Читать книгу Playing Her Cards Right - Rosa Temple - Страница 14

Chapter 6

The Bag

I showered in tepid water to try to revive myself for the impending meeting with my first women’s handbag designer. I hoped Riley had come good on the chauffeur swap and had found me someone less Sandra Bullock in Speed and a bit more Driving Miss Daisy. But my heart sank as I left the hotel and spotted the same driver from yesterday. Her eyes were bright and she looked eager. I took a deep breath.

‘Good morning,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I mean bonjour.’

She showed her teeth and reached for the passenger door. ‘Bonjour. Allons-y?’

‘Um, yes. Let’s get going.’ I hadn’t climbed in yet. ‘I didn’t get your name yesterday,’ I said to her, offering my hand. She looked surprised but gave my hand a tightly gripped shake.

‘Nadia,’ she said.

‘I wonder, Nadia, if you could drive a little slower this morning. I’m nice and early and I don’t think we’re too far from my meeting.’

‘Slower?’ Nadia’s brow was twisted into several deep lines. I could tell this didn’t compute.

‘Yes, don’t drive too fast. I’m a bit of a nervous passenger so go slower.’ I made a gesture with my hands, moving my palms slowly up and down towards the ground.

‘Drive too fast?’ she said. ‘I will.’

‘No, I mean don’t drive fast.’ I shook my head side to side. ‘No fast. Slow.’ I hated it when Brits spoke like Tarzan to foreigners but my life was at risk and I wanted to see my family again.

‘So,’ said Nadia, ‘my instruction from the boss was drive very fast; the client like the speed to be quickly, non?’

‘Non!’ I shook my head. And then the penny dropped. Riley. She told me she spoke fluent French. What on earth had she told the chauffeur company I needed from a driver when my instructions were I needed to be timely? I dreaded to think.

I grasped at what little French I could muster to try to make Nadia understand that I didn’t need to be anywhere at breakneck speed and that being on time was good enough.

‘Non, rapidement, aujourd’hui. Ce matin, conduire lentement, s’il vous plait.’ That small amount of French really hurt my head. At sixteen, I’d spent most of my French conversation classes in the toilet smoking Gauloises. Now my biggest regret.

Nadia lifted her head in a slow nod, clenching her lips together, and I hoped she understood that I wanted her to slow down. To be on the safe side, when I got into the car I buckled up tight.

Down the curved drive in front of the hotel Nadia pushed as gently onto the accelerator as I imagined she knew how. She signalled – I hadn’t noticed her use any other controls in the car except gas and brakes before then – and we pulled out onto the fairly busy road. At a speed at which I was able to lip-read full conversations by passing pedestrians, Nadia poodled along the road for approximately five minutes and gently stopped at a restaurant bar just metres from the hotel.

‘Here is your meeting,’ she said in a drawn-out voice.

I looked out, quizzically. According to Google Earth, my breakfast meeting should have been further away. I checked the address on the schedule on my iPad. Nadia was quite right, Bar Bonne Amie. I could just as well have walked. Having completely lost faith in French chauffeurs and my ability to read Google maps, I gathered my man bag and got out.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Nadia. I leaned over and peered into the passenger side window. Nadia lowered it. ‘As my next appointment isn’t until this afternoon, I’ll meet you back at the hotel at three o’clock.’

‘Certainly,’ she said. Then she drove off like a normal person, observing the speed limit and making appropriate signals. I shook my head.

After adjusting the front of my coat I pushed open the door to Bar Bonne Amie and went in.

My appointment that morning was with Clara Marchand, a young designer of leather accessories whose workspace was not too far from the café bar but who obviously wanted to charm me with the food and win me over. She chose the right place. The aromas coming from the kitchen were making my mouth water. So much so I was looking at the counter of pastries and chocolates and, at first, didn’t notice Clara waving to me from the far corner.

‘Magenta?’ she called and I peeled my gaze away from the display counter.

‘Oh, hello! Yes. You must be Clara Marchand.’

Clara was a short woman in large dungarees over a red sweater. Her fair hair was mostly hidden by a bandanna, tied in a triangle on her head and knotted at the front. We shook hands and she walked me to a window seat in the corner. On top of the small round table was a large, leather-bound portfolio. An enormous cardboard box was tucked underneath.

