Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(53)

In London, there were no street signs on poles at corners. The elegant street plaques were on the corners of buildings themselves, often at second-story height, so Stevie was always looking up. She looked up at buildings stately and twee, buildings that looked like old soot and others that were pastel mint and butter yellow, or finished in fine decorative work from a different age. The streets got narrower, barely the width of a car. They passed down the proud Old Compton Street, which was clearly the center of the gay district. They wound around corners and through alleys. This was deep in an old part of London, something lively and varied, probably a bit questionable at times.

Sooz lived behind a stark black door on a street of cafés and shops that were so perfectly adorable and expensive-looking that Stevie felt poorer just being near them. Sooz’s particular door was between a vegetarian café painted sky blue and a purple-gray bao shop. Izzy hit the button for flat 2, and the door popped open with a gentle buzz. They ascended a set of creaky internal steps carpeted in red, several of which slanted toward the left, like the house may have been knocked over at some point and hastily propped back up again. Flat 2 was at the top of the stairs and was fronted by a modern door that didn’t match the rest of the interior.

It opened, revealing a tall, redheaded woman with enormous almond-shaped eyes. She was dressed all in black—slim black trousers, a formfitting black turtleneck sweater. Stevie didn’t really know how cashmere was different from other materials, but somehow, she knew that everything Sooz was wearing was made of it.

“Isabelle!” She wrapped her arms around Izzy. It was a wide, all-encompassing embrace.

“This is Stevie,” Izzy said. “She’s a friend. I brought her along because—”

“No need to explain. When I was at university, I went everywhere with my friends as well. You know that. Come in, come in. Peter and Yash are on their way. They were just finishing up a rehearsal.”

They were admitted into a small but perfectly outfitted apartment. The main space had a white shag rug and two cobalt-blue sofas. There was a lot of black and silver and mirrors in curious places. By the door there was a rattan organizer that held shoes, magazines, books, purses, a hairbrush, a makeup case. The kinds of things a working actress might drop on the way in late at night or need on her way out the door again. Every inch of wall space was in use, encrusted in pictures and framed posters from shows. Dozens of them. Pictures in frames on the shelves. Pictures magnetized to the fridge and the hood of the stove. Pictures rotating through multiple digital frames. Sooz had selfied long before the world knew what a selfie was. There was Sooz with some vaguely familiar faces. Stevie had to look twice before she recognized an actress from one of her favorite English detective shows. There was Sooz in black and white, dressed as a ringmaster. Right by the galley kitchen was a long photograph of an entire class from Cambridge, all in white skirts, draped in black academic gowns, arranged in a formal photograph taken outside. In calligraphy at the top, around a double crest of two shields, were the words Cambridge University, Magdalene College, Matriculation, 1995.

Sooz noticed Stevie pause in front of it.

“Several of us in that one,” she said. “Angela, Peter, Noel, and I all went to Magdalene.”

She pronounced it “Maudlin.”

“Cup of char?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, please,” Izzy said.

At Stevie’s puzzled look, she clarified.

“Tea. Sorry. Would you like some?”

Stevie nodded.

“I’ve been racking my brain,” Sooz said as she filled the kettle. “I’ve been texting. I’ve been talking to the others. It makes no sense. It makes no sense, Izzy. She’s not like this. Not Ange. I don’t understand it.”

“That’s why Stevie and the others are here. Stevie is—”

“Sebastian told me. And I read about you when he explained. Can you help us?”

It was always a bit weird when strangers put their faith in her. Just this morning, Stevie had almost eaten the stopper they put in her coffee. She wanted to say something wonderful and brave and inspiring, but what came out was “Uh . . . I can . . . try . . . to . . . do . . .”

Sooz fidgeted around the kitchen, letting Stevie run out that sentence. She peered out the window to a roof beyond it, where three cats sat in a triangular formation, staring at each other.

“They do this,” Sooz said absently. “For hours. Stare at each other like this. I’m afraid one of these days they’re going to tear each other apart.”

“Which one is yours?” Stevie asked.

“Mine? Oh, none of them. I’m allergic to cats. Hives all over.”

Everyone considered the impending battle as the kettle began to rumble to a boil. Sooz was on it as soon as it clicked, dumping hot water into mugs. It seemed to focus her. She fussed around, grabbing tea bags and mugs and tiny spoons and a tray. She moved with the lilting motion of someone who ran through life on the tips of her toes.

They sat in the living room. Sooz draped herself elegantly in the corner of one of the sofas, tucking her bare feet under her, and stared out over the steam of her tea. No sooner had she done so than the buzzer rang.

“That’ll be Yash and Peter,” she said, bouncing up.

Yash Varma was a tall man, with dark brown skin and a thick, well-sculpted beard that rounded his jaw. He had sparkling brown eyes—there was genuine merriment there. He seemed like the kind of person who laughed easily and often. He came in, peeling off a green peacoat and revealing a scrappy Nirvana T-shirt and jeans.