The French Girl(65)

“Who?” I prompt, when Seb doesn’t go on. I’ve never heard this story before.

“Yes, who was that girl? I don’t think you ever told me,” says Seb with faux-innocence, but in his inebriated state, subtlety is beyond him. Seb, I deduce, knows exactly who it was.

“Who knows? It was a long time ago,” Tom says tightly, but he’s interrupted by Seb’s mobile ringing once more.

“It’s Caro again,” I say neutrally.

“I know,” he mutters. His head is sunk on his chest again. “Fuck.” This time it’s more of a moan.

“Why is Caro calling you so much?” Tom asks, as if it’s only of the mildest interest to him.

“I’m not sleeping with her if that’s what you think.” He’s both belligerent and defensive. His fabled charm has most definitely fled him this evening.

“I never said—”

“Yeah, well, you implied it. Of course I’m not sleeping with her; I’m not completely stupid. Never have in all these years.” His head lolls again. “Barely even kissed her,” he mutters. He rubs a hand down his face, then lunges drunkenly for my arm again, and catches it, pulling me down awkwardly so I’m half hunched over. “I fucked up, Kate,” he mumbles urgently, looking straight in my eyes. “Should never have given up on us. Everything was okay, wasn’t it? We were good, weren’t we? But then I fucked up. And now . . . oh, fuck . . .” I start to feel a sense of foreboding building in my stomach. Seb releases my arm abruptly, and I lose my balance, grabbing at the coffee table to steady myself. When I look back at Seb he has his arm raised, shielding his eyes with his forearm. I glance at Tom questioningly. He shakes his head, nonplussed.

“Seb, what’s wrong?” I ask hesitantly. “What is it?”

“Leaving drinks.” His lips fumble around the words, thick and rubbery. “My leaving drinks.”

“But you just came across from New York. Surely they wouldn’t fire you when—”

“Not fired. Resigned. Not fired. My boss was—kind—enough to give me the option.” His arm is still over his eyes.

“What did you do?” Tom asks, brutally direct.

“What I always do. I fucked up.” He lifts his arm away; it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but I think his eyes are wet. “Not like you, eh, Tom? You always hit the mark. Tom is doing so well at school. Tom’s won a scholarship, didn’t you hear? Tom’s really racing up the career ladder; you know he’s head of FX trading now? Why can’t you be more like your cousin?”

My breath catches in shock. I can’t imagine Seb would ever betray such bitterness were it not for the amount he’s drunk, and I can’t imagine he would want me to see this. I feel instantly grimy, like I’m peeping in on a private scene. Tom’s face is impassive. I wonder if he’s heard this before or simply guessed at the simmering resentment. “What did you do?” Tom repeats, remarkably undeterred.

Seb rubs a hand over his face, and all the fight seems to leave him. “I was drunk,” he says hoarsely. “At work. All this stuff with that fucking French girl, and Alina and the baby, and then Caro in my ear—it just . . . got too much.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and leaves them there. “Fuck!” he says with explosive savagery.

When Tom shakes his head, I can see exasperation warring with pity upon his face. “Oh, Seb,” he says softly.

That fucking French girl. A literal statement in this case, since he was the one fucking her. But one look at Seb’s distress robs me of my ironic amusement; there’s nothing to laugh at here. “I’m sorry,” I say inadequately. I look at Tom. “You should call Alina and let her know he’s here; she’s probably worried sick.”

He nods and picks up Seb’s mobile to scroll through the directory for Alina’s number, stepping toward the corridor to make the call. I wonder if he’s also checking how many times Caro has rung; I would be.

Seb is falling asleep, I think. I suppose he will have to stay here, and therefore Tom and I are unlikely to have our tête-à-tête tonight after all. I should go; in fact, I’m eager to go—watching someone unravel is far from comfortable, and Severine has already ditched the scene. I make a move toward the corridor, but suddenly Seb lunges for my arm once more: not asleep after all. He pulls me into that awkward crouch again, but this time I’m forewarned; I brace myself on the arm of the sofa. “It wasn’t me,” he says urgently, pleadingly, his bloodshot eyes seeking mine out directly. “You have to know that. It wasn’t me—I would have remembered if it was me, wouldn’t I? It couldn’t have been me. I came to bed; it couldn’t have been me.”

“I . . .” I’m helpless for words. Hypothetically discussing Seb as a suspect for murder in Tom’s kitchen over pizza is a far cry from facing down the mess that is the man himself. Tom’s footsteps sound behind me, and I turn, relieved at the interruption, but I see Tom halt abruptly at the sight of us, his face frozen. I’m suddenly horribly aware of how close Seb’s face is to mine.

I start to disengage my arm just as Seb blurts, “I think I’m going to vom—” He releases me and lurches upward as I scatter backward; Tom starts back into action, practically hauling him by the collar toward the bathroom. Moments later I hear the unmistakable sound of Seb’s stomach evacuating itself.