The French Girl

by Lexie Elliott

  “Anyway,” she says briskly, breaking the moment, “I certainly could have done without having to sprint across to New Scotland Yard last night.” She eyes me across the table as she takes a neat bite, her small, sharp teeth gleaming white. Perhaps she’s had them bleached. She’s the Caro I expect once again, but that moment has shaken me. I can still feel the reverberations. Perhaps beneath the brittle painted surface of Caro, there are other versions, stacked like Russian dolls, years upon years of them, right back to the vulnerable girl that she must have been at the time of the divorce, and beyond—all of them inside her. Perhaps I should take more care with the shell. “What did you make of all of that yesterday?”

  I grimace, looking for a noncommittal answer. “I’m not sure I understand why Modan hasn’t given up and gone home. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything to support any one of us as a suspect over anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity.”

  She nods vigorously as she finishes her mouthful. “Totally. Completely agree.” She adds, almost as an afterthought, “Which makes it weird that he keeps asking me about Theo.”

  “Really?”

  “God, yes, like a dog with a bone. And what can I say? I mean, we were together until we went up to our beds, and then . . .” She waves a hand airily. It’s not a gesture that suits her; it’s too vague, and Caro is never vague. “Well, then I was asleep, and who can vouch for anyone when they’re asleep?”

  “Well, that applies to us all,” I say tightly. “There must have been a couple of hours when everyone was asleep and no one is accounted for.” Except for Lara and Tom, entwined in coital bliss . . .

  “Absolutely. Of course. Which makes it odd that he’s focusing on Theo particularly.” She shrugs. “Though—distasteful as it is to say, if it had to be one of us . . .” I stare at her, not so much appalled as bewildered—does she not know Tom at all? Surely she realizes he would fight ceaselessly to prevent any besmirching of Theo’s name. She shrugs again. “Well, onward and upward: why don’t you give me an overview of where we stand with the candidates?”

  So I do, and we discuss. The process is extremely developed by now; there’s not a lot she can add. Her questions are professional and intelligent, though she is clearly far more focused on immediate benefits to the firm from prospective new hires rather than their career development within the company, which is not quite the message Gordon would be sending candidates—I will have to be careful she doesn’t ruin the groundwork we’ve laid. I make a couple of careful allusions to it that are obviously less subtle than intended: after the second one she stops and laughs. “Kate,” she says through a smile that holds genuine amusement. “Don’t worry, I know how to stay on message. I won’t scare the horses.”

  “I know, of course not; it’s just that collegiality and long-term career opportunities are the main reason a couple of these candidates are considering this place.”

  “I get it. Don’t worry.” She puts down her pen and yawns, half-heartedly covering her mouth. The adrenaline has been slowly leaching out of her during our meeting, and the yawns are coming closer together. “Oh,” she says suddenly, brightening a little. “I meant to tell you, you may get a call from a chap called Hugh Brompton at Stockleys.” Stockleys is an enormously successful mid-tier UK firm with a footprint just about everywhere; it doesn’t compete with Haft & Weil, as it wouldn’t generally get the cutting-edge, high-profile deals, but there’s an awful lot of work around that isn’t cutting-edge or high profile. “We use them quite a bit when we need to outsource some of the drudge work—much cheaper for the client than Haft & Weil personnel.” She’s watching me carefully as she speaks, her head slightly cocked and her tired eyes gleaming birdlike. “Anyway, they’re looking to beef up certain areas, and I told Hugh about you and suggested they give you a call. It’s a big job, from what he says, and the contract is basically yours—as far as he’s concerned, if you’re good enough for Haft & Weil, you’re good enough for him.”

  I’m temporarily floored, then I say, “Thank you,” because of course I can’t say anything else, but inside I’m scrabbling around to figure out the angle, because of course there’s an angle, and if I don’t know what it is then I’m exactly where she wants me. Or at least, that’s how it would be for the Caro I thought I knew, but perhaps this Caro is something different . . . I adopt a smile that’s at least half genuine. “That’s kind of you, very much appreciated.”

