“Kate,” he says after a couple of rings. His voice is sleepy, and deeper, more gravelly than usual.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” I’m not the least bit sorry. At this time of day I feel well within my rights to wake anyone.
“No, I’ve already been to the gym.” Maybe the alcohol is responsible for the gravel in his voice then. I hear him yawn. “I figured you’d call. Want to come over? I’ll throw something together for lunch.”
It’s both a relief not to have to ask to see him and embarrassing to have him find me so predictable. “Done.” I glance at my watch and perform the mental maths. “I can be there around half twelve if that works for you?”
“Perfect, see you then.”
The tube is full of the weekend crush. Tourists and families and self-consciously cool teens, all in pairs or groups, as if nobody travels alone on a Saturday or Sunday. I turn my head to stare out of the window. This part of the tube runs through a series of tunnels and open-air sections; I see overgrown leafy embankments interspersed with the bleached-out reflection of the carriage. Neither gives away much about London. I’m thinking of Tom’s words, as I have done repeatedly since I woke up, as I must have done somewhere in my subconscious all night. Jealous rage. Spurned lover. I won’t allow myself to think beyond that; I have my imagination on a tight rein. Just those words are permitted: jealous rage, spurned lover, then an abrupt stop to all thought. Severine should be here now, gloating, that smirk hovering millimeters from her mouth, but for once she’s conspicuous by her absence.
Jealous rage. Spurned lover. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But here I am, in a grab-handbag, brush-hair, that-will-do kind of hurry, on my way to Tom’s flat—which Tom entirely anticipated. It’s surprising how little surprises Tom.
Tom’s flat is in a quiet, wealthy street lined with Regency town houses, all high ceilings and sash windows and expensive heating bills. I press the bell for the top floor, and after a moment there is an obnoxious buzz and the front door releases. The communal hallway is on a dignified slide into genteel shabbiness, the once thick carpets now worn in the center from years of use. I climb the creaking stairs to find Tom’s front door ajar; I can see a two-inch-wide slice of his hallway, with a newspaper dumped casually on a side table. I can’t quite remember the last time I was here; actually, I can’t remember being here more than three or four times, and always with a crowd, for a party or some such. Rapping on the door solo, I feel an unexpected twinge of nerves.
“In the kitchen,” calls Tom’s deep tone; he has expelled some of the gravel now. I close the front door behind me then aim for Tom’s voice and find myself spilling into an open-plan room, with the kitchen at one end, a living room type space at the other, and a large glass dining table separating the two. At the living space end, floor-to-ceiling windows open out onto a small terrace. Tom is at the stove in the kitchen, working on something in a frying pan.
“I don’t remember this,” I say, making my way over to him. I may have only been in this flat a handful of times, but I’ve never been in this room.
He pulls me in for a one-armed hug, the other hand occupied with the frying pan, which contains the world’s largest Spanish omelet. “I remodeled before I went to Boston. Just in time for a tenant to enjoy it instead of me. Do you like?” he asks casually, but I can see he cares about my answer.
“It’s great,” I say truthfully. It’s modern without being sharp; it still feels warm and livable. Unlike Caro’s place. Unlike Caro. “You’ve done it really well.” I gesture toward the hob. “Can I help?” It’s not the question I want to ask, but I don’t know how to get there from discussions of renovations in a sun-drenched kitchen.
“Nope, nearly done, just grab a pew,” he says, gesturing to the bar stools on the other side of the counter. “I take it omelet is okay?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” I clamber aboard a stool and watch the back of him cook, given the layout of the kitchen. He can’t be long out of the shower; his hair is still wet. He’s wearing jeans and a casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up. For no reason at all I see Seb alongside him—Seb as he was, the Adonis, the man among the boys; I don’t know the Seb of now. Jealous rage. Spurned lover. Tom, a man now, too, glances over his shoulder with a quick smile. I instinctively look away quickly, as if caught staring.
“Done,” he says, efficiently cutting the omelet in two and delivering it to waiting plates. “Voilà.”
“Merci bien.” I pause. I force myself to ask something conversational. “Do you like cooking?”
He settles himself on the bar stool next to me. “Not particularly, but I like eating fresh food, so . . .” He shrugs his shoulders.
The omelet is good, very good. We munch away, or at least Tom does; my appetite is letting me down. I’ve eaten with Tom any number of times, though never at his kitchen counter by his own hand. But still, there should be companionable silence; there always has been for Tom and me. Not today. Something is different—we are different. I glance over in his direction. He looks tired, the crinkles round his eyes more pronounced. Perhaps he is paler; his freckles seem to stand out more.
“So . . .” he says, between bites. “Lara and Modan? Is that for real?”
I grimace. “Well, she certainly seems smitten,” I say apologetically. I wonder if that question has itched away at him all night.
“Yeah, that much was obvious.” There’s no emotion in his voice. He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully, staring unseeingly across the kitchen. “It’s not ideal.”
Not ideal. It’s an oddly phlegmatic turn of phrase for heartbreak. “I guess. On any number of fronts.” I put down my fork, unable to eat and unable to wait, and twist on the bar stool to face his profile. “What did you mean last night?”
He turns to look at me, his head cocked to one side analytically. Then he lays his cutlery down, too, but he’s actually finished, the enormous omelet polished off in a handful of bites. He knows exactly what I’m referring to, and to his credit he doesn’t try to dissemble. “Severine was an attractive girl,” he says carefully. I nod and wonder where she is. Surely she wouldn’t want to miss out on this conversation. “Modan seems to find it hard to believe that none of us were sleeping with her. He’s playing a ‘what if’ game right now. What if . . . well, what if Tom was sleeping with Severine? But that’s unlikely because everyone knows I hooked up with Lara that week, and Modan clearly thinks Lara is more than enough for one man to cope with.” His tone is heavy with irony. He pauses for a moment; I can’t tell if he’s remembering the past or looking to the future, but regardless, it seems the view is bleak. “But what if Seb was sleeping with Severine? Well, that would certainly make things interesting . . .”
He stops, holding my gaze. The question that we both know I’m going to ask hangs in the air between us, solid enough to reach out and touch.
“I want to know,” I say quietly.
Tom looks away and runs a hand through his hair, then fixes me in his gaze again. “Do you really care?” There’s an edge to his voice. “After all this time? Ten years have passed since that week in France—ten years and a bloody marriage ceremony.”
“I care about whether I was made a fool of.” I sound bitter. I feel bitter. And impatient. “I care about whether all my friends knew what was going on under my nose but didn’t tell me.”
“So it’s all about pride.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know—look, was he fucking her or not?”