The French Girl(13)

She looks past me, alarmed, as if she can see through the hall walls to the living room. “I thought that was tomorrow,” she whispers urgently.

“No, today. You may as well come and say hello.”

“But I don’t . . . I’m not . . . But . . .” I look at her, puzzled, then she takes a deep breath and smooths her dress. “Okay.” She comes in, taking a quick glance at herself in the hallway mirror before she follows me into the living room.

Mr. Modan has climbed to his feet and is looking out of the window. He turns as he hears us enter the room, and his face goes oddly still. Before I have a chance to say a few words of polite introduction, Lara speaks up from behind me. “It’s you.”

I glance at her, not understanding the words or her tone. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s half turned to the door, as if she still might flee. The French investigator could be a statue. I’m not completely sure he’s breathing. Then with an effort, he comes alive and shoots the cuffs of his suit before crossing the room to shake her hand. “Yes. Alain Modan.”

“Lara Petersson,” she says quietly. “But of course you know that.”

I look from one to the other. I wonder if it will be the same one? She wasn’t talking about the lead investigator. “I take it I’ve been very rude and failed to remember you from the earlier investigation,” I say dryly to Alain Modan.

He turns to me with a quick smile and raises a hand as if to say, No matter. “It was a long time ago. I was very junior, one of many assisting.” He looks back at Lara, then away quickly. Then he collects himself. “Miss Channing, you have a guest. We can continue another time, if I have more questions.”

“Oh. Okay. Fine.” If I’d known having a guest would roust him, I’d have arranged for an interruption long before this, I think sourly. Except I wouldn’t have, really. Better to get these things over and done with.

He turns to Lara. “à demain, Miss Petersson.” Until tomorrow.

“Oui, à demain,” she says, then follows up with something too quick for me to catch. I forgot Lara’s French was rather impressive; she’s one of those irritating Scandinavians with umpteen languages to their credit.

When I’ve closed the door on Monsieur Alain Modan, investigateur, I follow Lara to the kitchen and find her already pulling a bottle of white wine from my fridge and studiously avoiding my eye.

“What was that all about?”

She pours two glasses. Very large glasses. She seems to be giving the task more attention than it deserves. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

“Don’t give me that. Did you and he . . . ?”

“No!” She looks up, appalled. “Of course not!” I hold her gaze until she breaks and takes a sip of her wine.

I reach out for my own glass and take a sip, still watching her. She’s avoiding my eyes again. “Lara,” I say warningly.

“Oh, all right!” She folds, like I knew she would, and finally looks up. “Nothing happened, truly. He, um . . .” She takes another sip of wine, then says in a rush, “He wouldn’t. He said it wouldn’t be proper. Appropriate, I mean. Under the circumstances.” She’s blushing, more furiously than I’ve ever seen before.

“Oh my God,” I say wonderingly, a smile breaking out slowly on my face. “He’s that mythical creature. The one that got away from Lara Petersson.”

“He’s not . . . It’s not . . . Oh, fuck off,” she says, screwing up her nose prettily. She takes an unfeasibly long drink from her glass, then looks at me dejectedly. “Only it’s still not appropriate, right? Not until he clears us from the investigation. And then he’ll be back in France.”

“I can’t believe you never told me any of this.” I’m not hurt; I’m just amazed that I missed this.

She ducks her head apologetically. “Well, like I said, nothing happened. And you and Seb had just split up, and you know what a state that left you in. I didn’t want to dump my crap on you . . .”

For once the mention of Seb slides by almost unnoticed; I’m too thrown by this revelation. What else did I miss when I was licking my Seb-inflicted wounds? She takes in another large slug of wine, and I gaze at her in bemusement. Not only did the rejection matter to her then, it clearly still matters now. This is a Lara I haven’t seen before.

And then I think, Poor Tom.





CHAPTER FOUR


I dream of Severine, among others.

She has no right to be in my dreams, but that would never have stopped Severine. I’m back at the farmhouse, of course, and I’m trying to find something, or someone, but what? Who? I stick my head in the rooms, some empty, some not; some of the occupants weren’t even part of that fateful vacation, but somehow I’m not surprised to see them. I keep looking. Caro is alone in the kitchen; she’s wearing a white bikini top and a red chiffon sarong, and she looks up then laughs at me when I pass through. I realize I’m clad in jeans and a heavy-duty winter jumper, but I know I’ve nothing else to wear. Severine is smoking in the garden. She tells me something very seriously, but I don’t listen; in fact I’m picking up speed, running to the barn. The jumper is uncomfortably hot. I throw open the barn door, then catch my breath when I find Seb there. He’s wearing long beach shorts that are slung low on his hips. His hair is lighter than Tom’s, almost golden at the tips, and curlier; his muscular bare chest is tanned, and dark, springy hair makes a trail down his abdomen—a fully-fledged man whereas his peers are still leaving boyhood. Just like Caro he looks me up and down with those blue eyes that could be Tom’s, then laughs. It’s not a kind laugh.