  “Well, we’re in business together, and business partners help each other out.” Her eyes gleam, and she has a self-satisfied smile as she adds slyly, “I told you I could stay on message.”

  I laugh, both out of surprise and because her wicked little dig is genuinely funny, and for a moment I see her as she may well be, or perhaps I see her as Seb and Tom see her—a clever, sharply witty, fearless woman. I can’t tell if what she’s presenting now is only part of the picture or if the picture has changed: it leaves me uneasily off-kilter.

  Her mobile goes off, and she takes the call with a quick apology, firing out a series of short responses and checking her watch while she paces the room. “Sorry,” she says with a grimace when she hangs up. “That call from New York is going to happen in ten minutes. I’m afraid you and Gordon will be on your own for lunch.”

  “No problem.” We exit the windowless room into an equally windowless passageway. “You know,” I say conversationally, “I always wondered why you joined your father’s law firm. You could have gone to any number of competitors, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, sure,” she says offhand as we climb a sweeping glass-and-metal staircase to the main lobby, where I find myself blinking, somehow surprised at the daylight. But it’s lunchtime; of course there is daylight. “But Haft & Weil was really the best opportunity for me. You can’t do better than best in class, after all.”

  “Bravo,” I say, raising my eyebrows with a half smile. “Once again, admirably on message.”

  She lays a hand on my upper arm and laughs, a genuine laugh, and it softens her; her sharp edges become impish rather than cutting. “I told you I could.” She looks over my shoulder still smiling, then exclaims, “Right on time! Here’s Gordon. You know, I probably see more of him now than I did growing up, what with the divorce and boarding school and all.” She smiles a hello over my shoulder at him and then shakes my hand, quick and firm, cordially professional. “I’ll leave you in his capable hands; you two have a lovely lunch.”

  “We will,” Gordon says, smiling at her, then he turns and ushers me through the lobby. “Looks like you two are getting on famously,” he remarks, and it suddenly crosses my mind that perhaps Caro knew he was there and staged that little tableau—the laugh, the little touch—and then I realize how loathsomely paranoid I’ve become and I hate myself for it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The designated thinking hour arrives and departs without a single moment spent in contemplation, because Hugh Brompton does indeed call, and the job in question is dynamite, the kind of contract that really establishes a new firm—but of course they want our strategies and suggestions at a meeting tomorrow afternoon. So Paul and I work late, eating take-out sushi at our desks and mainly ignoring our mobiles. Actually, mainly ignoring Paul’s mobile: judging from the number of times it rings, he either has a very active social life or an extremely jealous girlfriend. In contrast, mine rings only twice: the first call is Lara, and I take it to quickly check how she’s holding up; the second is from Tom.

  “Do you need to take that?” asks Paul, and I realize I’m staring at the mobile screen as it rings.

  “No,” I say brightly as I reach over to hit the reject button. “I can deal with it later.” A moment later the phone beeps with a voice mail alert; I deliberately ignore it and turn back to Paul. “Where were we? Oh yes—do you think we’re promising too much with this timeline?”

  It’s one in the morning before I climb into a cab and settle in the back, glancing at
my phone out of habit. A tiny red alert reminds me I have a voice mail. I play the message, and Tom’s deep baritone greets me. “Hi, Kate, it’s Tom.” A pause. “We really do need to talk about the case. Are you able to come round after you finish work? I’ll be home, so just give me a call whenever . . .” He sounds uneasy, awkward even. “I . . . Well, give me a call.”

  It hardly credits belief that a single drunken kiss can reduce years of friendship to dodged calls and stilted voice mails. I stare out of the cab window in a state of torpid exhaustion and watch London slide by, lit patchily by garish neon signs and streetlamps that deliver a stark, pale light without color or warmth. After a moment I pick up my phone again and type out a text message.

  Been working late, big pitch tomorrow afternoon. I can drop by after work tomorrow. Kx.

