The French Girl

by Lexie Elliott

  “Don’t look like that,” Tom says, laughing. “Caro will be on best behavior. The gracious host and so on.”

  “Mmm,” I say noncommittally. “Oh, I wanted to ask you, how come Caro has a different surname than her dad? I know her parents are divorced, but still . . .”

  “Well, it was pretty acrimonious.” He takes a swallow of his beer and looks to one side, remembering. “From what I recall, Gordon had an affair, and Camilla—Caro’s mum—did not take it well. Hell hath no fury, et cetera . . . though hers was a very passionless type of fury.” He frowns, trying to find the right words. “Like she wasn’t so much angry with Gordon for cheating on her as angry with him for disrupting her perfect life. Anyway, Caro took her mum’s side. She must have been about thirteen at the time. She officially changed her surname to her mum’s maiden name, though to be fair, I imagine her mum put her up to it.” His lips twist ruefully. “I always felt sorry for Gordon, to be honest. If I was married to Camilla, I expect I’d’ve been having an affair a darn sight sooner than Gordon.”

  “She’s difficult?”

  “Not exactly difficult.” He shrugs, trying to find the right word. “She’s cold. And nothing is ever good enough for her. Caro’s got the same sharp tongue, but at least she can have a laugh.” He glances at me, one eyebrow raised, as if waiting for me to make a snide comment, but I don’t, partly because what he says is true—Caro can indeed have a laugh; even I have to admit she can be wickedly funny—but also because I didn’t know any of this before. It adjusts the picture somewhat. “Well, anyway, it was a tough time for Caro. That’s when Seb and I”—he glances at me quickly—“started spending a lot more time with her; I think she just wanted any excuse to get out of the house.”

  Seb. Tom usually avoids that name with me; tricky since they are not only best friends but also cousins, but nonetheless he tries. I keep my face expressionless. “Is her dad still with whoever he had the affair with?”

  Tom shakes his head. “No. Caro refused to see him if he was still seeing her, so he stopped.” I absorb that for a moment: the child laying down the law to her father. There’s a reason children are not supposed to have that kind of power; I wonder how that felt, for both of them. But Tom is still speaking: “You know, now I wonder if her mum put her up to that, too. My parents seemed to think it was a crying shame, that Gordon and this woman would have been very happy together. But Caro was adamant, so . . .” He shrugs. “That was that.”

  “Interesting that she works at his firm.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t really know what to make of that when I heard she’d joined Haft & Weil.” He is frowning, still trying to puzzle it out. “It’s not like she didn’t have other offers, either.” He finishes his beer with one swallow, then eyes the empty glass. “Time for another? How late is Lara going to be?”

  “She should be—ah, here she is.” I start waving to catch Lara’s attention as she scans the bar from the doorway. Half of the bar is scanning her in return. As she spots us, her open smile breaks out and she heads our way.

  “Tom,” she says, hugging him warmly. “Look at you! Do you have a job anymore or do you just lift weights?”

  He laughs and climbs off his bar stool to offer it to her. “You’re one to talk, looking gorgeous as ever.”

  “I’m at least six pounds overweight. But since it all seems to be residing in my boobs I can’t really be bothered to do anything about it,” she says complacently, perching her bottom on the proffered bar stool.

  “How is it that you’ve only been in the bar thirty seconds and already we’re talking about your boobs?” teases Tom. I’m used to their easy, affectionate flirting, but suddenly I’m more alert to it. The context has changed: Tom is single. I’m not uneasy, exactly, but it would change the dynamic if they were to become a couple. I like things how they are.

  “Well then, how about a much more macabre subject: did you guys get a call from the police today?” Lara asks, and immediately Severine reaches through time to tug me back. She sinks with studied elegance into a chair by the farmhouse pool, dressed in a loose black linen shift, and crosses one leg over the other; after the slim brown calf comes a slender foot, complete with shell-pink-painted toes from which a sandal casually dangles. Seb can’t take his eyes off that sandal.

  I knock back the remains of my vodka tonic and wrench myself into the present. Tom is nodding. “About interviews next week? Yeah, I did.”

