“Fine, fine. Just thought it’s been a while since we had a face-to-face catch-up. I’m a little quieter today, so it seemed best to take advantage.”
“No problem. See you at 3:30.” I hang up, thinking that I should take Paul with me, to broaden the relationship and so forth, but I know I won’t. Gordon enjoys meeting me (and vice versa); he will find Paul too slick, too accommodating.
I wonder if I will be bringing Severine with me.
* * *
—
Either Severine finds business meetings uninteresting, or I am sufficiently focused to keep her at bay, but whatever the reason, I’m flying solo when I meet with Gordon. We run through an update on the candidates he has seen: what he thinks of them, what they think of the opportunity, what other firms appear to be thinking of them . . . Recruitment at this level—partner, soon to be partner, which is what we’re concentrating on first—is a strategic game. The next step is the associates, but a good number will simply follow the partners they’ve worked with most closely.
“If we get those two, it will be quite a coup,” says Gordon thoughtfully, tapping the sheet of names that lies on the table in front of us, flanked by our empty coffee cups. We’re in one of the meeting rooms on the top floor of the Haft & Weil building, with a glorious view over the city. I can see the gleaming curve of St. Paul’s dome, with glimpses of the flashing silver ribbon that is the Thames popping up unexpectedly between buildings. From this height, London has a stately gravitas in its lofty architecture, standing indomitable and proud in the sunshine. It would be easy to forget the hustle and grime one encounters close-up.
“We’ll get them,” I say confidently, wrenching my gaze back to the paper.
“Well, I suppose the size of the guarantee we’re offering is hard to ignore.”
I shake my head. “It’s not about the guarantee.” Gordon glances at me, a question in his eyes. “That’s necessary, obviously, but what I mean is, it’s not about the money for those two. It’s about what the money means. They feel undervalued, underappreciated where they are, and they hate the lack of collegiality. The guarantee just proves to them that you value them. If you manage them properly once you get them across, make them feel safe but also give them opportunities to feel like they’re making a difference, then I think they’ll do very well for you.”
Gordon’s sharp eyes are assessing me. “You have strong views on management styles, I take it.”
I shrug. “In my job, you need to have an instinct for who would fit where. No point putting a diffident technical specialist into an aggressive American setup, for example.”
“You need to be a good judge of people.” He’s toying with his empty coffee cup, as if turning something over in his mind.
“I like to think I am. In a professional context.” My mind skitters to that week in France, to Seb, to Tom, to Lara, Theo, Caro, Severine, and the spider’s web that entangles and binds us all. With everything I know now, I can only think that my judgment was disastrously clouded back then. Possibly—probably, even?—it still is. “In a professional context,” I repeat. He’s still turning the coffee cup this way and that. “Why, is there something troubling you?”
He glances up, surprised. “No, I . . . No. Well.” He looks away again, as if reluctant to look at me, to acknowledge we’re having this conversation. “Caro is on the slate this year.”
The slate: the list of prospective candidates for partnership. It’s pretty much an up-or-out culture: those who don’t make the cut are expected to leave the firm. I do a rapid calculation of how long Caro has been a qualified lawyer, and the timing is about right; I’d expect her to be on the slate around now. “And how does it look?” I ask, although I know the answer, or we wouldn’t be talking about it.
He puffs out a breath. “Between you and me . . . dicey. Speaking plainly, it’s good that she’s female; we need more women in corporate. Not that we’re supposed to kowtow to the statistics, but . . .” He grimaces, and I nod. We both know the score on gender balance in the workplace. “And anyway, she’s very good, and a tough negotiator, no question about it, and the clients that love her really love her, but there’s a perception that she’s . . . well . . .” He’s searching for a way to say it that doesn’t make him feel disloyal. “I suppose . . . not a team player.” He looks at me directly. “If you were placing Caro, where would you put her?”
