The French Girl(44)

I consider hedging my bets, coming up with a carefully worded non-answer, but then I remember this is Gordon: he likes to hear it straight. I can only hope that extends to opinions about his daughter. I take a deep breath and muster an even tone. “Haft & Weil wouldn’t be my first choice for her. I would think she would be more suited to an aggressive American outfit. Eat what you kill and so forth.”

He nods absentmindedly, looking out over the expanse of the city skyline; thankfully he can’t see my relief that he isn’t offended by my bluntness. “I wouldn’t disagree with you. But since she’s trying to make it in this firm . . .” He trails off.

I look for something helpful to suggest, though no doubt whatever I can think of he will already have considered. “Perhaps she needs to get involved in some management initiatives during the coming year. Show that she can be a more rounded candidate.”

“Perhaps.” He purses his lips thoughtfully, then sighs, still gazing at the skyline, though I’m not sure he sees it. “We’re making up less partners each year, you know? I don’t know how we expect to keep all the associates working at this intensity when the prize is getting harder and harder to grab. Used to be that if you did a good job for long enough and kept your nose clean . . .” He collects himself and turns back to me. “Good idea on the management side; I suppose that type of involvement might give her an edge.” He nods to himself, as if making a mental note to speak with her about it. “Though you can’t cut corners . . .” He trails off again, his gaze sliding back down to his empty coffee cup.

You can’t cut corners. Only, Caro would. Caro would cut a swath down the middle and everyone else be damned if that was the most convenient route for herself. I suddenly realize he knows the problem is more far-reaching than just not a team player. Deep down he doesn’t think she’ll make partner, and he doesn’t think she ought to, either, though he’s trying hard to convince himself otherwise. For a moment I ache for him, this clever, thoughtful, kind man who wants the Caro he lost when she was thirteen, and is bewildered every day by the woman she’s become.



* * *



—

It’s barely 4 P.M., but I go straight home after the meeting with Gordon; I’m exhausted. All I want to do is sink into a hot bath. Though perhaps taking a moment to relax will be like removing my head from the sand: reality will rush in and I will have to face it all—Tom, Severine, Modan, the whole shebang. I dither for a moment then run the bath, dumping in industrial quantities of an expensive bath foam Lara bought me. If reality is going to rush in anyway, I may as well face it whilst lounging up to my ears in soapsuds.

Lara calls just as I’m settling into the bath with an inadvertent sigh of pleasure. “Have you got plans?” she asks. She sounds uncharacteristically drained. “Or do you fancy a quiet night in? Takeout in front of a chick flick or something?”

“Done,” I say, thinking warmly of all the chick flick nights we’ve had in the past, gossiping over the local takeout and drinking rather more wine than is warranted by a quiet night in. Only that was before, when Lara was just Lara, with no subterfuge, and I was just Kate (albeit desperate, lonely old spinster Kate), and Severine was a strange mystery from a summer long, long ago. I want everything back how it was so badly that my eyes are pricking with tears. I shake my head impatiently, and the mountains of soapsuds rise and fall gently. “I’m already home and I can’t bear the thought of moving again—do you mind coming to me?”

“Not a problem. Your takeout place is better anyway.”

“You sound done in. What time did you get home last night?” There’s a pause. “Ah. You didn’t make it home.”

“Well . . . no. What about you, were you late?”

I could lie, now I’ve become so very good at that; I could obfuscate, I could dodge the question, but it’s just so bloody exhausting. “I didn’t make it home either.”

“Really? But who . . .” I can practically hear her brain whirring. “Tom?” The surprise is genuine. She has no right to mind, but still I wonder if she does.

“Yes. But it’s not like that. Not really . . .”

“What does not really mean?” Is she a little forced, or am I overanalyzing?

“It means I’ll tell you later. Not that there’s anything much to tell. What time do you think you’ll be here?”

“Around six, I think, if not sooner. My brain is good for nothing today; there’s hardly any point in me sitting here.”

“Well, I’ll be here, so whenever.”

I put down the phone and lean my head back against the rim of the bathtub. Severine, dressed in the black shift, has perched her neat behind casually on the edge of the tub, her slender limbs stretched out ahead of her, crossed at the ankle. She turns to look at me expressionlessly with those dark, all-knowing eyes. It’s the contrast that catches attention, I muse: the eyes that have seen far more than fits a face so smooth and unlined. I think of the crow’s-feet developing round the corners of my eyes, of the single gray hair I found (and immediately plucked out) last week.

“I’m thirty-one,” I say aloud. Severine is still looking at me. “I suppose you’ll be—what was it?—nineteen forever.” She looks away, disinterested, presenting me with her profile. Her nose has a small bump in it, but if anything it works for her; it makes her face stronger. “Why are you here anyway?” She looks at me again. There’s no intensity, just a cool appraisal, then her gaze slides off, as if I’m simply not interesting enough to retain it. It’s more than a little galling. I reach for the shampoo and lather up my hair, then try again, irritation creeping into my voice now. “Since you’re here, do you mind telling me who killed you?”