The French Girl(86)
“I don’t . . . I’m not sure . . . I was at my flat.” I remember that, definitively. “I wasn’t feeling well. I was running a bath.” Severine was in the bath; once again I see the water sheeting off her hair as she sits up. “Caro—oh my God—”
Tom gives a start. “Caro? Caro was there?”
“Yes. She came round. She put something in my wine, I think—”
“Caro put something in your wine.” It’s more of a statement than a question. His voice is tightly controlled, but there’s an anger lurking beneath that somehow puts me in mind of his impressive fury during the poolside debacle in France.
Caro. Caro and Seb. Seb and Alina—“Oh God, Alina; is Alina okay?”
“Rohypnol,” says Dr. Page, ignoring my question. Her tone is crisp, but her face has relaxed. “Rather a large dose, I’m afraid.” Enough to fell an elephant. Tom hasn’t reacted to her words; it dawns on me that this is not news to him. “We had to pump your stomach, and also you had subcranial bleeding so we—”
I cut across her. “Yes, but Alina—is she okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be okay?” Tom asks, but he’s simultaneously pulling his phone out of his pocket. The nurse starts to protest that mobile phones can’t be used in the hospital, but Dr. Page cuts her off with a quick shake of her head.
“Because Caro is obsessed with Seb. Because that’s what this was all about: Severine, everything. All about Seb—”
But Tom is speaking on the phone now. “Alina? Hi, it’s Tom.” I hear a voice replying, but I can’t make out the words. “Yes, I’m in the hospital with her now. She’s woken up, thank God. The doctor says she’s going to be fine.”
“Has Caro been to see her?” I ask him urgently.
He nods at me as he listens for a moment and then says, “No, it definitely wasn’t that.” Wasn’t what? “We’re just figuring out what really happened. Sorry to ask a slightly strange question, but has Caro been to see you?” He listens then shakes his head at me.
“Don’t let her—” I start, but he is nodding at me already, one hand up.
“Look, I’m not sure quite what’s going on right now, but sounds like you’re being a smart girl,” he says approvingly down the phone. “I’ll give you a call when I know more. Let me know when you and Seb are back in town.”
He disconnects and looks at me. “She was feeling pretty rubbish so she’s taken a week off work and she and Seb drove to Cornwall yesterday to stay at her mum’s place. Caro called her a couple of times the night before they left, but Alina thought she was being a bit, well, odd, so she said she didn’t have time to meet before they left.”
I do the maths on the timing; it’s horribly hard work on my aching head, though it occurs to me the painkillers I must be on are probably not helping, either. Alina said Caro called the night before they left, and she also said they left yesterday. So, Caro called her two days ago. And I’ve been out of it for two days. Caro must have left mine and immediately started calling Alina. I wonder what it was that raised alarm bells for Alina, but whatever it was, she’s a smart girl indeed for listening to them. I relax back onto the pillow. Then I remember my puzzlement at Tom’s words. “Wasn’t what?” I ask.
“What?”
“You said no, it wasn’t that. What did you mean?” Once again I notice that Dr. Page and the nurse are thoroughly involved in other things and therefore are actually at full attention. Then it hits me. “Oh. You thought I’d attempted suicide.” I can see on all the faces that I’ve got it right. Something flickers in my memory. “She said you would think that,” I murmur.
“It’s a reasonable assumption for that quantity of drug in your bloodstream,” says Dr. Page with an unapologetic shrug. “I’m astonished you were able to call for help at all.” I look at her, nonplussed. I called for help? Who did I call? But she’s moving on: if I want to be able to hold a conversation on my own terms I had better increase my mental processing speed. “How did it get in your system?”
I’m not sure if she doesn’t believe me or she’s just being thorough. “Caro brought wine,” I say evenly, though perhaps not as evenly as intended. My voice isn’t quite working as normal, and my throat seems to close up even more when I think of what happened, or might have happened . . . What did happen? “I wasn’t in the room when she opened it and poured me a glass. I didn’t try to kill myself; I wouldn’t do that. Ever. Plus I wouldn’t even have a clue how to get hold of Rohypnol.” A half memory triggers: you really should put a security code on your iPhone. That same iPhone on the floor, the colors on the screen swimming too vividly . . .
“That’s a serious accusation,” Dr. Page says carefully.
“It was a serious attempt to kill me,” I reply, not nearly as evenly.
She nods, though more as if she’s weighing things up than as a sign of agreement. “Look, I’m not trying to influence you in any way, but you should be aware that Rohypnol does rather scramble your memories.” Tom is very still. I can’t tell what he’s thinking as he focuses on the good doctor. “To be frank, it makes you an unreliable witness in the eyes of the law. Are you sure you want to take this to the police?”