The French Girl(5)

“Yes. Not exactly the sunniest of news.” My smile has dropped. The skull with yawning darkness for eyes is still waiting for me, just a step beyond conscious thought.

“Do you mean about Jenna or that girl?” I take a sharp breath in—is she really suggesting that murder and a broken engagement are on a par?—but Caro is still talking. “It was always just a matter of time on the girl—surely no one was expecting a different outcome—”

“Severine,” I say bluntly. The bones demand to be named. I wish they would make their demands on someone else.

“What?”

“Her name was Severine.” Not even a minute into the conversation and already I’m getting testy. I paste on the fake smile again.

“Yes.” Caro pauses. “Well, anyway, the reason I called was that I thought it might be nice to have some kind of reunion for Tom. He must be feeling pretty low after the whole Jenna thing—getting the Oxford crowd back together and having a few ‘welcome home’ drinks might be just the ticket. I’m thinking next Friday, at my flat. We can always go on from there to somewhere on the King’s Road if everyone feels up for a big night.”

“Um, that’s a nice idea,” I say faintly. It is. I’m frankly astonished.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she says dryly. “After all, I practically grew up with Tom and Seb. I can’t wait to have them both back in London.”

“Both? Seb too?” The words are out of my mouth before I can clamp down on them.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” I can certainly hear the smile in her voice—a thoroughly self-satisfied one. If she was fishing to find out if Seb and I are in touch, she’s made her catch. “Seb is coming back. New York doesn’t suit Alina, apparently.” Alina. His wife of perhaps three years now. “Though he won’t be back in time for Friday. We’ll just have to do another get-together when he’s back.”

“Sure. Lovely.” I’m absolutely positive I will be busy that evening, whenever it is.

“So you’ll come? Next Friday?”

“Let me check.” I flick through my electronic diary, though I already know I’m free. Maybe it works like the fake smile. “Um, yes, that should be fine. Thanks.”

“Great. Can you do me a favor and tell Lara? I haven’t managed to get through to her yet. No doubt you two are still thick as thieves.”

“Oh, thicker,” I say blandly, then hurry on before she can interpret that as mockery. Which it may be. “I’ll tell her.”

“Great. I’ll e-mail you my address. See you next Friday.”

I hang up and gaze blankly for a moment at my computer screen with that under-endowed calendar. It could be that Caro is simply being nice, with no hidden agenda. Lara will think that, when I tell her. But Lara lives in a world where sunshine is always just around the corner: a lovely idea, like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, but requiring of a certain willing suspension of disbelief to maintain. I was born more suspicious.

Severine hovers.



* * *



—

The day of Caro’s drinks party two things happen. Haft & Weil call me—or more specifically, Mr. Gordon Farrow’s secretary calls me—and the police call me.

Gordon Farrow’s secretary is calling to set up lunch for Tuesday, which makes absolutely no sense unless the firm he really wants have somehow dropped the ball. I spend the day refusing to get excited because it will all come to naught whilst also meticulously planning my sales pitch. It’s an exercise in believing two mutually exclusive ideas; it’s exhausting.

In comparison the call from the police is much less disturbing, at least in immediate terms. A French detective will be making the short hop across the English Channel next week and would like to interview me; would I be available? I eye the paltry diary again: far too much white space into which I can imagine Severine sauntering, stretching out each slim brown arm to take as her right. Other than Tuesday’s lunch and a few other meetings in relation to two small contracts I’ve landed, I’m available. I’m depressingly, continuously available, and nothing I achieve all day changes that. By the time the end of business hours rolls round, I’m quite partial to the idea of a drink.

Tom, Lara and I have agreed to meet beforehand at a bar near Caro’s place. Safety in numbers and all that. I come in from the rain, shaking off my umbrella, and scan the crowded room for Tom. It’s easy to spot his tall figure at the bar, ordering; he must have just got there himself as raindrops still glisten like tiny crystals in his dark hair, which is once again too long and starting to curl. He used to look more like Seb, I think. Or perhaps I deliberately dissociate them now.

“Make mine a vodka tonic,” I say, slipping into a space next to him.

He turns from the barman, a grin already splitting his face. “Kate!” He pulls me in for a proper hug; none of the nonsense of London double-kisses for Tom. It’s something I know yet am always surprised by—he gives really good hugs. I can feel the beaming smile on my own face as he wraps me up. This smile is genuine.

“It is so good to see you,” I say into his neck. He smells of a mix of wood and spice.

“You too,” he says, pulling back to look at me. His grin hasn’t abated yet. The freckles aren’t there anymore, and neither is the tan, and I think he may have been hitting the gym a lot lately, but otherwise he’s reassuringly the same. “You look really well.”