the language with a very sick man … not her idea of fun at all.

  Looking at Cam’s grey face, she felt sick herself. Did he need a doctor? At what point should she be worried? Should she get some medicine? Seek medical advice. All she knew about people who’d been sick was that they needed fluids but to avoid milk products and to introduce white foods very slowly like rice, plain chicken and plain white bread. She suspected that Cam was a long way off any of those things.