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SIXTY-SEVEN

Ash sees Jane waiting for her outside Bar Amelie.

The bar has two large square bay windows overlooking the street, which have been painted a cool charcoal black, and large double doors in the center, with an arched window above and cascades of plants hanging from the ornate balcony that juts out overhead.

Ash is wearing something she swiped from the shop today: a wrap minidress in black with a puffy bow at the shoulder.

She wears it with boots and tights and her mother’s leather jacket and thinks she has made a good attempt at looking like the sort of young girl who frequents Mayfair wine bars.

Jane is elegant in a trouser suit with heels and an overcoat. She pulls AirPods out of her ears as Ash approaches, tucking them into a little canister that she pops into her bag before leaning down to hug her.

“Bloody hell,” she says. “This is all mad. And you know, I feel like after all these years I’ve finally found my role in life.

I haven’t enjoyed anything this much in ages, to be quite frank, and I’m sorry if that sounds bad, but honestly, I feel reborn.

You look gorgeous, by the way,” she says.

“So like your dad. But prettier, obviously. And I love this dress. With the boots. You’re making me sad I didn’t have any children now, and I never feel sad I didn’t have children. Shall we go in?”

Ash follows Jane through a velvet curtain and into a womb of palest sea green and copper and burnt red and crowds of softly lit people and some kind of background music that sounds vaguely enchanting.

Jane finds them two stools at the bar and orders them each a glass of champagne.

While the bartender is pouring their drinks, Jane directs a question at her.

“So, who owns this place? Is it the guys who did the Ivy?”

“Oh, no,” says the young woman, “not them. But two other guys. One of them was called Luke Berner. But he died about three years ago, just after it opened. So now it’s just Jensen.”

“The owner died?” Jane repeats.

Ash feels a small shock pass through her.

“Yes, really sad. Suicide. He was only forty-one.”

“Oh my God,” says Jane, clasping her hand to her collarbone. “That’s tragic.”

“Yeah,” says the girl. “I don’t really know much about it. But I think it was something to do with money? Debt? I dunno. Anyway”—she smiles sadly and places the second glass of champagne in front of them—“can I get you anything else?”

Jane orders some mini chorizos, bread, and a bowl of olives, and then hands the girl her card, pooh-poohing Ash’s half-hearted attempt at paying her share.

The moment the girl looks away, Jane starts googling Luke Berner, and there it is, a news report, very low-key: a man found dead in unsuspicious circumstances, no police investigation, an accompanying picture of a vibrant-looking man with slicked-back dark hair, sunglasses, good teeth, a pint of lager on a table in front of him, someone’s disembodied hand on his shoulder.

A happy-looking man. But everyone looks happy at least once before they kill themselves, Ash thinks. It doesn’t mean anything.

Then Jane googles the other owner, Jensen de Witt.

He’s a much older man, with a swoop of gray hair that curls up at his collar, crinkled hazel eyes, a Mediterranean tan, a gold chain, drinker’s teeth.

According to LinkedIn, he’s sixty-four, has six children, and lives in Geneva with his second wife.

He owns a bar in Saint-Tropez and another in Dubai.

He reeks of cash, even on the tiny screen of Jane’s phone.

And then suddenly Ash feels a sharp dig in her ribs and she looks at Jane, who is pointing with a weird attempt at subtlety to the other side of the bar.

Ash looks up and sees steel-gray hair, a turned-up collar, a royal blue sweater tied around the neck, the gleam of a fat golden watch, and she sees it’s him, Jensen de Witt, the bar’s owner, chatting with two young members of staff and enjoying a joke of some kind.

“Fucking hell,” says Jane, grabbing her bag and her champagne glass. “Quick, bring your drink, we’re going over. Follow me.”

Ash picks up her glass and follows Jane to the other side of the bar, watching as she reaches for Jensen de Witt’s hand and says, “Oh my goodness. Jensen, it’s you.”

Ash watches Jensen’s face as he mentally goes through every woman he’s ever met who looks and sounds like Jane, a genial smile on his face as he says, “Yes. Of course,” in a soft French, possibly Belgian, accent. “And…”

“No, sorry, you don’t know me. My name’s Jane Trevally.

I’m here with my friend’s daughter, Ash.

My friend recommended we should come here.

Her boyfriend told her he was a co-owner, but someone else said they’d never heard of him and now he’s sort of done a disappearing act and I wondered if you knew of any way of getting hold of him? ”

Jensen’s brow puckers and his lips purse. “You’re not talking about Luke?”

“No. God. Sorry. No. We heard about Luke and that is—that’s just terrible. No, this is a guy called Nick Radcliffe.”

A dark cloud passes over Jensen’s face at the mention of Nick’s name. “Oh my God,” he says. “That man. Jesus Christ. That man was a crook. He was a madman.”

Jane and Ash glance at each other. “Could we possibly ask you a few questions about him? If that’s OK?”

Jensen looks at his fat golden watch and then up at Jane and nods. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s go and sit down.”

He takes them to a small booth in the corner and offers them another drink before settling back into the banquette and saying, “So, what’s the deal with you and this terrible man? How is he in your life?”

Jane lets Ash tell the story, show Jensen the screenshot of the now-deleted LinkedIn profile page and other pictures of Nick on her phone, and Jensen looks at each artifact with interest and listens intently to the story, only stopping Ash after she says, “He told us he was a co-owner of this place.”

“No, no, no, no. Ridiculous. No. Jesus Christ, that man. I don’t know where Luke found him.

He said he was an experienced restaurateur, but he had a CV that just didn’t make any sense.

Then he said he’d been on the run from a stalker all his life, had had to change his identity, blah blah blah, and Luke got cold feet and cut him loose.

Luke said he’d been OK about it, that he had taken it in his stride and they’d left on good terms, handshakes, etc.

“But then when the wine bar opened a few months later, this guy, Nick, he started trying to sabotage the business, using fake usernames to leave horrible reviews on social media. He even sent inspectors in after claiming to have seen a rat. And fuck me,” Jensen laughs wryly, “there was a rat, the cleanest, sweetest rat, and they took it away to a rescue center because as far as they could tell, it was a domestic pet. Three guesses how it got into the kitchen. Then this woman starts complaining about being sexually assaulted by a member of our waiting staff, which was just the most patently ridiculous scam as the guy she was accusing was gay, zero interest in any woman’s breasts, let alone hers.

But more bad reviews on social media from this woman.

Clearly it was him. Nick. And the whole thing, it was…

it was distasteful. Petty. So petty, so vindictive.

All because we didn’t want to go into business with a chancer with no money.

But this guy, he had this air about him, as if he thought he was more than he was?

You know? He thought he was special. Important.

And then, in the end, I think it got too much for Luke.

He felt responsible for this man and his behavior and the impact it was having on our business.

And he took his own life, and as soon as that happened, it all stopped. All of it.” Jensen shakes his head.

Ash feels a slick of darkness pass through her at these words.

Jensen sighs. “Such a stupid, childish vendetta. So cruel. So tragic. And now you say your mother, she is dating this man?”

“Well,” says Ash, “she was. But he’s disappeared.”

“Good riddance,” says Jensen. “Let us pray, for your sake, that he stays lost.”

But Ash is not listening. She is deafened by the echo of Jensen’s words, ricocheting around inside her head.

“So vindictive… Such a stupid, childish vendetta.”

She thinks of Nick Radcliffe’s weird grudge against her father and a chill runs down her spine.