19
‘What’s the matter?’
Sophie couldn’t help smiling as she stepped on to the platform at the Gare de Nord.
‘Nothing,’ she said, swinging her bag on to her shoulder. ‘Nothing at all.’
She didn’t just feel safer on French soil; she felt liberated. She was in Paris, and she felt free. For the first time in her life, she had no responsibilities, nowhere to be – in fact, right at this moment no one apart from Josh knew where she was. At the back of her mind, she knew that her world had fallen apart and that her life was in danger. The two and a half hours on the Eurostar had been nerve-fraying hell – she had been convinced that she was going to be attacked or arrested at any moment – but now she was here in the City of Light, Sophie was overwhelmed with relief and something more: a sense of adventure, perhaps? She had been travelling in Australia and Asia, but she had never been to Paris before, and she felt thrilled at the whole, well, Frenchness of it all. The chatter of passers-by, the echoing announcements over the tannoy, even the clothes on the women seemed more sophisticated somehow.
‘Wait here a minute,’ said Josh, pulling his mobile out of his pocket. ‘I’ve got to make some calls.’
‘You’ve brought your mobile?’
‘It’s Christopher’s. On loan. Mine’s on the boat.’
She nodded. ‘With the passport.’
‘Which I need to get back,’ he mused. ‘We got through passport control this time, but who knows how easy it might be next time.’
‘What were you planning? A world tour?’ she frowned.
He had already stepped away from her and she did not take her eyes off him; the last thing she wanted to do was lose him.
‘Let’s go,’ he said when he returned a few minutes later. Taking her elbow, he steered her through the high stone arch and out on to the bustling street.
‘Everyone’s so well dressed,’ she whispered as a woman brushed past in a Missoni knitted dress, a Goyard vanity case in one hand, a miniature poodle in the other.
‘Welcome to Paris,’ smiled Josh, leading her towards the taxi queue. At the front was a red-faced gent in a crumpled suit, and Josh went straight up to him and began talking to him in French.
Sophie listened to his fluency in astonishment. Josh McCormack seemed rough around the edges, street-smart for sure but not a cosmopolitan sophisticate.
She felt faint embarrassment that her own French wasn’t better, especially compared to Josh’s linguistic skills. Then she had to admit she hadn’t been the greatest student, being more interested in what parties there were to go to rather than revision to be done. The only teacher who had made any impression on her was Mr Damon, her sixth-form English teacher, who had recognised a creative flair in her and encouraged her to write short stories and poems. Not that she could ever tell Francesca or any of the other girls about it, but secretly she had harboured a desire to become a journalist or a writer. I’d certainly have some material now, she thought.
The ruddy-faced gentleman gestured towards the white Lada pulling up next to them.
‘Bien s?r. Please take it,’ he said, stepping forward to open the door for Sophie. She gave him a wan smile as Josh spoke to the driver and they clambered inside.
‘Merci beaucoup,’ she managed before they pulled away.
‘What did you say to that man?’ she asked, turning to Josh as they moved into traffic. Her French was rusty, but she was fairly sure he’d said something untrue. Josh tapped one finger against his lips and looked meaningfully at the driver, an overweight Middle Eastern man in a flat cap.
‘I told him you were ill and pregnant,’ said Josh.
‘But that’s a lie.’
‘So? I’m glad we didn’t have to stand around in that busy street, aren’t you?’
‘But you . . .’
Josh tapped her leg and she fell silent.
‘Just watch Paris,’ he ordered.
She did as he said and was glad of it, wondering why she had never been to the French capital before. It had always been so close, yet she had somehow never made it to this icon of chic. Unless you were connected enough to attend the fashion shows, Paris wasn’t on the Chelsea-girl list of places to go: Sardinia, Switzerland, Barbados, New York. Besides, when she had travelled with Will, it was always to destination hotels rather than cities or places – in their two years together, they had chalked up stays at Leading Hotels of the World like notches on a bedpost. But this? She took a deep breath, as if to soak up the essence of Paris in one gulp. It was all just as she had pictured: the elegant grey stone buildings, the roaring traffic; even the light seemed different here.
Parked on a street corner was a black van. Standing around it were three gendarmes, machine guns strapped to their chests, and Sophie’s buoyant feeling immediately left her. However inviting Paris looked, she wasn’t on holiday, she wasn’t here to soak up the culture and visit the Louvre. Suddenly all of the things that had seemed exotic only a moment ago became sinister and loaded with negative possibilities. The elegant women with their high heels and paper shopping bags, the news vendor in his funny little orange castle covered with foreign magazines – they were all alien, they all spoke a different language, they could all be watching, passing on information.
‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ she said.
