Sebastian smiled.
“They’re great. They call me ‘Uncle Seb’… well, Simone, the youngest one, she calls me ‘Zed’ because she still gets her words mixed up sometimes. She’s nearly three. Ben is four and he’s a little surf-rat already. I see them as often as I can, but every time they seem so much more grown up. Jeez, they grow fast.”
“What’s Amy like?”
“Yeah, she’s okay.”
I raised my eyebrows: his tone was distinctly lukewarm.
“Let me guess – she doesn’t approve of you?”
He looked surprised. “What made you say that?”
“Firstly, because you’re single, and married women get nervous that their husband’s single friends will lead them astray; secondly, because, from the sound of it, you’ve had more women than most men have hot dinners, and that will make her nervous because she won’t want you reminding Ches of what he’s missing out on; and…”
I stopped mid sentence.
“And what?”
“Well, the drinking, Sebastian. She wouldn’t want that around her husband and kids.”
He grimaced. “Yeah, I guess that about sums it up.”
“When did you start drinking?” I said, gently.
“What do you mean? I don’t drink that much, not like that bitch mother of mine.”
I stared at him. “Well, twice in as many days you’ve been so drunk you’ve either passed out or made inappropriate comments to me.”
Sebastian’s face darkened perceptibly.
“I think my question stands,” I said, holding his gaze.
He looked at me, hesitating to reply immediately.
“When I was 21,” he said at last. “That’s when I started drinking.”
And then it hit me, fool that I was. The drinking, the womanising, the reckless disregard for his career: it had all begun when he was 21. It had all begun because he’d given up – given up hope of love… of me.
“Sebastian, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
My words seemed deeply inadequate.
He shrugged and looked away. “Old news, Caro, don’t worry about it.”
I struggled to think of something inconsequential to say.
“Do you like living in Geneva?”
Lame, but it was the first thought that came to mind.
“It’s okay, but I miss the ocean.”
“Ah, no famous Swiss surfing beaches.”
He grinned, his equilibrium restored. “I haven’t found any yet.”
I smiled back.
“Are you done eating?” he said, impatiently. “Shall we go?”
“I just need to go back to my room and pick up a jacket and, I presume, my passport, but otherwise, yes, I’m good to go.”
He frowned. “You’re a journalist: you should always have your passport with you. Hell, that was in that fucking tedious lecture that Parsons gave the day before yesterday.”
“So you were listening,” I swatted back.
He shook his head and smiled.
“Yeah, yeah, just grab a sweater, too: it’s going to get cold.”
I nodded as I left him at the table, but I was puzzled. It was mid March: it wasn’t that cold. But when I saw him waiting for me at the front of the building, I understood why he’d told me to dress warm.
“Are you kidding me, Hunter? You expect me to get on that thing?”
Sebastian was standing next to a large, black Japanese motorcycle with French plates, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“Sure! It’ll be fun.”
I eyed the monster warily. It didn’t look like ‘fun’: it looked dangerous and cold.
“Do you know how to drive it?” I asked suspiciously.
“Caro, I rode it from Paris – I think I can manage 88 kilometers to Chamonix,” he said, grinning widely.
“I don’t know,” I muttered, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle before.”
He looked surprised. “Really? Because we used to talk about riding from…”
He stopped abruptly.
Was it ever going to get easier to talk about the past?
“Oh, what the hell,” I said, shaking my head.
“Such faith in my abilities, Ms. Venzi.”
“If I get killed on this thing, I’m going to come back and haunt you!”