I dream of Severine, among others.
She has no right to be in my dreams, but that would never have stopped Severine. I’m back at the farmhouse, of course, and I’m trying to find something, or someone, but what? Who? I stick my head in the rooms, some empty, some not; some of the occupants weren’t even part of that fateful vacation, but somehow I’m not surprised to see them. I keep looking. Caro is alone in the kitchen; she’s wearing a white bikini top and a red chiffon sarong, and she looks up then laughs at me when I pass through. I realize I’m clad in jeans and a heavy-duty winter jumper, but I know I’ve nothing else to wear. Severine is smoking in the garden. She tells me something very seriously, but I don’t listen; in fact I’m picking up speed, running to the barn. The jumper is uncomfortably hot. I throw open the barn door, then catch my breath when I find Seb there. He’s wearing long beach shorts that are slung low on his hips. His hair is lighter than Tom’s, almost golden at the tips, and curlier; his muscular bare chest is tanned, and dark, springy hair makes a trail down his abdomen—a fully-fledged man whereas his peers are still leaving boyhood. Just like Caro he looks me up and down with those blue eyes that could be Tom’s, then laughs. It’s not a kind laugh.
The dream doesn’t fade when I wake; it presses on my temples and adds to the throbbing left by one too many glasses of wine with Lara. Getting out of bed—in fact, all of what the day requires—seems a supreme effort, but then I imagine Paul and Julie at the office wondering where I am, and that provides the necessary impetus. By the time Tom calls my mobile that afternoon, the headache has dulled but the effort remains.
“How was it?” he asks. I can hear a very particular hubbub in the background: sharp orders and staccato words in the male register. He’s on the trading floor at his bank; Tom trades interest rate derivatives. I’m on Oxford Street myself, en route to meet a prospective client; I expect my own background noise is equally loud.
“How was what? Please tell me you’re not rigging the markets while chatting to me.”
He laughs. “No, I have people to do that for me now. And for the benefit of the recorded line: that was a joke. Anyway, I meant how was the thing with the French detective.”
“Pretty awful actually.” I look around, then back at the map in my hand. New Bond Street is a big street. It can’t have disappeared.
“How so?” he asks cautiously.
“It’s . . . well, I don’t really want to think about what might have happened to her.” I don’t really want to think about her at all. I look around again. There’s a disappointing lack of street name signs. “Jesus, where is this place?” I mutter. I spy something that might be a sign and march in that direction.
“Lost?” asks Tom, amused. “Where’s your legendary sense of direction?”
“Lara drowned it in wine last night. It’s her turn with the detective today, actually.”
“Yeah, I know, I spoke to her this morning,” he says easily. I stop walking. Lara must have given him her number. “It’s tomorrow for me. Listen, I have to jump. I’ve got a dicey option expiry approaching, but I was wondering if you fancy coming down to Hampshire for Sunday lunch. My folks would love to see you.”
“Um, sure. I don’t think I have anything on. Sounds lovely.” Which it does—I’ve met his parents half a dozen times over the years, though never at their home; his dad is charmingly eccentric and his mum is lovely. “Is Lara coming, too?—oh, she’s in Sweden this weekend, I forgot.”
“Yeah, she’s away.” He already knows what her weekend plans are. “I’ll drive us down. I’ll call you on Saturday to figure out timings.” I hear someone calling his name in the background. “Yeah, just coming,” he calls back, then to me, “Speak Saturday.”
“Saturday.” I pocket my phone and look around again. New Bond Street is right there, where it’s always been. I still have a headache.
* * *
—
Sunday. Tom turns up at ten thirty in something retro, white and low-slung that he’s visibly excited by. Cars mean nothing to me, but Seb would be envious, I think, then I shut down that train of thought.
“Am I supposed to be in awe?” I ask Tom teasingly.
“The salesman promised me the mere sight would make women drop their knickers,” he deadpans.
“I would, but it’s a bit chilly today and I don’t fancy a draft up my skirt.” I walk around the car. Even to the uninitiated, it’s a very cool car. “How old is it?”
“Considerably older than both of us. It’s a Toyota 2000GT; well, mostly. Some of the parts have been replaced, which reduces the value.” The sun makes a brief appearance, bouncing off the immaculate white paintwork. “I picked it up this morning.” He can’t keep the smile off his face as he talks. It’s infectious. He reaches out a long arm and opens the passenger door, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Can I take you for a ride, Miss Channing?”
I laugh and fold myself into the seat. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The seat is uncomfortable and the heating intermittent, but the sun comes out and stays out. That, and the car, and Tom’s mood have me giddy for the first half hour, which carries us through the London traffic. When the roads open up and the car settles into a steady thrum through increasingly green countryside, our chatter tails off into comfortable silence.
“Do you want some music?” asks Tom, glancing across at me. His lips are tugging upward at the corners; I wait for the punch line. “Cos if so, you’d better start singing—the radio doesn’t work.”
“Will you get one fitted?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It would reduce the value, but I didn’t buy this purely as an investment, otherwise I wouldn’t even be driving it.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’ve always wanted this car.”
“A psychologist would have a field day with that. Given the timing and all.”
“They’d probably be right to,” he admits, with a sheepish grin. “I’m basically driving the deposit I’d saved for a house with Jenna.”
I can’t help laughing. He doesn’t join in, but he’s grinning.
“You’ve been lucky settling back into London,” I comment. “Back in your old flat, back on your old desk at work, except a few rungs up the ladder . . . Did you think about staying in Boston?”
He shakes his head. “Boston is a great city. But I never felt . . . settled there. Maybe it was my fault; I didn’t properly commit to staying long-term. Once Jenna and I split up, there was nothing to keep me there.” The sun is streaming directly through the windscreen; he finds some sunglasses and puts them on one-handed with remarkable dexterity. “What about you? What made you go out on your own? Starting your own business in this climate can’t be easy. I don’t remember you even mentioning the idea when you came out to Boston.”
I close my eyes and rest my head back against the seat, feeling the sun soak into my face. “Oh, you know me,” I say airily. “I’m basically unemployable.”
“Rubbish. You have a first from Oxford and the best CV of anyone we know.”
“Slight exaggeration, but anyway, I didn’t say I was unhirable. I’m unemployable. As in, unsuitable for employment.” My eyes are still closed.
“Ah,” he says, understanding. “You mean, much better suited to being the employer.”
“Exactly.” I open my eyes and turn my head, still resting on the headrest, to look at him. I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but I know what they look like. Seb doesn’t freckle, though. “I got fed up of being overlooked in favor of inferior lawyers who had the right accent and went to the right school.” I grimace. “I may have been vocal about it from time to time.”