The French Retreat (Falling for France Book 1) (9 page)

After the initial rush of activity, one of the nurses came over to Will with a clipboard. She said something in French and pointed from Fatimah to the form on the board.

‘Wife?’ she said.

‘Yes. My wife,’ said Will. ‘Here on holiday.’ He took the clipboard and pen from the nurse and with as much guesswork as luck, filled in the form. He used Fatimah’s first name but his own surname, making up fictitious details for everything else. By the time the French hospital got round to processing the paperwork and then had it returned due to incorrect information, he and Fatimah would be long gone.

Chapter Nine

It had taken all of Marcie’s imagination and miming skills to finally get Asif to understand where his mother was. She had resorted to drawing pictures and, although she was no Van Gough, Asif had finally understood and stopped crying. Now Marcie was sitting on the sofa with him cuddled up to her as they watched some obscure French cartoon.

Her phone sounded out next to her on the cushion, making her jump. It was a text message.

‘Finally,’ said Marcie seeing Will’s name appear on the screen. She opened the message.

Fatimah staying in the night. Hopefully home tomorrow. You ok?

Marcie had hoped they would be back that afternoon, but realistically, she knew this probably wouldn’t happen. She replied saying they were fine and, as an afterthought, added a kiss on the end. She would miss Will tonight and the prospect of staying in The Retreat alone didn’t fill her with great joy. At least she had Asif for company.

When her phone rang several minutes later, she hoped it would be Will. Even if it was just to say hi so she could hear his voice. She was disappointed to see that it was Emily. Removing Asif from under her arm, she stood up and going out into the kitchen took the call.

‘Hi, Emily,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. Everything okay?’

‘Hiya,’ came Emily’s voice. ‘There’s been some developments on the job front.’

‘What’s up?’ Despite the obvious excitement in her friend’s voice, Marcie had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what Emily had to say. Marcie knew she should be excited at the prospect of a job interview, which would facilitate her return to the UK, but she just wasn’t feeling it.

‘The interview is for next Monday,’ said Emily. ‘They’ve had so many people apply, they’ve brought the closing date forward and are interviewing next week. Check your email. You need to get yourself back here. Fast.’

‘Next Monday!’ said Marcie. She hadn’t thought it would happen so quickly.

‘Yes. My boss was really impressed with your CV. You’re definitely top of the list of potential candidates.’

‘He probably won’t be when he finds out why I left my old job,’ said Marcie.

‘Don’t be daft, he knows already.’

‘He does?’

‘I told him. He understands. He thinks your boss overreacted,’ said Emily enthusiastically. ‘You’re so going to be offered this job and then you can move in with me. Oh, we’re going to have so much fun as flatmates.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Marcie, hoping she sounded as keen as Emily.

‘Sorry, hun, but I’ve got to dash. Pilate’s class,’ said Emily. ‘See you in a few days!’

And with that the line went dead, leaving Marcie staring at the phone in her hand.

An interview. Next Monday. It was a reality check. She couldn’t stay hidden away in France for ever. She knew that. But on the other hand, she’d never felt so at ease and relaxed as she had since arriving at The Retreat over a month ago. And then amongst all of this was Will. She had only just got to know him and the thought of finding out more about him and spending more time in his company was the thing that got the butterflies in her stomach fluttering and her heart pumping.

A sudden hammering at the door snapped Marcie from her thoughts. Her phone slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor. There was the unmistakable sound of the glass breaking.

Swearing, Marcie bent down and grabbed her phone, flicking it over to reveal a shattered screen. She swore some more.

The thumping on the door came again, this time accompanied by shouting.

‘
Ouvrez la porte!
’

It was the unmistakably sound of Yves’s voice. Asif appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Fear blazed in his eyes. He hesitated and then ran to Marcie, clinging to her tightly.

‘Mademoiselle
.
Please open the door.’ A different voice this time. ‘It is the police. We need to speak to you. We know you are there.’

Marcie’s heart gave a leap and immediately her thoughts turned to Will, wondering if there had been an accident. The next thought chilled her to the bone. What if it was something to do with Fatimah and Asif?

