The French Girl(71)
I don’t believe in coincidences.
I’m still trying to work out the implications of that when Julie taps and enters briskly, her generous mouth unusually strained. “Sorry, Kate, I have an Alina”—she checks the Post-it in her hand—“Harcourt here for you.” Harcourt—but that’s Seb’s surname, it doesn’t fit with anyone else—and then I twig. But what on earth is Seb’s wife doing here? Julie is still speaking, her eyes anxious behind the tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. “I did say you have quite a busy schedule . . .”
Do I? I check the diary, conscious it should have been the first thing I did when I got back in the office, and it’s true, I have a few calls coming up. It’s hard to reason through how I should respond to this sudden intrusion, to what would constitute a normal response when I feel so far from normal. I suppose I could legitimately send Alina away; it’s what I would prefer to do, but I can’t help wondering what has driven her here in the first place. I wouldn’t imagine she’s someone given to impulsive social calls with no warning; she’s far too well-mannered for that. “It’s okay, Julie, she’s the wife of a friend.”
Reluctantly leaving my desk to greet my unexpected guest, I find her looking out of the window in the outer room, a sleek gray wool coat buttoned almost to her neck, the belt highlighting her as-yet slim waist. Above the collar her long dark blond hair is coiled into a smooth roll. She turns her head as I emerge from my office, and I see her quickly rearrange her features into a smile. Her makeup is impeccable. She must have taken a great deal of care over it.
“Alina!” I say, finding a smile from somewhere. I kiss her on both cheeks after a slight hesitation that I hope is imperceptible. That’s the point of etiquette, I think—to provide a framework of actions to cling to even when your world is falling apart. I need to rely on that. “This is a surprise. How are you?”
She doesn’t answer the question. “I’m so sorry for turning up unannounced.” She glances around; a quick frown crosses her face before she smooths it away.
“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” I ask, conscious of Julie hovering behind me.
“Oh no. Lord, no. I capital-raise for private equity.” Alina glances round again. The practicalities seem to be catching up to her. Perhaps she hadn’t been expecting me to share an office.
“A social call then,” I say. Alina’s eyes fly to my face; they’re hazel, almost yellow. “Come on, then, let’s nip out for coffee where we can chat freely.” Whatever she has to say, I’m quite sure I don’t want Paul or Julie to hear it.
Alina nods swiftly. “Perfect,” she says, relief evident even in her clipped tones. “I am sorry to disturb you, but as I was passing, it seemed silly not to drop in.” She’s a smart girl; she’s caught on.
I ask Julie to reschedule my calls and then grab my coat, which seems very shabby next to Alina’s sleek number, and Alina and I head across the road to the nearest coffee shop. I have to stretch my mind to think of what one might ordinarily say in this situation. Follow the rules, stick to the etiquette: the ordinary steps of life will pull me through. “How are you feeling?” I ask. “Are you still struggling with morning sickness?”
“That,” she says without looking at me, her mouth a thin tight line, “is the least of my worries.” Then she relents, perhaps realizing how combative she sounded. “But yes, I’m still struggling. God knows what this poor thing is surviving on; I can hardly keep anything down.”
We’re at the door of the café now. I sit Alina down at a table and queue to buy her a cup of tea and some plain biscuits, ignoring her protestations that she should be the one paying. When I return to the table she has peeled off the tailored coat to reveal a white silk blouse and a neat pencil skirt. The effect is simple, understated: elegantly attractive but not sexy. It entirely suits her. She reaches for the biscuits immediately. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I study her as she peels open the packet, trying to fit her into Seb, like a two-piece jigsaw puzzle.
She looks up as if she feels my eyes on her, picking over her hair, her clothes, the way she holds herself. “You must be wondering what on earth I’m doing here,” she says, without a trace of a smile, when she has finished a biscuit. Her delicately prominent collarbones spread like open wings from the two raised nubs at the base of her throat; her wrists are slender, leading to long, slim fingers. It seems like her very bones have been carefully crafted to fit the image she wishes to portray: refined, elegant, unmistakably upper class.
“Yes,” I say. I glance at my mobile phone, which I have placed faceup on the table. My lawyer hasn’t rung.
“You used to date my husband.”
I blink. “Yes.”
“Is that a problem?” Her eyes are an unusual hazel color and fixed unswervingly on my face.
I almost laugh; for a moment I’m tempted to paraphrase her own words: that’s the least of my problems. Instead I say evenly, “Not for me.”
She eyes me carefully without speaking for a moment, then reaches for another biscuit. “Good,” she says, with some satisfaction, as if I’ve confirmed something important to her. “I didn’t know anything about your history with Seb until the other day,” she remarks. “Caro told me.” There’s an unmistakable twist of her lips on Caro’s name. “Actually, I’d rather assumed you were with Tom.”