The French Girl

by Lexie Elliott

  Seb climbs to his feet. His cheeks are heavily flushed now. “Thank you all from both of us; we’re thrilled to be back. And thanks for coming tonight, and to Caro for arranging everything.” He smiles and clinks his glass against hers; Caro inclines her head in acknowledgment, the fizzing joy inside almost bursting through her eyes. “It’s great to be able to catch up with so many of you again all at once. The thing Alina and I have been most looking forward to about coming back is—”

  “The beer!” shouts some wag.

  “The sense of humor!” shouts another.

  “The dentistry,” murmurs Tom in my ear. I giggle. Lara glances across at us. The merest frown crosses her face before she turns back; I wonder if I was too loud.

  Seb laughs. “Wonderful as those are, they’re not what I was about to say. What we’ve most been looking forward to is being close to our friends. And on that note . . .” His expression turns somber. “I’d like to propose a toast to one who can never be here with us again.” The table is quiet now. “To Theo.”

  “To Theo,” we all murmur before we drink. I glance at Tom; his face is starkly bleak; one could photograph him and name it A Study in Grief. As I watch he deliberately locks eyes with Seb and gives a small nod—well done—and Seb nods back, the merest movement. Theo was Tom’s friend first and foremost, I remember. They were in the same college, they both read engineering, they even shared a set of rooms in second year; if there is such a thing as the keeper of the grief, Tom has the right of that title in this group. I want to say something to him, but I’ve no idea what.

  The conversation warms and expands again, slowly regaining volume after the moment of solemnity. More wine is called for. I eat chocolate profiteroles that I don’t really like because by now I’m drunk and I’ll eat practically anything. People are switching places or hunkering down between two chairs to catch up with those they haven’t been seated near. I see Alina rise from the table. Seb is chatting, leaning over someone seated in a chair near hers; he pulls her in for a kiss as she passes, drunkenly tactile, but she keeps it brief, barely breaking her stride. He gazes after her receding back for a moment, before his attention is drawn back into his conversation. I look away, wondering how much one can divine about any relationship from observing a single moment, and am shocked to find Severine’s white skull on the table in front of me, atop a pile of sand and sticks and assorted debris. The image is so sharp, so sudden, so vicious that for a second I feel like I’m falling through space.

  I push my chair sharply away from the table and head for the toilets, ignoring Tom’s concerned call—Kate?—reeling from both the wine and Severine’s malevolent appearance. I bang inelegantly through the doors. The toilet cubicle, thankfully, is mine and mine alone; no intrusions from the dead here. I close the lid and sit hunched with my forehead propped up by the heels of my hands. I’m angry with Severine, and I have that right—why shouldn’t I be angry with the girl who, in life, slept with my boyfriend right under my nose, and then has the temerity to haunt me in death? Why me? Why not Seb? That would be much more fitting, I think maliciously. And if not Seb, why not Caro? Yes, Caro—what a pity hauntings can’t be directed. Perhaps I should ask Severine if she takes requests . . . Still, why me? Not that I would wish it on them, but why not Lara or Tom? I remember Tom’s stark, grief-ridden face, staring unseeingly down the table. Not Tom, not ever Tom; that would be beyond unfair.

  With a sigh I collect myself and exit the cubicle more elegantly than I entered it, only to stop short when I find Alina at a sink, dabbing a paper towel to her mouth. She instantly scrunches up the paper towel when she sees me and makes a show of tidying up her eyeliner instead. The eyeliner is already perfect, but the eyes it frames look tired.

  “Hi,” I say into the mirror as I step up to wash my hands. She gives a small smile in return. “Are you having a good evening?”

  “Lovely,” she says unenthusiastically. “Though it’s hard to keep track of names.” She looks at me expectantly.

  “Kate. Kate Channing.” There’s not the slightest bit of recognition in her face. “I was at Oxford with Seb.” Still nothing. I make a gesture. “And Tom and Lara and Caro, among others.” It’s laughable. Apparently I wasn’t even important enough in Seb’s life for him to mention me to his wife.