I consider hedging my bets, coming up with a carefully worded non-answer, but then I remember this is Gordon: he likes to hear it straight. I can only hope that extends to opinions about his daughter. I take a deep breath and muster an even tone. “Haft & Weil wouldn’t be my first choice for her. I would think she would be more suited to an aggressive American outfit. Eat what you kill and so forth.”
He nods absentmindedly, looking out over the expanse of the city skyline; thankfully he can’t see my relief that he isn’t offended by my bluntness. “I wouldn’t disagree with you. But since she’s trying to make it in this firm . . .” He trails off.
I look for something helpful to suggest, though no doubt whatever I can think of he will already have considered. “Perhaps she needs to get involved in some management initiatives during the coming year. Show that she can be a more rounded candidate.”
“Perhaps.” He purses his lips thoughtfully, then sighs, still gazing at the skyline, though I’m not sure he sees it. “We’re making up less partners each year, you know? I don’t know how we expect to keep all the associates working at this intensity when the prize is getting harder and harder to grab. Used to be that if you did a good job for long enough and kept your nose clean . . .” He collects himself and turns back to me. “Good idea on the management side; I suppose that type of involvement might give her an edge.” He nods to himself, as if making a mental note to speak with her about it. “Though you can’t cut corners . . .” He trails off again, his gaze sliding back down to his empty coffee cup.
You can’t cut corners. Only, Caro would. Caro would cut a swath down the middle and everyone else be damned if that was the most convenient route for herself. I suddenly realize he knows the problem is more far-reaching than just not a team player. Deep down he doesn’t think she’ll make partner, and he doesn’t think she ought to, either, though he’s trying hard to convince himself otherwise. For a moment I ache for him, this clever, thoughtful, kind man who wants the Caro he lost when she was thirteen, and is bewildered every day by the woman she’s become.
* * *
—
It’s barely 4 P.M., but I go straight home after the meeting with Gordon; I’m exhausted. All I want to do is sink into a hot bath. Though perhaps taking a moment to relax will be like removing my head from the sand: reality will rush in and I will have to face it all—Tom, Severine, Modan, the whole shebang. I dither for a moment then run the bath, dumping in industrial quantities of an expensive bath foam Lara bought me. If reality is going to rush in anyway, I may as well face it whilst lounging up to my ears in soapsuds.
Lara calls just as I’m settling into the bath with an inadvertent sigh of pleasure. “Have you got plans?” she asks. She sounds uncharacteristically drained. “Or do you fancy a quiet night in? Takeout in front of a chick flick or something?”
“Done,” I say, thinking warmly of all the chick flick nights we’ve had in the past, gossiping over the local takeout and drinking rather more wine than is warranted by a quiet night in. Only that was before, when Lara was just Lara, with no subterfuge, and I was just Kate (albeit desperate, lonely old spinster Kate), and Severine was a strange mystery from a summer long, long ago. I want everything back how it was so badly that my eyes are pricking with tears. I shake my head impatiently, and the mountains of soapsuds rise and fall gently. “I’m already home and I can’t bear the thought of moving again—do you mind coming to me?”
“Not a problem. Your take-out place is better anyway.”
“You so
und done in. What time did you get home last night?” There’s a pause. “Ah. You didn’t make it home.”
“Well . . . no. What about you, were you late?”
I could lie, now I’ve become so very good at that; I could obfuscate, I could dodge the question, but it’s just so bloody exhausting. “I didn’t make it home either.”
“Really? But who . . .” I can practically hear her brain whirring. “Tom?” The surprise is genuine. She has no right to mind, but still I wonder if she does.
“Yes. But it’s not like that. Not really . . .”
“What does not really mean?” Is she a little forced, or am I overanalyzing?
“It means I’ll tell you later. Not that there’s anything much to tell. What time do you think you’ll be here?”
“Around six, I think, if not sooner. My brain is good for nothing today; there’s hardly any point in me sitting here.”
“Well, I’ll be here, so whenever.”
