The French Girl(22)
Modan looks at me for a moment, his face expressionless. I have no doubt he is busy working out how best to handle me. Then his face softens. “Miss Channing,” he says gently. “This is difficult. It is always difficult, murder is . . . alors, murder is not a nice thing. No one wants to think about it too hard; it’s upsetting, it’s intrusive, it is frustrating, it is inconvenient. But to find whoever did this, we have to investigate, we have to ask questions.” He makes one of his elegant hand gestures, spreading his hand wide with the palm up, almost as if inviting me to place my own in it, while his lips move in a sympathetic smile. “So . . . s’il vous pla?t . . . may I continue?”
I hold his gaze for a moment. I can’t read what is going on behind those dark, watchful eyes, but I know he’s better at this than me. Better at this than almost everyone, I would think. I’m suddenly exhausted. “Go on,” I say wearily. “Ask your questions.”
* * *
—
Afterward I know I should go back to the office, but I can’t face the possibility of an empty chair opposite me, or staring again at that spreadsheet. Instead I wander aimlessly. A short walk takes me into the throngs on Regent Street. The gaggles of foreign tourists are easy to identify, with their cameras and white socks pulled up and sensible shoes, but what is everyone else doing on a shopping street in the middle of the day? Are they students? Or do they work nights? Do they work at all?
I wonder what I will do when I finally call time on my company. I won’t be able to go back to practicing law: I’m not sure I’d be able to convince any firm that I really wanted to—mainly because I don’t. I suppose I could work for another legal recruitment firm, but my credibility will be damaged by a failed solo venture; it might take quite a while to land any position, let alone one I really want. And the truth is that the one I want is the one that’s slipping away from me right now.
I walk into French Connection then walk back out again. It’s too busy, and anyway, I don’t really have the will or the patience to look at clothes or try anything on. I start walking again and see my reflection moving from one window display to the next, a wraith in a dark trouser suit slipping unnoticed past the mannequins in their forward-thinking summer attire. I could just . . . leave, I think. Get on a plane, find myself somewhere hot and dusty where living costs a pittance. Slough off my skin and take a waitressing job, or tend bar—take any job, unfettered by the pride and expectations that are built up by an Oxbridge education; built up until they wall you in.
My mobile phone rings; number withheld. I hesitate, unwilling to be wrenched back into the real world, but the phone continues to chirp aggressively. I sigh and hit the answer button. “Kate Channing.”
“Hey, it’s Tom. How are you?”
“Halfway to South America.”
There’s half a beat of silence. “Really?” he asks uncertainly.
“No, not really. Just wishful thinking. Bad day.”
“Well, in that case I’m taking the spot on the plane next to you. Bad day here too.” He does in fact sound exhausted. “Want to grab a drink later and commiserate?”
I hesitate. “I’ll be dreadful company,” I warn.
“Yeah, me too,” he says grimly. “We might as well get smashed together rather than poisoning the mood of anyone else.”
“Jesus.” This is a far cry from the easy, steadfast Tom I’m used to. “What happened to you today?”
“Can’t talk here,” he says laconically.
He can’t talk in the office. Intuition strikes me: all those articles about the poor economy and downsizing in the major banks . . . Surely his firm wouldn’t have been so stupid as to agree to relocate him from Boston to London just to fire him? Except I know banks can be exactly that stupid, and more so. “You still have a job, right?” I ask urgently.
“I do. Others . . . not so much.”
“Jesus.” The atmosphere must be awful on the trading floor. “Well, my company is well and truly fucked so I’m just the girl for a truly depressing night on the town. Seven at the same pub we met at before?”
“Done.” He pauses. “Is it really fucked?”
“Yes,” I say baldly. “Only a miracle will suffice at this point.”
I hear a sigh down the phone. “I’m really sorry, Kate.” His words are heartfelt; I feel a rush of warmth toward him.
“I know. I am, too. About your situation, I mean.” About my own, too.
“Well, at least one of us still has a paycheck,” he says with dark humor. “Which means I’m buying tonight. I can keep you fed and watered for one night, at least.”
“No argument from me. See you at seven.”
I disconnect then look up to see my ghostly self hovering in front of a swimwear montage, a smile still in place from the phone call that fades as I watch. The promise of a new life, a different life, still lies tantalizingly in reach. But I have things to do before I meet Tom at seven.
I head back to my office.
* * *
—
I don’t look at the spreadsheet and I don’t look at Paul’s empty chair. Instead I deal with e-mail and bash on determinedly with the calls I have to make. It’s not so much a fighting spirit as a grim fatalism that drives me on: the few contracts we do have, we need to deliver on—on time and in style. Nobody should be able to say Channing Associates failed through a lack of professionalism.