“Of course I’ll be there,” I say calmly. “I’m looking forward to it.” For a moment I entertain the fantasy of turning up with an adoring Adonis on my arm—who? where would he come from at such late notice?—but I’ll have to settle for Lara and Tom. Perhaps the Adonis trick would be too obvious anyway.
“It’ll be great to have the old gang back together,” she says brightly. “Like old times.” Old times. The thought makes me shudder. Caro’s old times must be very different from mine. I try to strip the irony from any potential response, but she’s already forging on: “That’s all I seem to be talking about these days, what with the investigation and everything. Modan can’t seem to stop with the questions, can he? Have you seen him, too?”
“Not really. He dropped by on Monday, but I was too busy to have more than five minutes for him.”
“I made the mistake of freeing up half an hour for him. I don’t know what for, really—all he wanted to talk about was who was sleeping with who, and whether anyone was sleeping with Severine.”
“Well, I certainly wasn’t,” I say flippantly. “Girls have never been my thing. What about you?”
She gives what may be a genuine laugh. “No, me neither. I’m boringly bourgeois that way. But seriously, I suppose it changes things a bit if someone was sleeping with her.”
“How so?” I ask, making my voice as uninterested as possible. Does she really know about Seb and Severine? Is she trying to find out if I know? Does she know that I know that she knows that . . .
“Motive, I suppose—crime of passion or some such thing. God, I sound like CSI.” She laughs it off. “It’s all a bit grubby, really, having a stranger like Modan poring eagerly through all our tangled love lives.” She switches gear audibly. “Anyway, tonight. Eight o’clock. Borderello’s.”
“See you there.”
I put down the phone, her words turning over in my head: our tangled love lives. I was with Seb. Lara was with Tom. Other than Seb’s infidelity, where lies the tangle? Come to that, Caro wasn’t with anyone: why would she say “our” love lives? I start to run the payroll software that I use to manage Julie’s and Paul’s salaries, but I’m too distracted to make sense of the process. Abruptly I shut down the program and grab my phone.
“Kate, hello.” Tom sounds harried.
“Bad time?” I glance at the clock: it’s ten to three. “Oh shit, sorry, it’s almost expiry time.” Foreign exchange options usually expire at three.
“Yup. Can I call you back after?”
“Sure.”
He pauses. “You okay?”
“Yes, fine. It’s nothing. Call me back later.” My voice sounds too bright, too forced.
“Okay.”
I put down my mobile and stare at it for a moment, then I shake myself and open the payroll software again with grim determination. It’s sufficiently alien that to make any progress I have to concentrate to the exclusion of anything else; it’s curiously calming. When my mobile finally rings I’m startled.
“Kate?” It’s Tom. The real world floods back in and temporarily robs me of breath. “Kate? Can you hear me?” he asks.
“Yes, sorry. I’m here.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes . . . actually, no. Was Seb sleeping with anyone else?”
“What?” He’s genuinely taken aback. “Where’s this coming from?”
“It’s just something Caro said. I wondered . . .” I feel a cold sweat on my torso. It’s excruciatingly embarrassing to have to ask this. It’s embarrassing to even have to wonder it. In time I will feel anger at Seb for putting me in this position, but all I feel at the moment is shame.
“Hold on a moment, this sounds like something I shouldn’t be broadcasting over the trading floor. Let me get to my office.” There’s a pause and some muffled noises, then he comes back on the line. “Fire away.”
“It’s just . . . I’m probably getting the wrong end of the stick, but I wondered if Caro was sleeping with Seb.” I add as an afterthought, “Or you, actually.” Theo I don’t consider a real possibility.
“Me sleeping with Seb?” He sounds genuinely bewildered.
I can’t help but laugh. “No, with Caro, you idiot.”
“Hand on my heart, I can promise you I have never slept with either Seb or Caro. Nor do I have any wish to.” Humor warms his deep voice.
“And Seb? Seb with Caro, to be precise.”
