“I’m just looking at every angle,” I say stiffly. I honored the thinking hour this time, and this question is one of the consequences.
“What about me then?” she challenges. There’s a wild light in her eye that I don’t recognize. “If you’re willing to accuse Tom, why not me?”
“Of course it wasn’t you.”
“Why not?” The light flares into anger. “Why does nobody consider me? Pretty, vacuous Lara—she’s not even capable of a murder. Best not trouble her pretty little head with all of that.”
I look at her in astonishment. I know this is tied up with Modan somehow, but I’m not quite sure how to navigate it. “Well . . . okay, then, tell me: did you murder Severine?”
“Of course not,” she says, the anger suddenly leaving her. “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.”
The absurdity strikes us both at the same time, and we start to giggle. When the last bubbles of laughter have died out, I say quietly, “It’s not a bad thing, Lara. You’re full of light, you think the best of everyone, we all see it, it draws us in. But nobody thinks you’re vacuous.” She inclines her head a little ruefully, not entirely accepting my words. “Did Modan say something to you? Are you still talking to him?” I ask cautiously.
“I doubt it after our last conversation,” she says frankly. “He thinks I’m going to go off and screw half the men in London—the half I haven’t already screwed, that is.” She shakes her head in frustration. “When he asked before about past boyfriends, I was honest—more fool me. I didn’t expect to have it thrown back in my face. And aren’t the French supposed to be more liberal than the British on that sort of thing?”
“I’m sure French men are just as susceptible to jealousy as British men.” Poor Modan. He must be incredibly cut up to lash out like that: he doesn’t strike me as a man who usually makes such appalling missteps. “Are you? Going to screw half of London, I mean? Only maybe someone should warn the poor creatures, give them time to prepare . . .”
“Stop it,” she says, laughing again. “That was then.” She sobers and puts a hand on my arm, earnestness shining out of her. “I’m different now.”
“I know,” I say gently, though a shameful part of me wonders how long she will be different for. But I realize I’m being unfair: surely we’re all different now, from how we were in a French farmhouse a decade ago. Perhaps it just took a little longer for the impact to hit Lara.
A slight frown crosses her face. “You don’t believe me.”
“I do,” I reassure her quickly. “Of course I do. I was just . . . I was just contrasting with that week in France . . .” She cocks her head questioningly. I try to find the right words. “I mean, we’re all different now. Even Caro, maybe . . . Everyone is different, or—gone. Or maybe I’m seeing different sides of everyone . . .” When I try to think about what might have happened to Severine, it’s like trying to solve a puzzle based on the picture on the box, but the pieces have evolved—or maybe the picture on the box was never the right picture in the first place. Lara still has her head cocked to one side, the quizzical look still in place. I shake my head. “Never mind. Come on, we should go up.”
We link arms and turn toward the entrance to Tom’s block of flats. Lara buzzes to announce us. I hear Tom’s voice through the intercom, made tinny and weak. If he’s surprised at Lara’s presence it doesn’t show, other than perhaps through a slight pause before he speaks that could instead have been a result of the technology.
“I never answered your question, though,” Lara says as we start to climb the threadbare stairs. “We weren’t apart that I was aware of, except to go to the loo, but we did sleep. I don’t know how long for—maybe just a couple of hours?”
Tom has left the door of his flat ajar; we push through, and despite my now numerous visits, it still surprises me to see this oasis of light and modern style after the genteel shabbiness of the common areas. Following noise, we find him hunting down some wineglasses in the kitchen. “I presume a glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss, ladies?” he says with a grin, raising the bottle of white in his hand. He’s had time to change after work; he’s wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt that picks up the color in his eyes.
“Now that’s what I call a welcome.” Lara smiles flirtatiously as she kisses him hello. I glance away and thus am completely unprepared when he wraps his arms around me in his bear hug of old. The T-shirt is of the softest cotton, and he smells of the same aftershave from that dark, delicious corridor; for a moment the ache is blinding. When I pull myself together enough to return the hug I think I hear the stroke of his warm breath deliver Sorry into my ear. When he releases me I stare after him, trying to search his eyes, but he busies himself hunting down a corkscrew and then Lara pulls out a bar stool for me and I’m left wondering what just happened as I settle beside her on one side of the kitchen counter.
Tom is facing us, the dark granite kitchen counter between us. “So, what news?” he asks, uncorking the bottle. He’s meeting my eyes from time to time, but I’m failing to divine anything from his expression. The bar stool is an uncomfortable height: I can’t rest my elbows on the counter, and my feet don’t reach the floor, yet there’s no strut for them to rest on. I feel perched and precarious.
I shrug, leaving Lara to fill the gap. “Not much,” she says lightly. “I’ve turned celibate, and Kate is trying to figure out whether you could have killed Severine.”
She’s being flippant, of course she’s being flippant, but Tom pauses in the act of pouring, his eyes leaping to mine. “And?” he asks after a beat, placing the bottle carefully down and maintaining the eye contact. It’s clear he’s completely disregarding the celibacy comment; whether that will irk Lara or not I don’t know or care, because I currently feel like killing her for putting me in this position. I can feel her shifting uneasily beside me as it dawns on her that her comment is actually being taken seriously. “Do you think I’m capable of it?” Tom asks in a measured tone.
It feels like a challenge, though over what I’m not sure. Still, I rise to it. “Yes,” I say simply.
“Kate!” I hear Lara exclaim, but I’m still locked in a gaze with Tom. There’s nothing I can read in his eyes. Then he inclines his head a little and returns to pouring the wine.
“I’m not saying he did,” I explain in an aside to Lara, though my eyes keep darting back to Tom, looking for something, anything, that tells me what he’s thinking. I try to hook one ankle round the leg of the stool, searching for some balance. I need an anchor. “I’m just saying he’s capable of it. Under the right circumstances.” I take a sip of the wine that Tom has pushed toward me. “Probably all of us are under the right circumstances.”
“Not all, I don’t think,” says Tom thoughtfully. He has a beer instead; he takes a long pull of it. “Well, maybe everyone is capable of an accidental murder,” he concedes. “But the cover-up—that’s the crucial bit. Not everyone would have the self-possession to do that rather than calling the emergency services.”
You would, I think immediately; then I realize he’s watching me and have the uncomfortable feeling he can read my mind as he smiles thinly and raises his beer in a mock toast.
“Well,” says Lara after a pause. “We’ve certainly bypassed the small talk this evening.” She picks up her own wine and takes a long draft.
“Have either of you eaten?” asks Tom abruptly. “I’ve already warmed the oven; shall I shove some pizzas in or something?”
The process of deliberating over the food options dispels the atmosphere; for a few moments this might be simply a social evening. But once the oven door has been swung shut, Tom takes another swig of his beer and I see him change gear.