Swim Until You Can't See Land by Catriona Child Page A

swam, and she didn’t plan on sinking.
    ‘We’ll need you to see our psychiatrist before we sign you on officially for the training.’
    ‘Do you think I’m mad, Monsieur?’
    ‘ Non , non , please don’t worry, just a formality you know. Now…’ he rifled through his papers, ‘we may be able to fit you in this week. Can you stay in London?’
    ‘ Oui, pas de problème .’
    What would Mama and Father say? What would she tell them? She didn’t know herself what was going on.
    Secret work, helping France in some way.
    ‘ Bon . If you speak to the young lady at the reception desk, she’ll sort you out with a place to stay and pass on any messages to your family.’
    He put the paperwork down and stood.
    Oh, she hadn’t realised that was it. Interview over.
    She breathed in, pressed one hand flat against her chest where the cross lay underneath her blouse. Pressed until she felt the shape of it on her palm. Then she pushed open the door.
    A girl sat at a reception desk inside. Marièle looked around. She wasn’t expecting this. What was this place? A block of flats? An office? A hotel?
    ‘Can I help?’ The girl at the desk looked up.
    ‘Yes,’ Marièle held up the letter, ‘I have an appointment with Mr Thompson.’
    ‘May I see the letter?’
    Marièle handed it over. The girl read it, looked up at Marièle, looked at the letter again.
    Marièle flushed, could feel the heat running through her. The girl was at least two or three years younger than her, but she looked so secure, so in charge. What would she make of the letter? When she’d spoken aloud there it sounded like a sleazy rendezvous. God, what if it was?
    An interview.
    But.
    ‘It’s been a pleasure, Miss Downie, merci d’être venue .’
    He shook her hand as she stood up and they walked to the door.
    ‘When do I…’
    ‘ Ne vous inquiétez pas , we’ll be in touch with you.’
    That ‘we’ again. She left with more questions than she’d come in with. It felt like a dream. Yes, that’s what it was. A surreal, dream-like experience. Had it gone well? He seemed happy enough, but again, was that a smile or an itch? He’d asked her to stay around, that had to count for something.
    She felt sweat prickle up her back and she exhaled deeply as he shut the door behind her. Phew, she hadn’t realised how nervous she’d been, how much she’d been holding her breath in there.
    The girl on reception probably knew the score. Maybe she sat there while an endless supply of girls arrived for an ‘interview’ with Mr Thompson.
    Mr Thompson.
    That probably wasn’t even his real name. God, why hadn’t she thought of that before? It was so generic, it had to be fake.
    For what?
    She could still leave. Turn around and walk out the door.
    No. She had to see this through.
    Interview.
    ‘Mr Thompson is in room 26 on the second floor. Stairs are through there,’ the girl pointed, ‘then turn right.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Marièle nodded.
    Had the girl smirked there? Marièle couldn’t tell if it was a friendly smile or not. Oh hang it, if Mr Thompson or whoever he was tried anything fresh, she’d sock him.
    ‘Between the legs,’ George had told her when she’d started to get attention from members of the opposite sex. ‘If anyone tries something you’re not happy with, hit him between the legs.’
    Mr Thompson better watch out. Marièle made her hand into a fist, punched the air a few times. Between the legs.
    Out of sight of the receptionist, she checked herself in her compact again, put her hand under her hair, tried to bounce some life into the waves. The long journey had taken the curl out of them.
    She turned right, followed the corridor. It was like a rabbit warren, door after door, while the corridor twisted and turned. She wasn’t sure where she was anymore, disorientated – was she still facing the street?
    She found herself counting door numbers again.
    22, 23.
    She stopped outside room 24. Darn it. That girl still had her