The French Girl(20)

“On to business, then,” says Gordon. He seems as keen to move on from this little interlude as I am.

I agree quickly. “Yes, on to business.” Business I can do. Business is what I need.



* * *



—

I take the tube back from lunch. The stark white spreadsheet cells have been telling me that cabs are not advisable at present. In any case, I like the anonymity of London’s crowded public transport system; it gives me space to think. All these people thrown into a confined space, yet nobody feels a need to talk. Or to ask questions.

Gordon has been asking me many questions; it’s exhausting. When I get back to the office, Paul will ask what Gordon asked me. Alain Modan has been asking me different questions, and apparently he’s going to keep asking. Caro has been asking me what Modan has been asking. Now I come to think of it, even Tom has been probing me about what Modan is asking.

Severine doesn’t ask questions. Those dark, unreflective eyes made their judgment a decade ago.





CHAPTER SIX


I’m staring at the spreadsheet again. The once-clinical black numbers have developed their own presence; they cross the divide between my eyes and the computer screen and beat malevolently into my brain. Two small alterations were all that was required for the verdict to go from “solvent, for now” to “completely underwater”: a change in tax law that means a hefty payment cannot be deferred, and my landlord demanding an increase in rent, which he’s entitled to do at this point in the lease, though the size of the increase he’s asking for is outrageous. I can fight him on it, I will fight him on it—or at least, I want to fight him on it, but that will cost money the business doesn’t have. He probably suspects this and is trying to squeeze me out. With more detachment I might admire his Machiavellian streak, but right now admiration is not high on my list of feelings. Ditto detachment.

I drop my head into my hands to escape the spreadsheet’s toxic radiation. I could move the business location somewhere cheaper—my living room, say, or perhaps somewhere more extreme, like Croydon or Thailand—but not whilst keeping Paul, and without headhunters, is there really any life in a headhunting firm? It was a key part of my business plan that I not be a one-woman shop: numbers inspire confidence. Though not the ones in this spreadsheet.

“You okay, Kate?” asks Julie, as she comes in from the outer office.

I lift my head quickly and paste on a smile for her. She has her glasses in one hand and is pinching the bridge of her nose with the other. I wonder why she doesn’t wear contact lenses, but not enough to ask. “Fine,” I say brightly, probably too brightly. “Just a headache from too much screen time.”

“I’m popping out for a sandwich. Want me to grab you anything?”

“No, thanks, I’ll get something later and give my legs a stretch.”

“Okay.” She glances across at Paul’s empty desk, frowns briefly, then turns to go.

“Julie, what’s Paul’s schedule today?” I ask casually.

She turns back. “I’m not sure,” she says awkwardly. “I thought he’d be here now.”

“Mmmm.” I tap my teeth with a pen, then realize she’s still there, unsure of whether to leave or not. “No worries.” I adopt a reassuringly cheerful tone. There’s an emptiness in my stomach; it’s growing and hardening. “I’ll give him a call. Go on and get your lunch.”

“All right.”

All right. All right. No, nothing much is all right, but I have to go on as if it is. I sigh and lift the phone to vehemently threaten my landlord with legal action I can’t afford.



* * *



—

Alain Modan. Monsieur Modan. French detective, Investigateur, OPJ—and whisperer of naughty things in the perfect ear of my best friend, Lara. Alain Modan is sitting on a sofa opposite me once again, though this time we’re in a comfortable corner of Starbucks rather than my living room.

I have little patience today. I can feel it inside me; there’s a recklessness bubbling up around the malignant tumor of worry about my business, a recklessness that’s pushing me to want to cut through bullshit, to tell and hear it straight, to face the worst and know what I’m up against right now. Alain Modan is probably the last person I should be talking to in this mental condition, but I am here and so is he; we have our coffees and we’ve covered the pleasantries—with no mention of Lara—so now we begin.

“Alors,” says Modan, placing a manila folder on the table and flipping through his pad. He’s removed the jacket of his suit; underneath is a slim-fitting pale blue shirt. I wonder if the skin under that shirt has the same soft grain as that on his face; I wonder if there is a tangle of chest hair under that spotless cotton. Perhaps it’s his French flair that makes me consider these things, or perhaps I’m trying to see through Lara’s eyes. Perhaps both.

Modan’s eyes have moved from his pad to my face. I force myself to focus. “I should bring you up to speed, non?” He sounds pleased with himself for the figure of speech.

I glance at the folder. In films, folders like this one—this size, this shape, this color—always hold photos, gruesome murder scenes frozen in an instant of time. Bodies at awkward angles; blood pooled beneath caved heads; open, staring eyes: death immortalized forever. I don’t want to see inside this folder. “Go ahead,” I say shortly.