Maestra by L. S. Hilton Page B

would be way too dumb. The rest of the money I rolled up tightly and stuffed in the pocket of my robe.
    Leanne was sitting patiently on the bed in her jeans and a grey tee, staring at her feet in their platform wedges. I tossed her my beige canvas Alaïa jacket. It was a sacrifice, but I guessed I could get another one now.
    ‘Put that on, and your glasses. I won’t be long.’ She tried, but she started shaking and couldn’t get her arms into the tightly seamed sleeve.
    ‘If you start having hysterics, I’m going to hit you. Stop it. Just be fucking grateful I had the sense not to call the police.’
    I scrabbled my things into my weekend bag, including the trashy lingerie I’d worn just the day before. Heels, make-up, phone charger, books, hairbrush, laptop. Then I took out the Chanel bags from their carriers and stuffed our other bags inside, shoving the branded pouches back on top. This way we wouldn’t look as though we were leaving, just sauntering off for a bit of Saturday shopping. I wondered what time check-out was. If it was noon tomorrow, or even eleven, we’d have lots of time with the Do Not Disturb up. I dashed back into the sitting room. The note I had written, a jaunty ‘Gone for a swim! See you downstairs, darling x’ was on the Eden Roc pad. I removed it, and the sheet underneath for good measure, in case the pen had left an imprint. I scrunched them up and shoved them in my pocket.
    ‘Right, we’re going. Have your phone out. When we get to the lobby, start texting, keep your head down. Don’t hurry.’
    The maid was still hovering in the passage. I thought I was going to throw up when she spoke to me.
    ‘ Voulez-vous que je fasse la chambre, madame ?’
    I managed a casual smile. She was not much older than me, but her face was sallow and pitted. I guess she didn’t get to see much Riviera sun.
    ‘ Pas pour l’instant, non merci .’
    We passed on, took the lift to the lobby and stepped onto the drive.
    ‘ Vous avez besoin d’une voiture, mesdames ?’
    It was the same bellboy I had tipped yesterday. Damn.
    ‘ Non merci. Nous avons besoin de marcher! ’ Pissed English slags walking off their hangover, I hoped he was thinking.
    Then we were walking down the drive, Leanne’s ankles lurching precariously on the slope. The hotel was a fair way out of Cannes, and for a while we walked along an empty road, banked on both sides with white walls and security gates. We passed several green plastic wheelie bins, so I lifted the heavy lid of one and pushed the torn-up scraps of paper inside. It was the hottest time of day and the cord handles of the carrier were digging weals in my fingers. I had a headache and I could feel a wet patch of sweat on my back. Leanne plodded silently beside me.
    ‘It’s fine, Leanne, it’s going to be fine. Just keep going.’
    Eventually, the road wound round to the seafront. Up to the left we could see the windows of the hotel emerging serenely from palm fronds like a showgirl’s eyelashes. The bay was busy with jet skis and sailboats, further out the ferry to Sainte Marguerite island was crossing. We stopped at the first small bar, where I ordered two Oranginas and asked the waiter politely but not too correctly if he could possibly help us order a cab to Nice airport. He did a bit of French grumbling, but as I was paying for the drinks a white Mercedes pulled up.
    Leanne stared dully out of the taxi window. I remembered her bawdy defiance back in the National Gallery and felt a little twinge of schadenfreude. Who needed good old Rashers now? Maybe it was something in the submissive way she inclined her head, but I suddenly remembered the Friday that the bailiffs came.
    My mum wasn’t a drunk. Mostly, she held down whatever job she had that month; mostly, she got up in the morning. Sometimes, though, it just got too much for her, and then she drank. Not joyously or recklessly, just a steady sip towards blissful oblivion. Which actually might have been a