The French Girl

by Lexie Elliott

  “Is there something wrong?” he asks.

  I hold up a finger as I finish chewing my bite of cookie. He waits patiently, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. “Not really,” I say when I’ve swallowed. “Only I just realized I’m wasting your time and mine, since you’ve already made up your mind. I appreciate you need a stalking horse, but if that’s the case I’d sooner eat your cookies and drink tea than knock myself out trying to pitch for unavailable business.”

  A gleam of appreciation shows in his eyes. He’s nondescript in every respect: mid-height, mid-gray in his hair, neither fat nor thin, not obviously fit but not particularly out of shape for a man in his mid-fifties. He wears well-tailored suits, but nothing flashy or unusual. I’ve heard the only exceptional thing about him is his intellect, though he’s yet to show me much of that. “Do you always speak your mind?” he asks after a moment or two. It doesn’t escape me that he hasn’t refuted my stalking horse claim.

  “Less and less as I grow older,” I say, smiling a little. “It’s a high-risk strategy. Many of the best things that have happened to me came about because of it, but . . .” I grimace. “Many of the worst things also . . .”

  He actually smiles at this. “What would you consider one of the best things to happen to you?”

  I answer without hesitation. “Getting into Oxford.”

  He cocks his head, his eyes gleaming again. “How so?”

  “I don’t have the typical Oxbridge background. Getting into Oxford really opened up my horizons. I don’t mean just in terms of job prospects—it showed me paths and possibilities I could never have believed achievable if I followed a different route.”

  “My daughter was at Oxford,” he says. “I wonder if she would say the same.”

  “I suppose that might depend on her background. And her personality.”

  He shrugs with a wry smile. “Caro falls into the category of typical Oxbridge candidate.”

  I blink. “Not Caro Horridge?” But of course not Caro Horridge; his surname is Farrow—

  “Yes,” he says, surprised. “You know her?”

  “We were at Oxford at the same time.”

  Suddenly I have the full force of his attention; it’s a little unnerving. “And do you think Caro would say getting into Oxford was one of the best things to happen to her?”

  Caro would never consider the question; Caro would view entry into Oxford as right and proper, exactly what she was due. “Well,” I hedge, “we weren’t particularly close.”

  His lips quirk. “No longer pursuing the high-risk strategy?”

  I laugh. “Like I said, less and less as I get older.”

  The corners of his mouth tug upward, then he glances at his watch. “Well, Miss Channing, I know someone as direct as you will forgive me for cutting to the chase. You are the stalking horse. I like your business, I like the pitch book you sent through and your fees are ballpark, but you’d be a hard prospect to sell to committee, as you don’t have a proven track record yet. I’m not sure it’s worth my while to have that fight.”

  “What would make it worthwhile? A reduction in fees?”

  He purses his lips. “It would help, but even that might not be enough. You just—”

  “Don’t have the track record,” I finish for him.

  He nods ruefully. “But I can honestly say it’s been a real pleasure.” His eyes are smiling; it takes ten years off him. I can’t see the slightest resemblance to Caro.

  In the cab on the way home I record my post-meeting notes on my pocket Dictaphone for Julie to type up later and then I call Lara and rant for five minutes about how I was an idiot to give up my lucrative job to start my own firm, how aforementioned firm will be bankrupt in six months at this rate, how no one will ever hire me again after such an appalling error of judgment, and so on and so forth . . . Lara has heard it all before. She doesn’t even bother arguing back.

  “Finished now?” she asks when I finally run out of steam.

  “For now. Come round tonight—I’ll probably bore you with more of the same, but I promise to at least treat you to a curry and some nice wine first.” A giggle with the ever-sunny Lara is exactly what I need.

  “Sorry,” she says, yawning. “I’m knackered. Can we do tomorrow instead?”

