The French Girl(56)
“I suppose the period before partnership is even more brutal,” I respond neutrally. Typically candidates continue to work at the same breakneck pace, but with the added stress of continual scrutiny of every single decision they take, every strategy they suggest.
Her face tightens a fraction. I suspect Caro is aware her campaign is not going perfectly. But she simply says, “Yes,” then busies herself selecting another biscuit. I remember that, too: the diabolic diet that comes from having lost all sense of normal body rhythm, leaving you lurching from one sugar fix to another. After a moment she adds, “At any rate, I think I’m going to be stuck here all week and all weekend too.”
“Did you have plans?”
“I was going to visit my mum, but . . .” She shrugs ruefully.
“Do you see her much?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She shakes her head, a small, economical movement. “I always think I should go down more.” She grimaces, but not without humor. “Right up to the point when I’m there, and then I rather think the opposite.”
That pulls a chuckle from me. “You don’t get along?”
She shrugs again. “It’s a well-trodden path. Things start well, but sooner or later the criticisms will come out. She didn’t want me to become a lawyer, you see, but I always wanted to follow Dad into the law. She can’t see the point of me working so hard when surely I could marry money, or live off Dad’s . . .” She trails off and grimaces again, but the humor is gone; she seems suddenly defenseless, and for the first time ever I can imagine the thirteen-year-old girl that she once was, trying to navigate through the trials of teenage life with a mother she can never please who is using her as a tool against the father she longs to emulate. I think of my own mother, a geriatric nurse, gently proud but benignly uncomprehending both of the job that I do and why I would want to do it, given the stress and long hours—it was always my father who understood. For the first time ever I want to reach out to Caro, but I have no idea how.
“Anyway,” she says briskly, breaking the moment, “I certainly could have done without having to sprint across to New Scotland Yard last night.” She eyes me across the table as she takes a neat bite, her small, sharp teeth gleaming white. Perhaps she’s had them bleached. She’s the Caro I expect once again, but that moment has shaken me. I can still feel the reverberations. Perhaps beneath the brittle painted surface of Caro, there are other versions, stacked like Russian dolls, years upon years of them, right back to the vulnerable girl that she must have been at the time of the divorce, and beyond—all of them inside her. Perhaps I should take more care with the shell. “What did you make of all of that yesterday?”
I grimace, looking for a noncommittal answer. “I’m not sure I understand why Modan hasn’t given up and gone home. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything to support any one of us as a suspect over anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity.”
She nods vigorously as she finishes her mouthful. “Totally. Completely agree.” She adds, almost as an afterthought, “Which makes it weird that he keeps asking me about Theo.”
“Really?”
“God, yes, like a dog with a bone. And what can I say? I mean, we were together until we went up to our beds, and then . . .” She waves a hand airily. It’s not a gesture that suits her; it’s too vague, and Caro is never vague. “Well, then I was asleep, and who can vouch for anyone when they’re asleep?”
“Well, that applies to us all,” I say tightly. “There must have been a couple of hours when everyone was asleep and no one is accounted for.” Except for Lara and Tom, entwined in coital bliss . . .
“Absolutely. Of course. Which makes it odd that he’s focusing on Theo particularly.” She shrugs. “Though—distasteful as it is to say, if it had to be one of us . . .” I stare at her, not so much appalled as bewildered—does she not know Tom at all? Surely she realizes he would fight ceaselessly to prevent any besmirching of Theo’s name. She shrugs again. “Well, onward and upward: why don’t you give me an overview of where we stand with the candidates?”
So I do, and we discuss. The process is extremely developed by now; there’s not a lot she can add. Her questions are professional and intelligent, though she is clearly far more focused on immediate benefits to the firm from prospective new hires rather than their career development within the company, which is not quite the message Gordon would be sending candidates—I will have to be careful she doesn’t ruin the groundwork we’ve laid. I make a couple of careful allusions to it that are obviously less subtle than intended: after the second one she stops and laughs. “Kate,” she says through a smile that holds genuine amusement. “Don’t worry, I know how to stay on message. I won’t scare the horses.”
“I know, of course not; it’s just that collegiality and long-term career opportunities are the main reason a couple of these candidates are considering this place.”
“I get it. Don’t worry.” She puts down her pen and yawns, half-heartedly covering her mouth. The adrenaline has been slowly leaching out of her during our meeting, and the yawns are coming closer together. “Oh,” she says suddenly, brightening a little. “I meant to tell you, you may get a call from a chap called Hugh Brompton at Stockleys.” Stockleys is an enormously successful mid-tier UK firm with a footprint just about everywhere; it doesn’t compete with Haft & Weil, as it wouldn’t generally get the cutting-edge, high-profile deals, but there’s an awful lot of work around that isn’t cutting-edge or high profile. “We use them quite a bit when we need to outsource some of the drudge work—much cheaper for the client than Haft & Weil personnel.” She’s watching me carefully as she speaks, her head slightly cocked and her tired eyes gleaming birdlike. “Anyway, they’re looking to beef up certain areas, and I told Hugh about you and suggested they give you a call. It’s a big job, from what he says, and the contract is basically yours—as far as he’s concerned, if you’re good enough for Haft & Weil, you’re good enough for him.”