The French Girl

by Lexie Elliott

  “What would you have done?” I ask curiously.

  “Taken your car keys and dumped her somewhere far away,” he says promptly, so promptly that I know he’s thought about this before.

  “Modan asked about cars . . .” I trail off. There’s a tendril of something in my brain that I can’t quite catch. Severine has a cigarette in her hand now. She blows out smoke in a slow, languid breath, her eyes fixed on me, as dark and unreflective as always.

  “We’re really considering this, then?” says Lara to no one in particular. “That it could have been Seb? One of us?” There’s nothing to say to that. She reaches for a slice of pizza, then pauses with it partway to her mouth to remark, “If Caro was involved, it would have to be for Seb. I can’t imagine her doing that for anyone else.” She thinks for a moment more, then gestures with the pizza. “Caro and Seb. God, I hope he’s not that stupid.”

  “He’s pretty stupid at times, but even so . . .” Tom grimaces, but then shakes his head. They’re both sneaking wary glances at me. The instinct not to talk about Seb in front of me has become so ingrained over the years that they’re struggling to shake it. Tom shakes his head again. “I’m sure he’s not. He must know it would mean too much to her.”

  “Has everybody always known that?” I ask hesitantly. “I don’t think I did back then—did I miss it? I knew she didn’t like me going out with Seb, but I thought she just didn’t like me.”

  “She didn’t like you,” Tom says, not without humor, at the same time as Lara says, “She still doesn’t like you.”

  A smile curls my lips despite myself. “No, really, guys, don’t beat around the bush on my account.” Tom grins and Lara giggles. “I knew she didn’t like me, but I didn’t think it was me so much as what I represent—or what I don’t represent. I didn’t go to the right school, I didn’t spend my summers in Pony Club and winters in Verbier, I don’t have the right accent.”

  “Val d’Isère,” says Tom. I roll my eyes. How is it that we’re now back at this easy ebb and flow? Surely there has to be a reckoning at some point? “But I take your point: she’s a snob. Of course she wouldn’t like you. But especially not since you were dating Seb.”

  “You’re right, though; she’s more obvious now,” Lara observes.

  I munch on the pizza and let this marinate. The trick is to take in the new without polluting the old, and I don’t think I’ve got the hang of it: it’s too easy to project what I know now on what I remember from then. I remember Seb; I remember the faint disbelief I carried around inside me that Seb—silver-spooned, silver-tongued, golden-hued Seb—that he was with me. Part of me expected all girls to want him. And Seb . . . well, Seb expected it, too; he took it as his right, and any suggestion that he encouraged it was instantly labeled “jealousy.” I decided early on that I would not allow him to brand me with that, but that required a lot of hard work and, in retrospect, willful ignorance. Perhaps it’s no wonder I dismissed Caro’s long-held unrequited love too lightly.

  I finish my slice before I break the companionable silence. “Anyway, we’ve strayed from the point. Tom, what do you think happened? You’ve always known more than us.”

  He doesn’t dispute it. “I was actually trying not to drag you guys into it.”

  “We’re pretty firmly mired in it all now.”

  “Speak for yourself,” yawns Lara. “I’m sure I’m off the hook.”

  I give her arm a gentle poke. “So much for solidarity. Well, I’m pretty firmly mired in it all, at least.”

  He doesn’t dispute that, either.

  “You saw something,” Lara prompts.

  He nods. “I did. I . . .” A loud buzz interrupts him. He cocks his head and turns toward his door. “Probably a mistake. A drunk or something.” The buzzer sounds again, in three short blasts then a long hold. “A highly obnoxious drunk.” He crosses the kitchen quickly and exits to the hall. We hear him speaking tersely to the intercom by his front door. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” comes an unmistakable voice, unexpectedly loud through the speaker. Lara’s guilt-filled eyes fly to mine, which no doubt display the same. Speak of the devil . . . “Let me up. I’m the glad bearer of tidings—the bearer of glad tidings. Or something . . .”

  “Come on up then.” Tom sounds resigned. He reappears in the doorway of the kitchen. “Seb,” he says unnecessarily.

  Lara makes a face. “Definitely an obnoxious drunk, then. Though who am I to talk, after all this wine.” She slides down the stool and turns for her bag and coat. “I’m going to have to leave you to it.”

