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‘Why do you not want to check?’ he asked, swivelling in his seat.
Seriously, what was it with this guy and his probing questions?
‘Because I already told you, it’s not that bad. And because I’d rather wait here. I need to make sure I don’t miss the next train as well.’
‘So you will sit in one place and be miserable?’ he asked.
‘Precisely,’ I said, picking at the chipped red nail polish on my thumbnail, wondering if I’d have time to re-paint it at the hotel. Catherine was bound to have something to say about me turning up in such a state as it was.
The other reason I didn’t want to go to hospital was because I didn’t have any travel insurance and there was no way I could afford an expensive doctor’s bill. I hadn’t given insurance a thought until we were already on the plane to Venice, and strangely, neither had Si, who was usually very on the ball about such things. Even he had reassured me that nothing could go wrong in the space of a few days. That was a laugh. If my ankle had been broken, I would have been in real trouble.
‘There is a long time to wait,’ said French Guy.
‘Thank you for pointing that out.’
He squinted at me, as though he couldn’t quite decide what I was about. Because he looked the way he did, he was probably used to women fawning all over him. Hanging off his every word. Well not me, absolutely not.
‘You do not have a suitcase!’ he announced, having only just noticed. He leapt up to do a sort of mock scan of the area around my feet.
‘I travel light,’ I snapped back, hoping he’d get the hint and go.
‘I do not, as you can see,’ he said, nudging his bag with his foot as he sat back down and turned to me.
‘Clearly.’
He almost smiled. ‘Too much?’
‘What have you got in there? You could do some serious damage with that thing.’
‘I suppose you are blaming my bag, now, for your injured ankle.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Nothing to do with you running too fast?’
‘Nothing at all,’ I said. I had my story and I was sticking to it. ‘So are you going to tell me what you’ve got in there, or not? I’m going to start suspecting it’s something illegal otherwise. A dead body, perhaps?’
‘Nothing so sinister. It is Vinyl. Records. I buy them wherever I go.’
‘And lug them around everywhere?’
‘I suppose. Do you like music?’
‘Course I do,’ I said, immediately on the defensive. My knowledge was very, very limited.
‘What kind of music do you like?’
‘All sorts,’ I said.
I looked up. The rain had got heavier and was now hammering on the roof. Perfect. Now I couldn’t even go outside for some fresh air.
‘You like dance music?’ he prompted me. ‘Wait, I know you do not like it, since you referred to it as “terrible”.’
‘Each to their own.’
‘Rock, then? Classique?’
‘Anything, really,’ I said, being deliberately vague.
