From Italy With Love Read online

  It seemed as if Cam was over the worst of it but she carried on holding him ignoring the coldness of the tiles biting into her bottom and legs stretched straight out in front of her. Cam seemed comfortable enough.

  Blearily he lifted his head to look at her. ‘Sylvie?’ he asked sounding confused. ‘No, Laurie.’ His face was so close to hers she could see how hard he was finding it to focus and how his eyelids drooped.

  ‘Yes, it’s Laurie, and I think we need to get you back to bed.’

  ‘Bed,’ he slurred.

  ‘Come on, you need to help me.’

  Easing herself up, wincing at the stiffness in her limbs, she took both of his hands. It took all her strength to pull him to his feet.

  ‘Laurie,’ he muttered. ‘Course it is.’ He staggered as he finally lurched to his feet. ‘Laurie.’

  The minute she’d guided him to the bed, he flopped backwards and thankfully fell asleep almost instantly.

  Someone had crushed his head between a couple of rocks and put his stomach through a mangle. With gut twisting painfully, he came to, his mouth crying out for moisture. His eyelids had been glued shut in the night and surely a cat had shat in his mouth and then added the rest of the litter tray. If this was dying, let it be over soon. He tried again to lift his eyelids and this time fuzzy light filtered through. A figure haloed by the light stood in front of him, it had to be an angel because of the softness and gentleness of the hands that held his head, and offered sips of water.

  Water trickled around his mouth, removing the disgusting paste lining the roof. Just doing that much sapped his energy and he fell back again into the pillows. It was official, he wanted to die.

  Soothing hands brushed his hair from his face where it had tangled in overgrown bristles. The unfamiliar bed was comfortable and cocooning and he’d have liked to burrow in forever but like the light on an alarm blinking, something bothered him. He should be doing something. It niggled at him exacerbating the pounding in his head.

  A voice talked slowly and quietly to him but he couldn’t place it. Those cool fingers were back, brushing his forehead, he wanted them to stay. When they lifted from his face, he groaned. They came back and he relaxed back into the mattress. His angel was right beside him.

  ‘Cam?’ The voice was unfamiliar and he fought to surface from the fug he’d sunk into. His eyes focused on a sweet, unadorned face. Just as you’d expect an angel. Not a scrap of make-up. He knew her but he didn’t.

  Cam had slept well and in the morning, his colour seemed a lot better. She wanted something to do, to take her out of the room. You could only lean over someone so many times to check their breathing before they woke up and caught you in the act.

  With free Wi-Fi she’d toured Paris extensively on Cam’s laptop. Seen all the places that she’d like to see in real life, all the while waiting for him to wake up.

  The ticking clock intruded. Although it had to be faulty because every time she looked up at it, only another minute had passed. She tried playing a game in a bid to avoid looking at the time before a full ten minutes had elapsed.

  Even a new book on her Kindle failed to hold her attention against the loud bullying tick of the clock. Finally she threw it down and gave Cam another baleful glare. Miles’ itinerary had suggested a visit to the Musée Marmottan four doors down. It was no distance at all. Cam probably wouldn’t even know she’d gone.

  It wasn’t as if she were his mother, friend or even girlfriend. And besides he might be embarrassed or just want to be left alone when he came to.

  And damn, the clock still only said five past ten. Even if Cam woke up, he wasn’t going anywhere and would probably welcome the peace and quiet. She’d just leave him a note, a bottle of water and to be on the safe side the trusty waste-paper basket come sick bucket.

  Sunshine dappled the street, peering through an avenue of trees that lined either side of the road. As she left the shadow of the grand entrance of the hotel, the tightness in her chest, which seemed to have been a permanent presence for the last twenty-four hours, eased and she took a deep breath of air. It felt wonderful to be outside, even though the air wasn’t that fresh, and you could hear the regular murmur of the Peripherique just a few streets away. Guiltily she cast a look upwards wondering if she should have left a window open for Cam.