  “Knackered . . . What were you up to last night?” I couldn’t remember her saying she had a date, but Lara picks up men like the rest of us pick up newspapers. She puts them down in the same way, too. She is and always has been unrelentingly and unashamedly promiscuous, but somehow in her it seems . . . wholesome.

  “I met someone in the pub after work. Just a bit of fun.”

  “Lucky you,” I say, unable to keep the envy out of my voice. I’m not sure I’ve ever just “met someone in the pub.” I can’t recall anyone ever approaching me cold. Unless Seb counts.

  “Ah, Kate.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Like I keep telling you, you need to drop your standards. Then you’d have as much action as you could wish for.”

  “Maybe.” But I don’t think that’s it. I scrub up well—I’m tall and fairly slim, I’ve got good hair and I’ve been told I’ve got beautiful eyes—but none of that quite has the appeal of a buxom beauty of Swedish descent with an easy smile and a relaxed attitude to sex.

  “Your place tomorrow, then?” Lara asks.

  “Perfect.” I’m about to ring off when I remember I still haven’t told her about the body. About Severine. “Wait—Tom called me.”

  “How is he? Is he back in London?”

  “Yes, actually, but that isn’t why he called. They found . . .” I swallow. “They found the body. I mean, Severine. They found her in the well at the farmhouse,” I finish in a rush.

  “Oh God,” Lara says bleakly. “That’s horrible. Though maybe it will help her parents get closure or something. Do they think it was that boyfriend she was talking about?”

  “I suppose so.” It’s an obvious question, but I hadn’t considered how she got into the well. Who put her there. Even now, my mind shies away from it. “I don’t know. Tom says the French police want to talk to us all again.”

  I can almost hear Lara’s grimace. “Really?”

  “It’s probably just procedure; after all, we were the last people to talk with her properly.” Before she went into town and was never seen again. “She must have gone back, though, since she was found in the well; I suppose that’s new information.”

  “Still, it must have been that boyfriend, surely. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I really hope it doesn’t take up much time. We’re soooo busy at work right now.” She yawns down the line again. “I suppose that explains why Caro’s been trying to get hold of me.”

  “You too?” That’s a surprise: if anything, Caro likes Lara even less than me. “She left me a message; I haven’t called back yet. But she must have known Tom would tell us; she can’t have been calling about that.”

  “Only one way to find out.” She yawns. “Shotgun: you first,” she adds impishly.

  “All right,” I say reluctantly. “I’ll call her.” I don’t want to talk to Caro any more than Lara does, but I may as well find out what she wants sooner rather than later. If Caro wants something, she won’t be deterred.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Severine hovers.

  At first she is no more than a feeling, a presence that rests on my consciousness just out of reach of my field of vision. I put it down to the unwanted memories that have floated to the surface of my mind, stirred up by the discovery of her bones. But that is not enough for Severine. One morning I find those very bones, bleached white and neatly stacked in a pile with the grinning skull atop, resting on my kitchen counter; blinking does not remove them, though I know they’re not there. On yet other occasions she manifests in a fleshed-out version of walnut-colored skin, secretive eyes and a superior lack of smile. With her come
s an insistent tide of memories, fetid and dank after being buried for so long, that will drag me down into their rotten darkness if I yield to them. I trenchantly refuse to succumb; instead I call Caro.

  “Caroline Horridge,” she answers crisply, after only one ring. I imagine her sitting at her desk in Haft & Weil, her taut frame wrapped in a business suit, with not a hair or a sheet of paper out of place.

  “Hi, Caro, it’s Kate.” There’s a pause. “Kate Channing,” I add through gritted teeth. This is a classic Caro strategy, forcing me to identify myself; can she really be expecting a call from another Kate with a strong northern accent?

  “Oh, Kate,” she says, faux-warmly. “God, it’s been so long. Thanks for calling back.”

  “No problem.” I can feel my cheeks aching from my fake smile. Someone once told me if you smile on the phone, the caller hears it in your voice; apparently it doesn’t matter if the smile is genuine or not. I’m not going to deliberately antagonize the daughter of a man who could hand me a major contract. Any accidental antagonizing can’t be helped. “How are you?”