‘Un petit peu,’ said Josh. ‘I had a French girlfriend once. I just picked it up.’
She wanted to ask him about her. Not because she was interested in what Josh McCormack’s girlfriends were like, but because he intrigued her, because here she was, on the run with him, and yet she knew almost nothing about him.
‘Nous sommes ici, monsieur.’
Sophie had been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that the taxi had stopped outside a grand white building with wrought-iron balconies at every window. She almost gasped as she clambered out of the taxi and saw the hotel’s facade.
‘Where are we?’
‘Le Bristol,’ said Josh. ‘The best hotel in Paris.’ Then added in a whispered aside, ‘Although don’t tell that to the Ritz and the Four Seasons.’
‘We can’t afford this, Josh,’ hissed Sophie. She had about sixty pounds in her purse – probably still damp from their dip in the Thames – and had no intention of using her credit card.
‘We need to stay somewhere good with a helpful concierge,’ said Josh, nodding to the doorman as they pushed through the doors. ‘We’re not going to find that in some fleapit in the Bastille, are we?’
‘And we don’t even have reservations.’
‘Yes we do, Miss Aniston,’ he smiled.
Miss Aniston? What the hell was he on about? she thought with alarm as Josh strode confidently up to the reception desk. Hovering behind him, anxious not to say the wrong thing, she could hear Josh talking in French to a middle-aged man with half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He had a rather severe look, but he was nodding sympathetically as Josh spoke.
‘Mademoiselle Aniston, bienvenue.’ Sophie turned to see a pretty young girl in a receptionist’s uniform.
Miss Aniston – again. What on earth had Josh told them?
‘Would you and your manager like to follow me up to your suite?’ she asked cordially in her heavy accent. Sophie smiled weakly and tried to catch Josh’s eye, but he was now on the phone barking instructions about a film premiere in an American accent.
‘Suite?’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course.’
They had a suite? What had Josh done? But she had no real option but to follow the girl, who led her to the lifts and up five floors, where they stepped into a corridor, with the deepest carpets Sophie had ever felt under her feet. At the end of the corridor, the girl stopped at a large wooden door and, opening it with a pass key, held it open for Sophie to step inside. It was stunning, stately and yet intimate, decorated in cool ivory with rich mahogany antiques and pale citron drapes. Surely this couldn’t be their room?
‘This is our Panoramic Suite, mademoiselle,’ said the girl. ‘I hope it meets with your desires. Would you like me to show you around?’
‘No, no. I think I’ll be fine,’ said Sophie quickly. She felt strange enough being here without having to trail around after the girl. The receptionist tried to take her bag, but she declined.
‘Would you like me to send some tea up to your room? Champagne? Our spa is excellent, although I am sure you have a busy day in preparation for tonight.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Sophie politely as Josh walked in. When the girl had closed the door, he immediately began laughing.
‘Josh! What the bloody hell is going on?’ asked Sophie, watching him walking about the suite inspecting it.
‘Very nice view,’ he said approvingly, feeling the silk drapes between his fingers. ‘I thought we might get an upgrade, but nothing like this.’
‘Josh!’
‘Oh all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ he laughed. ‘That was the call I made at the station. I rang the manager’s office here at Le Bristol and said that Sophie Aniston was in town for the Aristocrats premiere tonight.’
‘What’s the Aristocrats? And who’s Sophie Aniston?’
‘You.’ He grinned. ‘Thought I’d change your surname to something a bit more recognisable. The Aristocrats is that big Tom Cruise movie out on Friday; they are having the European premiere at the Grand Rex tonight. I read it in a paper on the train. Anyway – I said you’d checked out of Le Meurice because you’d been unhappy about the size of your room. There’s a lot of rivalry between the Big Six Paris hotels, so of course they were going to accommodate you.’
‘But . . . there is no Sophie Aniston,’ she said.
‘There is now,’ laughed Josh. ‘If they were going to check on it, they’d have done it before we arrived. Obviously they’ve assumed you’re Tom’s love interest. Lucky you, eh?’
‘Josh, this isn’t funny. What if they . . .’
But Josh was bouncing up and down on the bed.
‘Hey, come and try this. Makes a change from sleeping on cardboard boxes last night.’
She frowned, noticing for the first time that there was only one bed. Her mind flashed back to that kiss at St Pancras and she pushed the uncomfortable thought away. She walked over to the window and looked out at the view of the exquisite hotel gardens.
‘So how long do you think we’ll be staying here?’ she asked, thinking that she never wanted to leave.
‘That depends on how long it takes us to find out what Nick was up to,’ said Josh.
‘And how are we going to do that?’
‘Well,’ said Josh, picking up her bag, ‘that depends what’s in here.’
