The French Girl

by Lexie Elliott

  Caro’s head lifts at that. “Come on, Seb, don’t let Modan rattle you. I mean, he has nothing. Nothing! No physical evidence at all and just a load of conjecture.” She looks round the group impatiently. “None of us have anything to worry about. This is all going to go away.”

  “Or linger on forever,” says Lara darkly. She glances back at the entrance to the building for the third or fourth time, and I realize she’s expecting Modan to follow her out.

  “What do you mean?” asks Seb uneasily.

  She shrugs. “The best outcome is that they find who did it and put them away. Then it’s all neatly wrapped up. Otherwise . . .” She shrugs again. “It’s never really over. Even if they consign it to the cold case pile, it could still come alive again. New evidence, new political pressure to take another look.”

  Her words cause another blanket of silence to fall heavily on the group. She’s probably quoting Modan, I think uneasily. How many cases has he worked on that end up like that, never resolved but never entirely forgotten, either?

  “Well, I have to get back to the office,” says Caro abruptly. “Can I drop anyone at Westminster tube on the way past?” It’s presented as a general offer, but she’s looking directly at Seb when she says it.

  “Sounds good,” he says after a pause.

  “Best head that way to get a cab,” Tom says, pointing. “I’ll call you later, Seb, okay?”

  Normally we would all accompany our good-byes with some kind of physical display, but today Seb simply lifts a tired hand in salute, and Caro takes his other arm, calling over her shoulder, “See you all soon—in fact, see you tomorrow, Kate.”

  Oh joy. “See you then,” I say sweetly.

  Tom watches them go, a frown between his eyebrows. Is he worried about Seb’s behavior, or Caro’s? And for whose welfare is he concerned, his own or someone else’s? A movement in my peripheral vision pulls my head round, and I see Modan making his way across to Lara, who has moved a couple of paces away from Tom and me. Her gaze is fixed on Modan, but her expression is unexpectedly conflicted.

  “I’ll call you later, Lara,” I offer, presuming she will leave with him.

  She glances at me swiftly, shaking her head. “No, wait for me. Please, wait.”

  “I . . . Okay.” I’m slightly nonplussed. Tom takes my arm and pulls me aside so we are partially hidden by a tree, his eyes fixed on the pair. “What—” I start to say, but he shushes me. I realize I am as close to Tom as I was in the corridor that night, close enough to smell his aftershave. It makes me absurdly self-conscious; I turn my head quickly and focus on Modan and Lara. The detective must have seen us on his route to Lara, but the tree cover does give the illusion that they have some privacy, and in truth I can only pick out the odd syllable from what they are saying. Lara is doing the bulk of the talking, in a low, earnest tone, spots of color visible in her cheeks. She’s trying not to cry, I realize. Something she says cuts at Modan: he flinches and interrupts urgently, reaching a long arm out to her, but she shakes her head resolutely and takes a step back. It finally dawns on me what I’m watching, and I instantly feel grubby, but it’s impossible to look away. Modan tries to make his point again, frustration clear in every line of his long frame, but Lara is resolute. She must be resolute to hold firm in the face of the heartrending misery that slowly steals over Modan’s face. I don’t look at Tom. If he were to display any pleasure at all at this outcome I might actually punch him.

  Then Lara is walking toward us in short, quick steps, the color still high in her cheeks. Her eyes are remarkably dry. “Oh, honey.” I step out from the tree as I speak and move to hug her, but she gives a quick shake of her head and I realize she will fall apart if I do. “Come back to mine. Let’s find a cab.”

  She nods. Tom reaches out a hand and touches her cheek briefly. “I’m sorry,” he says, with what seems like genuine empathy. He looks like he has more to add, but he checks himself; her face crumples briefly at that, but she catches herself. I link an arm through hers just as Tom spots a taxi and hails it for us. Lara climbs in first. I glance down the street and see that Modan is still standing there, his long face indescribably bleak. I look away hurriedly and move to follow Lara, but Tom stops me, gesturing me toward the front of the cab, out of earshot of Lara.

