The French Girl(14)

The dream doesn’t fade when I wake; it presses on my temples and adds to the throbbing left by one too many glasses of wine with Lara. Getting out of bed—in fact, all of what the day requires—seems a supreme effort, but then I imagine Paul and Julie at the office wondering where I am, and that provides the necessary impetus. By the time Tom calls my mobile that afternoon, the headache has dulled but the effort remains.

“How was it?” he asks. I can hear a very particular hubbub in the background: sharp orders and staccato words in the male register. He’s on the trading floor at his bank; Tom trades interest rate derivatives. I’m on Oxford Street myself, en route to meet a prospective client; I expect my own background noise is equally loud.

“How was what? Please tell me you’re not rigging the markets while chatting to me.”

He laughs. “No, I have people to do that for me now. And for the benefit of the recorded line: that was a joke. Anyway, I meant how was the thing with the French detective.”

“Pretty awful actually.” I look around, then back at the map in my hand. New Bond Street is a big street. It can’t have disappeared.

“How so?” he asks cautiously.

“It’s . . . well, I don’t really want to think about what might have happened to her.” I don’t really want to think about her at all. I look around again. There’s a disappointing lack of street name signs. “Jesus, where is this place?” I mutter. I spy something that might be a sign and march in that direction.

“Lost?” asks Tom, amused. “Where’s your legendary sense of direction?”

“Lara drowned it in wine last night. It’s her turn with the detective today, actually.”

“Yeah, I know, I spoke to her this morning,” he says easily. I stop walking. Lara must have given him her number. “It’s tomorrow for me. Listen, I have to jump. I’ve got a dicey option expiry approaching, but I was wondering if you fancy coming down to Hampshire for Sunday lunch. My folks would love to see you.”

“Um, sure. I don’t think I have anything on. Sounds lovely.” Which it does—I’ve met his parents half a dozen times over the years, though never at their home; his dad is charmingly eccentric and his mum is lovely. “Is Lara coming, too?—oh, she’s in Sweden this weekend, I forgot.”

“Yeah, she’s away.” He already knows what her weekend plans are. “I’ll drive us down. I’ll call you on Saturday to figure out timings.” I hear someone calling his name in the background. “Yeah, just coming,” he calls back, then to me, “Speak Saturday.”

“Saturday.” I pocket my phone and look around again. New Bond Street is right there, where it’s always been. I still have a headache.



* * *



—

Sunday. Tom turns up at ten thirty in something retro, white and low-slung that he’s visibly excited by. Cars mean nothing to me, but Seb would be envious, I think, then I shut down that train of thought.

“Am I supposed to be in awe?” I ask Tom teasingly.

“The salesman promised me the mere sight would make women drop their knickers,” he deadpans.

“I would, but it’s a bit chilly today and I don’t fancy a draft up my skirt.” I walk around the car. Even to the uninitiated, it’s a very cool car. “How old is it?”

“Considerably older than both of us. It’s a Toyota 2000GT; well, mostly. Some of the parts have been replaced, which reduces the value.” The sun makes a brief appearance, bouncing off the immaculate white paintwork. “I picked it up this morning.” He can’t keep the smile off his face as he talks. It’s infectious. He reaches out a long arm and opens the passenger door, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Can I take you for a ride, Miss Channing?”

I laugh and fold myself into the seat. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The seat is uncomfortable and the heating intermittent, but the sun comes out and stays out. That, and the car, and Tom’s mood have me giddy for the first half hour, which carries us through the London traffic. When the roads open up and the car settles into a steady thrum through increasingly green countryside, our chatter tails off into comfortable silence.

“Do you want some music?” asks Tom, glancing across at me. His lips are tugging upward at the corners; I wait for the punch line. “Cos if so, you’d better start singing—the radio doesn’t work.”

“Will you get one fitted?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It would reduce the value, but I didn’t buy this purely as an investment, otherwise I wouldn’t even be driving it.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’ve always wanted this car.”

“A psychologist would have a field day with that. Given the timing and all.”

“They’d probably be right to,” he admits, with a sheepish grin. “I’m basically driving the deposit I’d saved for a house with Jenna.”

I can’t help laughing. He doesn’t join in, but he’s grinning.

“You’ve been lucky settling back into London,” I comment. “Back in your old flat, back on your old desk at work, except a few rungs up the ladder . . . Did you think about staying in Boston?”

He shakes his head. “Boston is a great city. But I never felt . . . settled there. Maybe it was my fault; I didn’t properly commit to staying long-term. Once Jenna and I split up, there was nothing to keep me there.” The sun is streaming directly through the windscreen; he finds some sunglasses and puts them on one-handed with remarkable dexterity. “What about you? What made you go out on your own? Starting your own business in this climate can’t be easy. I don’t remember you even mentioning the idea when you came out to Boston.”