The French Girl(37)
The conversation warms and expands again, slowly regaining volume after the moment of solemnity. More wine is called for. I eat chocolate profiteroles that I don’t really like because by now I’m drunk and I’ll eat practically anything. People are switching places or hunkering down between two chairs to catch up with those they haven’t been seated near. I see Alina rise from the table. Seb is chatting, leaning over someone seated in a chair near hers; he pulls her in for a kiss as she passes, drunkenly tactile, but she keeps it brief, barely breaking her stride. He gazes after her receding back for a moment, before his attention is drawn back into his conversation. I look away, wondering how much one can divine about any relationship from observing a single moment, and am shocked to find Severine’s white skull on the table in front of me, atop a pile of sand and sticks and assorted debris. The image is so sharp, so sudden, so vicious that for a second I feel like I’m falling through space.
I push my chair sharply away from the table and head for the toilets, ignoring Tom’s concerned call—Kate?—reeling from both the wine and Severine’s malevolent appearance. I bang inelegantly through the doors. The toilet cubicle, thankfully, is mine and mine alone; no intrusions from the dead here. I close the lid and sit hunched with my forehead propped up by the heels of my hands. I’m angry with Severine, and I have that right—why shouldn’t I be angry with the girl who, in life, slept with my boyfriend right under my nose, and then has the temerity to haunt me in death? Why me? Why not Seb? That would be much more fitting, I think maliciously. And if not Seb, why not Caro? Yes, Caro—what a pity hauntings can’t be directed. Perhaps I should ask Severine if she takes requests . . . Still, why me? Not that I would wish it on them, but why not Lara or Tom? I remember Tom’s stark, grief-ridden face, staring unseeingly down the table. Not Tom, not ever Tom; that would be beyond unfair.
With a sigh I collect myself and exit the cubicle more elegantly than I entered it, only to stop short when I find Alina at a sink, dabbing a paper towel to her mouth. She instantly scrunches up the paper towel when she sees me and makes a show of tidying up her eyeliner instead. The eyeliner is already perfect, but the eyes it frames look tired.
“Hi,” I say into the mirror as I step up to wash my hands. She gives a small smile in return. “Are you having a good evening?”
“Lovely,” she says unenthusiastically. “Though it’s hard to keep track of names.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Kate. Kate Channing.” There’s not the slightest bit of recognition in her face. “I was at Oxford with Seb.” Still nothing. I make a gesture. “And Tom and Lara and Caro, among others.” It’s laughable. Apparently I wasn’t even important enough in Seb’s life for him to mention me to his wife.
“Kate. Got it. Forgive me, I’m so useless with names. And since Seb and I met in New York, I haven’t really had a chance to meet any of his friends from back home. Except the ones who came to the wedding, and that was ages ago.”
“I’m sure there are easier ways than this evening’s trial by fire,” I say wryly as I dry my hands on a paper towel.
“Well, Caro was very insistent.” She leans forward to inspect her eyeliner again, and then adds, as if realizing her words could be interpreted as a tad ungrateful, “And of course, it’s very kind of her to take the trouble.”
“Mmmm,” I say, unable to keep the irony out of my voice. Alina shoots me a quick look in the mirror, and for a moment her composure slips. She looks exhausted and utterly fed up.
“Are you pregnant?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. My hand flies to my mouth in horror, as if I can catch the words and pop them back in.
Her eyes jump immediately to mine, betraying the truth, then she quickly schools her face to give a surprised laugh. “No, of course—”
“God, I’m sorry, I’m . . .” I stop and shake my head, genuinely appalled at myself. “It’s none of my business.” We both look at each other—properly, not in the mirror this time. “Sorry,” I say again, truly contrite. I shrug my shoulders and offer the only lame excuse I have. “Tom’s been doing too good a job of topping up my wine.”
“It’s okay,” she says slowly after a moment. There’s no role-playing now; she makes no bones of the fact that she’s carefully assessing me. I wonder what she sees. She shrugs. “Since you’ve asked I may as well admit it: yes, I’m pregnant. Nine weeks. It’s been quite a journey.” The smile that steals across her face is half fearful and half excited and only lasts a heartbeat. “Please keep it to yourself. Though Seb is smashed enough tonight to tell the whole world anyway,” she adds, not without a note of frustration. It crosses my mind that tonight at least, I wouldn’t wish to be in her shoes, but I push that aside. The ban on self-analysis is still in force. She tosses the scrunched-up paper towel into a waste bin, no longer hiding it. “There’s nothing ‘morning’ about my sickness.”
“Well, I guess . . . congratulations.” I smile awkwardly. “And I hope the sickness passes soon.”
She looks at me for a moment then nods thoughtfully. “Thank you.” We head back into the restaurant together. I think wryly to myself of the kiss I observed. The additional information of Alina’s sickness puts a very different spin on it: the nauseous wife surreptitiously hurrying to the bathroom. I follow Alina’s long, narrow form that betrays no hint of a tiny life inside and wonder how Caro will take the news.