“I never said—”
“Yeah, well, you implied it. Of course I’m not sleeping with her; I’m not completely stupid. Never have in all these years.” His head lolls again. “Barely even kissed her,” he mutters. He rubs a hand down his face, then lunges drunkenly for my arm again, and catches it, pulling me down awkwardly so I’m half hunched over. “I fucked up, Kate,” he mumbles urgently, looking straight in my eyes. “Should never have given up on us. Everything was okay, wasn’t it? We were good, weren’t we? But then I fucked up. And now . . . oh, fuck . . .” I start to feel a sense of foreboding building in my stomach. Seb releases my arm abruptly, and I lose my balance, grabbing at the coffee table to steady myself. When I look back at Seb he has his arm raised, shielding his eyes with his forearm. I glance at Tom questioningly. He shakes his head, nonplussed.
“Seb, what’s wrong?” I ask hesitantly. “What is it?”
“Leaving drinks.” His lips fumble around the words, thick and rubbery. “My leaving drinks.”
“But you just came across from New York. Surely they wouldn’t fire you when—”
“Not fired. Resigned. Not fired. My boss was—kind—enough to give me the option.” His arm is still over his eyes.
“What did you do?” Tom asks, brutally direct.
“What I always do. I fucked up.” He lifts his arm away; it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but I think his eyes are wet. “Not like you, eh, Tom? You always hit the mark. Tom is doing so well at school. Tom’s won a scholarship, didn’t you hear? Tom’s really racing up the career ladder; you know he’s head of FX trading now? Why can’t you be more like your cousin?”
My breath catches in shock. I can’t imagine Seb would ever betray such bitterness were it not for the amount he’s drunk, and I can’t imagine he would want me to see this. I feel instantly grimy, like I’m peeping in on a private scene. Tom’s face is impassive. I wonder if he’s heard this before or simply guessed at the simmering resentment. “What did you do?” Tom repeats, remarkably undeterred.
Seb rubs a hand over his face, and all the fight seems to leave him. “I was drunk,” he says hoarsely. “At work. All this stuff with that fucking French girl, and Alina and the baby, and then Caro in my ear—it just . . . got too much.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and leaves them there. “Fuck!” he says with explosive savagery.
When Tom shakes his head, I can see exasperation warring with pity upon his face. “Oh, Seb,” he says softly.
That fucking French girl. A literal statement in this case, since he was the one fucking her. But one look at Seb’s distress robs me of my ironic amusement; there’s nothing to laugh at here. “I’m sorry,” I say inadequately. I look at Tom. “You should call Alina and let her know he’s here; she’s probably worried sick.”
He nods and picks up Seb’s mobile to scroll through the directory for Alina’s number, stepping toward the corridor to make the call. I wonder if he’s also checking how many times Caro has rung; I would be.
Seb is falling asleep, I think. I suppose he will have to stay here, and therefore Tom and I are unlikely to have our tête-à-tête tonight after all. I should go; in fact, I’m eager to go—watching someone unravel is far from comfortable, and Severine has already ditched the scene. I make a move toward the corridor, but suddenly Seb lunges for my arm once more: not asleep after all. He pulls me into that awkward crouch again, but this time I’m forewarned; I brace myself on the arm of the sofa. “It wasn’t me,” he says urgently, pleadingly, his bloodshot eyes seeking mine out directly. “You have to know that. It wasn’t me—I would have remembered if it was me, wouldn’t I? It couldn’t have been me. I came to bed; it couldn’t have been me.”
“I . . .” I’m helpless for words. Hypothetically discussing Seb as a suspect for murder in Tom’s kitchen over pizza is a far cry from facing down the mess that is the man himself. Tom’s footsteps sound behind me, and I turn, relieved at the interruption, but I see Tom halt abruptly at the sight of us, his face frozen. I’m suddenly horribly aware of how close Seb’s face is to mine.
I start to disengage my arm just as Seb blurts, “I think I’m going to vom—” He releases me and lurches upward as I scatter backward; Tom starts back into action, practically hauling him by the collar toward the bathroom. Moments later I hear the unmistakable sound of Seb’s stomach evacuating itself.
I climb back onto my feet and go in search of my coat and my handbag, both of which are still in the kitchen. The dirty pizza plates are still on the counter; if I were a truly wonderful guest I would wash them up, but given it’s now past midnight I am definitely nowhere near wonderful—the most I have the energy for is to stack them in the sink, since on inspection the dishwasher is full. My mind is flitting from Seb’s desperate, pleading eyes to Tom’s shuttered face, and back again . . . It’s hardly the most important question, but I keep wondering who the girl was, the girl that Tom dragged Seb to the party for. Once upon a time I would have landed upon one name only, but I’m starting to think there’s a second option.
I pick up my coat and exit the kitchen to find Tom hovering in the corridor, lit only by the yellow slash of light coming from the bottom of the bathroom door, and the dim light spilling in from the kitchen and living room.
“You got hold of Alina?” I ask, to cover my awkwardness. Tom and I, alone again in this same corridor—how could it not be awkward?
“Yeah. He’s going to stay here for tonight.” He’s leaning his back against the wall; I can barely see the white of his teeth as he yawns. “She knew about him losing his job. She brought it up; I was wondering whether Seb would have told her or not.”
“How did she sound?” I put my bag down and begin to pull on my coat.
“I don’t know. Frustrated mostly, I think.”
Another deep retch comes from the bathroom. My eyes are adjusting to the light; I can just make out a grimace of part distaste and part sympathy on Tom’s face. “Christ. He’s going to feel like death tomorrow.”
“Who was the girl, Tom?”
He knows what I mean; he doesn’t try to dissemble. He simply shakes his head tiredly. “It doesn’t matter.”
It does, though. “Was it Lara?” We’re speaking quietly. The darkness winds its way around us, enveloping us, comforting us. It’s a blanket under which words can be uttered that would never be broached in the light of day.
“What? No, it wasn’t Lara.” I know he’s looking at me; I can feel the weight of his gaze, though I can only discern his eyes from a slight gleam. I have the sense his head is cocked, but perhaps I’m projecting his mannerisms upon this dark canvas. “Why would you think that? That was just a holiday fling. It didn’t mean anything to either of us.”
Not Lara. Not only not Lara, but seemingly never Lara. I file that away for future analysis. “So who was the girl?” I ask again, doggedly intent.
He doesn’t speak for a moment. He’s so still I could believe he has fallen asleep standing. Eventually his words come, barely more than a whisper. “You know who it was.”