  “Me too. Though I don’t know what help we can be a decade on.” I add, almost defiantly, “I can hardly remember a thing.”

  “Me either,” says Lara. “I wonder if it will be the same one.” She has an odd look on her face.

  “Same what?” I ask, confused.

  “Same detective. Only they don’t call them that in France, do they? Investigator. Officer of judiciary police, or whatever the phrase is.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” says Tom dismissively. “Wasn’t he about sixty? He’ll have retired.”

  “You two have finished your drinks,” Lara says, in a sudden change of gear. “Can I get us all another?”

  I shake my head, grimacing. “Shouldn’t we really screw our courage to the sticking place and venture forth?”

  “Macbeth? Isn’t that a little dramatic?” protests Tom, but he’s laughing. “It’ll be fine. Especially since you two are going to behave impeccably.” He fixes us both with a mock-glare that lingers longer, and with more steel, on me than Lara.

  “Such blind optimism,” Lara says, fluttering her eyelids in a deliberately over-the-top fashion. “A man after my own heart.”

  I wonder.

  * * *

  —

  Caro’s flat smells of vanilla. Later I track the source to a number of expensive candles dotted around the space, the sort that have three wicks and cost more than a boozy restaurant meal for two. The enticing smell, the cozy lighting and the welcome warmth of the flat after the driving rain outside add up to give a Christmassy feel even though it’s March. Caro has a couple of teenage girls with heavy eyeliner answering the door, taking coats and pouring champagne. It’s all exceedingly grown-up.

  There are perhaps twenty-five people already there when we arrive. At a quick glance I know a few, and there are others I recognize but can’t put a name to; all from Oxford days. I spy Caro across the room, wearing a severe black minidress and truly lethal black suede ankle boots, with her dark blond hair scraped back from her face. Skinny, blond, self-assured and possessing of a delicate bone structure that screams English aristocracy: posh totty. I almost drowned in an army of girls just like her at Oxford before I learned how to swim in a big pond. It’s important to kick.

  “Relax, Kate,” says Tom quietly, amused.

  I exaggerate taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. His blue eyes, similar to Seb’s but flecked with gray, are crinkled at the corners at my theatrics.

  Caro breaks off a conversation when she spots our entry and crosses to us quickly, zeroing in on Tom with a delighted smile spreading across her face. She’s even thinner than I remember, and older, of course—we all are—but for Caro the extra years have gnawed away any softness. Now she appears brittle. I try to imagine the thirteen-year-old girl that she once was, taking refuge in her friendships with Tom and Seb, but I can’t form an image in my mind. Still, Tom’s words drift around me; they herd me into a corner where I can’t help but feel that my dislike of Caro reflects badly on me. Surely I ought to like her: she’s a strong, smart, ambitious woman who is working very hard in what is still a heavily male-dominated workplace; she’s sharp and cleverly funny, and moreover, Tom likes her, which has to count for rather a lot . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . She’s too sharp. She cuts. Or at least, she used to.

  “Tom! The guest of honor!” she is saying, as she kisses him on both cheeks; Tom doesn’t try to hug her, I note. Then Caro turns to Lara and myself; Lara gets the doubl
e-kiss treatment first. “It’s been so long,” Caro exclaims to her. “You look . . . just the same.” Lara murmurs back something innocuous.

  “Hi, Caro.” I’m last in line. I dutifully offer my cheeks; the spiked heels on her boots almost raise her up to my height. There’s no contact in either kiss.

  “Kate,” she says, her lips curving in a smile that her eyes don’t entirely match. “I hear you met my father.”

  “Um, yes.” I’m a little surprised she would choose to lead with that. “I think we’re meeting again next week, actually.”

  Her eyes narrow a fraction, but she nods emphatically and says, “Excellent. I told him weeks ago that he wouldn’t regret giving you a chance.”

  “Thank you,” I say, thrown. “That was . . . kind of you.” At least, it would have been kind if it were true. I’m absolutely positive she’s lying. Her father would have already known about our acquaintance had she spoken to him.

