Been working late, big pitch tomorrow afternoon. I can drop by after work tomorrow. Kx.
I read it over again before sending. Kx is my habitual sign-off with Tom, but now every character is fraught with meaning and open to misinterpretation. I remove the x.
* * *
—
The presentation to Stockleys goes well: Paul is a good presenter, suave and relaxed, and he thinks well on his feet; his style is a good complement to my own direct approach. Caro was right: the contract was ours to lose, and by the time we are shaking hands and saying good-bye I know we haven’t done that. Paul hails a cab, and we jump in and animatedly dissect the meeting on the trip back to the office.
“One thing I meant to ask you,” Paul says as he waits on the pavement for me to pay the cabbie. There’s an odd note in his voice that makes me glance over at him. His almost-translucent eyebrows are drawn together in a frown.
“What?” I turn back to the cabdriver to collect my change.
“Well, Mark Jeffers—”
“The Clifford Chance associate?”
“That’s the one. Well, he asked me if I was in line for a promotion.” I look at him blankly, not understanding. If he’s angling for more money, this is an odd approach. The cabdriver has pulled away, leaving the two of us together on the street by our office, but neither of us moves toward the doorway. “When you get arrested.”
“What the fuck?” My mind is racing. How in the world did Mark Jeffers get hold of this? And how many other people has he spread this gossip to? This sort of rumor could cut off a fledgling company at the knees: even more than most companies, a recruitment firm’s only asset is its people and their reputation.
He smiles in a thin line. “Actually, that’s exactly what I said. But he said he had it on good authority that you’re under investigation for a murder, of all things. In France or something. I told him he needs to get better sources.” He looks at me uneasily. “If there was anything to it you’d have told me about it. Right?”
I take a deep breath. This will need careful handling. “I am not under investigation,” I say robustly. “A girl went missing from the next-door farmhouse when a group of us were in France on holiday ten years ago. Her body turned up recently—”
“Turned up?”
“Was found.” I see her again, the bones in a crumpled pile, ghostly white in the dim underground light. “In a well, actually,” I admit, the words somehow slipping out.
“Jesus, Kate, and you’re just telling me this now?” He’s building up a head of righteous anger. I need to stomp on that quickly.
“Come on, Paul, it’s nothing.” I make a show of impatience, stamping on the guilt that rises as I ostensibly belittle Severine’s death. I carry on defiantly. “Since the six of us were the last people to see her alive, obviously the police want to talk to us again, but that’s all it is. I can assure you I’m not about to be arrested.” I throw all my powers of persuasion into the eye contact we’re sharing and hope to high heaven that every word I’ve said is true.
“You should have told me. The last thing we need is any kind of stain on our name. You know how people think: no smoke without fire.”
“Rubbish. We have a contract from Haft & Weil and now one with Stockleys; that’s what clients will focus on, and those kinds of firms don’t employ headhunters under investigation for murder. This is just industry gossip that will be forgotten the minute some senior partner gets caught shagging his secretary.” Perhaps . . .
He’s almost mollified; his anger has switched into sulkiness. “If it’s nothing, then why didn’t you mention it?” Does he have a point? We’re partners in a business together; we see each other every working day—would it have been normal to have mentioned this to him? I suppose so, especially if there was any chance of it impacting the business. Except I never thought that there was . . . Once again I wonder how the hell Mark Jeffers got hold of this. None of our names have ever been in the papers, except Theo’s parents as owners of the farmhouse.
“Because . . .” I take another deep breath, and this time I tell him the absolute truth. “Because I don’t like talking about it. She was a family friend of the guy we were staying with; we practically spent all week with her, and then she . . .” I trail off. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.” Though it simply didn’t cross my mind to discuss it with anyone. I wonder how many people Lara has spoken to about it, or Seb or Tom or Caro.
“Oh.” Paul is chastened; the personal impact didn’t quite occur to him. “No, I’m sorry. That must have been awful.” He touches my arm awkwardly, and I find a weak smile for him, appreciative of the gesture. I know I’m too comfortable being a solitary creature, but for the first time I realize that in an office of three, where we work long hours, that means I’m forcing solitude on Paul, too, who is definitely not naturally suited to it. I should make more of an effort to be social with him and Julie.
“Come on,” I say, turning for our office. “Let’s go find Stockleys some candidates.” I look for Severine as we enter the office, almost unable to believe that she wouldn’t have wanted to eavesdrop on that little scene with Paul, but she’s not lounging at my desk as I’m expecting. I was hoping to see her, I realize, to . . . what? To apologize? To tell her that I’m sorry, but I’m fighting to keep Paul’s morale intact and that’s more important than hurting the feelings of the ghost who haunts me?
Still, she was murdered. It’s not nothing. That’s what bothers me more than anything—that whoever did it might get away with it, and that would make it seem as if it doesn’t matter, as if Severine never mattered, because if our world continues without a hitch then we might as well be condoning it, and we don’t. I don’t. It’s not nothing.
Back at my desk, the first thing I do is reschedule the thinking time.
* * *
—
Tom’s flat. I loiter outside and try not to think about the last time I was here. I’m waiting for Lara: at the last minute I chickened out and called in the cavalry. And in truth Lara should be here, too; she’s already shown her colors by overthrowing Modan, and Tom has made it perfectly clear he only wants to talk about the case. Though I haven’t failed to notice the desperate, clichéd irony of my support system being exactly the person Tom wants instead of me, which is why I need the support in the first place . . .
Lara appears from the direction of the tube station in a powder blue dress, her blond locks lit luminous red gold by the evening sun that bleeds red ribbons of cloud across the horizon. Severine is beside her, walking barefoot with a loose feline grace in the familiar black shift dress, her hair wrapped in the red chiffon scarf. Her sandals are dangling from one finger. I walk down to meet them, marveling at the tableau they present with the setting sun behind them. Lara and Severine, one light, one dark. Are these two really all I can trust in the world?
“How are you, honey?” I ask as I hug her. It’s not a pleasantry; I pull back to search her face as she casts around for an answer.
“Okay,” she says, with a slight rueful twist to her lips. She looks a touch pale, and she’s wearing less makeup than usual, but her cornflower eyes are clear with no telltale red rims. “Not great, but . . . okay.”
We head back toward Tom’s flat, chatting about this and that. She’s Lara, but a dimmed version; I can’t feel her usual vibrancy, and the lack of it makes me ache for her. At the bottom of the steps, I can delay no longer, and I stop her for a moment. “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”
“What?” she prompts as I hesitate.
“That night in the farmhouse . . . with Tom . . . was there ever a time you were apart? And . . . well, did you sleep?”
She assesses me shrewdly, her eyes narrowing. “You’re trying to figure out if it could have been Tom.”