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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.
Chapter 7
The Interrogation
I was cold and I was hungry. More time had passed and I didn’t know how much because the police had taken everything: my bag, my watch, and my shoes. I looked at the unsavoury throw on the rock-hard bench in my cell but I wasn’t tempted to put it around my shoulders. I had to keep getting off the bench and rubbing my bum because it was going numb from sitting for so long. No one had pushed a plate under a little hatch in the door (there was no hatch, actually) and no one had offered me a chance to make a call.
This was police brutality at its worst. Completely unnecessary because this was all some great big misunderstanding. Surely I had rights. I pictured Anthony, happy and grumpy in his studio, and I had never missed him more. In fact, I missed home; I missed work, my family, and friends; and I missed my caffè macchiato from Jimmy’s.
I heard a key in the lock and stopped rubbing my bottom.
‘At last,’ I said. ‘Have you sorted out the mix-up?’
The guard at the door simply jerked his head towards the corridor and said, ‘Allez!’
I knew what that meant. Was I free to go? I certainly hoped so and I’d be calling my lawyer to sue every last member of the French police.
‘Where do I get my things?’ I asked.
Just outside the door was the policewoman from earlier. She hooked my elbow with a clamp-like hand and started pushing me along the corridor and up a flight of stairs. Along the dark corridor on the upper floor was a series of closed doors and at the very end, a fire escape. She opened a door. The room looked ominously like the interview room in NCIS. I looked at the fire escape just before entering and thought I could make a break for it. It was obvious I wasn’t about to be released; they wanted to interrogate me about the bag. But at least I would get the chance to explain.
The policewoman gestured for me to go in with a hard shove. Her hand went to her gun. I got nervous and went into panic mode.
‘Look,’ I said, swiftly backing into the room. ‘I didn’t do anything. Whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’m innocent. Well no one is completely innocent. I mean, who is right?’ She jerked me into a chair at a metal desk. I fell into it. ‘But this, whatever this is about, I’m completely innocent.’
‘You just said no one is completely innocent.’ A voice came from the doorway. I turned to see a tall, thin man entering the room. Closely cropped hair and a receding hairline. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite me. The policewoman sat beside him and looked me up and down. She hadn’t said a single word so I tried to appeal to this new officer’s kind-looking eyes. They were deep blue and his slim face was unshaven. He rubbed his chin as he flicked open a file he’d brought in.
‘Magenta Bright, you say? From London?’ he said.
‘That’s right. You can confirm this. Just call anyone –’
He put up a hand to shush me. I shushed.
Looking at me but not saying a word he began to lay photographs out in front of me on the desk. ‘I am Inspecteur Martin.’ He tapped loudly with his forefinger at a photograph. ‘You know this man?’
I looked from his kind eyes to the photo. He pushed it closer. I shook my head.
‘Never seen him before,’ I said. ‘But he wasn’t the one who gave me the bag. That guy was a lot younger.’
‘His name?’
‘I never knew his name. He just passed me the bag.’
‘And you just took it?’
‘Well, yes, I had lots of bags, you see. I was confused. I thought it was one of mine but then I realized that –’
‘Look at the photos. Tell me the names of all the people you recognize.’ His voice wasn’t unpleasant. If anything he sounded tired and uninterested.
I looked at each photograph, shaking my head with as much confidence as I could muster.
‘I don’t know a single one,’ I declared.
The inspector and the policewoman looked at each other and the atmosphere in the room changed. It got decidedly heavier and I knew that my arrest had nothing to do with anything as simple as a case of a stolen bag. He gathered the photos and put them back into the file. He then whipped out a sheet of paper. On it was a list of names.
‘All I want you to do is look at the list and tell me which one of them is your contact.’
I mouthed the words ‘my contact’, because I was too nervous to use actual words. I blinked vigorously so I could read the list through the tears welling up in my eyes.
I shook my head after carefully going down the list. I cleared my throat and pointed at a name.
‘Yes?’ Inspector Martin said. He and the police officer leaned forward on their elbows.
‘W-well,’ I stuttered. ‘I think this one won an Emmy at the awards recently.’
‘Very funny.’ He snatched the list away and got up, scraping the chair on the floor. ‘This interview is terminated.’
I stood and the policewoman got up, too. Inspector Martin was at the door.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘This interview is not terminated.’
‘You have something to confess?’ he said.
‘No, I don’t. I want to go home. I know my rights. You should at least let me make a telephone call. At least one. I know the law.’
Inspector Martin looked at the policewoman with the gun. She shot a look at the chair I’d got out of so abruptly, implying I should sit. I did so, my eyes on her weapon, and gulped. Inspector Martin left and the policewoman plugged in a phone, which appeared from a shelf I hadn’t noticed before.
‘I’m calling London,’ I said, haughtily.
Anthony would be at the art gallery or on his way home if I was right about the time. His phone started ringing. Please pick up, please pick up, I kept saying under my breath. The second I heard Anthony’s voice I inhaled deeply and burst into tears.
‘Magenta, slow down. I don’t understand a single word. Did you say arrested?’ Anthony sounded as desperate as I was.
