The French Girl(29)

“Come on,” he says, one eyebrow quirking upward. “We’re talking about Seb. Subtlety and subterfuge have never been his strongest suits.” I don’t react. He sighs then looks at me searchingly, all humor gone. “Did you never wonder? Not even when the two of you broke up?” I shake my head, but we both know I’m lying. “Why did you think you broke up?”

“Christ, Tom. Can anyone ever answer that succinctly? Why did you and Jenna break up?” I counter.

He doesn’t miss a beat and he doesn’t break eye contact. “Because I didn’t love her. Not the way I want to love whoever I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.”

His starkly brutal honesty leaves me speechless, caught in the grip of his ferociously intent eyes. Like Seb’s but not; now all I can see are the differences, not the similarities. I’m still groping around for a response when suddenly his phone starts to ring and dance across the counter. He glances at it long enough to register the caller ID, then picks it up and grimaces apologetically. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this; it’s work. Don’t go away.”

I slide off the stool and wander into the living area of the open-plan space. Why did I think Seb and I broke up? I glance back at Tom. He’s roaming the kitchen as he listens, his tall frame telegraphing alertness and focus. I turn back to the living room, inspecting the few framed photos resting on a shelf. There’s one of him with his parents and his younger sister on his graduation day. His dad has clapped his hand firmly on Tom’s shoulder and is beaming proudly. A wave of longing for my own father crashes over me, taking my breath away with its sudden onslaught. I turn quickly to the next photo: Seb and Tom at perhaps fifteen years old, beside a sailing boat with a gentleman that can only be Seb’s father. The whippet-thin figure of Tom is a step back and half turned, as if he was about to get into the boat when the photo was taken; Seb’s father’s hand is on his shoulder, tugging him into the photo. Seb is square to the camera on his father’s other side, smiling broadly. It’s not a version of Seb I ever knew; he was more complete when I met him. More of a polished product. I look at that photo for a long time and think about all the different versions of Seb, including the one that cheated on me. The bitterness is an all-encompassing sea of bile, roiling around in my stomach and threatening to race up my throat to choke me.

Why did I think Seb and I broke up?

I’m so very, very tired of caring.

Tom has moved from receiving mode into delivery mode on his telephone call. “No, I don’t actually,” I hear him say authoritatively. “The basis risk on this structure is significant. Someone has to take it, and if it’s going to be us then we have to charge for it. But the real problem is that this is the wrong structure for what they really want to do. We should get in front of them with a presentation and educate them.” I find I’m watching him as he talks. He’s still moving around the kitchen, his right hand accentuating his points. For a moment I find myself assessing him as I would any candidate that crossed the path of Channing Associates. It dawns on me that he’s a fixer, a problem-solver; entirely in keeping with his degree in engineering, but somehow I’ve never paid attention to this side of him. He feels my eyes upon him and looks across, mouthing what could be “two minutes” whilst holding up two fingers. I nod and make a show of turning unconcernedly to another photo, and find myself looking back at me.

I’m not the only one in the photo, of course; there’s Tom next to me and Lara on his other side. We’re all sitting on the side of the pool in France, our feet dangling in the water. Lara is almost spilling out of her bikini and looks how she always looks: as if she’s just climbed out of bed after hours of languorous sex, but would be more than willing to tumble back in for another round. Tom is Tom, at least the Tom I know the best: relaxed, laid-back, secure in his own skin but quietly observant. I’m the Kate I like the least, awkwardly folding my arms across my stomach at the glimpse of a camera, a half-hearted smile hung on my face. It’s not surprising; there was no heart in any of my smiles by the end of that week.

Suddenly I realize Tom is behind me, looking over my shoulder at the photo. I hadn’t noticed him finish the call. “Cracking legs you have on display there,” he says mischievously.

I smile, touched; it’s gentlemanly of him to comment on me rather than the bombshell that is Lara. I gesture toward the sailing photo. “Did you sail a lot growing up?” It’s the only non-contentious thing I can think of to say.

He shrugs. “Uncle Edwin was really into it. He taught Seb and me.” He looks at the photo a moment longer. “Did you know he paid all my school fees before I got the scholarship?”

Uncle Edwin. Lord Harcourt. I shake my head. “I didn’t.” I think about that for a moment: the younger sister and her penniless academic husband living off the generosity of the lord in the grand house. “I guess that must have created a certain dynamic.”

He glances down at me. “No, it was—” he starts to say, as if parroting the party line, then he stops. “Actually, yeah,” he admits. “My folks never said anything, but I could see how relieved they were when I won the scholarship.” He looks back at the photo. “But it was a bit awkward with Seb, since he just missed out.”

“But you two never seemed competitive with each other,” I say, confused.