  “Good,” she says breezily. “Though busy. Which I can’t really complain about in this market. You?”

  “Same. Good. Busy.” Not as busy as I’d like, which is evident when I glance at my computer screen and see my sparse diary for the week, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  There’s a pause. I wait for her to get to the heart of the matter. “I take it Tom’s spoken to you?”

  “Yes. Not exactly the sunniest of news.” My smile has dropped. The skull with yawning darkness for eyes is still waiting for me, just a step beyond conscious thought.

  “Do you mean about Jenna or that girl?” I take a sharp breath in—is she really suggesting that murder and a broken engagement are on a par?—but Caro is still talking. “It was always just a matter of time on the girl—surely no one was expecting a different outcome—”

  “Severine,” I say bluntly. The bones demand to be named. I wish they would make their demands on someone else.

  “What?”

  “Her name was Severine.” Not even a minute into the conversation and already I’m getting testy. I paste on the fake smile again.

  “Yes.” Caro pauses. “Well, anyway, the reason I called was that I thought it might be nice to have some kind of reunion for Tom. He must be feeling pretty low after the whole Jenna thing—getting the Oxford crowd back together and having a few ‘welcome home’ drinks might be just the ticket. I’m thinking next Friday, at my flat. We can always go on from there to somewhere on the King’s Road if everyone feels up for a big night.”

  “Um, that’s a nice idea,” I say faintly. It is. I’m frankly astonished.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” she says dryly. “After all, I practically grew up with Tom and Seb. I can’t wait to have them both back in London.”

  “Both? Seb too?” The words are out of my mouth before I can clamp down on them.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard?” I can certainly hear the smile in her voice—a thoroughly self-satisfied one. If she was fishing to find out if Seb and I are in touch, she’s made her catch. “Seb is coming back. New York doesn’t suit Alina, apparently.” Alina. His wife of perhaps three years now. “Though he won’t be back in time for Friday. We’ll just have to do another get-together when he’s back.”

  “Sure. Lovely.” I’m absolutely positive I will be busy that evening, whenever it is.

  “So you’ll come? Next Friday?”

  “Let me check.” I flick through my electronic diary, though I already know I’m free. Maybe it works like the fake smile. “Um, yes, that should be fine. Thanks.”

  “Great. Can you do me a favor and tell Lara? I haven’t managed to get through to her yet. No doubt you two are still thick as thieves.”

  “Oh, thicker,” I say blandly, then hurry on before she can interpret that as mockery. Which it may be. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Great. I’ll e-mail you my address. See you next Friday.”

  I hang up and gaze blankly for a moment at my computer screen with that under-endowed calendar. It could be that Caro is simply being nice, with no hidden agenda. Lara will think that, when I tell her. But Lara lives in a world where sunshine is always just around the corner: a lovely idea, like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, but requiring of a certain willing suspension of disbelief to maintain. I was born more suspicious.

  Severine hovers.

  * * *

  —

  The day of Caro’s drinks party two things happen. Haft & Weil call me—or more specifically, Mr. Gordon Farrow’s secretary calls me—and the police call me.

  Gordon Farrow’s secretary is calling to set up lunch for Tuesday, which makes absolutely no sense unless the firm he really wants have somehow dropped the ball. I spend the day refusing to get excited because it will all come to naught whilst also meticulously planning my sales pitch. It’s an exercise in believing two mutually exclusive ideas; it’s exhausting.

  In comparison the call from the police is much less disturbing, at least in immediate terms. A French detective will be making the short hop across the English Channel next week and would like to interview me; would I be available? I eye the paltry diary again: far too much white space into which I can imagine Severine sauntering, stretching out each slim brown arm to take as her right. Other than Tuesday’s lunch and a few other meetings in relation to two small contracts I’ve landed, I’m available. I’m depressingly, continuously available, and nothing I achieve all day changes that. By the time the end of business hours rolls round, I’m quite partial to the idea of a drink.