  I read it over again before sending. Kx is my habitual sign-off with Tom, but now every character is fraught with meaning and open to misinterpretation. I remove the x.

  * * *

  —

  The presentation to Stockleys goes well: Paul is a good presenter, suave and relaxed, and he thinks well on his feet; his style is a good complement to my own direct approach. Caro was right: the contract was ours to lose, and by the time we are shaking hands and saying good-bye I know we haven’t done that. Paul hails a cab, and we jump in and animatedly dissect the meeting on the trip back to the office.

  “One thing I meant to ask you,” Paul says as he waits on the pavement for me to pay the cabbie. There’s an odd note in his voice that makes me glance over at him. His almost-translucent eyebrows are drawn together in a frown.

  “What?” I turn back to the cabdriver to collect my change.

  “Well, Mark Jeffers—”

  “The Clifford Chance associate?”

  “That’s the one. Well, he asked me if I was in line for a promotion.” I look at him blankly, not understanding. If he’s angling for more money, this is an odd approach. The cabdriver has pulled away, leaving the two of us together on the street by our office, but neither of us moves toward the doorway. “When you get arrested.”

  “What the fuck?” My mind is racing. How in the world did Mark Jeffers get hold of this? And how many other people has he spread this gossip to? This sort of rumor could cut off a fledgling company at the knees: even more than most companies, a recruitment firm’s only asset is its people and their reputation.

  He smiles in a thin line. “Actually, that’s exactly what I said. But he said he had it on good authority that you’re under investigation for a murder, of all things. In France or something. I told him he needs to get better sources.” He looks at me uneasily. “If there was anything to it you’d have told me about it. Right?”

  I take a deep breath. This will need careful handling. “I am not under investigation,” I say robustly. “A girl went missing from the next-door farmhouse when a group of us were in France on holiday ten years ago. Her body turned up recently—”

  “Turned up?”

  “Was found.” I see her again, the bones in a crumpled pile, ghostly white in the dim underground light. “In a well, actually,” I admit, the words somehow slipping out.

  “Jesus, Kate, and you’re just telling me this now?” He’s building up a head of righteous anger. I need to stomp on that quickly.

  “Come on, Paul, it’s nothing.” I make a show of impatience, stamping on the guilt that rises as I ostensibly belittle Severine’s death. I carry on defiantly. “Since the six of us were the last people to see her alive, obviously the police want to talk to us again, but that’s all it is. I can assure you I’m not about to be arrested.” I throw all my powers of persuasion into the eye contact we’re sharing and hope to high heaven that every word I’ve said is true.

  “You should have told me. The last thing we need is any kind of stain on our name. You know how people think: no smoke without fire.”

  “Rubbish. We have a contract from Haft & Weil and now one with Stockleys; that’s what clients will focus on, and those kinds of firms don’t employ headhunters under investigation for murder. This is just industry gossip that will be forgotten the minute some senior partner gets caught shagging his secretary.” Perhaps . . .

  He’s almost mollified; his anger has switched into sulkiness. “If it’s nothing, then why didn’t you mention it?” Does he have a point? We’re partners in a business together; we see each other every working day—would it have been normal to have mentioned this to him? I suppose so, especially if there was any chance of it impacting the business. Except I never thought that there was . . . Once again I wonder how the hell Mark Jeffers got hold of this. None of our names have ever been in the papers, except Theo’s parents as owners of the farmhouse.

  “Because . . .” I take another deep breath, and this time I tell him the absolute truth. “Because I don’t like talking about it. She was a family friend of the guy we were staying with; we practically spent all week with her, and then she . . .” I trail off. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.” Though it simply didn’t cross my mind to discuss it with anyone. I wonder how many people Lara has spoken to about it, or Seb or Tom or Caro.

