The French Girl(83)

“No,” she repeats thoughtfully. Then she shrugs, the skin moving over her bony breastplate revealed by the V-necked shirt. No fat there at all. Caro has no time for anything superfluous. “That’s what I thought you would say. Though I don’t really understand why. After all, it really could have been Theo, couldn’t it? I mean, who knows?”

“Who knows,” I echo, in barely more than a whisper, fighting the urge to close my eyes. This is the moment to make my move; this is what I’ve been waiting for. But even as the thought crosses my mind, somehow I know it’s too late: it suddenly seems incredibly difficult to funnel words into my mouth, let alone form them in a coherent argument. Something is wrong, something is badly wrong with me, but I have no energy to figure out what.

“Kate? Who sent you the flowers, Kate?” Her voice is overloud; it forces my eyelids open. Perhaps this isn’t the first time she’s asked the question.

“The flowers?” I repeat stupidly. My tongue feels thick. I look at Severine, but there’s no help to be had from that quarter. I look at my glass of wine. It’s nearly empty, but one glass is hardly enough to affect my speech. My head is so heavy that I feel I ought to lie it on the counter; instead, I prop my chin on my hands. I really must be getting ill: why else would I feel like this?

“Look at you,” she says dispassionately. She puts her wineglass down decisively on the counter and pushes back her stool. “You always think you’re so clever, don’t you, Kate? You always have. Clever Kate, trying to show you’re so much better than the rest of us because you went to a state school. No expensive upbringing for you, oh no. You’ve done it all on your own merit.” She’s suddenly very close to me, but I don’t remember her bridging the gap. Did I close my eyes again? “Only now it doesn’t matter how clever you are. Even the flowers don’t really matter anymore. They’re not from a client; a client would send them to your office.” I shake my head, not understanding, but she’s insistent. “They’re from Seb, aren’t they? Now he’s back in London you’re trying to pick back up where you left off.”

“Seb?” Something is wrong. I’m drifting sideways—but no, I’m not, I’m sitting at the counter; it’s the world that’s moving, spinning as if I’m drunk. Severine is next to me, something insistent in her manner; I don’t understand her expression, but then, I never did.

“Seb,” Caro repeats impatiently. “He sent you the flowers, didn’t he?” There’s something else within her now; the rapier edge that has always lurked is now glitteringly, dangerously unleashed, stabbing with an urgency I haven’t seen before. As if she has taken the cloak off the dagger. Why would she do that? What have I missed?

It’s an effort, but I manage to turn my head to her. The rest of the room is blurry, but Caro is in pin-sharp focus. “No, Caro, he didn’t. He loves his wife.” At least, I think, I hope he does. He certainly ought to. Then: dear God, why am I feeling like this?

She snorts dismissively. “Rubbish. That won’t last.” She frowns. “But he really shouldn’t be sending you flowers when we have an understanding.”

I stare at her. “Understanding? Don’t you know? Alina’s . . .” My words peter out. There’s too much to overcome for them to be born into the world, too much effort in creating them, moving my mouth and tongue, using my breath. This time I really do lay my head on the counter.

“Alina’s what?” demands Caro, drawing disconcertingly near to me. She angles her head to match mine. I’m close enough to see that her irises are curiously devoid of flecks or variation, a flat, uniform, alien blue. “Alina’s what?”

“Pregnant,” I manage to say, then I close my eyes. Must sleep, I think. Then—no, I mustn’t sleep, I have a plan to execute, this is all wrong, what have I missed? With a gargantuan effort I open my eyes. Caro’s face is still right in front of me. “What have you done to me, Caro?” I whisper.

She ignores me. “Pregnant?” she hisses, disbelieving. “No. She can’t be.” For once I see everything she’s thinking displayed on her face: her mind is racing down avenues, searching for alternative truths. “I don’t believe it.” Only she does believe it; I see the moment when that happens, and it’s desperately sad to watch: the outer shell falls away to reveal her awful hurt and fury and grief, laid bare for all to see, the vulnerable thirteen-year-old cruelly wounded once again. But there’s only Severine and me to witness.

“What have you done to me?” I whisper again. My eyelids are drifting closed.

“Pregnant.” I hear her almost spit the word. Then, “Pregnant,” I hear her say again, but thoughtfully this time. She’s already regrouping; the shell is already patched up and lacquered back into place. Once again, it’s admirable, if psychotic.

I try to force my eyes open again. There’s an important question I should be asking. Asking again. “Caro. What have you done to me?”

She’s gazing into the distance, but on my words she glances back at me. “Flunitrazepam,” she says succinctly. “About enough to fell an elephant. Also known as Rohypnol, or roofies. Mostly it hits the headlines as a date rape drug, but did you know that a study in Sweden found it was the most commonly used suicide drug? Lara would like to know that, I’m sure . . .” She frowns again, or maybe she doesn’t. I’m losing my ability to focus. I don’t understand what she is saying. A malicious smile crosses her face. “I know you, being such a clever Kate, must be thinking that no one will believe you committed suicide . . .”