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Also somewhere in the distance, someone else was speaking. Whispering, so that she had to strain to hear him, ‘Virginie, mon ange, mon amour. Wake up, chérie. Look at me, je t’en supplie.’
The voice was familiar but the words made no sense. No sense at all. Just the same, she tried to obey, but forcing her eyes to open was altogether too much of a struggle. Besides, she was aware of pain, a ferocious ache like the jaws of an angry animal waiting to devour her.
It was easier to decide that she must be asleep and dreaming, and let herself slide back into the tenuous comfort of her inner night-time.
But the voice would not let her rest, calling her, ‘Ma douce, ma belle.’ Commanding her, ‘Reveille-toi.’
And he was being joined by others, none of whom she recognised except for Cilla, sounding strangely choked, as she begged, ‘Oh Ginny, please speak to me. Please say you’re all right.’
And she wanted to say crossly, Of course I’m not all right, because the pain was no longer at bay, but all around her, grinding at her when she attempted the simplest movement.
When, at last, she opened her unwilling eyes, she discovered a different kind of light in the form of the sun streaming through a large square window, in a room with ice-blue walls where she lay in a high, narrow bed.
And she thought—Where am I? What’s happened to me?
She turned her throbbing head slowly, wincing, and saw Andre, unshaven, dishevelled and fast asleep in a chair a few feet away.
He looked terrible, she thought, filling her eyes and her heart with him, physical discomfort almost forgotten as she thought of his voice—the things he’d said to her. Until, of course, she also remembered it had only been a dream.
She said his name, her own voice a husky shadow of itself, but somehow he must have heard it because his eyes snapped open and he sat up. For a heartbeat he stared at her with something like incredulity, then, with a noise like a yelp, he was out of the chair and racing to the door, yelling, ‘Philippe.’
Within seconds, the room was full of people led by a thin dark man with lively dark eyes and a goatee beard, who shone something like a pocket torch but infinitely more powerful into both her eyes and took her blood pressure before asking her in careful English if she knew what day it was.
It took a moment, but she told him.
‘You know why you are here?’ the doctor enquired. ‘What happened to you?’
For a moment Ginny was silent, then as if a curtain in her mind was slowly being raised, she remembered being jostled. Trying to save herself but pitching forward.
She croaked, ‘I fell. On some stairs.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘Très bien. Vous êtes couverte de bleus, mademoiselle, mais rien est cassé. Vous comprenez?’
‘I’m very bruised but nothing’s broken,’ she said obediently. Then tensed, smothering a gasp of pain. She whispered, ‘But the baby. I’ve lost my baby, haven’t I?’
‘Heureusement, non.’ He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘As I told Andre, a fall does not always lead to une fausse couche, and the child is still safe and warm inside you.
‘No, our concern has been the blow to your head which has caused une commotion cerebrale. A concussion.’ He nodded. ‘We shall carry out some more tests, but there is no internal bleeding and I believe the injury to be not serious.’
But there had been a serious injury of a very different kind, thought Ginny, as events and images began crowding back into her mind. And the results could be dire.
She said urgently, ‘Andre—I have to speak to him. There is something he must know. Quelque-chose très importante.’
He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘It is more important that you rest and recover, mademoiselle. But,’ he added, his face softening, ‘I will allow you a few moments with your fiancé, if first you must take the painkiller and the sedative the nurse will give you, so that you sleep when he has gone.’
And how many tons of the stuff would it take to knock her out at nights when he’d gone for ever? she asked herself wretchedly as she swallowed the proffered pills.
When Andre came in, he looked as if he was wired to snapping point. Maybe his doctor friend should prescribe a sedative for him, thought Ginny, her heart turning over as he brought the chair close to the bed and sat.
He said, stammering a little, ‘Philippe said—that you have asked for me. That you have something to tell me.’
His hand went out as if seeking hers, and she withdrew it quickly, knowing that his lightest touch, especially if offered only in compassion, could cause her more pain than any bruise.
She said breathlessly, staring down at the white coverlet, ‘It’s Monique Chaloux. I found her in the office shredding bank statements. She’s been stealing money from you—probably quite a lot. I—I was coming to tell you about it when I—fell.’
