I left the apartment and walked to the Commissariat de Police. Luckily the Commissariat du 12ème is just 100 metres down the street from my apartment. FP had been taken there in a police car and was well inside by the time I arrived.
I asked at the 'welcome' desk for information and the 'helpful' policelady told me to go home. I insisted and refused to leave until I'd spoken with one of the arresting officers.
In time, one came to see me. He took my name, my address, my proof of identity. Everything short of fingerprints. Nice to know that I'm officially on their system now, at least.
He said "let's discuss this outside" and walked me out to the street.
Once we were on the street outside the Commissariat he said "there's nothing I can tell you. We're keeping him here overnight, at least, and the only thing you can do is go home".
And that's what I did.
The first night that we'd spent apart in five weeks and he was in a police cell.
I barely slept. When they were at the house, the police had alluded to the fact that it was something to do with a credit card scam and so, left alone with my thoughts I started to panic. I checked all of my accounts online - nothing unusual - and immediately felt bad for doing so.
I woke up the next day, as usual, at six a.m. I immediately felt sick and ran to the bathroom to vomit.
I called the commissariat.
"How old is this person?" they asked. I told them.
"Well, he's an adult. We cannot give you any information".
I went to work feeling sick, feeling helpless and useless. Confused and uncertain.
I wanted to believe him innocent. I needed to know he was ok. I was worried, scared and totally disconnected with everything around me.
The morning was spent on auto-pilot. I sailed through an interview and then, feigning sickness, I went home.
Back at the house I called the Commissariat again. Telling them that they had held my 'husband' (I figured that might help me get some info) for nearly 18 hours, I demanded some information.
"He is here, he is feeling better and we can keep him for up to 48 hours". This was all they would tell me. The line 'he is feeling better' scared me.
I paced the house and called a couple of friends. Both helped me - by offering advice, by not judging and by distracting me with long phone calls.
At around nine pm I finally cracked. I was in the kitchen, thinking about cooking something. I stood in front of the fridge, looking at all of the good stuff he'd bought only the day before and I started to cry. I was verging on hysterical. It was awful. Never have I felt so helpless.
I didn't cook anything. I walked back to the lounge, curled up on the sofa and tried to sleep.
At ten pm the doorbell rang.
I opened the door and he was there. Le Fabulous Pairisien. Looking dishevelled, tired, drawn, exhausted.
He walked into the apartment and we literally fell into each others' arms.
"Je t'aime" he whispered into my ear. "Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime".
"I love you too", I whispered back.
All charges had been dropped and he was a free man.