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Clara, ‘I’ve ordered coffee, hot chocolate, and a platter of croissant and bread with butter and preserves. I didn’t know which you would prefer.’ She nodded to the waitress at the counter.

‘I really don’t mind that at all.’

As we settled in and exchanged pleasantries about the flight and the weather the waitress appeared with two carafes: one of coffee and one of hot chocolate. Which to choose? Very closely behind the drinks came the platter. I was in continental breakfast heaven for the next hour or so. Clara didn’t hold back. She grabbed the pain au raisin I had my eye on. With crumbs down our clothes and the chocolate moustache Clara had acquired after her first sip of the creamy drink, we began the meeting.

Clara opened out her portfolio and I was stunned into silence. These designs were better than the ones I’d seen on her website. She’d enticed me with some designs in an email but must have kept the main event for the meeting. Her designs of women’s handbags, shoulder bags, purses, and more were enough to convince me that this was a woman I could work with. Between the pages of her leather-bound portfolio was the promise of designs that would suit the Shearman brand very nicely.

A platter of croissant crumbs later and so much caffeine I was seeing double, I had more or less asked Clara to sign on the dotted line. I welcomed her as a new designer to Shearman.

‘I’m so excited about these, Clara. Your drawings are incredible.’ I flicked through the pages again. ‘I’m thinking I ought to do something more significant than just having an announcement about the new women’s bags,’ I enthused. ‘I’m thinking rebrand or something really exciting like that. A relaunch. Something big. I’d have to speak to my marketing consultants first, though. I’ll do that as soon as I’m back.’

‘Thank you, Magenta. You don’t know how happy I am to have my designs under your label,’ said Clara. ‘I wasn’t going to say this but you’re my idol. I’ve read every interview you’ve ever done and I can’t wait to start working with you.’

‘Me too, Clara. I’ll have my solicitor draw up a contract. Maybe for a period of six months to start? I’ll have to look closer at the work involved and decide on an appropriate number of designs that I’d need from you over that length of time. I don’t want to tie you to an overly long contract, if that’s okay.’

‘Right now I’d sign my life away.’ Clara had a beautiful smile. It lit up her already playful face and I couldn’t wait to start planning a Shearman rebranding party.

From beneath the table Clara drew out the cardboard box.

‘I was so carried away I forgot about the samples,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to have something to take home with you. I had prototypes made up but they’re not the best quality leather. Money and time, you know? Anyway these are for you.’

She took out six designer bags one by one and laid them either on the table or over my shoulder.

When I got up to pay for breakfast I got confused about which bag I came with. I fumbled around in my Shearman man bag to find my wallet. The wallet was well hidden in the vast pocket of the man bag among all my junk and I wished it was more easily accessible because the girl on the till was becoming impatient. Eventually I found my wallet and paid the bill.

‘Thank you, again,’ Clara said.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m back,’ I told her.

She gave me a kiss on each cheek and a customary extra one before I left.

With a satisfying meeting under my belt and just two more to go, I headed off to satisfy a niggling feeling I’d had since packing the day before. While rummaging in my bag at the café I’d noticed, again, the unopened box of tampons.

I looked at my watch. I had plenty of time before the next meeting to find a pharmacy, buy a pregnancy test (no biggie since I was sure it would be negative), then jump on the Metro, have a quick walk around the city centre, take in some sights, pick up a souvenir for Riley, and be back at the hotel for Nadia to pick me up at three. Perfect.

I walked for a few minutes following the signs for the nearest station. Just before the Metro I spotted the green cross over the door of a Pharmacie.

After a good search in a somewhat cluttered store I found a shelf of pregnancy kits. I thought I’d take the test at the hotel after my next meeting. Once I could satisfy myself I wasn’t pregnant I could then relax and have a period. I hadn’t worried Anthony with any of this; I didn’t see the point. It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have a baby with Anthony one day, but this wasn’t the time.

The man behind the counter rang up the price. I was flustered as I reached into my man bag because I’d asked him several times, in English, how much it cost and he didn’t understand. As I rummaged for my credit card one of the bags Clara had given to me dropped on the floor. I went to pick it up and another fell off my shoulder. This happened a few more times as if I was in a Seventies’ comedy sketch.

