The French Girl(50)
The inside is sparse and clean and hard-edged, but I’m not really in the frame of mind to take much note. The solid-faced uniformed officer behind the reception desk is expecting me; within minutes I’m led into a conference room with a pine-effect conference table and twelve chairs—surely six too many—clustered around it, though none of those chairs are currently occupied.
“You’re the first,” says the officer, pointing out the obvious. His tone is cheerful, but his face doesn’t change. Perhaps that’s what a career in the police does to you—though Modan seems to have retained the faculty of facial expression. “I’m sure Detective Modan will be along shortly. There’s a coffee machine just down the hallway on the right if you’re so inclined.” Then I’m alone with the functional furniture. I drop my handbag onto one chair and look around. The gray London street beyond the window is slightly distorted; I wonder if the glass is bulletproof. It’s certainly soundproof; I can’t hear the traffic at all. From the hallway I can hear the muffled buzz and chatter of life continuing, but in here both I and the oversize room seem to be holding our breath, as if suspended before the roller coaster drops.
Then I hear Tom’s distinctive rumble and Lara’s giggle; I feel a sudden lurch as the roller coaster picks up speed again, and then they spill into the room with Seb on their heels. I put all my focus on Lara, absurdly self-conscious as I hug her in greeting, but I can’t hide in our hello forever; I have to release her and turn to Tom and Seb. Both of them step forward at the same time, but then Tom gestures awkwardly and steps back, leaving the field for Seb.
“Hello, Seb,” I say neutrally. Behind him I can see Caro enter the room, her blond hair pulled back into a severe chignon.
“Kate,” says Seb warmly, though perhaps I detect a touch of apprehension lurking in his eyes. “Good to see you, though of course I’d rather we were in a pub or something.” He leans in to kiss me on each cheek. I stay still throughout, imagining my cheeks are marble, and all the while I’m looking at Tom, who in turn is looking at Seb and me with a shuttered expression. When his eyes catch mine he immediately glances away. And Caro watches us all.
“Hello, Tom,” I say quietly, crossing to him.
“Hi, Kate,” he says, not quite meeting my eye. Then he leans in and kisses me on both cheeks, Tom who never kisses, Tom who always hugs. Yet again my cheeks are marble, this time not in silent protest but because it’s all I can do to hold myself in one piece. I can feel I’m beginning to tear apart, and I don’t know how to sew myself back together.
“Tom—” I start when he steps back, but Seb is talking over me.
“Christ, I need a coffee,” he’s saying. “Shall I grab you one, Tom?”
“I’ll come with you,” Tom says quickly, with what sounds suspiciously like relief. I watch the two of them leave together, and for a moment I see them as a stranger might: two men similar enough around the eyes and in frame as to be brothers, though very different in coloring. Seb always seemed older, and he seems older still, but that’s no longer a compliment. A decade ago he was a man among boys, but now he is a man hurtling more quickly toward middle age than the rest of us; in the light of day there’s a slackness to him that becomes more noticeable next to Tom’s clean bulk.
Caro is speaking to Lara and me whilst simultaneously fishing something out of her slimline soft leather briefcase. “God, I thought I’d never get here on time. I was leading a negotiation for a major client; I couldn’t really just up and leave.” I feel my jaw clench. Not just a client, a major client. Not just in a negotiation, but leading it. It’s petty and mean and plain exhausting to be so attuned to the slightest word or expression, but I just can’t stop myself. Perhaps it’s just not within me to gift Caro with the benefit of the doubt. “Anyway,” she says, finally looking up, BlackBerry in hand. “How are you two?”
“Fine,” says Lara brightly. “Just—oh, here’s Alain.”
I turn to see him pause at the doorway, an elegant gray suit encasing his long limbs, accentuated today by a powder blue tie. His eyes scan the room and stop on Lara momentarily—just long enough for something to pass between them that I could almost reach out and touch—then resume their survey. Finally he steps forward. “Ladies,” he says, a smile lurking at the edge of his mouth. “And gentlemen,” he adds as Tom and Seb return with their coffees; they each deposit their cardboard cups on the table to shake his hand. I notice that he didn’t shake hands with Caro, Lara or me. “Welcome to the glamour that is New Scotland Yard,” he says with an ironic lift of his eyebrows.
“Are police stations in France similar?” asks Lara.
He considers this seriously. “Ah, oui, in many ways. Though”—he looks at the flimsy cups on the table and wrinkles his nose in distaste—“the coffee is better.” This is greeted with great hilarity: we are all too tense, too desperate in our efforts to project good-humored ease. “And the food is better. And the decor, and the furniture . . . so, ah, maybe no, nothing like the same.” He smiles, acknowledging the laughter his words have elicited, deep lines bracketing his mouth. I haven’t seen him in this kind of environment before, where he has an audience and it’s his show. I can see that he and Lara are birds of a feather; they wear their skin with such effortless charm.