Tom runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Look, Seb’s relationship with his father is—complicated. I’m sure the lack of invitation had nothing to do with you and everything to do with that.”
“Maybe,” I repeat. I lean down to pick up some earth and watch it dribble through my fingers. “Maybe not.”
“It’s been ten years, Kate,” Tom says. The hard note in his voice snaps my head up to look at him. “When are you going to get over it?”
I look away; I can’t speak. We don’t do this, Tom and I; we don’t bring up this particular elephant in the room. We can be friends provided we skirt round the edges. I must be drunk to have violated that. I don’t think he has the same excuse given he’s driving.
Suddenly Tom is hunkered down in front of me. “Kate, I’m sorry.” He reaches out a hand to turn my face to him. His eyes are unhappy and his mouth is twisted in remorse. “Oh Christ, please don’t cry, I didn’t mean . . . It’s just . . . I’m sorry.”
I take a shaky breath, then meet his eyes briefly and attempt a smile. “Me, too. I think I’m what’s known as tired and emotional.”
“Come on, you.” He stands up and pulls me gently to my feet. “Let’s get you home.” My face feels cold where his hand has been. He threads my arm through his and we walk back to the cottage in companionable silence.
In the car on the way home I can’t fight the thrum of the engine and the alcohol in my system: I fall asleep. I wake slowly with a memory or a dream of someone stroking my cheek. Tom is grinning at me affectionately. The day of sunshine has brought out some of his freckles. “Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty,” he says. For a moment I’m displaced; the world hasn’t yet dropped into position around me. For a moment Tom is just Tom and I’m just Kate, without any past or future. Without any context.
Then everything rushes back.
CHAPTER FIVE
On Monday morning, Gordon Farrow’s secretary calls to resurrect our lunch, for two days hence. I would crow over Paul except I’ve lost all faith. In any case, Paul looks like he can’t take another cycle of hope-raising and -dashing. A small contract he was counting on—that we were both counting on—has fallen through. His trenchant defeatism curls around him like a fog; being near him brings a chill. I haven’t known him long enough to estimate how long this will last; at this rate I may not keep him long enough to find out. I return again and again to the financial spreadsheet that holds my future in its tiny white cells. The entries don’t change.
Even lunch with Lara fails as a tonic. We meet at a café halfway between our offices; uncharacteristically, she’s beaten me there. There’s a glass of wine in front of her with a lipstick mark on it. I nod my head toward it after we kiss our hellos. “Taking the rest of the day off?” Lara can’t function professionally after the merest sniff of alcohol. She has few rules, but no lunchtime drinking is one of them.
She shakes her head. “I’ll be there in body if not in mind.” She takes a sip of the wine, then puts the glass down. Then picks it up again. “Anyway, shall we order?” She puts the glass back down.
“Sure . . .” We nab the waitress and order our usuals, then I sit back and look at Lara. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure. Of course.” She smiles brightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and her eyes don’t reach mine.
“How was Sweden?”
“Same old. Mum has a new man.”
“How is he?”
“Very . . . Swedish,” she says wryly. “Bearded. Friendly. Earnest. But kind of sweet.” Finally I see her eyes. They’re jittering around, as if it hurts to settle her focus. “Anyway, how was your weekend? Did you have fun with Tom?”
“Yeah, it was lovely,” I say, out of habit, then wonder if that’s accurate. It was lovely on the surface, but I have a sense of something lurking underneath. Or maybe my paranoia over the possibility of Paul jumping ship is bleeding into the rest of my life. I mentally shake myself and look at Lara’s eyes again. “Jeez, Lara, did you spend the weekend taking drugs or something?”
“Of course not!” she exclaims, scandalized.
“Then what’s with you?”
“Nothing! Except . . . I think I had one too many Red Bulls this morning,” she confesses, propping up her temple with the heel of one palm. “You wouldn’t believe how my heart has been racing.” She gestures at the glass of wine. “Alcohol’s a depressant, isn’t it? I thought it might counteract the caffeine.”