I put down the phone and lean my head back against the rim of the bathtub. Severine, dressed in the black shift, has perched her neat behind casually on the edge of the tub, her slender limbs stretched out ahead of her, crossed at the ankle. She turns to look at me expressionlessly with those dark, all-knowing eyes. It’s the contrast that catches attention, I muse: the eyes that have seen far more than fits a face so smooth and unlined. I think of the crow’s-feet developing round the corners of my eyes, of the single gray hair I found (and immediately plucked out) last week.
“I’m thirty-one,” I say aloud. Severine is still looking at me. “I suppose you’ll be—what was it?—nineteen forever.” She looks away, disinterested, presenting me with her profile. Her nose has a small bump in it, but if anything it works for her; it makes her face stronger. “Why are you here anyway?” She looks at me again. There’s no intensity, just a cool appraisal, then her gaze slides off, as if I’m simply not interesting enough to retain it. It’s more than a little galling. I reach for the shampoo and lather up my hair, then try again, irritation creeping into my voice now. “Since you’re here, do you mind telling me who killed you?”
She’s smoking a cigarette now, one leg crossed over the other and her sandal dangling off her narrow foot again, in the way that hypnotized Seb all those years ago; she glances at me, one eyebrow raised. It’s as strong an expression of amusement as I’ve ever seen on her face.
“Yeah, okay, I didn’t really think it would be that easy,” I mutter. Then I sink under the still-hot water to wash out the shampoo, and when I surface she has gone.
* * *
—
“So,” says Lara expressively, as soon as she has a glass of wine in her hand. So. A single word, two letters—how can it be loaded with such meaning? “Spill.” She looks tired, so tired that it seems an effort to hold herself together this evening; even her facial features are rumpled at the edges.
I look at the glass in my own hand: it’s beautiful, long and elegant and fragile; a gift, though I don’t remember who from. If I applied pressure, it would crack instantly. I have some sympathy. I wonder how resilient Lara is feeling. “You spill,” I say tightly. I don’t mean to be combative, but . . . I sort of do.
She takes a sip and tries to smile, but it doesn’t come off, and I instantly feel guilty. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly.
She shrugs. “Sort of. Maybe.” Again, the effortful smile, through tears that can’t be far away. “You?”
I shrug. “Pretty much the same.” Though in my case there are no tears hovering, I won’t allow myself to wallow again. I take a sip of the wine. It will go to my head quickly tonight if I’m not careful. “Come on. Let’s order the curry and watch the film. We can do all the spilling later.”
And so I spend the evening with Lara. It’s a nice evening; an evening that harks back to happier times. We watch a romcom, we eat too much curry, we drink too much wine. It’s comforting, this old habit of ours; the only thing that has changed over the years is the quality of the wine. Severine stays away, which isn’t really a surprise; I’m well aware she’s a figment of my (frankly, fevered) imagination, and my imagination cannot possibly conjure an image of Severine watching anything containing Reese Witherspoon. I see her more as an art house kind of girl.
But in truth more has changed than our wine budget. When the film has finished we can’t avoid the dual elephants in the room. “So,” she says again, turning to face me and arranging herself cross-legged on the sofa we’re sharing. She’s borrowed from my wardrobe a pair of slouchy pajama bottoms and a hoodie; on me, they’re definitely hide-at-home clothing, but on Lara they’re transformed by her blondness, her bustiness, her sheer wholesome sexiness: she could be an advert for Abercrombie & Fitch. No wonder Tom continues to hold a torch for her. It never bothered me before, but now I find I’m analyzing: score 1 for Lara for instant sex appeal; score 1 for Kate for her quick intelligence; score 1 for Lara . . . I am appalled at myself—has one single drunken kiss with Tom really dragged me down to this level?—but still I can’t completely stifle the ugly green-eyed monster lurking within me.
“So,” I counter. “How are things with the dear detective?”
“Ah.” She looks down and traces a circle on the sofa with her finger. “It’s . . . complicated.”