  The museum was literally a hop skip and jump away and according to Miles’ notes housed a couple of Monet paintings. She’d visited an exhibition of Impressionist Painters in Sheffield at the age of twelve, and been fascinated by them ever since. Being so close was an opportunity not to be missed especially as she was on her own.

  At the top of the stone steps, she stopped to admire the hallway, and opened up the envelope Ron had provided with money for expenses to pay her entrance. She withdrew a note … €500! That was over £400 in English money. And there were … rifling through as discreetly as she could, one, two … twenty! Over €10,000 in €500 notes not to mention, a quantity of other denominations. Bloody hell! And she’d been worried about paying for meals and drinks. This was more than she could spend in a year.

  Once her pulse had returned to normal, she tucked the envelope to the very bottom of her handbag and drifted out into a crowd. Safety in numbers, she figured. For a while she stuck with the group until side-tracked by a painting tucked in an alcove above an ornate table. Studying it for a second, she allowed herself to daydream about what the building might have been like in its day.

  Eventually she came to a set of flat wide white steps, all sharp contemporary angles which contrasted starkly with the late nineteenth century style of the rest of the building. As she descended the sounds became muted by the buzz of air conditioning units. The stairs turned a sharp corner and then opened out into a wide open brightly lit space.

  She blinked in surprise and her heart soared in sudden delight. The room was filled with Monet canvasses. Huge vibrant splashes of colour filling the walls, displayed with little fuss or pretension.

  For a moment all she could do was stand and smile. After a while she began to tour the room, taking time to study and absorb the beauty of each painting, standing as close as possible to the pictures, looking at the colours and brush strokes, occasionally stepping right back to see the pictures from a distance, where the colours merged to create the famous blurred images that contradictorily coalesced into a complete, concrete scene.

  She came back over and over, to one picture. A water lily picture. The astonishing purple and blues held her captive. Sinking onto a bench, she stared. The colours were amazing. Just looking at it made her heart swell and she wanted to imprint its sheer beauty on her brain for ever.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if everything in life resonated with this much colour and magic. It took her back to that day at the gallery in Sheffield when the world had held so much promise and possibility.

  When had her world become so grey and colourless? The piercing thought scored into her brain bringing with it physical pain at the recognition of its truth. What had happened to her? What doused the promise and excitement of the future?

  Another tourist bumped into her with a polite, ‘pardon’ rousing her from her reverie. 12.30 already. She needed to get back to Cam and check on him.

  Leaving the museum with a reluctant half-glance back, she promised herself she’d come back. It wasn’t as if Paris was that far away. She and Robert could come here for a long weekend. Although he wasn’t usually a big fan of art galleries or museums.

  Cam had changed position and now lay sprawled on his stomach. The bottle of water had been half drunk and his colour looked a lot better. He was even snoring slightly. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? She had never really had to nurse anyone before. Her dad’s first heart attack, the day she was due to take her driving test, had been an awful shock but he’d got better remarkably quickly. He’d returned to full fitness with relative ease which was why it was such a shock when ten years later, he had the massive heart attack that killed him.

 
; Memories of the steadfast, bone-crushing loneliness she’d felt when he died shimmered and then quite suddenly lifted as a warmth burgeoned in her chest. That’s all they were – just memories. She’d survived and now it felt as if a weight had been lifted. This morning had been thoroughly wonderful. Being on her own. She should visit more galleries when she got home. Go to London. The Tate Modern. The National Portrait Gallery. The Courtauld Institute. Live by herself.

  Like a bubble bursting into a thousand shards of colour the thought crystallised in her head. Where had that come from? But wouldn’t it be rather nice to live alone, have space and time to call your own? Robert moved in so soon after Dad died, she’d never really had chance to ride out the solitude of the empty house. Guilt hovered. Robert. She sighed. She hadn’t even looked at her phone since yesterday morning. So much had happened.

  Three missed calls from Robert. And two texts.

  I’m sorry. I was a berk. Please forgive me. I love you. I miss you so much. When you get home, we’ll plan a proper wedding.