  “We need to talk,” he says, decisively, looking me straight in the eye for possibly the first time today.

  “I know.” I feel relieved almost to tears to have him make the first move. “I mean, I can’t right now, what with Lara, but I am so sorry—”

  He cuts me off with a sharp, flat chop of one hand. “Not about that.” My face freezes, and something flickers in his eyes. “I don’t mean . . . Look, I know we do, but not now. I meant we need to talk about the case. Severine.”

  “Right. God forbid I should put our friendship higher up the priority list. Only—that’s strange, isn’t it? Because according to you I don’t care a jot.” I know I’m lashing out, I know it’s destructive, but I’m hurt. I’m hurt and he did the hurting and I can’t just put it aside.

  “Kate,” he says, running an exasperated hand through his hair. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate the biting sarcasm, but we just don’t have time for it. This—the car—it changes everything. It—”

  “Not now, Tom. I’m going home to take care of Lara.” I turn away and start climbing into the taxi.

  “Tomorrow then,” he insists through the open door.

  “Whatever.” I pull the door sharply shut and give the driver my address.

  “I had to do it.” The words spill out of Lara as soon as we are under way. “It was fine when it wasn’t real, when none of us were really under suspicion. But it’s not a game anymore, is it? Success for him is finding enough evidence to arrest one of us. Me—well, probably not me, but maybe you. Or Tom, or Seb or Caro . . . I can’t spend time with him wondering if something I say, something completely inconsequential to me, might make all the difference to him . . . I can’t be part of that. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” Her blue eyes are swimming now, her breaths are shuddering gasps and the tears are starting to stream down her cheeks. I pull her into a hug, not the easiest thing in a moving cab, and she sobs into my neck in painful, body-racking gulps.

  “Oh, honey,” I say helplessly, past the lump in my own throat. “I’m so proud of you.” It’s true. Having seen firsthand exactly how giddy and reckless Modan makes her, I’m in awe of the strength she has just displayed. I wonder if I would be able to do the same, but I can’t quite put myself in her shoes. Was I ever as swept away by Seb as she is by Modan? The memories are there to suggest it, but they don’t re-create the feeling within me. I say again, “I’m so proud of you. You chose to protect your friends from him.” After a moment, I add blackly, “Though on balance I’m starting to think that maybe he can have them all except you.”

  “You don’t. Mean. That.” Her gasped words are muffled by my now-damp collar.

  “No, I suppose not,” I concede with a sigh. “Except maybe—”

  “Caro,” she finishes for me, and for a moment we are both laughing as well as crying and I think perhaps she’s going to be all right after all.

  * * *

  —

  I call my lawyer first thing the next morning, though it’s mid-morning before she gets back to me. Thankfully Paul is out of the office so I am free to talk uninhibitedly; she listens intently to my account of the meeting and asks a couple of pertinent questions before she gives her verdict. “He’s got more up his sleeve,” she says in her usual decisive manner. “That the girl on the CCTV isn’t Severine—well, it was never a given that it was; that’s not a game-changer. So he has more. He wouldn’t still be here without it. Do you think any of the others will speak to him without a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know.” I think about it. Not Lara, I don’t think; not anymore. And not Seb. Probably not Caro, either, unless she’s
playing some angle that I can’t foresee. Tom? I don’t know about Tom. “Probably not, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “Mmm.” I imagine her tapping her teeth with her fingernail, hopefully whilst wearing a less garish lipstick. A soft taupe, perhaps. “Obviously what I said before still stands: you mustn’t allow yourself to be questioned without me present, but the trick is to appear cooperative. Antagonizing the police is never a good strategy.”

  “Appear cooperative?” I stress the first word with an ironic twist.

  She laughs. “Well, yes, appear. If you actually happen to be cooperative, too, that’s fine, but not actually necessary.” She pauses, and I sense the shift of gear; the moment for humor has passed. “Have you thought any more about what happened on that Friday night? If there was some piece of information, however small, that you hadn’t mentioned before, you could come forward with it—with me present, I hasten to add—which would go a long way to demonstrating cooperation.”