She looked down at Asif and put her finger to her lips and then walked over to the locked door.

‘What do you want?’ she called back.

Yves began ranting and Marcie could hear the policeman calming him down until eventually he was silent again.

‘Mademoiselle, I need to speak with you about the boy.’

Marcie caught her breath. Yves must have seen them or guessed that Fatimah and Asif were here. Or worse, Will and Fatimah had been caught out at the hospital. ‘What boy?’ she called back, stalling for time. A thousand thoughts whirled through her mind. There was no way she could let them come in. They might try to take Asif away.

‘The boy stole from Monsieur Bedeau. I must speak with the boy and you. Is Monsieur Grainger there, please?’

‘No. He’s in England.’

‘When will he be returning here?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Marcie trying to keep the wobble of anxiety from her voice.

‘Then I must speak with you.’

‘Come back tomorrow,’ said Marcie. ‘It’s late and I am going to bed soon.’

She knew it probably wouldn’t deter the police officer but she needed to bide some time.

‘I cannot wait until tomorrow. This is a matter of importance,’ came the reply.

‘Wait while I get dressed,’ called back Marcie. She turned to Asif, grabbed his hand and ran upstairs with him. Standing on the landing, she hesitated as she tried to think of the best hiding place. Asif wasn’t very big, he could easily hide in a small space. It couldn’t be anywhere obvious though, nowhere like a wardrobe or under the bed. If the policeman came upstairs, that would be the first place he’d look. From nowhere, she remembered the cupboard in Ben and Lisa’s en-suite. It was storage space where Lisa kept the extra linen and towels for their guests.

‘Come, quickly,’ she whispered to Asif, pushing open her brother’s bedroom door and going into the en-suite. Marcie moved the wooden towel rail to one side. The cupboard door was less than a metre high, just enough access to the crawl space. She pushed at the top corner, releasing the magnetic catch. Pulling several towels out of the cupboard she indicated for Asif to climb in.

The poor boy looked terrified. Marcie wished there was some way she could reassure him with words. Instead as he clambered in, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘It’s okay, I promise,’ she said. She held her hand to the side of his face. ‘I promise I’ll look after you.’

She closed the door and moved the towel rail back into place, hanging the clean towels over the wooden rails to hide the cupboard.

The banging at the front door had started up again and she could hear the police officer shouting, this time with more insistence.

Hurrying, Marcie closed both the en-suite door and the bedroom door behind her, before running as light footedly as possible down the stairs.

‘I’m just getting dressed,’ she called. ‘Wait a minute.’

‘Please, Mademoiselle. Open the door. Now.’

Marcie took a deep breath and unlocked the door. In front of her was Yves, his face bright red and a deep scowl furrowed his brow. He went to bustle his way in but Marcie stood her ground, not letting go of the door, effectively blocking his path.

The police officer pushed Yves back and stepped forward. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Marcie. ‘May we come in?’

Marcie eyed the farmer. She didn’t trust him one bit. ‘You can but not him,’ she said.

The police officer spoke to Yves who protested, but ultimately had to wait outside. Marcie closed the door firmly on the disgruntled farmer as the police officer stepped in.

‘Thank you, again,’ said the policeman. ‘Who else is with you?’

‘No-one, I’m on my own,’ said Marcie.

‘Monsieur Grainger, he had a guest. A man,’ said the policeman.

‘Oh, you mean Will,’ said Marcie as she tried to think of a plausible excuse as to where he was. ‘He’s out walking somewhere.’

The police officer raised his eyebrows. ‘In the dark?’

‘Yes. He likes to photograph wildlife,’ said Marcie. ‘Foxes, badgers, owls.’ At least that part was true.

The police officer nodded, seemingly enlightened. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Bedeau has reported a theft. He says a boy stole from him. He says the boy and his mother are with you. Is that true?’

Marcie gave a false laugh. ‘I’ve really no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said.

‘You will not mind if I look around the house,’ said the officer. It was a statement rather than a question.