“Honey, alcohol is just fanning the flames.” It would be funny except Lara doesn’t look like she’s having any fun. She looks almost feverish. “Let me put that glass aside—here, have my water instead. Why the caffeine overdose, anyway?”
She takes a long drink of the water and shrugs. “My flight was delayed so I was late to bed and then I couldn’t get to sleep for ages.” She pauses. I wait; there’s more to come. Whatever it is, she’s half defensive about it. I’m not sure what the other half of her is feeling. “I bumped into Alain at the airport.” Her eyes flit to mine then away.
Alain. Not Monsieur Modan, or the French detective. “How very coincidental,” I say evenly. “Had you told him what flight you were on?”
“No, it was just a chance meeting. He was on his way back from spending the weekend in the south of France.” She takes in my expression and puts her hand on my arm, leaning forward entreatingly. “Come on. You have to admit it really could be a coincidence.”
“It could,” I say non-contentiously. But I doubt it. “What did you talk about?”
She blushes. “You know . . .” I don’t actually. I shake my head questioningly. “We just talked. Nothing happened, really.” Really? Now I’m wondering what did happen. Her hand is still on my arm, her eyes urgent. I nod, though I still don’t understand; the nod is enough to allow the words to flood out of her. “I know we ought not, with the investigation and everything, but it’s not like the six of us had anything to do with that. Alain and I . . . well, we just talked about . . . what we might do when this is all over. What we would like to do.” Her expression is begging me to understand. I shake my head minutely; I don’t. “You know . . . to do to each other . . .”
I stare at her, openmouthed. She’s squirming, but her eyes are bright with excitement. It’s not the caffeine overdose that’s making her feverish; she’s the girl with a secret that’s just bursting to tell. Jesus. Lara has been talking dirty with the French detective. I rediscover my voice. “All this in, what, the baggage reclaim lounge?”
“Of course not! We, um, we grabbed a drink in the bar.”
“Ah.” I don’t know how to convey the alarm bells that are ringing in my mind. Lara is never this excited over a man, ever; I suspect she won’t take it kindly if I steal the wind from her sails, but this . . . I don’t know what this is, exactly, but I do know it’s not a good idea. I struggle to find a casual tone. “Did he . . . did he ask about Severine?”
She nods. “A bit. Well, not so much Severine, more about that week in general. You know, about all of us, how we met, who was with who, that sort of thing. It wasn’t like an interview; it was just idle chat.”
“Of course, idle chat. In between the virtual sex, that is.”
“Kate!” She giggles. She’s actually giddy. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Uh-huh.” Idle chat. About a murder case. I think of Alain Modan. I imagine his active brain working away behind those dark, ironic eyes; scurrying like a rat in a maze to explore all potential avenues. Tom’s words float back to me: There are inconsistencies. Things like that, they muddy the waters. “Did he tell you they’re looking into when the well was filled in?”
She nods. “He mentioned that. I suppose they have to tick every box, but it seems a waste of effort since it was obviously after we left. But they have to do it. Apparently they even have to try and pin down exactly which ferry we were on so they have confirmation of when we left the farmh
ouse. It’s really hard work for him,” she says earnestly, then looks up as the waitress arrives with our plates. “Oh, thank you.”
I start eating mechanically, my mind full of Monsieur Modan, and Tom’s words, and Severine—always Severine, with her walnut skin and secretive eyes, hovering just out of sight. “Why is he even back in the UK?” I ask suddenly.
“What?” Lara looks up from her salad.
“Modan. I thought he interviewed us all. Why is he still here?”
“Oh. Yeah, he said he had a few more questions.”
“For who?”
“For whom,” she corrects with a glimmer of a smile. Lara prides herself on having better English than any native-born. “Actually, for you, I think.” She shrugs. “Probably my fault, I suppose; after all, I did interrupt your session with him.”
Another interview. I reach for the wineglass.