Before she could stop him, he had unzipped it and tipped the contents on to the bed.
‘What are you doing?’ gasped Sophie.
‘Looking for clues,’ he said, emptying her make-up bag on to the crisp white duvet.
There wasn’t much to see. A book, her purse, passport, internet key fob, small bag of jewellery and an Oyster card. Josh emptied the jewellery bag into his hand. There were two small gold chains, a charm bracelet and a sapphire ring that had once belonged to her grandmother.
‘Not exactly the crown jewels, are they?’ he said as Sophie snatched them back from him.
‘They have sentimental value.’
‘I’m sure, but we can rule out Nick trying to steal your priceless stash of diamonds. That’s what I’m trying to work out: what was he hiding?’
‘Hiding? I thought he was after my money.’
‘Lana’s money, you mean,’ he said absently as he picked up her copy of I Capture the Castle and flicked through the pages.
‘Did Nick give you this?’
She shook her head.
‘It was a birthday present from my dad.’
‘It’s a bit dog-eared, isn’t it?’
‘It’s my favourite book, actually,’ she said, taking it away from him.
‘So did Nick give you anything?’ asked Josh, rifling through the receipts in Sophie’s purse. ‘A note, a love letter, something like that?’
‘Josh, please!’ she said, grabbing the purse. ‘I’ve told you, he didn’t give me anything. Now if you’ve finished raking through my life, I’m going to have a shower. I want to get the Thames out of my hair.’
Kicking off her shoes, she padded through to the bathroom, which was bigger than most hotel rooms she’d ever stayed in, even on her luxurious trips with Will.
‘Don’t go getting any ideas about having a three-hour bath,’ called Josh. ‘This isn’t a minibreak. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.’
‘The premiere, of course.’ She smiled sarcastically and turned on the taps.
It was wonderful feeling the hot water on her skin, soaping herself with peach and almond bath crème, the stresses of the past two days running away down the brass plughole. Stepping out, she dried off and wrapped herself in a towelling robe, enjoying the clean smell, and walked back into the living room, rubbing at her hair with a hand towel.
Josh was sitting at a walnut writing desk in front of a silver laptop computer. It was connected to a sleek-looking laser printer.
‘Was that always here?’ she said.
‘They just brought it up – nothing’s too good for a guest like Mademoiselle Aniston.’
She watched him do a Google search for ‘Riverton Hotel murder’: a shocking number of hits scrolled up.
‘Good,’ muttered Josh, clicking on one. ‘They’ve released a picture of Nick.’
There was a loud clunk as the printer sprang to life, but Sophie turned away: she didn’t want to see Nick’s face, not right now. She picked up a peach from the fruit bowl, but she didn’t feel like eating and put it back.
‘No mention of you in any news stories,’ said Josh. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’
He clicked about quickly, and when he had to enter something, Sophie noticed he was touch-typing.
‘You’re very efficient,’ she said.
‘You sound surprised,’ replied Josh, not looking up from the screen.
‘It’s the barge,’ she said, deciding that nothing about Josh McCormack would surprise her any more. ‘No electricity, copper kettle, all that stuff.’
‘So you have me down as some sort of gypsy?’
Sophie blushed.
‘Not quite, just a little less technical.’
She sat down on the side of the bed and picked up the room’s phone.
‘What are you doing?’ said Josh.
‘It’s gone eleven and my mum gets into Heathrow any time now, I’m going to call her, tell her I’m okay.’
Josh walked over and took the receiver from her.
‘Not a good idea,’ he said, putting it back in its cradle. ‘The police could be monitoring her calls and trace it straight to this room.’
Sophie looked up at him.
‘But you said they weren’t looking for me.’
‘I said it wasn’t likely, but we don’t know what’s happened since yesterday, do we? It’s safer if we stay off the grid for a while.’
‘But I want to tell her I’m okay.’
Josh sighed and rubbed his chin.
‘Does she have an email address?’
‘Yes. I don’t know how often she uses it, though. She’s not exactly a fifteen-year-old girl.’
‘We can find an internet café and you can email her. Perhaps contact the police inspector who interviewed you too.’
‘Inspector Fox? I have his business card in my purse.’
‘Given that you disappeared straight after you had your flat turned over, it’s probably a good idea to tell him you’re okay, save him sending out a search party. Not that I think he would.’
‘But can’t the police trace us from the internet café?’
‘Possible, but by the time they find some grotty shop in the back of a newsagent’s, we’ll be long gone.’
Sophie looked around the suite anxiously.
‘We’re leaving?’
Josh laughed.
‘Make the most of it, Miss Aniston. As soon as we find out what we need, we’ll be moving on.’
Sophie nodded, not daring to admit she was disappointed.