The French Girl(82)

Her words are solid, impermeable, immovable. I gaze at her helplessly for a moment, then try one more doomed attempt: “Caro, I know you don’t want to hear this now, but there are other law firms—”

“No.” It’s a statement of finality: for Caro, it’s Haft & Weil or bust, partnership or nothing. I’ve met many driven candidates over the years, all of whom display a similar single-mindedness, but nonetheless something about Caro seems particularly extreme. I realize I’m staring at her bent head as I sip my wine, trying to puzzle her out.

I shake my head and remind myself of my endgame. I have a plan, after all, and solving Caro’s partnership woes is not part of it. After a moment, I say casually, “Do you still speak to Mark Jeffers?”

Her head whips up. “No,” she says carefully, after the barest hesitation, but it’s enough: I am not wrong about her. I sip my wine to hide the irrational disappointment that runs through me. “Why do you ask?” she adds, with just the right amount of mild curiosity.

“He’s been shooting his mouth off round the market about the investigation; specifically, about how one Kate Channing is about to be arrested,” I say evenly. “I’ve even had prospective clients asking me about it.”

“Well, I know him quite well from days of old,” she says smoothly. “He’s a dreadful blabbermouth, but I could speak to him and try to get him to pipe down if you like.”

“I rather think you’ve spoken to him already, haven’t you?” She is gazing at me steadily, her eyes still burning over-brightly, as if she’s the one with a fever, but her face is carefully blank. “He had my name, and that hasn’t been in any of the papers.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she exclaims. It’s a very good performance of outrage, such that a part of me can’t fail to be impressed. “What on earth would I have to gain from that?”

It’s a valid question, and one I can’t answer; I continue as if she hasn’t spoken. “And now this Darren Lucas situation. He’s a very formidable opponent, but he’s already been stitched up, hasn’t he? So now your own rumormongering has come home to roost, in the very year that everything is miraculously in your favor.”

Now her eyes have narrowed and her lips are almost invisible, clamped in a tight line. “If you have something to say, perhaps you should come right out and say it,” she says, in a tightly controlled voice.

“I thought I was.” I take another sip of wine. It’s a sauvignon blanc, absolutely not what I would have chosen, and there’s an aftertaste that definitely isn’t winning me round. “I think Darren Lucas was in your way and you found a way to remove him. And now you need a way to make sure you can capitalize on that, which means you need the investigation to disappear.”

She picks up her glass and swirls it carefully before looking at me again, with those greedy, hot eyes. The desperation within her lies not quite hidden beneath. “You should be careful throwing around accusations you can’t prove.”

“You’re right.” I pull back my hand before it can sneak into my pocket—later—and take a drink myself. “I can’t prove it. Anyway. Back to the point. You’re here to ask me to blame Theo for all of this.”

Her glass pauses halfway to her mouth, then smoothly resumes its trip. “You’ve been talking to Alina.”

“Yes,” I agree. Again, she’s undeniably impressive, with her quick, devious intelligence. She barely missed a beat there.

“In that case, I might as well admit it. I was coming here to ask you to blame Theo.” She shrugs. “After all, why wouldn’t you? Your own business is struggling because of this—”

“My business is fine.”

“Really?” She arches a brow. Something in her has changed. I knocked her off balance with my frontal assault, but I can see she has already regrouped. There’s a tension within her, like a vibration: a quiver of anticipation. The eyes are only the tip of the iceberg. What have I missed? “How fine would it be if Haft & Weil dropped you? You’d lose Stockleys, too, I’d warrant . . .”

This is what I’ve missed. I wonder how long she has been planning for this. Perhaps she perennially sees life as a chess game: putting pieces in place to defend her position should certain events come to pass . . . Or perhaps there was never any plan, and she’s just taking advantage of what lies before her. I stare at her, waiting to feel panic or despair, but there’s nothing but the cold, hard fear inside me that wills me inexorably on. And, out of nowhere, tiredness. Bone-crushing tiredness; a wave of it is rolling over me. I pull out a bar stool and sink onto it. “There’s a contract—”

“There’s a clause that gives an out for reputational risk,” she says flatly. “A debatable interpretation, but you’d run out of cash before you could face us in court over it.”

She is right, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me say it. So I say nothing, and she eyes me carefully, allowing herself a small smile. “So yes, that is what I was going to say. Blame Theo.”

“No,” I answer bluntly. Even before my epiphany in the bathroom, I would have said no. If Tom were here, he would be furious with me; he would urge me to row back, look out for myself, look after my business . . . but no. I want to be better than that; I need to be better than that. In Tom’s eyes, at least, I need to be the Kate I like best. And I won’t let Tom be a Tom that, over time, in the dark hours of the night, he becomes ashamed of. Not even for me. “No,” I say again.