“You were drunk—”
“And you were stone cold sober, were you?” I stare him down; after a moment he jerks his head and looks away, conceding the point. “We kissed. You may have to fill me in on a few of the details given the aforementioned drunkenness, but it’s hardly the scandal of the century.”
“Oh, so it’s nothing, is it? We’ll just carry on as normal, nothing’s changed?” he shoots back, snapping his gaze back onto me. “I thought—Jesus, I actually thought our friendship was something you would take pains to protect, and instead you practically throw yourself at me.” A hot wave of humiliation courses through me. Did I really throw myself at him? How embarrassing, how—God, how immature, how teenage. Though from what scant memories I have, he didn’t exactly seem unwilling . . . But Tom is still speaking. “I get that it’s difficult for you to see Seb—”
“It’s not—”
“Don’t give me that. I saw your face when he kissed Alina. His wife, Kate, and Christ, it’s been ten years! He kissed his wife and you had to leave the fucking room—”
“That’s not . . .” I start, but he’s still in full flood, and in any case, what can I say? Actually, I realized last night that I’m over Seb. I left the room because Severine’s skull appeared on the table. Yes, I see her regularly. I would ask her who killed her except she never speaks.
“—you were near as dammit physically ill at the sight. So don’t tell me you don’t care about Seb. Only next time you’re looking for a pick-me-up shag to make you feel better, have the decency to try someone other than me.”
He stops, breathing hard, his blue eyes boring into me. In that moment I see myself as he sees me and it’s at such odds to how I imagined that I’m temporarily cut off from speech. The hurt is staggering.
“Oh,” I hear myself say eventually. There’s nothing else I can say. It doesn’t matter that I’m not in love with Seb; it doesn’t matter that the corridor memory is something precious to me. All that matters is what Tom thinks, and now that I know his opinion I can’t look at him. I turn and gather up my shoes, bag and coat from the chair in the corner and push past him without resistance into the corridor—the corridor. Can I really have this memory of the intimate darkness, the sweetness, the desire, while Tom holds something entirely different inside him? Is this really Tom? I turn as if to check before I leave; he’s still standing by the bedroom door, but I can’t see his face in the shadow. I don’t know who this is.
The hurt hasn’t ebbed, nor the excruciating humiliation, but my sense of injustice is fanning those embers of anger. “So,” I say slowly, deliberately. I hear my voice, but it doesn’t sound like me; it’s too high and clipped. “In your eyes I’m a desperate, lonely old spinster looking for anybody or anything to take my mind off Seb.” He makes a movement with his hand, but I go on. “Well, there were two of us there last night. What’s your excuse?”
“Kate—” he says, moving toward me, but I don’t wait for his answer. In truth it has just occurred to me: ironically the accusation he’s thrown at me is more appropriate for him. I was a substitute for Lara. I pull the door closed sharply behind me and go down the tattered steps to the front door of the block of flats, only pausing at the bottom to put on my shoes. I had tights on last night, I think inconsequentially; they must still be in Tom’s flat. Did he undress me and put me to bed, the pathetic old basket case who couldn’t hold her drink? I see a cab as soon as I spill out of the lobby onto the street, and it stops for me.
“Where to, love?” asks the driver.
Where to, indeed? I look at my watch. My head is pounding from the hangover, and I feel greasy and gritty, but I don’t have time to go home for a shower before I’m due to meet my lawyer. I give him the address of my office instead. I half expect Severine to join me in the cab, but I spend the journey alone, gritting my teeth and focusing solely on staying above the riptide of hurt that beats up inexorably at my throat and threatens to drag me down.
I make it into the bathroom at my office before I give in to that current, sitting on the loo seat in the cramped WC sobbing soundlessly into my hands. It’s an indulgence, I know, but I’m temporarily unable to restrain myself. It’s hard to even pinpoint why I’m crying, other than through battered pride. But that dark, thrilling corridor encounter . . . I never thought of Tom that way; he was Lara’s, or Lara was Tom’s, or something—and anyway, there was always the intangible presence of Seb between us. But it turns out I haven’t been in love with Seb for a very long time, if I ever was at all; I’m starting to wonder if the Seb of my memories ever existed. Nobody seems to be who I thought they were. Tom’s words echo in my head. Next time you’re looking for a pick-me-up shag . . . Nobody is who I thought they were, and that apparently includes me.
There’s a rap on the door. “Kate?” I hear Julie’s muffled voice. “You probably ought to leave for your next appointment soon.”
“Um, thanks. Be right out.” I blow my nose on toilet roll and wipe my eyes then survey the damage in the mirror. The combination of a hangover and a crying fit clearly doesn’t suit my skin, and splashing cold water on my face turns out to be an ineffectual remedy. Grin and bear it, I tell myself, forcing my mouth into a smile. Then I see Severine’s grinning skull superimposed on my own reflection and it’s all I can do not to vomit.
When I emerge some minutes later Julie’s eyes sweep over me, her face anxious, but she has the good sense not to comment. Thankfully Paul is not there, and for once I couldn’t care less whether that’s a good or a bad sign. It’s only on the route to my lawyer’s office that it occurs to me all this emotional drama has distracted me from the fact that last night I was wondering whether Seb and Caro had something to do with the death of a young girl in France ten years ago.
* * *
—
“Well,” remarks my lawyer from behind her desk, looking at me over the top of her reading glasses. I’m not quite sure why she’s wearing them; it’s not as if she has anything in front of her to read right now. Instead she’s been in listening mode, a small frown appearing from time to time on her narrow forehead, occasionally a nod of her neat, dark head as she takes in my disjointed account. I’m trying to get the measure of her, Mrs. Streeter—or was it Ms., or Miss?—but it’s hard in the small, hot room with my head pounding so fiercely. She reminds me of a magpie, dark and bright and quick, though she must be almost fifty; there are gray streaks in that black close-cropped hair. “Well,” she says again, more thoughtfully, pursing her lips, which are incongruously painted with uneven layers of a greasy lipstick that’s far too pink for her. I want to pick up a tissue and wipe it off her. She hasn’t offered me a cup of tea, which I’m irrationally resentful over. I’m sure her fees are going to bankrupt me, so surely a tea bag and a splash of milk isn’t too much to ask?
She leans back in her chair and adjusts her reading glasses. This will be the pronouncement, I think; this is where I find out exactly how much of a mess I’m in. “You’re a lawyer, yes?” she says abruptly.