Marcie swallowed a lump of fear that rose from nowhere, lodging itself in her throat. ‘No. Not at all.’ She indicated with her hand towards the living room but the police officer ignored her and headed straight for the stairs.

His booted feet clomped on the oak treads. Marcie said a silent prayer that Asif would hold his nerve and stay in his hiding place.

‘Hello!’ called the policeman as he reached the landing. ‘Hello. Are you up here?’

His footsteps were slow and purposeful as he walked across the floorboards. Marcie ran up the stairs as he began his search. He methodically opened each bedroom door and entered the room in search of his prey. Marcie watched as he looked under the beds and opened wardrobe doors.

Finally he reached Ben and Lisa’s bedroom. He pushed open the wooden door and walked in, performing his routine search. Then coming to the en-suite, he rested his hand on the latch and paused. He glanced back at Marcie.

Her heart felt like it was about to erupt out of her chest. She folded her arms and rested against the doorframe in a bid to look nonchalant.

The police officer turned back to the door and lifted the catch. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you in here?’ He stepped into the small bathroom and Marcie heard him swipe back the shower curtain. He tutted. She could hear his feet on the floorboards as he turned around in the bathroom. Another tut and he strode out, coming to stand in front of her.

‘I will look downstairs now,’ he said.

All Marcie could do was nod. Sweat pricked the back of her neck. She didn’t trust herself to speak as she followed the police officer downstairs.

They entered the living room and Marcie’s heart gave another slam against her chest. There were two cups on the coffee table. One with the remains of her tea and the other with orange juice. She looked at the police officer as his eyes swept the room, finally his gaze coming to rest on the coffee table.

He picked up the cup of juice. ‘You are thirsty,’ he said.

Marcie shrugged, brushing off his comment. ‘As you can see,’ said Marcie. ‘There is just me here. No-one else. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to go to bed. I’m very tired.’

The policeman looked at his watch. ‘At seven in the evening? You must be very tired indeed, Mademoiselle.’

‘As a matter of fact I am,’ said Marcie and then as an afterthought added, ‘I have a headache.
J'ai mal à la tête
.
’

‘You speak French,’ said the policeman. ‘I am impressed.’

‘Only what I learnt at school,’ said Marcie, edging towards the door, hoping he would take the hint.

The policeman took one last look around the room, replaced the cup on the table and followed Marcie to the door. ‘If you do see the boy and his mother, be sure to call me,’ he said. ‘In France you can get into a lot of trouble for helping people who are here illegally.’

Marcie slid the bolt back. ‘Of course,’ she said.

He policeman paused in the doorway. ‘Perhaps if your friend is out taking photographs of the wildlife, next time he should take his camera.’ He nodded at the kitchen table. Marcie followed his gaze. Will’s camera was sitting right in the middle of the table. She looked back at the policeman. ‘Goodnight, Mademoiselle.’ He tipped the front of his hat and left.

Immediately he was greeted by Yves, firing off a stream of French which Marcie didn’t need to translate to know he wasn’t happy at the police officer coming away empty handed. Their voices faded away as they left the property.

Marcie ran back upstairs and into the en-suite. She pulled the towel rail out of the way and pushed opened the cupboard door.

Asif was huddled up in the foetus position. He lifted his head and on seeing Marcie, promptly burst into tears.

‘It’s okay,’ soothed Marcie, stroking his head. She gave his arm a gentle pull. ‘Come on, Asif. Come out. It’s okay.’

She took the boy downstairs, grateful that she had taken the trouble to close the curtains earlier that evening so no one could see in. Marcie made the boy comfortable on the sofa again and in a bid to take his mind off what had just happened, she picked up her flute and played
Edelweiss
to him. It took a while, but eventually, his breathing calmed and his eyes grew heavy as the music lulled him into a sleep.

Marcie put the flute down. Her phone was on the side and she inspected the damage from earlier. The screen was cracked all over but the display still appeared to be working. Tapping out a message, she was just about able to read what she typing and she fired off a text to Will.