  “I’ll come with you.” But I’m still perched on the stool, anchored by the same one ankle.

  “Stay,” Tom says quickly. “I’ll get rid of him.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Charming. Whatever happened to blood being thicker than water?”

  “Doesn’t apply when the blood is thinned by alcohol. He’ll probably have to slope home to Alina soon anyway.”

  Lara is not too sleepy to have missed this exchange: I see her eyes dart back and forth between us as she pulls her coat on, but her face is carefully expressionless. “Call me tomorrow,” she says to me neutrally. “You can fill me in on the outcome of the rest of this Nancy Drew session.”

  And so I stay.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Seb is drunk.

  Not just a little squiffy, or even moderately tipsy, but unequivocally drunk. The sort of drunk that can only be achieved by dedicated effort—a long, brutally determined session—or by a staggering lack of tolerance. But I’m beginning to suspect that Seb’s tolerance has been well bolstered over the last decade.

  “Jesus,” says Tom, as Seb stumbles in through the kitchen door that Lara has just slipped out of, catching hold of the frame to steady himself. He’s in a dark suit, the tail of his tie dangling from his trouser pocket, and there are stains on his white shirt, but it’s his face that really arrests attention. His eyes are glazed and patterned with red veins like cracks; he’s flushed, heavy jowled and loose lipped. The tan that sits on his skin is too insubstantial to hide the damage of his night’s work. “Look at the state of you. Where have you been?”

  “The King’s Head by the office. Leaving drinks. They’re firing half the bloody floor; there’s been leaving drinks for weeks . . . Then a bloody good wine bar in Knightsbridge. Then, God, I don’t know.” He peers across the room, as if struggling to see through darkness despite the kitchen being well lit, swaying slightly despite the support of the doorframe. “Kate, too? You know I just saw Lara on the way up the stairs.” His speech is slurred: he has particular trouble with Lara; it could be Lalla or Lulla.

  “Hi, Seb.” I make no move to climb off the stool. He is not something I want to kiss hello.

  “Come and have a glass of water,” Tom says, running the tap in the sink. He eyes the difficult stools. “On second thought, maybe we should move to the sofa.”

  “Not water,” says Seb, shaking his head, but he lets Tom shepherd him through the open-plan room in the direction of the living room area. I take the water glass off Tom in return for a muttered thanks and then follow the pair of them. “Need something stronger. Wet the baby’s head. Alina’s pregnant. Going to be a dad. Fuck.” He sounds astonished, as if he can’t quite understand how he got to this point.

  “Congratulations! Didn’t know—woah, there!—you had it in you.” I can hear the exasperation under Tom’s words as he tries to stop Seb ricocheting off the walls, knocking awry the photographic prints Tom has hung there.

  I pause by the dining table that separates the kitchen space from the living room area and compose myself. Seb has collapsed onto one sofa, legs sprawled out, shoulders hunched over well below the line of the sofa back. Severine sits in the opposite corner of the same sofa, her feet curled up under her, eyeing Seb with unmistakable distaste. Tom switches on a couple of table lamps, then sits in the a
rmchair.

  “Congratulations, Seb,” I say, holding out the water. He doesn’t take it—I’m sure he can barely see it—so I put it on the coffee table. I can’t bring myself to sit on Severine—or near Seb for that matter, so I settle on the footstool. “How is Alina feeling?”

  “Oh, fine, fine. She’s always fine.”

  I think of Alina with the crumpled paper towel in the bathroom of the restaurant. No, Alina is not always fine.

  “How far along is she?” asks Tom.

  “Ten weeks. Not supposed to say yet, but . . .” He shrugs. I can barely discern the movement, his head is sunk so deeply into his chest. “Fuck. A baby.” A phone starts to ring from the depths of his suit jacket. He clumsily pulls it out, peers at the screen then leans forward to deposit it on the table without answering. He passes a hand over his face, then collapses back into the sofa again. Just when I think he’s passed out, he turns to me with an unexpectedly shrewd look. “What are you doing here anyway? Have I interrupted something?” He starts to laugh as if the idea is hilarious. “Sloppy seconds, huh, Tom?”

