CHAPTER TEN

The evening starts badly.

I’m at the pub a few minutes after six and predictably find Tom—reliable, steady Tom—already there; but so, too, is Lara. From Tom’s ruefully apologetic expression I divine he had no choice. I pull myself together to kiss Lara hello. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“I was sure you’d want to meet beforehand, but I couldn’t raise you on your mobile this afternoon, so I called Tom,” she says breezily.

“Really? My phone must be playing up again. I didn’t see that you’d called.” Lying is becoming easier with practice, but the guilt remains the same. I turn to hug Tom hello; his breath strokes my ear carrying a murmur of, “Sorry.” He’s been home to change after work; he’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, and smells of newly applied aftershave. I’m still in work clothes, but it’s a deliberate choice: I have a fancy that the combination of this dress with these stiletto heels shows off my legs to their best advantage. Absent the Adonis arm candy, it’s really the best I can do.

“Here, Tom got you a drink.” Lara passes over a vodka tonic.

“Thanks. Love your dress.” It occurs to me that I’m overcompensating, though she does look fabulous. She’s wearing a stunning bodycon dress the color of autumn leaves, with heels at least an inch higher than her usual choice for work. Most of the bar watches as she settles herself in a chair and crosses her endless legs.

“Well, I thought I’d make an effort,” she says casually, but there are spots of color in her cheeks. The effort is not for me or Tom, or even Caro or Seb, I’m sure. I’d lay odds she has post-dinner plans with the indefatigable Monsieur Modan.

“What about me? How do I look?” Tom asks, mock-preening. He’s compensating too.

Lara bats her eyelashes at him. “Devastatingly handsome as ever.”

“Very metrosexual,” I add slyly; he turns to me, appreciative laughter glinting in those blue gray eyes. They are resolutely Tom’s eyes now. I wonder if this evening will shake that.

We drink and we talk and it’s excruciating. Lara is too bright, too excitable, drinking too quickly. It’s impossible to fathom what’s going on under the surface, and given the secrets each of us are keeping, there’s no way for me to ask. Subterfuge doesn’t sit well with her, though. She ricochets through topics, always realizing each pitfall too late; she can’t talk about her love life, she can’t talk about the case, she can’t talk about how she’s spending her free time—almost nothing is safe for her. I’m so awkwardly aware this is not the private chat Tom and I had planned that I’m working too hard to keep the conversation Lara-friendly and save her from verbal suicide. On the surface Tom is his usual relaxed self, complete with mildly flirtatious banter with Lara, but I can see he’s uncharacteristically tense, and oddly fatalistic, as if waiting for an ax to drop rather than killing time before a homecoming dinner for his cousin and closest friend. Perhaps he, too, can see that the light within Lara is shining for someone other than her current audience. I wonder how much that pierces him.

It’s hard enough to battle on with this charade whilst sober; I shouldn’t have another vodka tonic. But I do. And another.

Finally, Lara glances at her watch. “Shouldn’t we make tracks before we incur the wrath of Caro?”

I nod and reach for my handbag, partly relieved to be released, but I expect what’s coming will be worse. Tom knocks back the remainder of his pint and deposits the glass on the table with an audible thump. “Out of the frying pan into the fire,” he murmurs darkly. I look across at him in surprise—what does he have to be worried about now?—but he’s looking toward the exit. The skin round his eyes is tight with anxiety.

The restaurant is a short walk away. Lara walks in the middle and links an arm through one of Tom’s arms and one of mine, as if to prevent us from escaping. There’s no time for even a deep breath before she has hustled me through the door into what seems more akin to a theater dressing room than a restaurant. I busy myself leaving my coat and bag with the cloakroom attendant, both reluctant to look round and reluctant to be seen looking round. Tom hovers near me as I pass my things over, tension visible in his jaw.

“Are you okay?” I ask him quietly, bemused.

“What? Me? Of course.” He brushes it off. “I’m just worried about you.”

I shake my head minutely as I take the ticket from the attendant. “No need.”

“If only,” I think I hear him say; I look at him sharply, but I can’t follow up because Caro is descending upon us. I have to manufacture a smile to endure whatever thorny welcome she will greet me with, but she’s too caught up in her favorite role of hostess to deliver anything of consequence. Then there’s no longer an excuse, I’m being swept inexorably toward a long table that can only be our reservation; and there is Seb.

He’s standing by the table, his hand on the back of a chair that’s occupied by a slender blond woman sitting sideways. He looks up on hearing the bustle of our approach, a grin spreading across his face. He is Seb. It’s a shock, somehow. He is still so very much Seb.

