‘Oh, no. He’s been given a week’s leave. But he’s back at home, firing on all cylinders, driving his mother to distraction. Claims he’s fully fit and she must stop fussing over him. She’s given up on him and decided to go and spend a few days with her sister in Burgundy. George went back to the Bristol to put up his feet for a bit, get his heart rate down and then start on his packing.’
‘Poor soul! Has he had enough of France then?’
‘Not a bit of it! He’s bought a first class ticket on Friday’s Blue Train to Nice. The overnight express. Paris seems to have lost its charm but he’s not quite in the mood for Surrey yet. I think his cousin has cause for concern there! George is showing every sign of going off the rails as soon as he can get up the right speed. He’s booked himself in at the Negresco! Best food in the world, he tells me. And I’m dug in again at the Ambassador for the next day or two. Lively scene! I say, Heather, they’ve got a dinner dance and jazz band on tonight if you’d be interested?’
‘Oh, Joe, I have to leave on Friday – that’s tomorrow! – for the Riviera myself. First game of the tournament on Sunday morning. Must be fresh for that. So, if you can guarantee you won’t step too heavily on my feet and break a toe or try to get me drunk – yes, I’d love to! And then you can wave me goodbye on Friday – I’m on the same train as Sir George. Joe, why don’t you try to get a few days off and come down and watch me play? You look as though you could do with a bit of southern sun . . .’
The Gare de Lyon was bustling with smartly dressed travellers, porters hurrying along behind carts piled high with luggage. Trains whistled and panted and whooped. Joe and Bonnefoye struggled with Heather Watkins’ hand luggage and packages, hunting for her compartment. Finally settled, she leaned out of the window to talk to them.
‘Well, here we are . . . Oh, good grief! Joe! Jean-Philippe! Do you see who that is – down there, thirty yards off, just getting in. Crikey! Shall we pretend we haven’t seen them?’
Joe looked along the train, puzzled. ‘George! It’s George! I said goodbye to him this afternoon at the hotel . . . I don’t need to show my grinning face again.’
‘The last thing he’d want to see at this moment, I think,’ said Heather mysteriously. ‘Look! He’s with a woman.’
Bonnefoye saw her at the same moment. With one hand she picked up the hem of her dark blue evening cape and with the other grasped the hand of Sir George standing gallantly at her side. Laughing, she stepped nimbly up into the train, turned and pulled him up after her into her arms.
‘They’ve gone into a sleeping compartment,’ said Bonnefoye, astonished.
‘That’s what people do on the Blue Train,’ said Heather, giggling. ‘What fun! How smart! She’s very pretty! And – I have to say – what a lucky lady!’
‘That was no lady – that was my mother!’ spluttered Bonnefoye. ‘What the hell! Visiting my aunt Marie indeed! And she has the nerve to go off wearing my birthday present.’
‘Glad to see it got there on time,’ said Joe, smiling.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Bonnefoye rounded on Joe. ‘Duplicitous fiend! It arrived with a card – Amélie, with eternal gratitude from an English Gentleman. She thought it was from George!’
‘If he’d been aware, I’m sure it would have been,’ said Joe. ‘I didn’t quite like to disillusion her. Delphine in the rue de la Paix was very understanding when I nipped in with my cheque book and a disarmingly salacious story. Let’s hope they’re as understanding at Scotland Yard when I present them with my expenses! So that’s what you earn in a month, Jean-Philippe? You’re really doing rather well, aren’t you?’