  “Kate. Got it. Forgive me, I’m so useless with names. And since Seb and I met in New York, I haven’t really had a chance to meet any of his friends from back home. Except the ones who came to the wedding, and that was ages ago.”

  “I’m sure there are easier ways than this evening’s trial by fire,” I say wryly as I dry my hands on a paper towel.

  “Well, Caro was very insistent.” She leans forward to inspect her eyeliner again, and then adds, as if realizing her words could be interpreted as a tad ungrateful, “And of course, it’s very kind of her to take the trouble.”

  “Mmmm,” I say, unable to keep the irony out of my voice. Alina shoots me a quick look in the mirror, and for a moment her composure slips. She looks exhausted and utterly fed up.

  “Are you pregnant?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. My hand flies to my mouth in horror, as if I can catch the words and pop them back in.

  Her eyes jump immediately to mine, betraying the truth, then she quickly schools her face to give a surprised laugh. “No, of course—”

  “God, I’m sorry, I’m . . .” I stop and shake my head, genuinely appalled at myself. “It’s none of my business.” We both look at each other—properly, not in the mirror this time. “Sorry,” I say again, truly contrite. I shrug my shoulders and offer the only lame excuse I have. “Tom’s been doing too good a job of topping up my wine.”

  “It’s okay,” she says slowly after a moment. There’s no role-playing now; she makes no bones of the fact that she’s carefully assessing me. I wonder what she sees. She shrugs. “Since you’ve asked I may as well admit it: yes, I’m pregnant. Nine weeks. It’s been quite a journey.” The smile that steals across her face is half fearful and half excited and only lasts a heartbeat. “Please keep it to yourself. Though Seb is smashed enough tonight to tell the whole world anyway,” she adds, not without a note of frustration. It crosses my mind that tonight at least, I wouldn’t wish to be in her shoes, but I push that aside. The ban on self-analysis is still in force. She tosses the scrunched-up paper towel into a waste bin, no longer hiding it. “There’s nothing ‘morning’ about my sickness.”

  “Well, I guess . . . congratulations.” I smile awkwardly. “And I hope the sickness passes soon.”

  She looks at me for a moment then nods thoughtfully. “Thank you.” We head back into the restaurant together. I think wryly to myself of the kiss I observed. The additional information of Alina’s sickness puts a very different spin on it: the nauseous wife surreptitiously hurrying to the bathroom. I follow Alina’s long, narrow form that betrays no hint of a tiny life inside and wonder how Caro will take the news.

  Back at the table the waiter is moving round with a handheld machine taking card payments and someone is suggesting a move to a nearby club, but on a Thursday night the idea has no traction; we all have to work tomorrow, and none of us are twenty-one anymore. Lara has already rescued our coats from the cloakroom; she’s holding mine ready for me by the exit. I look round for Tom and instead spy Caro and Seb, half hidden behind an enormous fern. They are close, too close. Caro has one hand on Seb’s arm and is speaking to him urgently; his head is bent to hear her. As I watch, Seb scans the room quickly, as if checking they haven’t been seen, then focuses on Caro again. I turn away. I wish I hadn’t seen them. I wish I didn’t have to feel achingly sorry for Alina and furiously disappointed with Seb. Despite everything, I had expected better of him.

  Tom has returned from the gents, and as a group we’re now tumbling out into the night. Alina and Seb are doing their rounds of good-byes while various people try to figure out who best should share the taxis they�
�re trying to hail. I turn to Lara. “Shall we share a cab?”

  “Actually, you and Tom can share. I’m . . . ah . . . going in a different direction,” she says clumsily, not meeting my eye.

  “Lara.” By now I am fed up of this charade and too drunk to hide it. “I know where you’re going and you know I know.” Her lips thin mutinously as she bristles. It’s so out of character I almost laugh: Modan is drawing out new depths in our Lara. I grab her arm. “No, look, I’m not . . . I’m just saying, be careful, okay?” She looks at me warily. “I worry about you. Look after yourself. That’s all.”

