The French Girl(66)
I climb back onto my feet and go in search of my coat and my handbag, both of which are still in the kitchen. The dirty pizza plates are still on the counter; if I were a truly wonderful guest I would wash them up, but given it’s now past midnight I am definitely nowhere near wonderful—the most I have the energy for is to stack them in the sink, since on inspection the dishwasher is full. My mind is flitting from Seb’s desperate, pleading eyes to Tom’s shuttered face, and back again . . . It’s hardly the most important question, but I keep wondering who the girl was, the girl that Tom dragged Seb to the party for. Once upon a time I would have landed upon one name only, but I’m starting to think there’s a second option.
I pick up my coat and exit the kitchen to find Tom hovering in the corridor, lit only by the yellow slash of light coming from the bottom of the bathroom door, and the dim light spilling in from the kitchen and living room.
“You got hold of Alina?” I ask, to cover my awkwardness. Tom and I, alone again in this same corridor—how could it not be awkward?
“Yeah. He’s going to stay here for tonight.” He’s leaning his back against the wall; I can barely see the white of his teeth as he yawns. “She knew about him losing his job. She brought it up; I was wondering whether Seb would have told her or not.”
“How did she sound?” I put my bag down and begin to pull on my coat.
“I don’t know. Frustrated mostly, I think.”
Another deep retch comes from the bathroom. My eyes are adjusting to the light; I can just make out a grimace of part distaste and part sympathy on Tom’s face. “Christ. He’s going to feel like death tomorrow.”
“Who was the girl, Tom?”
He knows what I mean; he doesn’t try to dissemble. He simply shakes his head tiredly. “It doesn’t matter.”
It does, though. “Was it Lara?” We’re speaking quietly. The darkness winds its way around us, enveloping us, comforting us. It’s a blanket under which words can be uttered that would never be broached in the light of day.
“What? No, it wasn’t Lara.” I know he’s looking at me; I can feel the weight of his gaze, though I can only discern his eyes from a slight gleam. I have the sense his head is cocked, but perhaps I’m projecting his mannerisms upon this dark canvas. “Why would you think that? That was just a holiday fling. It didn’t mean anything to either of us.”
Not Lara. Not only not Lara, but seemingly never Lara. I file that away for future analysis. “So who was the girl?” I ask again, doggedly intent.
He doesn’t speak for a moment. He’s so still I could believe he has fallen asleep standing. Eventually his words come, barely more than a whisper. “You know who it was.”
Yes. I do know. There’s an inevitability about it, a permanence, even though I recognize that I didn’t know at all. I swallow. “Now I do,” I whisper. “I didn’t before.” Things I’ve been scared to acknowledge I’ve wanted and hoped for are gathering together inside me, a pressure that’s building, straining, until I’m afraid to move lest I burst open.
His hand reaches out, and I feel the back of his fingers trail gently down my cheek. I find I’m holding my breath. “I’m sorry I was such an unforgivable shit. It’s just . . . there was a moment there, the other night, when I thought I was getting everything I’d always wanted. And then—reality set in.” His fingers drop, he turns his head away and suddenly my stomach clenches into a hard knot. I know beyond a shadow of doubt that I will have to close myself off again, stamp down on all those things so eager to burst out. “And I was so fucked off—at myself, mostly—for allowing it, for putting myself in that position. Because I knew better, really. You can say whatever you choose to say, pretend whatever you think you should feel, but I see it in you, tonight like every other night. It’s always been Seb for you, hasn’t it? You never even saw me. And I’ll always know that.”
He has it all wrong, just like I’ve had it all wrong about so many things. “No, no,” I protest urgently, my voice rising, “that’s not fair, that’s not right—”
But he barely notices my interruption; he’s still talking, in a low, oddly persuasive rumble. “When this—when Modan—is done, I’m going to move back to Boston—”
A sudden crash comes from the bathroom. It sounds as if Seb has pulled something over: quite possibly the radiator judging from the metallic reverberation. Tom is already moving in that direction. “Shit. Sorry, Kate, you’d better go,” he throws over his shoulder, then he’s pulling the bathroom door open. I catch a glimpse of his face in the yellow light that leaps out to paint him, harsh lines etched round his mouth. “Shit!” he says again. Then he disappears inside and the door shuts abruptly. I’m left alone in the passageway.
For a moment I stand there, completely at a loss. Surely I can help with whatever disaster is now unfolding—but then I realize: that’s not the point. He doesn’t want me here, and this is a convenient way to politely get rid of me. I consider that for a moment more, then take a shuddering breath, pick up my bag and quietly leave the flat.
In the taxi on the way home I replay the night of Linacre Ball, when I first met Seb, and when, of course, I also first met Tom. I think about Tom dragging Seb along to the party, with quiet plans of speaking to a girl—me, as it turns out. I wonder where he had come across me before. I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out. I wonder how different things would have been if I’d turned back for the man-boy with the marvelously hooked nose after jumping off the wall, but I have to stop that train of thought before I come apart a piece at a time. Then from nowhere Tom’s words from an afternoon not so very long ago in his flat float back to me: Seb likes to win—and I put that together with Seb’s sly look—Yes, who was that girl? I don’t think you ever told me—and I’m flooded with such savage fury that I want to scream with it.