His pause is significant. “I don’t think so,” he says finally. There’s no trace of the humor now. “I think . . . well, Caro has always had a thing for him. You must know that.”
I suppose he’s right; I’ve always known that. “And?”
“And nothing. I think that’s all it’s ever been, an unrequited thing. He kind of knew it, but I don’t think he ever went there. He never felt the same, and it would have been a disaster given how close all our families are if he were to screw her over.” Of course, it was fine to screw me over, with my unconnected, unimportant family . . . “At least, that’s my take,” he says at last, but I get the sense he’s still mulling something over.
“Would he have told you, do you think? I know you’re close, but he didn’t tell you about Severine . . .”
“True.” I hear him take a breath in then blow it out. “I don’t know,” he admits reluctantly. “Before you came along, then I’d have said yes, for sure, he would have told me anything. But after . . . I don’t know.” I want to ask what changed, but there’s no way to do it without sounding like I’m looking for some validation, some sign I was important in Seb’s life, and I refuse to be so pitiful in front of Tom. “Where are you going with this?”
“I don’t know. I just suddenly feel like . . . God, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell was going on that week. Modan is asking questions, and I’m not even sure I can answer anything, because nothing is how I thought it was, and . . . and . . .” I’m suddenly aware I’m close to tears.
“Hey, whoa there,” Tom says softly down the line. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
He’s silent for a moment. “No, it’s not, is it? Look, why don’t we meet before dinner tonight? Have a drink and talk all this through. I can get to Knightsbridge for around six. Okay?”
I take a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes. Okay. Thanks. Sorry about all this.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Oh—did you get a lawyer?”
“I’m meeting one tomorrow.”
“Good.” He sounds genuinely relieved. “See you at six.”
I put down the phone and rest my eye sockets in the heels of my hands for a moment. When I lift my head again I find Severine watching me. For once there’s no trace of hostility beneath her smooth exterior; she’s simply watching me.
“Haven’t you anywhere better to be?” I ask her. It’s the first time I’ve actually spoken to her; unsurprisingly she doesn’t answer, so I do it for her. “No, I don’t suppose you do, under the circumstances.”
Julie comes to the doorway, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “Did you need something?”
I shake my head, smiling brightly. “No, sorry, just talking to myself.”
She’s already moving back to her seat. “First sign of madness, you know,” she says over her shoulder. The thought had crossed my mind.
CHAPTER TEN
The evening starts badly.
I’m at the pub a few minutes after six and predictably find Tom—reliable, steady Tom—already there; but so, too, is Lara. From Tom’s ruefully apologetic expression I divine he had no choice. I pull myself together to kiss Lara hello. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“I was sure you’d want to meet beforehand, but I couldn’t raise you on your mobile this afternoon, so I called Tom,” she says breezily.
“Really? My phone must be playing up again. I didn’t see that you’
d called.” Lying is becoming easier with practice, but the guilt remains the same. I turn to hug Tom hello; his breath strokes my ear carrying a murmur of, “Sorry.” He’s been home to change after work; he’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, and smells of newly applied aftershave. I’m still in work clothes, but it’s a deliberate choice: I have a fancy that the combination of this dress with these stiletto heels shows off my legs to their best advantage. Absent the Adonis arm candy, it’s really the best I can do.
“Here, Tom got you a drink.” Lara passes over a vodka tonic.
“Thanks. Love your dress.” It occurs to me that I’m overcompensating, though she does look fabulous. She’s wearing a stunning bodycon dress the color of autumn leaves, with heels at least an inch higher than her usual choice for work. Most of the bar watches as she settles herself in a chair and crosses her endless legs.
“Well, I thought I’d make an effort,” she says casually, but there are spots of color in her cheeks. The effort is not for me or Tom, or even Caro or Seb, I’m sure. I’d lay odds she has post-dinner plans with the indefatigable Monsieur Modan.
“What about me? How do I look?” Tom asks, mock-preening. He’s compensating too.
Lara bats her eyelashes at him. “Devastatingly handsome as ever.”