  A smile breaks over her face, and she pulls me in for a hug. “You, too, honey,” she says quietly. Her breasts crush against me as we hug; I smell her perfume and some kind of floral scent in her hair. I wonder how that would feel to me if I was Alain Modan. Then she climbs into the cab Tom has hailed for her and disappears off.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and swing round to find Seb beside me. “Sorry,” he says ruefully, charmingly. “We didn’t get a chance to talk after all.”

  “I’m sure there will be other occasions.” I don’t want to speak to him at all tonight, and maybe not ever, after witnessing his tête-à-tête with Caro.

  “Oh, definitely.” He pulls me a little to the side and suddenly looks awkward. “Listen, Kate, all this stuff with Severine being found . . . I just wanted to say, well, some stuff might come out that . . . doesn’t reflect well on me.” I gaze at him nonplussed. He grimaces. “I mean, some stuff about me and Severine.” It dawns on me that he’s confessing to his infidelity, right here, outside a restaurant, when we’ve both had too much to drink. I’m temporarily speechless. He’s still speaking, however. “I just . . . didn’t want you to hear from someone else and be hurt by that. It was just the once; it didn’t mean anything . . . We were all so drunk that night—”

  Wordless, bitter rage broils inside me. I make a sharp gesture with my hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He blinks, taken aback by my vehemence. I look around for Tom.

  “Well, it was a long time ago. It’s just, with that policeman and everything, everything is coming into the open. Best to be honest in this situation, I think. I mean, you can’t really lie to the law. And you and I both know I came to our room that night and passed out, so whatever happened to Severine was nothing to do with me.”

  I swing back to stare at him. I worried about Caro telling Modan about Severine and Seb; it didn’t occur to me that Seb would own up himself. He’s running a hand through his hair and has on his best contrite expression, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I desperately want to tell him to fuck off, but it turns out Tom is right: this is all about pride. I would be yelling an endless stream of invective at Seb right now if it weren’t for the fact it would draw everyone’s attention. I can’t bear the thought of them all talking about me afterward. Poor Kate. All these years and she still hasn’t got over Seb. She hasn’t really had a serious boyfriend since, you know . . . I look for Tom, desperately hoping he has a cab ready to whisk me away; he’s waving at one that has its light on, but it’s not quite close enough for immediate salvation. I stare fixedly at it, willing it closer.

  “Kate?” says Seb uncertainly.

  The cab finally draws up. “Say good night to Alina for me,” I bite out, not looking at Seb. As I turn toward the cab, I realize Caro is watching us. Or rather, watching me. Watching my reaction.

  “Okay?” asks Tom as he helps me into the cab. I glance back through the window of the cab. Seb and Caro are sharing a look, and suddenly I feel the ground shift under me. What if Caro and Seb aren’t having an affair after all? What if the secret they’re keeping is something else entirely? “Kate?” Tom says again. “Are you okay?”

  The cab starts to pull away. Wild laughter bubbles up inside me. I’m still drunk, I realize. Of course I am. Seb’s confession and the night air may have been sobering, but given the amount of wine I’ve sunk, physically I can’t be anything other than smashed right now. Tom looks at me across the wide seat of the cab. The laughter evaporates just as quickly as it came. “No,” I say truthfully. “I’m not okay.”

  “Yeah,” he says softly. He looks down, his expression hidden in the shadows of the cab. “I didn’t think so.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I wake slowly with the dawning realization that I’m horribly hungover and this is not my bed: the covers don’t feel right, the light from the window is coming from the wrong place, and I’m wearing my bra, which I never sleep in . . . I turn over cautiously to check whether I’m the sole occupant. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and through it I can see the back of someone very familiar in a kitchen I recognize, drinking a cup of something.

  Tom. I’m at Tom’s.

  Images of last night surface in a haphazard, fractured fashion, with no suggestion of how one led to another: the dinner; the cab ride afterward; drunkenly climbing the stairs to Tom’s flat; making coffee; kissing.

  Kissing. Dear God, kissing. Kissing Tom.