  In that instant I detest him with a force that’s blinding. I actually want to physically hurt him. It scares me.

  “You just saw Lara, Seb,” Tom reminds him evenly, but his jaw is clenched. He’s not looking at me. It feels deliberate. “You think I’m screwing them both?” Screwing. To screw, a verb. I screw, we screw, they screwed, screw you . . . it can never sound anything but cheap, sordid. Is that how he thinks of the corridor kiss?

  “Ha-ha,” Seb snorts. “Don’t tell me it never crossed your mind. Certainly crossed mine once or twice.” In another world, in other circumstances, this would be harmless fun. The kind of flirting men do with attractive female friends that elicits a naughty giggle and a warm glow. But we’re not in that world. There’s a hard edge to Seb’s words, a nastiness. Was he always like this when he’d had a few? I recall Lara’s words: Definitely an obnoxious drunk, then. I can’t specifically recall it, but it doesn’t quite surprise me, either.

  I stand up abruptly. “I think I’ll head home after all. The company’s better there.” Severine eyes me from the sofa, as close to a smirk on her face as I have ever seen. At least I’ve conjured up a figment of imagination that appreciates my sly digs.

  “No, don’t,” says Seb. He struggles himself a little more upright and lunges out with an arm to try and stop me. “I’m sorry. Don’t take it like that. Was just having fun. Don’t have to take everything so seriously! Sorry, sorry . . .” His mumbles trail off, but he continues to look at me beseechingly, somehow both aggrieved and hangdog, a little boy mostly pretending to be ashamed of himself. This I remember. Seb is a master at apologies that somehow make you feel like the fault is more than likely your own.

  The phone starts to ring again; he drops my arm. “Alina?” asks Tom, but from my vantage point of standing I can see on the screen that it’s not Alina calling.

  “It’s Caro,” I inform them, but I think Seb knows that. He’s made no move to answer. I can see he’s missed eight calls; I wonder how many are from Caro. The phone subsides into sulky silence.

  “Would never have met you if it wasn’t for Tom,” Seb rambles, as if there’s been no interruption. He seems to have found a philosophical bent. “That’s why we went to that party, you know, when we crashed Linacre Ball. Tom wanted to see some girl . . .” He trails off, smirking at Tom. I catch a glimpse of Tom’s face, set with tension. I don’t understand the undercurrent.

  “Who?” I prompt, when Seb doesn’t go on. I’ve never heard this story before.

  “Yes, who was that girl? I don’t think you ever told me,” says Seb with faux-innocence, but in his inebriated state, subtlety is beyond him. Seb, I deduce, knows exactly who it was.

  “Who knows? It was a long time ago,” Tom says tightly, but he’s interrupted by Seb’s mobile ringing once more.

  “It’s Caro again,” I say neutrally.

  “I know,” he mutters. His head is sunk on his chest again. “Fuck.” This time it’s more of a moan.

  “Why is Caro calling you so much?” Tom asks, as if it’s only of the mildest interest to him.

  “I’m not sleeping with her if that’s what you think.” He’s both belligerent and defensive. His fabled charm has most definitely fled him this evening.

  “I never said—”

  “Yeah, well, you implied it. Of course I’m not sleeping with her; I’m not completely stupid. Never have in all these years.” His head lolls again. “Barely even kissed her,” he mutters. He rubs a hand down his face, then lunges drunkenly for my arm again, and catches it, pulling me down awkwardly so I’m half hunched over. “I fucked up, Kate,” he mumbles urgently, looking straight in my eyes. “Should never have given up on us. Everything was okay, wasn’t it? We were good, weren’t we? But then I fucked up. And now . . . oh, fuck . . .” I start to feel a sense of foreboding building in my stomach. Seb releases my arm abruptly, and I lose my balance, grabbing at the coffee table to steady myself. When I look back at Seb he has his arm raised, shielding his eyes with his forearm. I glance at Tom questioningly. He shakes his head, nonplussed.

  “Seb, what’s wrong?” I ask hesitantly. “What is it?”

  “Leaving drinks.” His lips fumble around the words, thick and rubbery. “My leaving drinks.”

  “But you just came across from New York. Surely they wouldn’t fire you when—”

  “Not fired. Resigned. Not fired. My boss was—kind—enough to give me the option.” His arm is still over his eyes.