“Very metrosexual,” I add slyly; he turns to me, appreciative laughter glinting in those blue gray eyes. They are resolutely Tom’s eyes now. I wonder if this evening will shake that.
We drink and we talk and it’s excruciating. Lara is too bright, too excitable, drinking too quickly. It’s impossible to fathom what’s going on under the surface, and given the secrets each of us are keeping, there’s no way for me to ask. Subterfuge doesn’t sit well with her, though. She ricochets through topics, always realizing each pitfall too late; she can’t talk about her love life, she can’t talk about the case, she can’t talk about how she’s spending her free time—almost nothing is safe for her. I’m so awkwardly aware this is not the private chat Tom and I had planned that I’m working too hard to keep the conversation Lara-friendly and save her from verbal suicide. On the surface Tom is his usual relaxed self, complete with mildly flirtatious banter with Lara, but I can see he’s uncharacteristically tense, and oddly fatalistic, as if waiting for an ax to drop rather than killing time before a homecoming dinner for his cousin and closest friend. Perhaps he, too, can see that the light within Lara is shining for someone other than her current audience. I wonder how much that pierces him.
It’s hard enough to battle on with this charade whilst sober; I shouldn’t have another vodka tonic. But I do. And another.
Finally, Lara glances at her watch. “Shouldn’t we make tracks before we incur the wrath of Caro?”
I nod and reach for my handbag, partly relieved to be released, but I expect what’s coming will be worse. Tom knocks back the remainder of his pint and deposits the glass on the table with an audible thump. “Out of the frying pan into the fire,” he murmurs darkly. I look across at him in surprise—what does he have to be worried about now?—but he’s looking toward the exit. The skin round his eyes is tight with anxiety.
The restaurant is a short walk away. Lara walks in the middle and links an arm through one of Tom’s arms and one of mine, as if to prevent us from escaping. There’s no time for even a deep breath before she has hustled me through the door into what seems more akin to a theater dressing room than a restaurant. I busy myself leaving my coat and bag with the cloakroom attendant, both reluctant to look round and reluctant to be seen looking round. Tom hovers near me as I pass my things over, tension visible in his jaw.
“Are you okay?” I ask him quietly, bemused.
“What? Me? Of course.” He brushes it off. “I’m just worried about you.”
I shake my head minutely as I take the ticket from the attendant. “No need.”
“If only,” I think I hear him say; I look at him sharply, but I can’t follow up because Caro is descending upon us. I have to manufacture a smile to endure whatever thorny welcome she will greet me with, but she’s too caught up in her favorite role of hostess to deliver anything of consequence. Then there’s no longer an excuse, I’m being swept inexorably toward a long table that can only be our reservation; and there is Seb.
He’s standing by the table, his hand on the back of a chair that’s occupied by a slender blond woman sitting sideways. He looks up on hearing the bustle of our approach, a grin spreading across his face. He is Seb. It’s a shock, somehow. He is still so very much Seb.
Lara—bless her, a thousand times bless her—steams in ahead of me, an unstoppable force of bosom and smile and hair, all outstretched arms and double-kisses. “Seb!” she says in a suitably delighted tone. “So good to see you! And this must be Alina . . .” Alina stands to greet Lara. She’s tall—taller than I—with the fine-boned features that somehow speak of years of Pony Club and expensive schooling; her accent when she replies to Lara only confirms that. She is everything I expected she would be. Tom is following in Lara’s wake: he and Seb are grinning above a manly handshake that becomes a one-armed hug, then almost descends into a boyish rough-and-tumble in their pleasure at seeing each other. But now Tom is switching his attention to Alina: it’s my turn.
Seb is waiting, smiling at me, an arm ready to steady me for the double-kiss treatment. “Kate,” he says quietly, warmly, as I draw close. “It’s been too long.”
It hits me that there’s a familiarity in the feel of that cheek, of the arm I lay my hand on as we kiss. I don’t know if I expected that, after all these years. “How are you?” I ask as I draw back. It’s the polite thing to say under the circumstances. It’s possible I’m interested in the answer, but I’ve resolved not to dissolve into self-analysis this evening. Tonight I have to simply make it through.