  The memory takes hold, and I’m there now, in the secretive gloom of the corridor that leads to his bedroom, the length of him pressing me against the wall—solid, warm, strong. One hand buries into my hair while the other cups my breast; I arch into him. When I kiss his neck I both hear and feel the rough groan in his throat that sends a reckless thrill running through me.

  Reckless. Reckless indeed. But—if there was no Seb (how unthinkable, no Seb! Only not so unthinkable now, after seeing him again—as he is, not how I’d imagined him to be—and after kissing Tom . . .), and no Lara or Severine or Alain Modan . . . I wrap up the memory and put it away, a dark, delicious, thrilling secret to unfold slowly and savor much later. But for now . . . I can’t recall what happened next. I look across at the other side of the bed again; it doesn’t appear to have been slept in at all. In the kitchen Tom’s wearing jeans, but no shirt—the same jeans as last night, I think. The tan of the back of his neck contrasts with his paler, freckled shoulders. There is tension in those broad muscled shoulders. Even from here I can sense it thickening the atmosphere. I feel my sense of uneasiness growing. What happened after the corridor? I have a horrendous growing suspicion I may have passed out on him. God, how embarrassing. Perhaps dented male pride is responsible for his palpable tension . . .

  What to do now? I debate internally for a moment before I sit up awkwardly, trying to keep the duvet tucked across my chest, and aim for a sheepish smile. “Morning,” I call.

  He puts his cup down with a decided thud and turns round. “Tea?” he says unsmiling.

  I smother a yawn. “Yes, please. I feel like shit.”

  “You deserve to,” he says shortly, then moves out of my line of sight to make the tea, leaving me blinking in surprise. Tom is not just tense; he’s furious. With me.

  I have no idea what’s going on, but I definitely want to face it wearing more clothing than this. I look around the room for my dress and find it tossed over a chair, beside my shoes, bag and coat. I have just enough time to scramble into the dress; I’m sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the door, running my fingers through my no doubt ragged hair when he returns, a mug cradled in his hands. He has long, strong fingers: I remember the feel of them buried in my hair, the sureness of his touch. Suddenly I realize he’s been holding out the mug for a few seconds now; I take it quickly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says shortly, leaning against the doorframe and avoiding my eyes. The breadth of his shoulders nearly fills the open space.

  “Funny, I don’t feel very welcome.” I look at him, willing him to catch my eye with a rueful smile and turn back into the Tom I know. But he’s someone different now; the kissing last night did that. I can’t look at him like yesterday or the day before or ten years ago. He has a tangle of dark hair across the planes of his chest, spreading down across his abdomen to disappear in th
e waistband of his jeans. He didn’t have that a decade ago, nor the muscle bulk; he’s not the same as he was. The corridor secret threatens to burst forth from where I’ve buried it: I want to touch him and I want to cry at the same time. I look away quickly and take a sip from my tea.

  He still hasn’t said anything—not Of course you’re welcome, or I’m sorry you feel that way. A defiant anger suddenly sparks within me. I carefully place the cup of tea on the bedside table. “Want to tell me exactly what I’m in the doghouse for, or am I expected to guess?”

  That whips his gaze round. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are,” I say, surprised.

  “Good friends,” he says impatiently, batting away my response as if I’m deliberately missing the point. “I thought our friendship was important to you. I thought you rated it more highly than to behave like that.”

  “Like what exactly?” My voice is rising and I’m standing now. “We were drunk—”

  “You were drunk—”

  “And you were stone cold sober, were you?” I stare him down; after a moment he jerks his head and looks away, conceding the point. “We kissed. You may have to fill me in on a few of the details given the aforementioned drunkenness, but it’s hardly the scandal of the century.”

  “Oh, so it’s nothing, is it? We’ll just carry on as normal, nothing’s changed?” he shoots back, snapping his gaze back onto me. “I thought—Jesus, I actually thought our friendship was something you would take pains to protect, and instead you practically throw yourself at me.” A hot wave of humiliation courses through me. Did I really throw myself at him? How embarrassing, how—God, how immature, how teenage. Though from what scant memories I have, he didn’t exactly seem unwilling . . . But Tom is still speaking. “I get that it’s difficult for you to see Seb—”