It seems she’s ready to talk. I rearrange myself on the sofa to mirror her position. “Where is he tonight?”
“He went back to France.”
My heart leaps. “For good?”
“No, he’s coming back on Monday; it’s just for some family thing. A christening, I think. Not because of the case.” She’s still making the circles. “Not that he’d tell me if it was because of the case; he won’t talk about it with me since . . .”
“Since?” A blush is crossing her cheeks, and suddenly I know exactly what she means. I wonder how she will phrase it.
“Since we . . . ah . . . crossed that line.” Bravo, neatly put. I can’t bring myself to ask any of the usual gossipy questions, and she doesn’t seem to expect me to: she glances up at my face, both embarrassed and rueful, and adds, “So, sorry, but no insider information here.”
“A man of principle,” I say, only half ironic.
“He is!” She’s leaning forward, her whole body imploring me to listen, to understand. “I mean, I know how it looks—he’s screwing one of the witnesses in his case—but we’re keeping it totally separate; he won’t discuss it at all with me, not a word, and anyway, it’s not like I’m under suspicion.”
“No, but I am.”
She pauses, then nods dejectedly. “Yes, I think you are. It doesn’t make any sense to me, given she was alive on Saturday morning, but you are. And Seb and Caro and Theo.”
“But me more than most. On account of Seb’s complete lack of self-restraint.” Tom would be annoyed with me for talking with Lara about this. A streak of rebellion surfaces: Tom is stratospherically annoyed with me anyway, so what the hell.
She shakes her head. “I don’t . . .” Then her blue eyes widen as she twigs. It’s a gratifying confirmation that Modan really isn’t talking to her about the case, though I hadn’t planned it as a test. “Seb and Severine? Really? I would never have guessed that . . . I mean, I knew he found her attractive; all the guys love a bit of that French ooh-la-la, soooo predictable . . .” She rolls her eyes. I can’t help a private smile at Lara of all people, who plays the Swedish blond bombshell angle to maximum effect, being so dismissive of Severine’s application of her own cultural advantages. Lara is still absorbing. “Wow. What a complete fuckwit Seb is. Was. Still is, I should think.” She shakes her head again. “When did you find out?”
“Just recently. I had started to wonder, and then Seb—apropos of absolutely nothing—admitted it to me last night. Only because he’s already told Modan, and he didn’t want me to hear it through that avenue.”
Lara is frowning. “But—how? They
must have been very discreet. We were pretty much on top of one another in the farmhouse.”
“Apparently it was just the last night.”
“Oh. I suppose it was a pretty crazy night all round.” She shakes her head, still digesting. “I can’t believe I missed that. God, what else did I miss?”
She means it as a rhetorical question, but it’s actually the question, the all-important nub of the matter. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that myself,” I say quietly.
“You don’t mean—but she was alive on the Saturday morning,” Lara says impatiently. “She got on the damn bus.”
I nod. “Agreed, she did, in which case what happened to her has nothing to do with any of us. Or she didn’t; it was just a coincidence that someone fitting her description got on at that stop—”
“Hell of a coincidence. How many girls even exist in the world who are that height, and build, and who wear a red chiffon scarf over their hair?”
“True, but just a coincidence, in which case . . .” I spread my hands and shrug. “It seems your Modan is rather taken with the latter possibility.”
“He’s not my Modan,” she protests, though without any conviction.
“Really? He does seem to be yours. Head to toe, heart and all.”
“I would think so, except . . . he won’t talk about what’s going to happen after all this is over and he goes back to France.” She looks at me, her eyes over-bright. “I know he had a long-distance relationship before, and he hated it . . . It’s crazy, I can see it’s crazy, we hardly know each other, but . . .” She lifts her hands helplessly, and suddenly I sense her desperate fear: she knows she has already jumped off the precipice. “And he won’t even talk about it. He just says we’ll figure it out. How are we supposed to do that if he won’t talk about it?”
The French Girl Page 14