  Laurie immediately felt guilty because she was pretty sure she wasn’t missing him but then she was away, doing different things. That was quite normal. At home he’d be in the usual routine without her, it was bound to be different. She should ring him and sort things out. He must feel bad, she’d never known him back down or apologise, not without considerable effort to please on her part.

  The second text put the first in context.

  Talked to Mum and she told me off. Said you were right, she’d be upset if she didn’t get an invite. Call me. I love you.

  There was a third text from an unknown number.

  Don’t forget your appointment with your personal shopper, Mandy at Galeries Lafayette at 2.30 p.m.

  Chapter 14

  Hell, she’d completely forgotten her impulsive call to reception last night. Too much Sancerre. It had seemed the most wonderful idea at the time. The perfect solution to her lost luggage problem. Gnawing at her lip, she checked her watch. With an hour to go it would be rude to cancel.

  She glanced at Cam, still asleep. It wasn’t as if he would miss her. Maybe she should go. After all she did need clothes, she couldn’t keep pinching Cam’s T-shirts. In fact she should buy him a couple.

  If she’d know how swish Galeries Lafayette was inside, Laurie may not have summoned the courage to walk in, let alone seek out a personal shopper. The huge department store sparkled with jewelled light from the gorgeous overhead dome around which were balconied floors overlooking the ground floor. The effect was sumptuous and regal and slightly intimidating, which didn’t help as Laurie didn’t like being intimidated.

  The air was redolent with a thousand perfumes which drifted upwards from the make-up concessions a long way below.

  ‘Hi I’m Mandy.’ The girl introduced herself once Laurie had found the correct department. ‘You’ll be an 8, I’m guessing,’ she said prowling around Laurie, assessing her from every angle after Laurie explained what had happened to her bag. ‘Which makes a 38 in France.’ She clapped her hands together in seeming delight startling Laurie.

  ‘No, I’m a ten. Sometimes a twelve.’

  ‘UK 10, American 8, Italian 42 and German 36.’ The American girl grinned, even without her clipped New York accent, her teeth would have given her nationality away. ‘I’m an expert on dress sizes. And,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I don’t get to dress many your size. Usually rich matrons with waistlines that have seen way too much rich living. I could have a lot of fun with you. You’ve got a great figure. In fact you’re a natural clothes horse. Lovely slender neck. Nice shoulders. Not much of a waist but good slim hips and those legs, whoa girl. What size feet are you? 38? 39?’

  A twinge of unease nudged her. Jeans. T shirts. Bra, knickers, socks. That’s all she needed.

  ‘UK 6, which I know is a 39.’

  ‘Great. And colour palate? What do are you looking for?’

  Colour palate. What in hell’s name was that? She shrugged. ‘I’m not really sure. Look I just want something to travel in for the next few weeks. Capsule wardrobe. The boot of the car is tiny. I only had two pairs of jeans, some T shirts, fleeces and a dress. A pair of sandals and these.’ She pointed to her purple Converse high tops, the trendiest thing she owned. They’d been left, brand new in their box, in the library and six months on no one had ever collected them. For the record, she had put £10 in the charity box for the local hospice. Thankfully they hadn’t been in her bag but wedged in the boot of the car.

  ‘Ooh, I love a challenge.’ Mandy’s beam grew wider, if that were humanly possible. In fact Laurie was starting to wonder if she was some kind of Pollyanna alien. Nothing seemed to faze this woman. ‘You just leave it to me. With your colouring, there’s lots to play with …’ she sighed, a wrinkle appearing on her brow and Laurie immediately felt guilty. ‘… your hair is a gorgeous colour.’

  Laurie could feel the ‘but’ hanging.

  ‘… the style, really could use some work. It doesn’t do you any favours. God I’d love to have hair like that.’ She pushed her fingers through the ponytail, shaking it out. ‘Thick, wavy.’