“Good, great.” He spreads his hands. His hair is shorter than before, and there are little flecks of gray above his ears. He’s wearing jeans and a casual shirt, like almost every other male here, though both may be more expensive than the average. “Great to be back.” He runs an appreciative eye over me. “You look well. I hear you’re doing well, too, running your own company—” Someone claps a hand on his shoulder with an accompanying bellow, and he turns away, but not without catching my gaze with his extraordinary eyes and mouthing over his shoulder, “Later.”
There’s an intimacy in that look, in the way he delivers the word—as if he were being dragged away from me. I look after him for a moment. I have no idea what to make of the entire encounter.
I blink and collect myself, turning aside to find Tom watching me, despite ostensibly being in a conversation with Alina and Lara. His face is tight. I cock my head questioningly, and his expression clears deliberately; he lifts his eyebrows—are you all right? I nod and even manage a reassuring smile, then step over to join the three of them. Tom’s eyes are Tom’s eyes, I think. And Seb’s . . . well, they are Seb’s. They are how they always were.
Shortly we sit. Caro has mustered eighteen of us: we’re a raucous party of fractured conversations and sudden hoots of laughter from different directions; though more often from Seb’s area than anywhere else. Tom and Lara have made pains to sit on either side of me; we bracket the end of the table. I have prime viewing position. Caro, flushed and buoyant with the success of the evening, has seated herself next to the guest of honor at the middle of the long table; Alina is opposite. Four bottles of wine are dispatched before the exasperated waiter manages to get a dinner order from us all.
“Okay?” Lara asks under her breath. I nod briefly. “He looks good,” she laments on my behalf.
“He always did,” I mutter back. If I was hoping to find him a far cry from his former glory, that certainly isn’t the case. I look across at Seb, trying to see what caused Tom to suggest he wasn’t in good shape. It’s true he’s bulkier than before, but it all appears solid; he’s hardly run to fat. He’s still, objectively speaking, t
he most attractive man in the room, but the heartbreaking, breath-stealing vitality of youth has gone; his beauty no longer burns. I watch him pour himself and Caro another glass of wine, his shirtsleeve rolled back to reveal a tanned forearm. Caro is reveling in Seb’s attention; it softens her edges, makes her almost girlish. I don’t remember her being this obvious a decade ago, or perhaps I chose not to see it. Wives and girlfriends always know . . . I glance at Alina and find her eyeing the two expressionlessly whilst not drinking her wine. Very deliberately not drinking her wine: the glass is raised to her lips, but nothing passes. Someone says something to her on her right; she turns to them, an attentive smile quickly in place. I watch as she gesticulates to make some point, then casually lifts her wineglass and pretends to drink.
I pick up my own wineglass and join the conversation around me. We eat, we drink, we laugh, we talk. The food is unmemorable, but the wine is good; Tom refills our wineglasses whenever they run dry. I’m actually having fun, though it feels desperate, reckless, like dancing while the Titanic sinks. I sneak glances at Seb and Caro and Alina. Lara and Tom sneak glances at me. Seb is performing the same function as Tom in the middle of the table, but twice as frequently, and he never misses his own glass: Seb is drinking hard while his wife isn’t drinking at all.
“A toast,” calls Caro, standing up as she taps a glass ineffectually with a spoon. The table quiets down, all except a large chap at the end who is still talking to his neighbor; I can’t quite remember either of their names, but the faces are familiar. Caro raises her voice: “Do shut up, George. Tilly has heard all your jokes three times already.” That raises chuckles from around the table. She glances down at Seb, smiling. “A toast. Raise your glasses to welcome back . . . Seb, and Alina!” There’s the merest pause after she says Seb’s name, just enough for anyone so inclined to interpret the mention of Alina as an afterthought; I am so inclined. If that’s Alina’s interpretation, there’s nothing to show it: she smiles graciously, playing her role of guest of honor perfectly.
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