Lara—bless her, a thousand times bless her—steams in ahead of me, an unstoppable force of bosom and smile and hair, all outstretched arms and double-kisses. “Seb!” she says in a suitably delighted tone. “So good to see you! And this must be Alina . . .” Alina stands to greet Lara. She’s tall—taller than I—with the fine-boned features that somehow speak of years of Pony Club and expensive schooling; her accent when she replies to Lara only confirms that. She is everything I expected she would be. Tom is following in Lara’s wake: he and Seb are grinning above a manly handshake that becomes a one-armed hug, then almost descends into a boyish rough-and-tumble in their pleasure at seeing each other. But now Tom is switching his attention to Alina: it’s my turn.

Seb is waiting, smiling at me, an arm ready to steady me for the double-kiss treatment. “Kate,” he says quietly, warmly, as I draw close. “It’s been too long.”

It hits me that there’s a familiarity in the feel of that cheek, of the arm I lay my hand on as we kiss. I don’t know if I expected that, after all these years. “How are you?” I ask as I draw back. It’s the polite thing to say under the circumstances. It’s possible I’m interested in the answer, but I’ve resolved not to dissolve into self-analysis this evening. Tonight I have to simply make it through.

“Good, great.” He spreads his hands. His hair is shorter than before, and there are little flecks of gray above his ears. He’s wearing jeans and a casual shirt, like almost every other male here, though both may be more expensive than the average. “Great to be back.” He runs an appreciative eye over me. “You look well. I hear you’re doing well, too, running your own company—” Someone claps a hand on his shoulder with an accompanying bellow, and he turns away, but not without catching my gaze with his extraordinary eyes and mouthing over his shoulder, “Later.”

There’s an intimacy in that look, in the way he delivers the word—as if he were being dragged away from me. I look after him for a moment. I have no idea what to make of the entire encounter.

I blink and collect myself, turning aside to find Tom watching me, despite ostensibly being in a conversation with Alina and Lara. His face is tight. I cock my head questioningly, and his expression clears deliberately; he lifts his eyebrows—are you all right? I nod and even manage a reassuring smile, then step over to join the three of them. Tom’s eyes are Tom’s eyes, I think. And Seb’s . . . well, they are Seb’s. They are how they always were.

Shortly we sit. Caro has mustered eighteen of us: we’re a raucous party of fractured conversations and sudden hoots of laughter from different directions; though more often from Seb’s area than anywhere else. Tom and Lara have made pains to sit on either side of me; we bracket the end of the table. I have prime viewing position. Caro, flushed and buoyant with the success of the evening, has seated herself next to the guest of honor at the middle of the long table; Alina is opposite. Four bottles of wine are dispatched before the exasperated waiter manages to get a dinner order from us all.

“Okay?” Lara asks under her breath. I nod briefly. “He looks good,” she laments on my behalf.

“He always did,” I mutter back. If I was hoping to find him a far cry from his former glory, that certainly isn’t the case. I look across at Seb, trying to see what caused Tom to suggest he wasn’t in good shape. It’s true he’s bulkier than before, but it all appears solid; he’s hardly run to fat. He’s still, objectively speaking, the most attractive man in the room, but the heartbreaking, breath-stealing vitality of youth has gone; his beauty no longer burns. I watch him pour himself and Caro another glass of wine, his shirtsleeve rolled back to reveal a tanned forearm. Caro is reveling in Seb’s attention; it softens her edges, makes her almost girlish. I don’t remember her being this obvious a decade ago, or perhaps I chose not to see it. Wives and girlfriends always know . . . I glance at Alina and find her eyeing the two expressionlessly whilst not drinking her wine. Very deliberately not drinking her wine: the glass is raised to her lips, but nothing passes. Someone says something to her on her right; she turns to them, an attentive smile quickly in place. I watch as she gesticulates to make some point, then casually lifts her wineglass and pretends to drink.

I pick up my own wineglass and join the conversation around me. We eat, we drink, we laugh, we talk. The food is unmemorable, but the wine is good; Tom refills our wineglasses whenever they run dry. I’m actually having fun, though it feels desperate, reckless, like dancing while the Titanic sinks. I sneak glances at Seb and Caro and Alina. Lara and Tom sneak glances at me. Seb is performing the same function as Tom in the middle of the table, but twice as frequently, and he never misses his own glass: Seb is drinking hard while his wife isn’t drinking at all.

“A toast,” calls Caro, standing up as she taps a glass ineffectually with a spoon. The table quiets down, all except a large chap at the end who is still talking to his neighbor; I can’t quite remember either of their names, but the faces are familiar. Caro raises her voice: “Do shut up, George. Tilly has heard all your jokes three times already.” That raises chuckles from around the table. She glances down at Seb, smiling. “A toast. Raise your glasses to welcome back . . . Seb, and Alina!” There’s the merest pause after she says Seb’s name, just enough for anyone so inclined to interpret the mention of Alina as an afterthought; I am so inclined. If that’s Alina’s interpretation, there’s nothing to show it: she smiles graciously, playing her role of guest of honor perfectly.

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.”