  She danced behind Laurie, positioned her in the mirror and with quick light fingers, pulled each side of her hair up. ‘Look. See. A few layers would lighten it up around your face. It’s so heavy at the moment, it drags your face down. Bit like Morticia. Too severe. Would make it much more feminine and enhance your face. Hide your ears.’ Mandy smiled sympathetically as she said it adding, ‘You’ve got the most fab cheekbones.’

  Her breezy, enthusiastic stream of chatter robbed her blunt comments of any offence.

  ‘Hmm, I have a brilliant idea. You just wait here.’

  Mandy darted off to a nearby counter and picked up a phone.

  Within seconds she was back with a mile-wide beam.

  ‘Sorted, you are one lucky chick. Marc is free. He’s almost never free. Top, top stylist here. Normally you have to wait months to see him.

  ‘Then we’ll get you into some decent clothes. I can tell you’ve had to borrow those jeans and that bra. Poor you. Good job someone lent you a decent T shirt. You look a mess but don’t worry, Mandy’s here.’

  ‘What?’ Laurie was starting to feel like Alice and that she’d fallen through a rabbit hole. It was probably too late to own up to the jeans and bra being her own. The T shirt of course was Cam’s which she’d ‘borrowed’.

  ‘Marc will do your hair … and then,’ Mandy beamed as if it were Christmas, ‘when you come back here, we’ll have … we are going to have so much fun. I’m thinking blues, perhaps coral.’ Again she sized Laurie up, the dark raven eyes darting here and there, as if taking in every angle of Laurie’s body.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t worry, don’t thank me until you’ve seen what Marc’s done. He’s an absolute genius.’

  ‘I—’ She might as well be fighting a demolition ball, although it felt as it had already hit her and she was like one of those cartoon characters plastered to the side of said ball, having to go where it took her.

  ‘Come on, chop, chop.’

  Laurie found herself propelled into the lift and minutes later, in a large leather chair in front of a mirror, with the diminutive Marc, lifting her hair this way and that, muttering to himself in French. On either side of him two girls with matching perfect bobs, hung on his every word, nodding like a pair of lapdogs. One had already combed her hair.

  This had to stop, it didn’t need cutting. She liked it fine the way it was. Neat, tidy and practical and she wasn’t going to be bossed about by some prima donna, French hairdresser bounding about in tight leather trousers and a ridiculously low cut T shirt, showing off a very hairy chest. It was a bit Simon Cowell meets Napoleon.

  ‘I just want a trim.’ She enunciated the words to make it clear. ‘Nothing else.’

  Marc waved the two girls away, pulled up a nearby chair, swung his legs over it so the back faced him and rested his elbows casually on the top of the back
.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, the effeminate voice vanishing.

  ‘Laurie,’ she answered puzzled by the instant change of his demeanour.

  ‘You are the client. I’m here to do exactly what you want. This is your hair. No one should ever feel they are being forced. There is nothing worse than having a haircut you hate.’ He smiled at her. Rich brown eyes, so large and limpid they really did remind her of a spaniel. ‘I want every woman to leave my salon feeling a million dollars. If you say you want a trim, then that is what I will do.’

  The earnest tone of his voice made her wonder if maybe she’d been a bit uptight and ridiculous as she sank into the soft buttery leather chair.

  ‘If you want a new style, this I can do also. I am here to please you. Make women realise their true beauty and I tell you, Laurie, may I call you Laurie, your hair is very beautiful. Either way I will not let you leave here until you are completely happy. But in my heart of hearts, I would be doing you a disservice, if I were not to advise you with my professional heart, that your hair would suit you so much more with layers here,’ he indicated the sides, ‘and here. It would give your hair the bounce and life it deserves.’

  Laurie looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair had been like this forever. Hair grew, didn’t it?

  ‘O… K … you can … cut it, but not too short.’

  ‘Short,’ said Marc in horror. ‘Never. I will take a little bit,’ he indicated with thumb and finger. ‘But ah, the difference. You will love it. I promise you.’ He jumped up, reverted back to pocket dynamo, and began barking orders and instructions to the two girls.