  “Oh.” Paul is chastened; the personal impact didn’t quite occur to him. “No, I’m sorry. That must have been awful.” He touches my arm awkwardly, and I find a weak smile for him, appreciative of the gesture. I know I’m too comfortable being a solitary creature, but for the first time I realize that in an office of three, where we work long hours, that means I’m forcing solitude on Paul, too, who is definitely not naturally suited to it. I should make more of an effort to be social with him and Julie.

  “Come on,” I say, turning for our office. “Let’s go find Stockleys some candidates.” I look for Severine as we enter the office, almost unable to believe that she wouldn’t have wanted to eavesdrop on that little scene with Paul, but she’s not lounging at my desk as I’m expecting. I was hoping to see her, I realize, to . . . what? To apologize? To tell her that I’m sorry, but I’m fighting to keep Paul’s morale intact and that’s more important than hurting the feelings of the ghost who haunts me?

  Still, she was murdered. It’s not nothing. That’s what bothers me more than anything—that whoever did it might get away with it, and that would make it seem as if it doesn’t matter, as if Severine never mattered, because if our world continues without a hitch then we might as well be condoning it, and we don’t. I don’t. It’s not nothing.

  Back at my desk, the first thing I do is reschedule the thinking time.

  * * *

  —

  Tom’s flat. I loiter outside and try not to think about the last time I was here. I’m waiting for Lara: at the last minute I chickened out and called in the cavalry. And in truth Lara should be here, too; she’s already shown her colors by overthrowing Modan, and Tom has made it perfectly clear he only wants to talk about the case. Though I haven’t failed to notice the desperate, clichéd irony of my support system being exactly the person Tom wants instead of me, which is why I need the support in the first place . . .

  Lara appears from the direction of the tube station in a powder blue dress, her blond locks lit luminous red gold by the evening sun that bleeds red ribbons of cloud across the horizon. Severine is beside her, walking barefoot with a loose feline grace in the familiar black shift dress, her hair wrapped in the red chiffon scarf. Her sandals are dangling from one finger. I walk down to meet them, marveling at the tableau they present with the setting sun behind them. Lara and Severine, one light, one dark. Are these two really all I can trust in the world?

  “How are you, honey?” I ask as I hug her. It’s not a pleasantry; I pull back to search her face as she casts around for an answer.

  “Okay,” she says, with a slight rueful twist to her lips. She looks a touch pale, and she’s wearing less makeup than usual, but her cornflower eyes are clear with no telltale red rims. “Not great, but . . . okay
.”

  We head back toward Tom’s flat, chatting about this and that. She’s Lara, but a dimmed version; I can’t feel her usual vibrancy, and the lack of it makes me ache for her. At the bottom of the steps, I can delay no longer, and I stop her for a moment. “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”

  “What?” she prompts as I hesitate.

  “That night in the farmhouse . . . with Tom . . . was there ever a time you were apart? And . . . well, did you sleep?”

  She assesses me shrewdly, her eyes narrowing. “You’re trying to figure out if it could have been Tom.”

  “I’m just looking at every angle,” I say stiffly. I honored the thinking hour this time, and this question is one of the consequences.

  “What about me then?” she challenges. There’s a wild light in her eye that I don’t recognize. “If you’re willing to accuse Tom, why not me?”

  “Of course it wasn’t you.”

  “Why not?” The light flares into anger. “Why does nobody consider me? Pretty, vacuous Lara—she’s not even capable of a murder. Best not trouble her pretty little head with all of that.”

  I look at her in astonishment. I know this is tied up with Modan somehow, but I’m not quite sure how to navigate it. “Well . . . okay, then, tell me: did you murder Severine?”

  “Of course not,” she says, the anger suddenly leaving her. “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.”

  The absurdity strikes us both at the same time, and we start to giggle. When the last bubbles of laughter have died out, I say quietly, “It’s not a bad thing, Lara. You’re full of light, you think the best of everyone, we all see it, it draws us in. But nobody thinks you’re vacuous.” She inclines her head a little ruefully, not entirely accepting my words. “Did Modan say something to you? Are you still talking to him?” I ask cautiously.