“And for Seb, of course,” she adds, with an apologetic grimace. “Apparently he’ll be back in the country this week.” She goes on hesitantly, “Are you . . . Are you okay with that? Seb being back, I mean?”
“I daresay I’ll cope.” It comes out harsher than intended; Lara flinches. I’m instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean to snap; I’m just having a shitty week.” She nods sympathetically, accepting the apology. I feel guilty enough to consider her question more carefully. “I actually don’t know what I feel. I suppose I spent so long avoiding thinking about him that I’m not sure what I think anymore.”
She cocks her head. “So maybe it would be good for you to see him.”
“Maybe.” I take a swallow of the wine. “But in an ideal world, not in a week where my business is going under and I’m being interviewed in connection with a murder.”
She laughs. “Come on, that’s a little dramatic. We’re just helping the investigation; we’re not really suspects.”
“Well, that depends.”
“What do you mean?”
“That depends on when the well was filled in. Or at least, when the police think the well was filled in.”
She stares at me. Her eyes have finally found their focus. “You really think—but he hasn’t said anything . . .” She trails off, then visibly shakes herself. “But of course the well was sealed after we left. The builders will say that.”
“Of course,” I agree easily. “When the police find them.”
“When they find them,” she echoes. She is silent for a moment, then cocks her head and looks at me piercingly. “You think I’m being played.”
“I don’t know,” I admit reluctantly, but honestly. I remember the sudden stillness in Modan’s face when he saw Lara again. “I think—I think that he would very much like to do whatever he told you he’d like to do to you . . .” Now I’m the one blushing. “But whatever you said about the six of us—he can’t ‘unhear’ it. You weren’t being interviewed, but he’ll use it, if it helps him.” She looks at me thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if she’s upset, and if so, with me or Modan. “I’m just saying . . . be careful, honey.” I reach out and touch her arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Finally she catches my hand in hers and smiles. “I know. I’ll be careful.” She changes the subject deliberately, and as we talk, I see that half of her focus is elsewhere: reliving aural sex in a transport hub, perhaps, or dreaming up meetings yet to come; in any case, half her mind is threaded through with Alain, Alain, Alain.
I suspect Lara’s definition of careful won’t match mine.
* * *
—
Wednesday dawns bright and sunny, but blustery, with a bite in the wind. It’s the kind of day that could go either way. Fitting.
I’m early to the restaurant; the staff haven’t quite finished preparing our table. I deposit myself on an uncomfortably low sofa in the entrance area, flicking through a newspaper that was laid out for just this purpose. The economy is not improving, small businesses are going under at an alarming rate. I turn that page quickly.
“Kate?” I look up, my automatic welcome smile pasted on, only this isn’t Gordon. It’s not even a male voice.
“Caro,” I say with unconcealed surprise. I scramble to my feet inelegantly from the low seat. She’s wearing an impeccable dark skirt suit that looks ultra-fashionable and ultra-expensive, and beautiful kitten heels. Her hair is scraped back into a perfect chignon. It’s alarming how closely she fits the image I had of her in work attire. We double-kiss, our cheeks barely grazing. “What a surprise. Are you eating here today?” For a confused moment I wonder if Gordon has asked her to join us.
“No, I was just stalking you,” she says breezily, then grins impishly at my expression. “Relax. I was just passing—this place is a stone’s throw from our office.” This is true; it’s why Gordon’s a fan of the restaurant. “I spotted you through the window. How are you?”
“Um, good, thanks. You?” I’m still thrown. She spotted me, and she actually chose to come in and talk to me?
She flaps a hand. “Good, busy—you know, same old, same old.” She pauses. “How did it go with the detective?”
“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “Though we got interrupted so I’m meeting him again this week.”
“What a bore for you,” she says, rolling her eyes theatrically. “What sort of things was he asking?”
“Much the same as he asked everyone, I suppose. When we left, how we got home, that sort of thing. You?”
She nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yes, that sort of thing. Lots on everyone’s timings that last morning. And about the builders and the well and when the girl was planning to leave.” Her head is cocked on one side, watching and waiting. I wonder exactly which of her words she’s expecting a reaction to.