  Tom, Lara and I have agreed to meet beforehand at a bar near Caro’s place. Safety in numbers and all that. I come in from the rain, shaking off my umbrella, and scan the crowded room for Tom. It’s easy to spot his tall figure at the bar, ordering; he must have just got there himself as raindrops still glisten like tiny crystals in his dark hair, which is once again too long and starting to curl. He used to look more like Seb, I think. Or perhaps I deliberately dissociate them now.

  “Make mine a vodka tonic,” I say, slipping into a space next to him.

  He turns from the barman, a grin already splitting his face. “Kate!” He pulls me in for a proper hug; none of the nonsense of London double-kisses for Tom. It’s something I know yet am always surprised by—he gives really good hugs. I can feel the beaming smile on my own face as he wraps me up. This smile is genuine.

  “It is so good to see you,” I say into his neck. He smells of a mix of wood and spice.

  “You too,” he says, pulling back to look at me. His grin hasn’t abated yet. The freckles aren’t there anymore, and neither is the tan, and I think he may have been hitting the gym a lot lately, but otherwise he’s reassuringly the same. “You look really well.”

  “Ten sixty,” interrupts the barman impatiently, plonking the vodka tonic down beside Tom’s beer.

  “Jesus,” mutters Tom, pulling out his wallet. “London prices double every time I come back.”

  “Then never leave again, for the sake of my bank balance if nothing else.” Still smiling, I scoop up my drink. “I’ll hunt down a table. Lara’s running late, by the way.”

  It’s too crowded to get a table all to ourselves, but I find us two free seats at the corner of the bar, and we do our best to cover almost two years in five minutes, our heads leaned together conspiratorially to combat the noise. Severine can’t hold court here, among this warmth and life.

  “I’m sorry about Jenna,” I offer, after a while. I am sorry, even if I didn’t think them well suited. “I didn’t really get to know her well when we visited you guys, but she seemed . . .” I grope around for the right adjective. Nothing fits. “Like a girl with her head screwed on,” I finish lamely. Jenna’s cool gray eyes had missed very little, in my opinion. It had been lovely to see Tom again, and Lara and I ha
d both loved Boston, but I rather thought the tight corners around Jenna’s eyes hadn’t smoothed out until we were well on our way to the airport.

  Tom’s lips twist briefly, and he spins his pint glass back and forth in the cradle of his long fingers. “She wasn’t on top form when you two came over. She really is a nice girl, it’s just . . .” He trails off.

  “I know. Lara is a lot to take.”

  He looks up from his beer, startled. “Lara?”

  “Well, she’s a difficult proposition for any girlfriend to cope with. Even supposing your boyfriend hasn’t slept with her,” I add dryly. Does he imagine I didn’t notice him and Jenna during that visit, in secluded corridors and corners, standing too close and speaking low and fast to each other? I can see them now, Jenna’s right hand making sharp, flat gestures while Tom’s ran through his hair in frustration. “Or maybe you didn’t tell Jenna about that.” Tom and Lara’s affair, dalliance, whatever one should call it, happened a long time ago—during that fateful French holiday—and Lara always maintained it was nothing but fun. Tom said the same, though I wondered if there was more to it for him. After Jenna’s coolness during our Boston visit, I wondered even more. Wives and girlfriends always know.

  “I did tell her actually, and anyway, Lara really wasn’t the problem,” he says, a touch irritably, then blows out a breath slowly. “It doesn’t matter anyway. We just weren’t . . . right. I couldn’t see us together in fifty years. I realized I couldn’t imagine what that would look like. Soon after that, going to the gym got more appealing than going home.”

  “Fifty years,” I say caustically. “I’d settle for knowing what the next six months is going to look like. Or even tonight.” I grimace and knock back some more of my drink.