  “What did you do?” Tom asks, brutally direct.

  “What I always do. I fucked up.” He lifts his arm away; it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but I think his eyes are wet. “Not like you, eh, Tom? You always hit the mark. Tom is doing so well at school. Tom’s won a scholarship, didn’t you hear? Tom’s really racing up the career ladder; you know he’s head of FX trading now? Why can’t you be more like your cousin?”

  My breath catches in shock. I can’t imagine Seb would ever betray such bitterness were it not for the amount he’s drunk, and I can’t imagine he would want me to see this. I feel instantly grimy, like I’m peeping in on a private scene. Tom’s face is impassive. I wonder if he’s heard this before or simply guessed at the simmering resentment. “What did you do?” Tom repeats, remarkably undeterred.

  Seb rubs a hand over his face, and all the fight seems to leave him. “I was drunk,” he says hoarsely. “At work. All this stuff with that fucking French girl, and Alina and the baby, and then Caro in my ear—it just . . . got too much.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and leaves them there. “Fuck!” he says with explosive savagery.

  When Tom shakes his head, I can see exasperation warring with pity upon his face. “Oh, Seb,” he says softly.

  That fucking French girl. A literal statement in this case, since he was the one fucking her. But one look at Seb’s distress robs me of my ironic amusement; there’s nothing to laugh at here. “I’m sorry,” I say inadequately. I look at Tom. “You should call Alina and let her know he’s here; she’s probably worried sick.”

  He nods and picks up Seb’s mobile to scroll through the directory for Alina’s number, stepping toward the corridor to make the call. I wonder if he’s also checking how many times Caro has rung; I would be.

  Seb is falling asleep, I think. I suppose he will have to stay here, and therefore Tom and I are unlikely to have our tête-à-tête tonight after all. I should go; in fact, I’m eager to go—watching someone unravel is far from comfortable, and Severine has already ditched the scene. I make a move toward the corridor, but suddenly Seb lunges for my arm once more: not asleep after all. He pulls me into that awkward crouch again, but this time I’m forewarned; I brace myself on the arm of the sofa. “It wasn’t me,” he says urgently, pleadingly, his bloodshot eyes seeking mine out directly. “You have to kno
w that. It wasn’t me—I would have remembered if it was me, wouldn’t I? It couldn’t have been me. I came to bed; it couldn’t have been me.”

  “I . . .” I’m helpless for words. Hypothetically discussing Seb as a suspect for murder in Tom’s kitchen over pizza is a far cry from facing down the mess that is the man himself. Tom’s footsteps sound behind me, and I turn, relieved at the interruption, but I see Tom halt abruptly at the sight of us, his face frozen. I’m suddenly horribly aware of how close Seb’s face is to mine.

  I start to disengage my arm just as Seb blurts, “I think I’m going to vom—” He releases me and lurches upward as I scatter backward; Tom starts back into action, practically hauling him by the collar toward the bathroom. Moments later I hear the unmistakable sound of Seb’s stomach evacuating itself.

  I climb back onto my feet and go in search of my coat and my handbag, both of which are still in the kitchen. The dirty pizza plates are still on the counter; if I were a truly wonderful guest I would wash them up, but given it’s now past midnight I am definitely nowhere near wonderful—the most I have the energy for is to stack them in the sink, since on inspection the dishwasher is full. My mind is flitting from Seb’s desperate, pleading eyes to Tom’s shuttered face, and back again . . . It’s hardly the most important question, but I keep wondering who the girl was, the girl that Tom dragged Seb to the party for. Once upon a time I would have landed upon one name only, but I’m starting to think there’s a second option.

  I pick up my coat and exit the kitchen to find Tom hovering in the corridor, lit only by the yellow slash of light coming from the bottom of the bathroom door, and the dim light spilling in from the kitchen and living room.

  “You got hold of Alina?” I ask, to cover my awkwardness. Tom and I, alone again in this same corridor—how could it not be awkward?

  “Yeah. He’s going to stay here for tonight.” He’s leaning his back against the wall; I can barely see the white of his teeth as he yawns. “She knew about him losing his job. She brought it up; I was wondering whether Seb would have told her or not.”