The Things We Do to Our Friends(59)

I sipped champagne to clear my mouth of the taste of the food, and I looked for them. I saw Ava steering Tabitha through the crowd as they moved from one group of men to another. I had a good view of the room, from the side, and the way they were behaving seemed…obvious. Body language that spoke of easy availability. Tabitha’s voice rang clear as a bell above the background murmur—so confident and so sure that the whole world would want to hear what she had to say. She was right. The men were listening, taking in and assessing this precocious young woman.

I went over to them and met his eye as I approached—The Pig, finally. He was a big man, towering even above the three of us. I extended one hand directly to him and introduced myself with a name, one chosen by someone else.

So many names by then. Sometimes if someone called out “Clare,” I’d have to jolt myself to remember to reply. Yes, I’m Clare.

I was transported back to Périgueux immediately as I took in his body shape (round) and his face (red with veins broken in the cheeks). He looked like a man who ate and drank a lot. More of a boar than a pig. Thick bristles of black hair and greasy skin.

Honestly, although seeing him made me think of things I’d rather have forgotten, surprisingly, I felt…good, like everything had led me to this specific moment.

When our hands touched, power buzzed through my body like an electric shock.

“So, shooting tomorrow, friends of Sorcha?” he said, letting the words run long and comfortable. He had the room’s attention, there was no need to rush. It seemed that even Tabitha wasn’t bursting for her turn to speak, and the group of men leaned in to hear what he had to say, nodding away, deferring to him.

“Yes,” I said, “we’re so excited.”

I was adept at speaking like this. Kind of breathy while I worked out a strategy.

He looked at me, faintly amused. “Not squeamish at all?”

“Not at all. I think there’s something right about knowing where your food comes from, killing it yourself.” A brilliant lie.

“Do you now?” He appraised me with new interest, for just a second, then he turned away and started speaking to a man who straddled the group on the periphery.

My face flushed with color at the snub. A man who stood to my left took pity on me, picking up the conversation where it had faltered.

“And what did you say you were studying, dear?” he asked, keen to smooth over the moment and keep the group chatting, but I stuttered and excused myself.

I was embarrassed, far more than the situation warranted, and I gave myself a pinch on my arm, something to keep me focused. A hard pinch to stay on track.

Time to reassess. I’d drunk precisely two glasses of champagne with purpose—monitoring the pace so the flute wouldn’t get filled up again. It had taken some time, but we never used alcohol as a crutch for confidence, none of us did. A few glasses maybe, nothing excessive, and especially in these situations, we watched what we drank with obsessive detail. I felt like I’d been drinking slowly. Usually, that amount wouldn’t have affected me, but I was unsteady and I’d noticed the room getting hot. That deep red room, like peering down a throat.

We’d been in there for forty-five minutes or so (I had become very good at assessing time passed) and I wondered if I could get away with leaving for ten minutes, just to clear my head. I decided I could; I went out to the front of the house and stood there in the freezing cold in my sleeveless dress.

Going outside meant I could gather my thoughts.

I hadn’t believed that anything much would happen with Jack the Pig, that I’d manage to steal a kiss during the weekend. The whole thing was bordering on madness—we had barely forty-eight hours with him, so it would probably have relied on him getting completely drunk. Plus, there were far too many other people there.

In the past, the men had taken either weeks of sustained attempts or else the setting had been…right. One that we’d had complete control over. At that moment, we had no control over any of it.

It was very cold. Then I felt that there was someone behind me. I smelled it. Whoever it was, they were smoking a cigar.

Him. He didn’t touch me.

“So, you care about where your food comes from?” he asked. I turned to meet his gaze, this man who apparently droned on about the benefits of a plant-based diet but saw no problem with hunting pheasants.

He was even more boarlike up that close.

Then I didn’t answer quickly enough, because he was walking away. He called back to me over his shoulder: “Follow me.” With complete confidence that I’d obey.

Back into the house, cigar still in hand, through the hall and then down, into a cellar, as if the whole chain of events was perfectly natural. I followed and my feet seemed to move of their own accord, down the steps, until the noise of the party above became a soft buzz.

At first, I couldn’t quite see the contents of the cellar. There were these things, hanging up, and as my sight adjusted to the lack of light, I realized what they were. Pheasants—their eyes dead and their bodies dark. Their feathers were shiny with oil and they gave off a noticeable smell; it wasn’t exactly unpleasant and it mixed with the other smells in the basement. Dampness and a waft of something that could have been chlorine.

He stood next to them. He didn’t blink enough. That was disconcerting.

“They need at least twenty-four hours,” he said.