  “Or demonstrating a desire to shift blame.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. Believe me, right now the lawyers for all of your little band will be advising their clients to shift the blame.” She waits to allow her words their full impact. “So,” she finally continues, “is there anything you can think of, anything at all, that you haven’t mentioned?”

  I’m silent. There’s so much I haven’t mentioned, both from that night and since. The smuggled cocaine and subsequent blazing row, Caro and Seb’s recent conspiratorial assignations, Tom’s continual absence of surprise (apart from during last night’s meeting), Modan and Lara’s relationship . . . “I’ll need to spend some time thinking about that,” I say at last.

  “You do that.” Her voice has hardened; there’s a warning note in it: I haven’t fooled her at all. “I can’t help you if I don’t have all the facts. I don’t want you bringing up things at the eleventh hour when you’re already under arrest.”

  I’m temporarily unable to breathe. “Arrest,” I croak when I finally find my voice. “Is that likely?”

  “Well, not off the current known facts, but as we’ve already discussed, Modan must have something more up his sleeve. He isn’t here for nothing.”

  “Right.” I rub my forehead. “Right.”

  “I think we should meet again and go over everything once more.” Her voice has softened a little. “My assistant will call you to set something up. In the meantime, promise me you’ll rack your brains about that evening.”

  “I will. I promise.” One would think I would have dwelled on little else since yesterday, but last night Lara’s emotional state had required a certain amount of dedicated focus. And if I’m honest, I’ve always shied away from memories of that week. But now . . . now the stakes are growing day by day, it seems. I should approach this as I would a problem with my company, I think; I should set aside time to apply dedicated thought. I look at my online calendar for today and decisively block out 5 P.M. to 6 P.M. I can’t think of what to put in the subject box, so I mark it private so that Julie can’t see the content and leave the subject blank, which in retrospect strikes me as highly ironic—marking an appointment private to hide the fact it says nothing at all. Then I wonder who else is speaking to their lawyer and setting aside thinking time, and it doesn’t seem at all funny anymore.

  * * *

  —

  By happy coincidence, Gordon is hurrying through the Haft & Weil lobby just as I swing in through the revolving doors, a small frown and his short, quick steps betraying the time pressure he’s under. Nevertheless, he stops when he sees me, and the frown clears. “Kate,” he says, shaking my hand. “I’ve been meaning to call you.” He takes my arm and draws me aside, out of the way of the revolving door traffic. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get the opportunity to explain to you in person the change of spearhead at our end. That was . . .” He pauses, and for a moment I see the legendary Farrow steel in his eyes. “Well, that was badly done.” I’m absurdly pleased that he’s annoyed with Caro—for once not because it’s Caro, but because he understands the lack of respect implied by that episode. He lowers his voice and continues. “The idea of putting her in charge actually came from your suggestion of finding her some management initiatives to get involved with, so thank you for that. Though I have to say I’m going to miss our little meetings.” He smiles a little ruefully.

  “Me too,” I say honestly. “It’s been a real pleasure.” His eyes crinkle at the edges, then he glances at his watch. “But you’re on your way to something.” I am anxious not to impose. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “I’m sorry, I do hate to say hi and bye . . . Actually, what are you doing for lunch today?”

  “Caro invited me to have a bite with her after our meeting.”

  He brightens. “Excellent, I’ll gate-crash.” I laugh. “And if she cancels lunch on you—which is rather likely; she’s under the cosh on something big right now, and I can’t imagine she’s getting much sleep, let alone time to eat properly—then you won’t be left in the lurch. Perfect,” he says, with a satisfied air. “See you then.” He turns away, tossing a smile over his shoulder, and I think that I can’t see a single atom of him that resembles Caro.