  “It’s nothing,” she says with a dismissive gesture. “It can’t be easy starting up your own business in this economic climate. Now, you all have drinks, yes? Then come join the melee.” She links her arm through Tom’s and drags him off; I watch her stretch up with a sly smile on her face to deliver something to his ear that elicits a sharp bark of laughter. He’s soon ensconced in vigorous hellos complete with enthusiastic back-thumping with three or four men whose faces I vaguely remember, but not their physiques; ten years has done a lot of damage to hairlines and waistlines.

  Lara and I sip champagne. We mingle and chat. By and large the faces I don’t know are the other halves of people I do. Some more people come in, and the music moves on to a more upbeat tempo. The volume of the chatter and laughter increases. We drink more champagne and do some damage to the trays of nibbles. I take in the flat: a property like this must be hideously expensive in this part of London. I wonder if her father helped her buy it, and if he did, I wonder at the dynamic of refusing his name but taking his financial aid.

  Caro joins us. “I’m so sorry I haven’t had a chance to chat with you two. But you know what it’s like at your own parties—you hardly get time for more than a hello with each person before you’re dragged off.” She rolls her eyes as if it’s a chore, but she’s in her element. The gracious host indeed.

  “Great turnout,” says Lara, raising her glass to Caro.

  “It is, isn’t it?” She has a satisfied smile on her face as she scans the room. Then she turns back to us. “Sorry to speak of unpleasant things, but I expect you both have meetings with the French investigator next week, too?”

  “Yes, Monday,” I say.

  “It was such a long time ago, I wondered if we should discuss beforehand. Make sure we’re all singing from the same song sheet, so to speak.”

  Lara opens her mouth, most likely to agree because it’s the path of least resistance, so I jump in quickly. “What’s to discuss? She was alive and well the night before we left, and that’s the last we saw of her.”

  Caro is nodding. “True. Then she went into town.” She frowns. “Odd that she came back to her cottage when she told Theo she was going to Paris.”

  “Did she?” I didn’t know that.

  “When did she say that?” asked Lara.

  “The night before we left, I think. Theo had a long chat with her.” I remember that: I see the pair of them now, lying on their backs in the dark of nighttime on sun loungers beside the pool. Severine has a glass of white wine resting on her stomach, and the red glow of a cigarette makes a repeated arc up to her mouth then down to dangle off the armrest. She’s still in the black linen shift, but her sandals are now tossed carelessly beside the sun lounger. I don’t want to look at Seb in case he’s drinking in the sight of her; instead I watch Severine myself. After a time she turns her head to look at me directly; it’s too dark and she’s too far away to see the expression in her eyes. Not that there was ever anything to see in Severine’s eyes.

  I shake my head. Caro is still talking: “I just thought, well, maybe we should all compare notes . . . After all, I can barely remember that last night, what with the alcohol.” She gives a high, tinkling laugh.

  “And the drugs,” I say evenly. Her laugh stops, and she cocks her head and meets my eye. Lara is looking from Caro to me and back again. Across the room I can see Tom repeatedly glancing away from his conversation to keep tabs on the three of us; he’s easy to spot on account of his height and that bold nose. And his shoulders, now, after all that relationship-avoiding gym work; he must be even bulkier than Seb these days. “It’s okay,” I say after a moment. “I didn’t mention it back then, and I won’t now.”

  Caro nods, a short, quick movement. It’s not exactly a thank-you, but close.

  “It was a pretty crazy night,” says Lara, smiling.

  “Yes,” laughs Caro, happy to move on. “Didn’t you end up skinny-dipping with Tom?”

  Lara is grinning. “I seem to remember something like that. Then World War Three broke out and we were trying to calm everyone down whilst naked and dripping wet.” She frowns. “I can’t remember, what were you guys arguing about anyway?” she says with wide-eyed innocence. I glance at her sharply, then look at Caro. Twin spots of red are burning in her cheeks.

  Suddenly Tom appears at my elbow waving an empty bottle of champagne. “Caro, are there any more of these?”