‘Well, I think so. No one said that thing, you know: “You have the right to remain silent” or whatever it is. Or if they did, they said it in French and I missed it. If I’m not arrested can’t I just walk out? Only they’ve got my shoes.’
‘Magenta, I’m coming out there straight away. Ask for a translator. In fact, don’t say anything until I get you a lawyer.’
‘Call Indigo,’ I said. ‘She’ll know what to do.’ My sister specialized in business and corporate law. In truth, I probably needed a criminal lawyer but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Besides which, Indigo’s French was fairly fluent. ‘I’m scared, Anthony. I can’t make them see that there’s been a mistake. I have no idea what I’m supposed to have done.’
‘It’s okay. Sit tight. I’ll get the first flight. Don’t worry about anything, I’ll take care of it all.’ Anthony sounded confident, probably only for my benefit. I had to put my faith in him but I wouldn’t be reassured until he was there in front of me with my sister, Indigo, and a French phrase book.
I was reluctant to get off the phone but the sooner I could, the sooner Anthony would arrive. I was escorted back to the cell. It was colder than I’d remembered and before I knew it my teeth had begun to chatter and I couldn’t control them. I placed the dusty-looking throw over my shoulders and curled up in a ball on the bench and closed my eyes.
I couldn’t sleep, of course. I was just trying to block out my surroundings. I felt sure that once Anthony arrived he’d get me out of that hellhole. That was what I kept telling myself. All I had to do was think positive thoughts and the nightmare would eventually end.
With my eyes closed I retraced my day, from my successful meeting with Clara to the visit to the pharmacist. I hadn’t forgotten about my pregnancy scare. If it turned out to be positive I hoped I wouldn’t have to give birth in prison. I shook the image from my head. Of course I wouldn’t. Anyway, I wasn’t pregnant … was I?
Chapter 8
The Dealer
The rattling of keys in the door scared me awake. I sat upright, wide-eyed, looking hopefully at the man at the door.
‘Allez!’ he said. Immediately my hopes plummeted. I’d heard that word before and it hadn’t got me anywhere. I got up and tried to straighten my hair and clothes. Stepping out into the corridor I saw that the armed policewoman wasn’t there this time. The guard nodded me in the opposite direction to the one we’d taken earlier. We passed a window as we mounted a flight of stairs. It was dark outside and I wondered how long I’d been in that cell.
At the top of the stairs I saw the desk I’d stood at while the arresting officers took all my property away. The guard pointed at the exit and I noticed Anthony for the first time. I rushed to him with my arms outstretched and fell against his chest. He hugged me tightly.
‘Ssh, it’s okay,’ he told me as I cried like a helpless maiden into his jacket.
‘When did you get here?’ I asked.
‘About an hour ago. Indigo is in with the inspector giving him a proper talking-to. I don’t think anyone charged you with anything. There wasn’t a formal arrest and you weren’t given any opportunity to ask for a translator or a lawyer were you?’
I shook my head.
‘I have no idea why they think I stole a bag,’ I said. ‘If that’s what this is all about. I mean I must have looked suspicious carrying all the bag samples the designer gave me but they didn’t even give me a chance to explain. I might be many things but I’m no thief.’
‘Magenta.’ Anthony held my face in his hands. ‘This isn’t about a stolen bag. The bag you were given contained a truck load of drugs in the lining. Cocaine. They suspected you of drug trafficking.’
My mouth dropped open. I looked over my shoulder at the officers at the desk.
‘You bloody bastards.’ I slammed my hands on the desk. ‘A bloody drug dealer! Really?’
Anthony pulled me away. ‘Indigo did all that. She said you’d press charges against them. Do you want to?’
I blew out a long breath, shook my head. ‘I just want to get out of here. Get a bath and go home.’
‘Let’s get your stuff … and Indigo if we can pull her off the inspector.’
It was then I heard my sister’s voice, bellowing from an office somewhere in half English and half French. She would probably have the whole constabulary on charges before the night was through but all I wanted to do was get as far away from that place as possible.
‘Mademoiselle?’ The officer on the desk plopped a massive, clear bag on the counter. I picked it up, pulling it open when I recognized it as my man bag and all of its contents on display. Next came my coat and shoes, which I hurriedly put on because I was freezing.
I began repacking my bag: make-up, tissues, phone, notebook, pregnancy kit …
‘Wait,’ said Anthony. ‘What’s this? Is this? Are you? Are we?’
‘I have no idea, Anthony. Get me to the hotel and we’ll find out.’
Just then Indigo emerged, Inspector Martin on her heels with a look of apology on his face. He went to shake my hand but Indigo slapped his hand away.
‘You’ll be hearing from me,’ she shouted and grabbed me into a hug. The officer on the desk produced another two larger plastic bags. They contained all the bag samples Clara had given me. I signed a form and we all left, silently.
‘Did that just happen?’ I asked them when we were outside.
‘That guy who gave you the drugs, Magenta,’ Indigo said. ‘He’s been under surveillance for months. He recognized a plain-clothed officer hanging around, knew he was from the drug squad, and had to shake him off. He was trying to pass his supplies on to you.’
I shook my head. ‘But I don’t even look like a drug lord,’ I whimpered, glancing down at my carefully chosen outfit.