The French Girl(27)

CHAPTER EIGHT


I call Tom the next morning.

It’s not the first thing I do when I wake up, and I didn’t wake early. In fact, it’s barely still morning when I finally allow myself to pick up the phone.

“Kate,” he says after a couple of rings. His voice is sleepy, and deeper, more gravelly than usual.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” I’m not the least bit sorry. At this time of day I feel well within my rights to wake anyone.

“No, I’ve already been to the gym.” Maybe the alcohol is responsible for the gravel in his voice then. I hear him yawn. “I figured you’d call. Want to come over? I’ll throw something together for lunch.”

It’s both a relief not to have to ask to see him and embarrassing to have him find me so predictable. “Done.” I glance at my watch and perform the mental maths. “I can be there around half twelve if that works for you?”

“Perfect, see you then.”

The tube is full of the weekend crush. Tourists and families and self-consciously cool teens, all in pairs or groups, as if nobody travels alone on a Saturday or Sunday. I turn my head to stare out of the window. This part of the tube runs through a series of tunnels and open-air sections; I see overgrown leafy embankments interspersed with the bleached-out reflection of the carriage. Neither gives away much about London. I’m thinking of Tom’s words, as I have done repeatedly since I woke up, as I must have done somewhere in my subconscious all night. Jealous rage. Spurned lover. I won’t allow myself to think beyond that; I have my imagination on a tight rein. Just those words are permitted: jealous rage, spurned lover, then an abrupt stop to all thought. Severine should be here now, gloating, that smirk hovering millimeters from her mouth, but for once she’s conspicuous by her absence.

Jealous rage. Spurned lover. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But here I am, in a grab-handbag, brush-hair, that-will-do kind of hurry, on my way to Tom’s flat—which Tom entirely anticipated. It’s surprising how little surprises Tom.

Tom’s flat is in a quiet, wealthy street lined with Regency town houses, all high ceilings and sash windows and expensive heating bills. I press the bell for the top floor, and after a moment there is an obnoxious buzz and the front door releases. The communal hallway is on a dignified slide into genteel shabbiness, the once thick carpets now worn in the center from years of use. I climb the creaking stairs to find Tom’s front door ajar; I can see a two-inch-wide slice of his hallway, with a newspaper dumped casually on a side table. I can’t quite remember the last time I was here; actually, I can’t remember being here more than three or four times, and always with a crowd, for a party or some such. Rapping on the door solo, I feel an unexpected twinge of nerves.

“In the kitchen,” calls Tom’s deep tone; he has expelled some of the gravel now. I close the front door behind me then aim for Tom’s voice and find myself spilling into an open-plan room, with the kitchen at one end, a living room type space at the other, and a large glass dining table separating the two. At the living space end, floor-to-ceiling windows open out onto a small terrace. Tom is at the stove in the kitchen, working on something in a frying pan.

“I don’t remember this,” I say, making my way over to him. I may have only been in this flat a handful of times, but I’ve never been in this room.

He pulls me in for a one-armed hug, the other hand occupied with the frying pan, which contains the world’s largest Spanish omelet. “I remodeled before I went to Boston. Just in time for a tenant to enjoy it instead of me. Do you like?” he asks casually, but I can see he cares about my answer.

“It’s great,” I say truthfully. It’s modern without being sharp; it still feels warm and livable. Unlike Caro’s place. Unlike Caro. “You’ve done it really well.” I gesture toward the hob. “Can I help?” It’s not the question I want to ask, but I don’t know how to get there from discussions of renovations in a sun-drenched kitchen.

“Nope, nearly done, just grab a pew,” he says, gesturing to the bar stools on the other side of the counter. “I take it omelet is okay?”

“Perfect. Thanks.” I clamber aboard a stool and watch the back of him cook, given the layout of the kitchen. He can’t be long out of the shower; his hair is still wet. He’s wearing jeans and a casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up. For no reason at all I see Seb alongside him—Seb as he was, the Adonis, the man among the boys; I don’t know the Seb of now. Jealous rage. Spurned lover. Tom, a man now, too, glances over his shoulder with a quick smile. I instinctively look away quickly, as if caught staring.

“Done,” he says, efficiently cutting the omelet in two and delivering it to waiting plates. “Voilà.”

“Merci bien.” I pause. I force myself to ask something conversational. “Do you like cooking?”

He settles himself on the bar stool next to me. “Not particularly, but I like eating fresh food, so . . .” He shrugs his shoulders.

The omelet is good, very good. We munch away, or at least Tom does; my appetite is letting me down. I’ve eaten with Tom any number of times, though never at his kitchen counter by his own hand. But still, there should be companionable silence; there always has been for Tom and me. Not today. Something is different—we are different. I glance over in his direction. He looks tired, the crinkles round his eyes more pronounced. Perhaps he is paler; his freckles seem to stand out more.