I suppose he’s right; I’ve always known that. “And?”
“And nothing. I think that’s all it’s ever been, an unrequited thing. He kind of knew it, but I don’t think he ever went there. He never felt the same, and it would have been a disaster given how close all our families are if he were to screw her over.” Of course, it was fine to screw me over, with my unconnected, unimportant family . . . “At least, that’s my take,” he says at last, but I get the sense he’s still mulling something over.
“Would he have told you, do you think? I know you’re close, but he didn’t tell you about Severine . . .”
“True.” I hear him take a breath in then blow it out. “I don’t know,” he admits reluctantly. “Before you came along, then I’d have said yes, for sure, he would have told me anything. But after . . . I don’t know.” I want to ask what changed, but there’s no way to do it without sounding like I’m looking for some validation, some sign I was important in Seb’s life, and I refuse to be so pitiful in front of Tom. “Where are you going with this?”
“I don’t know. I just suddenly feel like . . . God, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell was going on that week. Modan is asking questions, and I’m not even sure I can answer anything, because nothing is how I thought it was, and . . . and . . .” I’m suddenly aware I’m close to tears.
“Hey, whoa there,” Tom says softly down the line. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
He’s silent for a moment. “No, it’s not, is it? Look, why don’t we meet before dinner tonight? Have a drink and talk all this through. I can get to Knightsbridge for around six. Okay?”
I take a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes. Okay. Thanks. Sorry about all this.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Oh—did you get a lawyer?”
“I’m meeting one tomorrow.”
“Good.” He sounds genuinely relieved. “See you at six.”
I put down the phone and rest my eye sockets in the heels of my hands for a moment. When I lift my head again I find Severine watching me. For once there’s no trace of hostility beneath her smooth exterior; she’s simply watching me.
“Haven’t you anywhere better to be?” I ask her. It’s the first time I’ve actually spoken to her; unsurprisingly she doesn’t answer, so I do it for her. “No, I don’t suppose you do, under the circumstances.”
Julie comes to the doorway, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “Did you need something?”
I shake my head, smiling brightly. “No, sorry, just talking to myself.”
She’s already moving back to her seat. “First sign of madness, you know,” she says over her shoulder. The thought had crossed my mind.
CHAPTER TEN
The evening starts badly.
I’m at the pub a few minutes after six and predictably find Tom—reliable, steady Tom—already there; but so, too, is Lara. From Tom’s ruefully apologetic expression I divine he had no choice. I pull myself together to kiss Lara hello. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“I was sure you’d want to meet beforehand, but I couldn’t raise you on your mobile this afternoon, so I called Tom,” she says breezily.
“Really? My phone must be playing up again. I didn’t see that you’d called.” Lying is becoming easier with practice, but the guilt remains the same. I turn to hug Tom hello; his breath strokes my ear carrying a murmur of, “Sorry.” He’s been home to change after work; he’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, and smells of newly applied aftershave. I’m still in work clothes, but it’s a deliberate choice: I have a fancy that the combination of this dress with these stiletto heels shows off my legs to their best advantage. Absent the Adonis arm candy, it’s really the best I can do.
“Here, Tom got you a drink.” Lara passes over a vodka tonic.
“Thanks. Love your dress.” It occurs to me that I’m overcompensating, though she does look fabulous. She’s wearing a stunning bodycon dress the color of autumn leaves, with heels at least an inch higher than her usual choice for work. Most of the bar watches as she settles herself in a chair and crosses her endless legs.
“Well, I thought I’d make an effort,” she says casually, but there are spots of color in her cheeks. The effort is not for me or Tom, or even Caro or Seb, I’m sure. I’d lay odds she has post-dinner plans with the indefatigable Monsieur Modan.
“What about me? How do I look?” Tom asks, mock-preening. He’s compensating too.
Lara bats her eyelashes at him. “Devastatingly handsome as ever.”
“Very metrosexual,” I add slyly; he turns to me, appreciative laughter glinting in those blue gray eyes. They are resolutely Tom’s eyes now. I wonder if this evening will shake that.
We drink and we talk and it’s excruciating. Lara is too bright, too excitable, drinking too quickly. It’s impossible to fathom what’s going on under the surface, and given the secrets each of us are keeping, there’s no way for me to ask. Subterfuge doesn’t sit well with her, though. She ricochets through topics, always realizing each pitfall too late; she can’t talk about her love life, she can’t talk about the case, she can’t talk about how she’s spending her free time—almost nothing is safe for her. I’m so awkwardly aware this is not the private chat Tom and I had planned that I’m working too hard to keep the conversation Lara-friendly and save her from verbal suicide. On the surface Tom is his usual relaxed self, complete with mildly flirtatious banter with Lara, but I can see he’s uncharacteristically tense, and oddly fatalistic, as if waiting for an ax to drop rather than killing time before a homecoming dinner for his cousin and closest friend. Perhaps he, too, can see that the light within Lara is shining for someone other than her current audience. I wonder how much that pierces him.
It’s hard enough to battle on with this charade whilst sober; I shouldn’t have another vodka tonic. But I do. And another.
Finally, Lara glances at her watch. “Shouldn’t we make tracks before we incur the wrath of Caro?”
I nod and reach for my handbag, partly relieved to be released, but I expect what’s coming will be worse. Tom knocks back the remainder of his pint and deposits the glass on the table with an audible thump. “Out of the frying pan into the fire,” he murmurs darkly. I look across at him in surprise—what does he have to be worried about now?—but he’s looking toward the exit. The skin round his eyes is tight with anxiety.
The restaurant is a short walk away. Lara walks in the middle and links an arm through one of Tom’s arms and one of mine, as if to prevent us from escaping. There’s no time for even a deep breath before she has hustled me through the door into what seems more akin to a theater dressing room than a restaurant. I busy myself leaving my coat and bag with the cloakroom attendant, both reluctant to look round and reluctant to be seen looking round. Tom hovers near me as I pass my things over, tension visible in his jaw.
“Are you okay?” I ask him quietly, bemused.
“What? Me? Of course.” He brushes it off. “I’m just worried about you.”
I shake my head minutely as I take the ticket from the attendant. “No need.”
“If only,” I think I hear him say; I look at him sharply, but I can’t follow up because Caro is descending upon us. I have to manufacture a smile to endure whatever thorny welcome she will greet me with, but she’s too caught up in her favorite role of hostess to deliver anything of consequence. Then there’s no longer an excuse, I’m being swept inexorably toward a long table that can only be our reservation; and there is Seb.