you saved her life. The van would have flattened her. But when you ran towards her, the wing mirror caught your head, a real crack, it knocked you out cold. I thought you were dead. Those were some of the worst moments of my life. The police wouldn’t let me hold you – you had a severe head injury and they were worried that your neck might be damaged too, so we couldn’t move you. At last the ambulance arrived and they brought you here. They did a scan and then operated straight away, to relieve the pressure on your brain. You were put into a coma to allow the swelling to go down. It was touch and go, they said. They told me to call your father and ask him to come as quickly as he could. Simone and I were beside ourselves. She was in shock at the time too, of course. She’s been here every day as well, but they only allow two people in at a time.’
Thierry phones Simone to let her know that I’ve woken up and she demands to speak to me. We don’t have much of a conversation, what with my drowsiness and her crying as she thanks me, over and over, for saving her life. But through her tears, she promises she’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning.
I feel exhausted. My head is still heavy, my brain thick with drugs and concussive shock, so Dad kisses me on the forehead, just below the line of the crepe bandage, and heads back to his hotel for the night. After he’s gone, Thierry kicks off his boots and climbs on to the bed beside me, gently wrapping me in his arms.
‘I have something for you,’ he says. He reaches into his pocket and brings out my charm bracelet. ‘They had to take this off you before you went into the scanner and the nurse gave it to me for safe-keeping. I know how much it means to you.’
‘Thank you. Can you help me put it on, please?’
He fastens the catch. And then he fishes something else out of his pocket. A little square box. He helps me to open it and inside is a tiny golden heart, engraved with the letter ‘H’.
‘I thought maybe your bracelet might have room for one more charm,’ he says.
Smiling, I rest my throbbing head on his shoulder, which feels more comfortable than any pillow. And then, still holding the little box, I drift off into another deep, deep sleep.
Simone arrives as I’m finishing my breakfast the next morning. It’s a plastic-wrapped croissant and a cup of coffee but, given that it’s the first proper food I’ve eaten in almost a week, it tastes pretty good to me and certainly a lot more satisfying than an intravenous drip.
After she’s hugged me so hard that I can hardly breathe, Simone wrinkles up her nose at the remnants on my tray. ‘Ugh, that looks inedible,’ she says, picking it up and moving it to an empty table at the bed opposite mine. She fishes in her handbag and draws out a punnet of sweetly perfumed strawberries, a freshly made drink from the juice bar around the corner from the apartment in the Rue Jacob, a box of macaroons from Ladurée and two bars of Côte d’Or chocolate.
‘Here,’ she says, handing me the juice, ‘drink this first. You need your vitamins. And then you can eat the rest.’
The juice is slightly sludgy khaki colour, but whatever is in it tastes absolutely delicious.
Simone kicks off her shoes and props her feet on my bed and we spend a happy hour or so eating chocolate and chatting. She fills me in on the news from Agence Guillemet and tells me that everyone sends their love.
A nurse comes to shoo her out at last, saying that I need to rest, and Simone gathers up her things. Then she hugs me again, a gesture of solidarity, and sisterhood, and friendship. And, as she stands up and heads for the door, she pauses, turning back to say, ‘By the way, my whole family are demanding that I come home and that I bring you with me. They all want to meet you. To thank you in person for saving me. Especially my grandmother, Mireille. She says she wants to tell you more about Claire . . . about what happened afterwards. And she has something for you.’
My father comes in at lunchtime, bringing me some little savoury