The French Girl(77)

He’s quiet. He knows what I’m saying. He’s quiet for a second that becomes a minute, a year, a lifetime.

“Say something,” I whisper to him. I turn my face to hide it in the sofa cushions.

“You chose Seb.” He’s whispering, too. “I’ll always know you chose Seb.”

“Because I didn’t know. You didn’t even try; you just stepped aside for Seb. You can’t hold it against me when you didn’t even try.” Another second, another minute—I can’t bear for the silence to lengthen any further. “Don’t say anything now. Just think about it. I’m going to be in a French jail anyway—”

“It won’t come to that,” he interrupts fiercely, but I ignore him.

“— so it’s probably a moot point, but . . . please just think about it.”

“I . . .” He trails off. “All right, I’ll think about it.”

“Night, Tom.”

“Night, Kate.”



* * *



—

In the morning I almost don’t go to work. I’ve slept abysmally—God knows when I last slept well, which I know is a sign of mental stress, but in this case I think it’s rather eclipsed by the fact that I’m regularly seeing a ghost—but at 9 A.M. I’m still in bed, not sleeping, not moving, not doing anything except existing, and I can’t even see the point of that. It’s a call from Caro that rouses me from my apathy. Pride, it turns out, is a powerful motivator.

“Julie said you weren’t in yet, best to try your mobile,” says Caro breezily. “Having a lie-in, are you? I hope I didn’t wake you.”

I can sense her sly glee at the idea, and I can’t bear to allow her the pleasure. “Actually no, I’ve just finished a breakfast meeting with a client,” I lie, remarkably glibly. “Julie must have overlooked it in the office diary.”

“Oh. Right.” She sounds temporarily put out—yes!—but she rallies. “Well, I really need to meet with you. How’s your diary today?”

I grab my BlackBerry from the bedside table and flick through. “Today is not great, actually.” It’s true; it would be a pretty busy day even without the lawyer-and-Modan meeting that looms, darkly implacable and immovable, in the middle of the afternoon. “Monday would be better.”

“It really needs to be today,” she insists. “What about the end of the day?”

I can see I’m not going to be able to put her off. “Well, yes, I suppose I should be able to manage six thirty,” I say reluctantly. “Is there a problem? Have you had second thoughts on anyone we’re negotiating with?”

“No, no, it’s not that at all. Actually, it’s more a case of some professional advice. You know, with the partnership process . . .”

That almost floors me. Caro would like to ask my advice: really? Yet again she has me wrong-footed. “Sure, happy to do whatever I can. I know you’re up against tough opposition.” I’ve done some digging, and from what I understand, Darren Lucas is fighting for the same partnership spot. He’s a small, wiry man with a shock of dark hair, a nose to rival Tom’s, and a good line in self-deprecating wit. Clients love him, colleagues adore him and he’s a very savvy lawyer. Even when I try to take my own personal bias out of the equation, I can’t see how Caro can win this one, unless the firm bows to gender pressure.

“Darren? Oh, don’t worry about him,” she says dismissively. I blink. Surely Caro is not so naive as to underestimate Darren? “No, I’ll explain it all later. See you at my offices at six thirty.”

I put down my phone and look around my bedroom. The digital clock reads 9:11. If I’m quick with my shower, I can be in the office before the ten o’clock call that’s in my diary. It’s touch-and-go; I almost pull the covers over my head, but the thought of Caro (old or new?) gloating at my slide into depression pushes me out of bed and into the bathroom. Follow routines, stick to etiquette, I tell myself. It’s all that I can think to do.

In the warm streaming water of the shower it takes me a minute to remember what I’m supposed to do. Shampoo hair. Rinse. Condition hair. Rinse. Apply body wash. Rinse. Another routine, something else to cling to. I pick up my razor, but I don’t have the slightest inclination to apply it to any part of me, no matter how fuzzy my legs or underarms might be. Shaving is a hopeful act. I think of Tom on the phone: All right, I’ll think about it. I put the razor back down, unused. It doesn’t seem as if shaving is called for.

As I dry myself off, I see Severine in the mirror, leaning against the bathroom wall behind me, but when I turn round she isn’t there. I wonder again why Caro doesn’t see Darren as a threat. I’m missing something. Now there are two things I don’t understand where Caro is concerned: this, and what she has to gain by spreading gossip about me, if indeed she is the culprit. It makes me uneasy, or even more uneasy.

I can’t remember when I was last at ease.



* * *



—

I don’t have long to wait to find out why Caro doesn’t think Darren is a threat. It’s the first thing Paul says to me, beating even a traditional good morning. “Darren Lucas is under investigation at Shaft & Vile for fraud. Can you believe it?”