L'amour Actually (21 page)

  'Maybe not, but they haven't seen mine and they are not going to.'

  The
chef
took hold of my top again.

  
'Mademoiselle, s'il vous plait,'
he said gently, prising my fingers off my top. Realising that resistance was futile, I let him carefully pull it over my head.

  
'Et votre soutien-gorge,'
he said.

  '
Soutien-gorge?
What's that?'

  'He wants you to take your bra off.'

  'Hang on, so what's a
brassière
then? I thought that was French for bra?'

  'Look, I'm not going to have a discussion about the origins of French words. Just take it off.'

  'Oh God,' I moaned quietly. All these months of dreaming of getting naked with Julien d'Aubeville and now I was going to have to do it in a room full of firemen.

  I unhooked my bra and lay there, mortified, as the chef connected me up to a heart monitor.

  Suddenly the door burst open and two doctors in white coats, who had clearly been watching too much
ER
, ran in. One actually jumped astride me and started listening to my chest, while the other drew a syringe from his bag, filled it with some clear liquid and squirted a bit into the air.

  'Julien, what the…' So this was how it was going to end? Drugged and sold into white slavery. In la
France profonde
, no one can hear you scream.

  'OK, he's just giving you a shot in case you have a blood clot in your brain from the knock.'

  'Owww,' I cried as he jabbed it into my arm.

  The doctors conferred with the
chef
and with Julien while I lay there, in just a pair of tiny shorts, wishing that the day would end, or better still, that it had never started.

  'We are going to take you to hospital.'

  'But I'm fine, really.' I hated hospitals and the thought of one where I couldn't even speak the language was too much. I wanted to cry.

  'You were unconscious. We have no choice just in case you have injured your brain.'

  The chef summoned the other
pompiers
and gave them some instructions. They quickly returned with a stretcher and tucked me up with a blanket.

  'Julien, where are they taking me? Will you come too?'

  'They are taking you to the clinic in Villeneuve but I can't go. I have to get back to the farm. Take your phone and call me later.'

  They bundled me onto the stretcher and took me out to the waiting ambulance. Julien motioned to me with his thumb and forefinger to call him and that was the last I saw as the doctors climbed in the back and the doors closed.

The sun slanting through the blinds at the window nudged me gently from a dreamless, drug-induced slumber. I sat up, momentarily disorientated, but the pounding in my head was too much and I lay back down, staring up at the ceiling. 'Oh God,' I said out loud, remembering the events of the previous day. There was no way I could show my face in Bussières after half the town had seen me naked. I was pretty sure that in such a small place, word of my hopeless seduction of Julien would have got around. I put my hand to my head, feeling a lump the size of Jupiter. It had taken eight stitches to patch me up.

  Outside the room, I could hear the nursing staff whispering. All I could catch was
l'anglaise
, the English woman, so clearly they were talking about me. I strained my ears to hear but then, even if I could, it was unlikely I would understand it. I'd been lucky the previous day in the Emergency Room that they had managed to find a Moroccan doctor who spoke reasonable English otherwise I would have been sunk. The French doctors could barely conceal their impatience at my lack of language skills and I knew they had a point. I still hadn't managed a single French lesson since my arrival. The only word I had picked up in the ER was
le bassin
, the bedpan, as I'd suddenly developed a bladder the size of a gnat, necessitating the need to use it several times. The doctor told me it was the shock but I thought it was more likely that the
eau de vie
had some sort of diuretic properties. While on the one hand it was good that I had picked up a new word, 'bedpan' was hardly likely to be something I would be using in everyday speech. Oh, and there was another thing I had learnt.
'Portable interdit'
, no mobile phones. They had told me in no uncertain terms, as I'd tried to phone Tracey to tell her where I was. I had a quick look round but there was no sign of my mobile. Perhaps it was in the drawer by my bed? I sat up gingerly and pulled it open and there it was – my lifeline to the outside world. I took it out and turned it on, hoping the battery wasn't flat and joy of joys, it sprang to life. I quickly glanced towards the door. No one seemed to be around so I quickly tapped in a text to Julien.

'At the clinic in Villeneuve. Please send rescue party. Will pay for liberation! Xxx'

'Bonjour, mademoiselle,'
said a young, fresh-faced nurse wheeling in some sort of giant instrument of torture. I quickly shoved my phone under my pillow, hoping I hadn't been caught.

  'We need X-ray your head.' She fussed around with the machine as she moved it towards the bed.

  
'Bon,'
said the nurse, repositioning my head gently. When she was happy, she told me to keep very still then went out of the room, taking a handset on a long wire which snaked out behind her. Once she was safely outside, she pressed a button and the machine whirred to life, moving around me to X-ray my head from several angles. Very
Star Wars
, I thought as it buzzed and clicked away.

  After a few minutes, the nurse came back in, turned the machine off and wheeled it away. 'The consultant come later,' she said as she left the room.

  I gave it a few minutes to make sure that no one else was coming then slipped my phone out from under the pillow. There was nothing from Julien. Hiding my phone back under the bedclothes, I stared at the ceiling, huffing with boredom. I looked out of the window but the view across the back of Castorama, a big DIY store, was hardly inspiring. Julien had told me that a
castor
was French for a beaver. 'Beaverama,' I said out loud, giggling.

  A po-faced older nurse with hair scraped back into a French version of a Croydon facelift walked in and glared at me, banging down a tray of food.

  
'Petit
déjeuner '
.

  'Breakfast, thanks,
merci beaucoup
,' I said, smiling broadly. The nurse barely acknowledged me before stalking out, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking as she went.

