“I’m sure there will be other occasions.” I don’t want to speak to him at all tonight, and maybe not ever, after witnessing his tête-à-tête with Caro.
“Oh, definitely.” He pulls me a little to the side and suddenly looks awkward. “Listen, Kate, all this stuff with Severine being found . . . I just wanted to say, well, some stuff might come out that . . . doesn’t reflect well on me.” I gaze at him nonplussed. He grimaces. “I mean, some stuff about me and Severine.” It dawns on me that he’s confessing to his infidelity, right here, outside a restaurant, when we’ve both had too much to drink. I’m temporarily speechless. He’s still speaking, however. “I just . . . didn’t want you to hear from someone else and be hurt by that. It was just the once; it didn’t mean anything . . . We were all so drunk that night—”
Wordless, bitter rage broils inside me. I make a sharp gesture with my hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He blinks, taken aback by my vehemence. I look around for Tom.
“Well, it was a long time ago. It’s just, with that policeman and everything, everything is coming into the open. Best to be honest in this situation, I think. I mean, you can’t really lie to the law. And you and I both know I came to our room that night and passed out, so whatever happened to Severine was nothing to do with me.”
I swing back to stare at him. I worried about Caro telling Modan about Severine and Seb; it didn’t occur to me that Seb would own up himself. He’s running a hand through his hair and has on his best contrite expression, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I desperately want to tell him to fuck off, but it turns out Tom is right: this is all about pride. I would be yelling an endless stream of invective at Seb right now if it weren’t for the fact it would draw everyone’s attention. I can’t bear the thought of them all talking about me afterward. Poor Kate. All these years and she still hasn’t got over Seb. She hasn’t really had a serious boyfriend since, you know . . . I look for Tom, desperately hoping he has a cab ready to whisk me away; he’s waving at one that has its light on, but it’s not quite close enough for immediate salvation. I stare fixedly at it, willing it closer.
“Kate?” says Seb uncertainly.
The cab finally draws up. “Say good night to Alina for me,” I bite out, not looking at Seb. As I turn toward the cab, I realize Caro is watching us. Or rather, watching me. Watching my reaction.
“Okay?” asks Tom as he helps me into the cab. I glance back through the window of the cab. Seb and Caro are sharing a look, and suddenly I feel the ground shift under me. What if Caro and Seb aren’t having an affair after all? What if the secret they’re keeping is something else entirely? “Kate?” Tom says again. “Are you okay?”
The cab starts to pull away. Wild laughter bubbles up inside me. I’m still drunk, I realize. Of course I am. Seb’s confession and the night air may have been sobering, but given the amount of wine I’ve sunk, physically I can’t be anything other than smashed right now. Tom looks at me across the wide seat of the cab. The laughter evaporates just as quickly as it came. “No,” I say truthfully. “I’m not okay.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. He looks down, his expression hidden in the shadows of the cab. “I didn’t think so.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wake slowly with the dawning realization that I’m horribly hungover and this is not my bed: the covers don’t feel right, the light from the window is coming from the wrong place, and I’m wearing my bra, which I never sleep in . . . I turn over cautiously to check whether I’m the sole occupant. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and through it I can see the back of someone very familiar in a kitchen I recognize, drinking a cup of something.
Tom. I’m at Tom’s.
Images of last night surface in a haphazard, fractured fashion, with no suggestion of how one led to another: the dinner; the cab ride afterward; drunkenly climbing the stairs to Tom’s flat; making coffee; kissing.
Kissing. Dear God, kissing. Kissing Tom.
The memory takes hold, and I’m there now, in the secretive gloom of the corridor that leads to his bedroom, the length of him pressing me against the wall—solid, warm, strong. One hand buries into my hair while the other cups my breast; I arch into him. When I kiss his neck I both hear and feel the rough groan in his throat that sends a reckless thrill running through me.
Reckless. Reckless indeed. But—if there was no Seb (how unthinkable, no Seb! Only not so unthinkable now, after seeing him again—as he is, not how I’d imagined him to be—and after kissing Tom . . .), and no Lara or Severine or Alain Modan . . . I wrap up the memory and put it away, a dark, delicious, thrilling secret to unfold slowly and savor much later. But for now . . . I can’t recall what happened next. I look across at the other side of the bed again; it doesn’t appear to have been slept in at all. In the kitchen Tom’s wearing jeans, but no shirt—the same jeans as last night, I think. The tan of the back of his neck contrasts with his paler, freckled shoulders. There is tension in those broad muscled shoulders. Even from here I can sense it thickening the atmosphere. I feel my sense of uneasiness growing. What happened after the corridor? I have a horrendous growing suspicion I may have passed out on him. God, how embarrassing. Perhaps dented male pride is responsible for his palpable tension . . .
What to do now? I debate internally for a moment before I sit up awkwardly, trying to keep the duvet tucked across my chest, and aim for a sheepish smile. “Morning,” I call.
He puts his cup down with a decided thud and turns round. “Tea?” he says unsmiling.
I smother a yawn. “Yes, please. I feel like shit.”
“You deserve to,” he says shortly, then moves out of my line of sight to make the tea, leaving me blinking in surprise. Tom is not just tense; he’s furious. With me.
I have no idea what’s going on, but I definitely want to face it wearing more clothing than this. I look around the room for my dress and find it tossed over a chair, beside my shoes, bag and coat. I have just enough time to scramble into the dress; I’m sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the door, running my fingers through my no doubt ragged hair when he returns, a mug cradled in his hands. He has long, strong fingers: I remember the feel of them buried in my hair, the sureness of his touch. Suddenly I realize he’s been holding out the mug for a few seconds now; I take it quickly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says shortly, leaning against the doorframe and avoiding my eyes. The breadth of his shoulders nearly fills the open space.
“Funny, I don’t feel very welcome.” I look at him, willing him to catch my eye with a rueful smile and turn back into the Tom I know. But he’s someone different now; the kissing last night did that. I can’t look at him like yesterday or the day before or ten years ago. He has a tangle of dark hair across the planes of his chest, spreading down across his abdomen to disappear in the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t have that a decade ago, nor the muscle bulk; he’s not the same as he was. The corridor secret threatens to burst forth from where I’ve buried it: I want to touch him and I want to cry at the same time. I look away quickly and take a sip from my tea.
He still hasn’t said anything—not Of course you’re welcome, or I’m sorry you feel that way. A defiant anger suddenly sparks within me. I carefully place the cup of tea on the bedside table. “Want to tell me exactly what I’m in the doghouse for, or am I expected to guess?”
That whips his gaze round. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” I say, surprised.
“Good friends,” he says impatiently, batting away my response as if I’m deliberately missing the point. “I thought our friendship was important to you. I thought you rated it more highly than to behave like that.”
“Like what exactly?” My voice is rising and I’m standing now. “We were drunk—”