The French Girl(8)

“Tom! The guest of honor!” she is saying, as she kisses him on both cheeks; Tom doesn’t try to hug her, I note. Then Caro turns to Lara and myself; Lara gets the double-kiss treatment first. “It’s been so long,” Caro exclaims to her. “You look . . . just the same.” Lara murmurs back something innocuous.

“Hi, Caro.” I’m last in line. I dutifully offer my cheeks; the spiked heels on her boots almost raise her up to my height. There’s no contact in either kiss.

“Kate,” she says, her lips curving in a smile that her eyes don’t entirely match. “I hear you met my father.”

“Um, yes.” I’m a little surprised she would choose to lead with that. “I think we’re meeting again next week, actually.”

Her eyes narrow a fraction, but she nods emphatically and says, “Excellent. I told him weeks ago that he wouldn’t regret giving you a chance.”

“Thank you,” I say, thrown. “That was . . . kind of you.” At least, it would have been kind if it were true. I’m absolutely positive she’s lying. Her father would have already known about our acquaintance had she spoken to him.

“It’s nothing,” she says with a dismissive gesture. “It can’t be easy starting up your own business in this economic climate. Now, you all have drinks, yes? Then come join the melee.” She links her arm through Tom’s and drags him off; I watch her stretch up with a sly smile on her face to deliver something to his ear that elicits a sharp bark of laughter. He’s soon ensconced in vigorous hellos complete with enthusiastic back-thumping with three or four men whose faces I vaguely remember, but not their physiques; ten years has done a lot of damage to hairlines and waistlines.

Lara and I sip champagne. We mingle and chat. By and large the faces I don’t know are the other halves of people I do. Some more people come in, and the music moves on to a more upbeat tempo. The volume of the chatter and laughter increases. We drink more champagne and do some damage to the trays of nibbles. I take in the flat: a property like this must be hideously expensive in this part of London. I wonder if her father helped her buy it, and if he did, I wonder at the dynamic of refusing his name but taking his financial aid.

Caro joins us. “I’m so sorry I haven’t had a chance to chat with you two. But you know what it’s like at your own parties—you hardly get time for more than a hello with each person before you’re dragged off.” She rolls her eyes as if it’s a chore, but she’s in her element. The gracious host indeed.

“Great turnout,” says Lara, raising her glass to Caro.

“It is, isn’t it?” She has a satisfied smile on her face as she scans the room. Then she turns back to us. “Sorry to speak of unpleasant things, but I expect you both have meetings with the French investigator next week, too?”

“Yes, Monday,” I say.

“It was such a long time ago, I wondered if we should discuss beforehand. Make sure we’re all singing from the same song sheet, so to speak.”

Lara opens her mouth, most likely to agree because it’s the path of least resistance, so I jump in quickly. “What’s to discuss? She was alive and well the night before we left, and that’s the last we saw of her.”

Caro is nodding. “True. Then she went into town.” She frowns. “Odd that she came back to her cottage when she told Theo she was going to Paris.”

“Did she?” I didn’t know that.

“When did she say that?” asked Lara.

“The night before we left, I think. Theo had a long chat with her.” I remember that: I see the pair of them now, lying on their backs in the dark of nighttime on sun loungers beside the pool. Severine has a glass of white wine resting on her stomach, and the red glow of a cigarette makes a repeated arc up to her mouth then down to dangle off the armrest. She’s still in the black linen shift, but her sandals are now tossed carelessly beside the sun lounger. I don’t want to look at Seb in case he’s drinking in the sight of her; instead I watch Severine myself. After a time she turns her head to look at me directly; it’s too dark and she’s too far away to see the expression in her eyes. Not that there was ever anything to see in Severine’s eyes.

I shake my head. Caro is still talking: “I just thought, well, maybe we should all compare notes . . . After all, I can barely remember that last night, what with the alcohol.” She gives a high, tinkling laugh.

“And the drugs,” I say evenly. Her laugh stops, and she cocks her head and meets my eye. Lara is looking from Caro to me and back again. Across the room I can see Tom repeatedly glancing away from his conversation to keep tabs on the three of us; he’s easy to spot on account of his height and that bold nose. And his shoulders, now, after all that relationship-avoiding gym work; he must be even bulkier than Seb these days. “It’s okay,” I say after a moment. “I didn’t mention it back then, and I won’t now.”

Caro nods, a short, quick movement. It’s not exactly a thank-you, but close.

“It was a pretty crazy night,” says Lara, smiling.

“Yes,” laughs Caro, happy to move on. “Didn’t you end up skinny-dipping with Tom?”

Lara is grinning. “I seem to remember something like that. Then World War Three broke out and we were trying to calm everyone down whilst naked and dripping wet.” She frowns. “I can’t remember, what were you guys arguing about anyway?” she says with wide-eyed innocence. I glance at her sharply, then look at Caro. Twin spots of red are burning in her cheeks.