The French Girl(45)

She’s smoking a cigarette now, one leg crossed over the other and her sandal dangling off her narrow foot again, in the way that hypnotized Seb all those years ago; she glances at me, one eyebrow raised. It’s as strong an expression of amusement as I’ve ever seen on her face.

“Yeah, okay, I didn’t really think it would be that easy,” I mutter. Then I sink under the still-hot water to wash out the shampoo, and when I surface she has gone.



* * *



—

“So,” says Lara expressively, as soon as she has a glass of wine in her hand. So. A single word, two letters—how can it be loaded with such meaning? “Spill.” She looks tired, so tired that it seems an effort to hold herself together this evening; even her facial features are rumpled at the edges.

I look at the glass in my own hand: it’s beautiful, long and elegant and fragile; a gift, though I don’t remember who from. If I applied pressure, it would crack instantly. I have some sympathy. I wonder how resilient Lara is feeling. “You spill,” I say tightly. I don’t mean to be combative, but . . . I sort of do.

She takes a sip and tries to smile, but it doesn’t come off, and I instantly feel guilty. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly.

She shrugs. “Sort of. Maybe.” Again, the effortful smile, through tears that can’t be far away. “You?”

I shrug. “Pretty much the same.” Though in my case there are no tears hovering, I won’t allow myself to wallow again. I take a sip of the wine. It will go to my head quickly tonight if I’m not careful. “Come on. Let’s order the curry and watch the film. We can do all the spilling later.”

And so I spend the evening with Lara. It’s a nice evening; an evening that harks back to happier times. We watch a romcom, we eat too much curry, we drink too much wine. It’s comforting, this old habit of ours; the only thing that has changed over the years is the quality of the wine. Severine stays away, which isn’t really a surprise; I’m well aware she’s a figment of my (frankly, fevered) imagination, and my imagination cannot possibly conjure an image of Severine watching anything containing Reese Witherspoon. I see her more as an art house kind of girl.

But in truth more has changed than our wine budget. When the film has finished we can’t avoid the dual elephants in the room. “So,” she says again, turning to face me and arranging herself cross-legged on the sofa we’re sharing. She’s borrowed from my wardrobe a pair of slouchy pajama bottoms and a hoodie; on me, they’re definitely hide-at-home clothing, but on Lara they’re transformed by her blondness, her bustiness, her sheer wholesome sexiness: she could be an advert for Abercrombie & Fitch. No wonder Tom continues to hold a torch for her. It never bothered me before, but now I find I’m analyzing: score 1 for Lara for instant sex appeal; score 1 for Kate for her quick intelligence; score 1 for Lara . . . I am appalled at myself—has one single drunken kiss with Tom really dragged me down to this level?—but still I can’t completely stifle the ugly green-eyed monster lurking within me.

“So,” I counter. “How are things with the dear detective?”

“Ah.” She looks down and traces a circle on the sofa with her finger. “It’s . . . complicated.”

It seems she’s ready to talk. I rearrange myself on the sofa to mirror her position. “Where is he tonight?”

“He went back to France.”

My heart leaps. “For good?”

“No, he’s coming back on Monday; it’s just for some family thing. A christening, I think. Not because of the case.” She’s still making the circles. “Not that he’d tell me if it was because of the case; he won’t talk about it with me since . . .”

“Since?” A blush is crossing her cheeks, and suddenly I know exactly what she means. I wonder how she will phrase it.

“Since we . . . ah . . . crossed that line.” Bravo, neatly put. I can’t bring myself to ask any of the usual gossipy questions, and she doesn’t seem to expect me to: she glances up at my face, both embarrassed and rueful, and adds, “So, sorry, but no insider information here.”

“A man of principle,” I say, only half ironic.

“He is!” She’s leaning forward, her whole body imploring me to listen, to understand. “I mean, I know how it looks—he’s screwing one of the witnesses in his case—but we’re keeping it totally separate; he won’t discuss it at all with me, not a word, and anyway, it’s not like I’m under suspicion.”

“No, but I am.”

She pauses, then nods dejectedly. “Yes, I think you are. It doesn’t make any sense to me, given she was alive on Saturday morning, but you are. And Seb and Caro and Theo.”

“But me more than most. On account of Seb’s complete lack of self-restraint.” Tom would be annoyed with me for talking with Lara about this. A streak of rebellion surfaces: Tom is stratospherically annoyed with me anyway, so what the hell.

She shakes her head. “I don’t . . .” Then her blue eyes widen as she twigs. It’s a gratifying confirmation that Modan really isn’t talking to her about the case, though I hadn’t planned it as a test. “Seb and Severine? Really? I would never have guessed that . . . I mean, I knew he found her attractive; all the guys love a bit of that French ooh-la-la, soooo predictable . . .” She rolls her eyes. I can’t help a private smile at Lara of all people, who plays the Swedish blond bombshell angle to maximum effect, being so dismissive of Severine’s application of her own cultural advantages. Lara is still absorbing. “Wow. What a complete fuckwit Seb is. Was. Still is, I should think.” She shakes her head again. “When did you find out?”