“Severine,” I say quietly. “Her name was Severine.” The skull grins knowingly at me.
“God, you do have a bee in your bonnet about that.” Caro sounds amused, but somehow I don’t think she is. “Did he show you the CCTV footage?”
I shake my head. “No, what footage? Do you mean Severine at the bus station?”
She nods. “It’s a joke,” she says, throwing up a hand expressively. “You can barely tell it’s a person. Technology has moved a looooong way in the last decade, believe me. Thank God the bus driver remembered her getting on his bus, or things might be rather more uncomfortable for us all right now.” She laughs a high, tinkling laugh, much less genuine than her earlier sly grin. I think of breaking glass.
“Caro,” says a mild voice behind her. Gordon has arrived.
“Dad,” she says, turning to him. This time the smile she pulls on is overly bright. “Don’t worry, I’m not stealing your lunch date.” He rubs her arm awkwardly in lieu of a kiss; perhaps they never kiss during the working day. I suppose it would be a little disconcerting for others around the office.
“Hello, Gordon,” I say, smiling. We shake hands and tell each other it’s a pleasure and so on. Which it actually is, at least for me.
Caro explains to her father: “I just popped in to tell Kate that we have a date for Seb’s return.” I feel a quick burst of triumph that I knew this already. She turns to me. “He’ll be back this week, so we’ll have to have another get-together of the old gang. Maybe a restaurant this time. What do you think?”
I’m on my best behavior given Gordon’s presence. “Good idea.” Then I look for something intelligent to add. “Less people, which might be better for Alina. Less overwhelming.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Caro says, unconcerned. It’s not clear whether she means that Alina, whom I’ve never met, is not easily overwhelmed, or whether Caro simply doesn’t care whether she’s overwhelmed or not. “I just thought it’d be a nice change since we just did the drinks party thing for Tom.” She glances at her watch and grimaces. “Oops, back to the grindstone. I have a conference call in five, which may well
last till five—no rest for the wicked.” She rolls her eyes again. “Enjoy your lunch.”
I look at Gordon as he watches her clip smartly out of the restaurant; perhaps I’m expecting to see love or pride or benevolent affection. Instead he seems . . . what? I can’t decipher his face, though he watches for longer than feels comfortable. Then he feels my eyes upon him and turns with eyebrows raised. “Well, shall we?”
* * *
—
We order and eat and talk business, but general business, not the specific business I’m chasing. Other firms and their hiring practices, the restructuring taking place in the legal industry, the mergers that are being rumored: these are the things we discuss. I wait for Gordon to broach the subject, but our main courses swoop down, and then dessert, and then coffee, and still we’re circling around.
Gordon reaches for the sugar and drops a cube into his cup, paying the task more attention than it deserves. Now, I think. Now we will come to the matter at hand.
“So,” he says. He’s too precise for such a casual opening; it comes out strained. “I understand from Caro that you, too, have been dragged into this awful French investigation. It must be rather unpleasant for you.”
I blink, completely thrown. Why is he bringing this up? “Well, I . . . Of course I’m happy to help the investigation, but rest assured, it would have no impact on my company’s ability to perform under the contract, if we were to be engaged—”
“Oh no,” he interrupts me, startled. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think that for a second.”
I look at him uncertainly. He seems a little embarrassed.
“Caro seems rather shaken by the whole thing,” he says diffidently. “I just meant to . . . well, to ask how you are. That’s all.”
“Oh.” I watch him stirring his already-stirred coffee, then realize I ought to say something more. “Well, that’s very kind of you.” Before I can add something appropriately inane, like I’m fine, though it’s certainly unsettling, before I can reassert my professionalism without seeming callous in comparison to the “rather shaken” Caro (really?), Severine’s skull begins to laugh mockingly at me, sand streaming from one eye socket. I hastily grab my coffee cup and take a sip.
The French Girl Page 6