  Breakfast wasn't bad. A croissant but no butter or jam. The French didn't quite get the English custom for slathering them with even more butter and a dollop of
confiture
. It was like putting cheese on bread or crackers; in France, both co-existed side by side and never the twain would ever meet except on the plate of an expat. There was a little pot of orange juice and some water. Starvation rations. No wonder they say the French don't get fat, although of course the truth was that I had seen plenty of evidence that they did. Despite my pounding head, I had a ferocious hunger and devoured the croissant in two bites, washing it down with the thimbleful of orange juice. I wondered if there was any chance of a skinny latte. Probably not. The French weren't really into foreign stuff.

  Under the bedclothes, my phone vibrated. I grabbed it quickly, hoping it would be Julien. It was a text from Tracey.

'OMG! What the bloody hell did you do? Everyone talking about you. Totes hilare.'
'Great! Can u come? Bored. No hot doctors just grumpy nurse. In Clinique St Victor in Villeneuve.'

My phone was silent for a few minutes and I felt my heart start to sink, but then it vibrated again.

'Sure. There in hour.'
'Not sure what time visiting is.'
'Visiting hours is for the riff-raff. Don't they know who I am?'
'Prob not!'
'Har-de-bloody-ha-ha.
Vache
.'

I smiled to myself. Whatever her faults, Tracey always cheered me up. I slipped my phone back under the covers, waiting for Julien to reply.

  The po-faced nurse returned holding a kidney bowl covered with a paper towel. A wave of disquiet swept over me when I saw the look on the her face, a mixture of twisted evil and grim delight. She put the tray down on the bedside cabinet then took some latex gloves from her pocket, snapping them as she put them on. Turning to the tray, she took off the paper towel and revealed a large bullet-shaped object and a tube of lubricating jelly. With a smile, the nurse held them up, one in each hand.

  Shit, I thought, backing up the bed away from the nurse. No wonder she was looking so happy. It was a suppository. I'd heard about the French penchant for shoving stuff up your bum, not in a small, furry animal kind of way, but for pain relief. No way was this woman going anywhere near my rear end. I pulled my knees up to my chest and my hospital gown tight round my knees.

  
'Non,'
I said firmly.

  The nurse advanced towards me, gesturing at me to turn over.

  'Not bloody likely,' I exclaimed but the nurse clearly didn't understand.

  She pointed to my bottom. 'You feel better. For bad head.'

  'In England you take tablets through your mouth for a bad head, not up your arse!'

  'This is France. You must. Doctor say so.'

  'No,
non
, never,
jamais.
' I was almost shouting now.

  The nurse offered the suppository and lubricant to me. 'You do yourself?'

  Well this certainly brought a new meaning to DIY but seeing an escape route, I took them from the nurse and swung my legs onto the floor. As I stood up, a rush of light-headedness made me stumble slightly, but determined to get myself to the bathroom with the suppository, which, incidentally, was going nowhere other than down the toilet, I straightened up, taking the tray from Nurse Po-Face with a smile.

  In the bathroom, I slumped down on the toilet, wondering how long it normally took to insert a suppository. Well, better make this sound authentic. I made a few oohs and aahs, of the sort I thought someone shoving a bullet-sized lump of wax up their bum might make while, at the same time, breaking it up into small pieces and wrapping the bits in toilet paper. After a few minutes, I dropped them into the toilet bowl, loaded on more toilet paper, pressed the flush and watch the dreaded thing disappear into the eddying water and away into the French sewage system. My bum would live to fight another day and I'd have to put up with the cracking headache.

  I squirted some soap from the dispenser onto my hands and washed them, looking at myself in the mirror over the sink. I looked like shit, again, turning my head from side to side to see the full extent of the damage. The back of my hair was matted where the blood had dried even though they had tried their best to clean it up. I'd had more injuries, bruises and black eyes in the few months I'd been in France than in the rest of my life put together. I always considered myself a fairly lucky person but anyone hearing of my recent adventures would probably beg to differ. Ho hum, I thought. All part of life's rich tapestry or something like that. Outside the door, Nurse Po-Face coughed to get my attention.

  
'J'arrive, j'arrive,'
I called. 'I won't be a moment.' I dried my hands on some disposable paper towels, dropped them in the bin and went out, taking care to walk a bit awkwardly for added authenticity. I pulled a face, motioning towards my bottom. 'Ooooh,
pas bon
.'

  The nurse smiled the sort of smile you'd have just before you pulled the wings off a butterfly. She clearly had issues, I thought. Directing me back to the bed, she informed me, '
Docteur
come soon.'

  I snuggled back under the covers, waiting for her to leave before I took a sneaky peek at my mobile. The message icon was indicating a new text. I opened it, smiling to see it was from Julien. The smile faded quickly.

'
Chérie
, I am so sorry but I can't come. I have a problem on the farm that I need to sort out. Biz, JuJu.'

JuJu? The French certainly loved to shorten a name. I'd heard Martine called Mo-Mo, even McDonald's (them of the Golden Arches fame, McDonald not being a terribly popular French name) was shortened to McDo. Bummer, I thought, smiling slightly at the irony, but at least Tracey was coming.

  
'Bonjour mademoiselle.'
A deep, throaty voice breezed through my thoughts and into the room. 'I am
Docteur
Ahmadi, your consultant.'

  'Oh, hello, you speak English! There's more English-speaking doctors here than back in the UK,' I joked taking in his medium build, dark wavy hair, and sparkly, mischievous-looking eyes.

  'Yes, we North Africans are generally brought up speaking French and English, luckily for you British, who seem not to want to learn the lovely French language.'