  And neither can I see an ounce of Gordon in Caro when she joins me in the meeting room—basement this time, no spectacular view; in fact no view at all—after a wait that’s only been long enough for me to pour a cup of coffee from the attendant silver flask. She does indeed look tired, even more so than at last night’s meeting: the shadows under her eyes have deepened, and she’s even paler, though that might actually be the effect of the rather stark, though very sharp, black trouser suit she’s wearing. We greet each other with air kisses and then I say, “I saw your dad in the lobby. He’s planning to gate-crash our lunch.”

  She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Shameless man. Though since I’m waiting on a call from New York, which will of course come just as we’re sitting down to eat, I might be best leaving the two of you to it.” She pulls out a seat, snags a biscuit and takes a bite of it in what seems like one continuous movement. Caro is running purely on adrenaline, I realize.

  “He did say you’re rather snowed under at the moment.”

  She nods vehemently as she finishes her mouthful. “A rather full-on hostile bid. I haven’t been home to my flat since I saw you yesterday.” She raises her eyebrows ruefully. “You remember how it is during the crazy times. If you get home at all, it’s never before midnight, and on the odd occasion that you do, there’s a stack of laundry to get through and bills to pay and you have no inclination to do either.”

  It’s an odd sensation to be feeling sorry for Caro. I don’t enjoy it. But I do remember exactly what she describes. Before I left the practice of law, I did everything that is expected of a lowly associate, and what is expected is to give your all—all your time, all your energy, all your social life; all is consumed by the beast that is the modern top-tier corporate law firm. I remember the late nights in a deserted office, when even the air con had stopped working and the air grew still and heavy and hot. I remember strip lighting and the faint glow from the few computer screens still on, and eyes so tired and scratchy that I could barely read my monitor. The adrenaline rushes occurred in the day, fueled by the enthusiasm of the other team members, but the real hard graft usually happened at night, alone or perhaps with one colleague, with no more camaraderie on tap to spur you on. Mostly I remember the sense of disjointment, of being outside of everything—outside of the firm, where I could never quite belong; outside of my circle of friends whose social life didn’t halt but went on happily without me; outside of my very own life. I left the practice of law for reasons that had nothing to do with the working hours, and in starting up Channing Associates I’ve been no stranger to long days that bleed into nights, and weeks that spread a stain into weekends, but I wonder how I would cope with 110-hour weeks now.

  “I sup
pose the period before partnership is even more brutal,” I respond neutrally. Typically candidates continue to work at the same breakneck pace, but with the added stress of continual scrutiny of every single decision they take, every strategy they suggest.

  Her face tightens a fraction. I suspect Caro is aware her campaign is not going perfectly. But she simply says, “Yes,” then busies herself selecting another biscuit. I remember that, too: the diabolic diet that comes from having lost all sense of normal body rhythm, leaving you lurching from one sugar fix to another. After a moment she adds, “At any rate, I think I’m going to be stuck here all week and all weekend too.”

  “Did you have plans?”

  “I was going to visit my mum, but . . .” She shrugs ruefully.

  “Do you see her much?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  She shakes her head, a small, economical movement. “I always think I should go down more.” She grimaces, but not without humor. “Right up to the point when I’m there, and then I rather think the opposite.”

  That pulls a chuckle from me. “You don’t get along?”

  She shrugs again. “It’s a well-trodden path. Things start well, but sooner or later the criticisms will come out. She didn’t want me to become a lawyer, you see, but I always wanted to follow Dad into the law. She can’t see the point of me working so hard when surely I could marry money, or live off Dad’s . . .” She trails off and grimaces again, but the humor is gone; she seems suddenly defenseless, and for the first time ever I can imagine the thirteen-year-old girl that she once was, trying to navigate through the trials of teenage life with a mother she can never please who is using her as a tool against the father she longs to emulate. I think of my own mother, a geriatric nurse, gently proud but benignly uncomprehending both of the job that I do and why I would want to do it, given the stress and long hours—it was always my father who understood. For the first time ever I want to reach out to Caro, but I have no idea how.