The French Girl(17)

Even lunch with Lara fails as a tonic. We meet at a café halfway between our offices; uncharacteristically, she’s beaten me there. There’s a glass of wine in front of her with a lipstick mark on it. I nod my head toward it after we kiss our hellos. “Taking the rest of the day off?” Lara can’t function professionally after the merest sniff of alcohol. She has few rules, but no lunchtime drinking is one of them.

She shakes her head. “I’ll be there in body if not in mind.” She takes a sip of the wine, then puts the glass down. Then picks it up again. “Anyway, shall we order?” She puts the glass back down.

“Sure . . .” We nab the waitress and order our usuals, then I sit back and look at Lara. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure. Of course.” She smiles brightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and her eyes don’t reach mine.

“How was Sweden?”

“Same old. Mum has a new man.”

“How is he?”

“Very . . . Swedish,” she says wryly. “Bearded. Friendly. Earnest. But kind of sweet.” Finally I see her eyes. They’re jittering around, as if it hurts to settle her focus. “Anyway, how was your weekend? Did you have fun with Tom?”

“Yeah, it was lovely,” I say, out of habit, then wonder if that’s accurate. It was lovely on the surface, but I have a sense of something lurking underneath. Or maybe my paranoia over the possibility of Paul jumping ship is bleeding into the rest of my life. I mentally shake myself and look at Lara’s eyes again. “Jeez, Lara, did you spend the weekend taking drugs or something?”

“Of course not!” she exclaims, scandalized.

“Then what’s with you?”

“Nothing! Except . . . I think I had one too many Red Bulls this morning,” she confesses, propping up her temple with the heel of one palm. “You wouldn’t believe how my heart has been racing.” She gestures at the glass of wine. “Alcohol’s a depressant, isn’t it? I thought it might counteract the caffeine.”

“Honey, alcohol is just fanning the flames.” It would be funny except Lara doesn’t look like she’s having any fun. She looks almost feverish. “Let me put that glass aside—here, have my water instead. Why the caffeine overdose, anyway?”

She takes a long drink of the water and shrugs. “My flight was delayed so I was late to bed and then I couldn’t get to sleep for ages.” She pauses. I wait; there’s more to come. Whatever it is, she’s half defensive about it. I’m not sure what the other half of her is feeling. “I bumped into Alain at the airport.” Her eyes flit to mine then away.

Alain. Not Monsieur Modan, or the French detective. “How very coincidental,” I say evenly. “Had you told him what flight you were on?”

“No, it was just a chance meeting. He was on his way back from spending the weekend in the south of France.” She takes in my expression and puts her hand on my arm, leaning forward entreatingly. “Come on. You have to admit it really could be a coincidence.”

“It could,” I say non-contentiously. But I doubt it. “What did you talk about?”

She blushes. “You know . . .” I don’t actually. I shake my head questioningly. “We just talked. Nothing happened, really.” Really? Now I’m wondering what did happen. Her hand is still on my arm, her eyes urgent. I nod, though I still don’t understand; the nod is enough to allow the words to flood out of her. “I know we ought not, with the investigation and everything, but it’s not like the six of us had anything to do with that. Alain and I . . . well, we just talked about . . . what we might do when this is all over. What we would like to do.” Her expression is begging me to understand. I shake my head minutely; I don’t. “You know . . . to do to each other . . .”

I stare at her, openmouthed. She’s squirming, but her eyes are bright with excitement. It’s not the caffeine overdose that’s making her feverish; she’s the girl with a secret that’s just bursting to tell. Jesus. Lara has been talking dirty with the French detective. I rediscover my voice. “All this in, what, the baggage reclaim lounge?”

“Of course not! We, um, we grabbed a drink in the bar.”

“Ah.” I don’t know how to convey the alarm bells that are ringing in my mind. Lara is never this excited over a man, ever; I suspect she won’t take it kindly if I steal the wind from her sails, but this . . . I don’t know what this is, exactly, but I do know it’s not a good idea. I struggle to find a casual tone. “Did he . . . did he ask about Severine?”

She nods. “A bit. Well, not so much Severine, more about that week in general. You know, about all of us, how we met, who was with who, that sort of thing. It wasn’t like an interview; it was just idle chat.”

“Of course, idle chat. In between the virtual sex, that is.”

“Kate!” She giggles. She’s actually giddy. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Idle chat. About a murder case. I think of Alain Modan. I imagine his active brain working away behind those dark, ironic eyes; scurrying like a rat in a maze to explore all potential avenues. Tom’s words float back to me: There are inconsistencies. Things like that, they muddy the waters. “Did he tell you they’re looking into when the well was filled in?”