  “Oh, crates of them, literally. Let me sort that.” She grabs the bottle gratefully and disappears quickly through the crowd.

  Tom turns a stern eye on Lara and me. “Didn’t I tell you guys to behave?” he says, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

  “You want us to behave?” asks Lara archly. “Caro’s the one who wants to airbrush our response to the police to make sure there’s no mention of drug-taking. You might be happy to forget that she smuggled Class A drugs through customs in Kate’s bag, but I don’t think I ever will. And nor will Kate.” I can’t stop a smile spreading across my face: this is so unexpectedly combative of my easygoing best friend, and in that moment I love her fiercely for it. It seems I was wrong: where Caro is concerned, even Lara is naturally suspicious.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” says Tom quietly. “If you remember, I was furious with her. But you don’t have to rub her nose in it now. It was a long time ago and she did apologize.”

  “Not until the next day,” I mutter mutinously, temporarily forgetting my previous inclination to a generosity of spirit toward Caro. “And as far as apologies go, it was distinctly underwhelming.” Her so-called apology had been accepted as it was offered: with no charm at all, and under clear duress.

  “You really want to go into all that again right now?” asks Tom. He is glaring at me with an expression I can’t quite interpret. Suddenly the exasperation melts away, and he tilts his head. I’m close enough to see the gray flecks in his eyes. “Come on, Kate, let’s not dredge up the past,” he says softly.

  I breathe out slowly. He’s right. I’ve no desire to let those particular memories out of their box; though they seem to be seeping out regardless. I find a smile and clink my glass against Tom’s. “To the present.”

  “And to Tom,” says Lara, clinking her glass against Tom’s also. She smiles winningly at him. “Nice to have the voice of reason back.” Tom shakes his head and smiles back, then glances round the room. The crowd is thinning out; I glance at my watch and am surprised to see it’s past 1 A.M.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let me escort you two home.”

  We get a cab together. It makes geographical sense to drop me off first; I hug them both good-bye and climb out, then watch the taxi disappear. In my mind I replay the scene of them intervening with Seb, Caro and myself, in the glory of their birthday suits. Lara’s impressive frontage jiggles hypnotically until Theo throws a towel round her, discomfort making his cheeks as red as his hair. When Tom works out what’s happened, he rounds on Caro; I’ve never seen Tom
angry, and it’s majestic. I’m surprised she can remain upright in the face of such a biting onslaught. Lara is openmouthed in awe, but I’m too full of hurt and acid fury and cheap wine to truly appreciate the display. Mostly hurt, because Seb thinks I’m overreacting. His lack of support is a physical blow; it literally takes my breath and speech away. The shock of it strips away all my defenses and forces me to face the truth: it’s over.

  At the time amidst the mayhem I barely noticed Severine, but now she has my attention. She sits casually to one side, observing detachedly as she calmly finishes a cigarette, then collects her sandals and walks unhurriedly to her cottage, leaving the chaos behind. I stumble alone to the bedroom Seb and I should be sharing, tears streaming down my cheeks. Six months, even two months, previously he would have followed me, but no longer.

  Back in the present, I’m also going to bed alone. Seb is presumably in bed somewhere with his wife, give or take a time difference impact. Who knows what Caro’s sleeping arrangements are? Theo—well, Theo is dead. Severine, too, though death seems to hold her too loosely as far as I’m concerned. And Tom and Lara are together in a taxi.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Monday morning. I’m immersed in Excel spreadsheets, surveying the health, or lack thereof, of my company, when Gordon Farrow rings. The pleasantries don’t take long, but he is pleasant, and genuine. A decent man. Even without Tom’s damning account of Caro’s mother, if Caro is the average of Gordon and his ex-wife, I have no desire to meet the ex-wife.

  “So who’s on your list, Kate?” asks Gordon. We’ve moved on to first-name terms. He means who would I target for the open positions at his firm; I’ve been prepping for exactly this question, only I’m a little thrown to be answering it on the phone on Monday rather than at lunch on Tuesday. Still, I move smoothly into my “here’s-one-I-prepared-earlier” answer, and we bat back and forth on that for a few minutes.