‘Tienes,’ a voice from behind me said. A young guy was holding up the last bag I’d dropped. He placed it over my shoulder.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said and went about trying to find my wallet again. From my bag I pulled out tissues, a compact, and my phone before the wallet came into view.

‘Take your time,’ the pharmacist said in perfect English. With his huge smile and chubby cheeks he was looking at me as if I was already pregnant by about eight months and struggling to cope.

‘Here.’ I handed him my Visa card and secured all the bags around my person. Having second thoughts about lugging multiple bags up the Eiffel Tower and down the Champs-Élysées, I decided to drop them off at the hotel first. If I was quick I could take that test right away and still have time for some sightseeing.

I left the shop, tucking my purchase into my bag, my footsteps slow and heavy because, now that it was imminent, I was afraid to take the test on my own. I should just wait until I was back in London, talk to Anthony. That was the sensible thing to do. But just a few metres from the pharmacy I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was the young man from before who had been so helpful. He pushed a black leather courier-style bag at me.

‘You dropped this,’ he said and ran off.

Before I could even say thank you, but this isn’t mine, he was gone, crossing the road at speed while the traffic honked and swerved to avoid hitting him. I waved at him. He’d never hear me call out so I hooked the bag onto my shoulder, thinking I could catch him up. Just as I stepped towards the kerb a black car screeched to a halt in front of me, its front wheel mounting the pavement just at my feet.

There were gasps all around me from onlookers on what was a fairly busy street. My first instinct was that Nadia hadn’t understood my earlier instructions and wanted to whisk me off to my next appointment at warp speed, hours in advance. But when I saw two large men in long black coats lurch themselves out of the car I staggered backwards to get out of their way.

Looking around I tried to see who they were trying to catch in the act of doing something dreadful when, all of a sudden, they had me pinned against the shop front of a hair salon.

‘What the –?’ I tried to stand my ground but the two men started yanking all my bags away. ‘Wait! Do you mind telling me wh –?’

There was no time to finish the sentence. A crowd of gasping people gathered in a semi-circle around me and the two men. One had his hand on my chest, securing me against the window; the other was looking inside each of the bags coming off my shoulders. The traffic had come to a standstill.

‘Est-ce votre sac?’ one of the men bellowed into my face, holding up one of the bags.

‘Sack?’ I asked him.

‘Oui, votre sac. Est-ceci?’

I shook my head and shrugged. He proceeded to search the bag and when I saw that there were items in there I didn’t recognize, I realized it was the courier bag the young man had just given to me by mistake. I tried to pull free from the man who was holding me against the window.

‘Look, wait a minute,’ I gasped. ‘I can explain. I know what I did.’

‘Of course you do,’ the man searching the bag said.

A policewoman appeared from the back of the black car and gathered up all the bags from the ground. One of the men in black held up the courier bag as if he was exhibiting it to the crowd then both men pulled and pushed me to the car.

In a wave of horror I began to shake. My legs gave way as they forced me into the back seat. It happened so fast. All at once the car was in motion. Next to me the policewoman was staring straight ahead, not blinking once. I was in a state of shock, though I did notice what gorgeous cheekbones she had – she would age well. I also noticed her gun. I swallowed hard.

‘I don’t know anything,’ I said to her. ‘Je ne … je suis … non … s’il vous plaît?’ I was out of French. I’d never learned how to say “not guilty” and I was pretty sure that little phrase was going to come in handy. I was being arrested although no one had read me my rights. Or maybe they had and I didn’t know they had because my French just wasn’t good enough.

‘I need to make a call,’ I announced to the policewoman. ‘I have rights. I’m a British citizen.’

Nothing I said worked. I was completely ignored by all three officers for the whole journey to the police station. I was strong-armed into the building and shoved into a cell before my feet could touch the ground. I asked over and over what it was they thought I’d done. Obviously they thought I’d stolen that bag but they wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.

I wasn’t sure how much time went by as I waited in the cell. I assumed they needed to find a translator and I tried not to panic. Sitting on the hard bench, eyes up to the ceiling, willing myself not to cry in case it made me look guilty, I thought of Anthony and wondered if he’d wait for me if I was wrongfully charged and sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.