Page 103 of Perfect Strangers

‘Really?’ was all she could manage.

‘Yes, Ruth. You’re brilliant, you must know that.’

‘But I’m drunk,’ she whispered. ‘And I’m a fraud.’

‘You’re drunk all right,’ said Chuck with a smirk. ‘But you’re not a fraud. You’re one of the best journalists in the business.’

‘Was,’ said Ruth, holding up one finger. ‘Was one of the best. When I was young like you, I had ideals, principles. Freedom of the press!’ she shouted towards the street. ‘Democracy! Liberty! I’d go out of my way to seek out the truth, no stone unturned. True, very true.’

‘So what’s changed?’ said Chuck.

‘Now, I slip a police officer five hundred bucks in a brown envelope under the table in some horrid coppers’ pub. I follow people, I doorstep them when a daughter is missing or a son is murdered. I intrude on their grief and their misery. I’m a disgrace, Chuck. I’m the worst sort of traitor; a traitor to myself.’

She was feeling totally wretched; tears began to spill down her cheeks.

‘Come on, Ruth, that’s just the job,’ said Chuck.

‘No! No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘It didn’t used to be like this. I didn’t used to be like this.’ She twisted around to face him. ‘Do you know, I’ve failed to hold down one successful relationship in twenty years? Not one! And who’d want me? Look at me, crying, drunk in the street.’

Chuck smiled.

‘One day you will find a guy who deserves you,’ he said kindly. ‘Not a dork like David who doesn’t appreciate what he’s got; a real man, a man who knows that Ruth Boden is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.’

His words were so soothing, so flattering. She wasn’t entirely sure they were right, but she’d take whatever reassurance she could get right now. She had never noticed what long lashes Chuck had. Dark and thick, like a girl’s. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she moved in and pressed her lips against his, tasting the wine on his mouth. Gently Chuck pushed her away.

‘God, I’m so sorry, Chuck,’ she said, her hand over her mouth. ‘See? I can’t even get that right.’

‘Ruth, you’re wonderful and beautiful and maybe if you hadn’t had two bottles of wine to drink, I’d be doing cartwheels that you tried to kiss me. But . . .’ He stood up and, taking her hands, pulled her to her feet. ‘. . . I think it’s time you went home to bed. Alone.’

He raised an arm and a taxi puttered to the kerb.

‘Here,’ he said, helping her inside and handing her the research file. ‘Take this, it’s sobering reading if nothing else.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ruth simply. ‘I don’t deserve a friend like you.’

‘Yes you do, Ruth Boden,’ smiled Chuck kindly. ‘And the sooner you realise it, the better.’

30

Loud knocking woke Sophie with a start. She had had a rather fitful sleep, laced with dreams about being chased by faceless monsters, and it took a moment to realise where she was. La Luna Motel was a two-star hotel on a back street in the Le Cannet district of Cannes. The Bristol it was not, looking more like the sort of establishment you could hire by the hour, sheets extra. But it was cheap, it was anonymous and most important, it’d had rooms available when Josh and Sophie had rolled in from their jaunt to the wine country at almost midnight.

Not that Sophie had really wanted the day to end. Despite the simmering danger of the past few days, she had enjoyed going out into the warm green vineyards, and despite their awkward shared history, she had liked Sandrine, with her quiet dignity and her undiminished love for Nick, although she knew that he was planning to leave her. Best of all, after the chateau they had stopped at a tiny bistro in Bois du Lac. At the mention of Sandrine’s name, they had been welcomed with open arms by the patron, a red-faced, jolly woman named Madame Babette, who had plucked the menus from their hands and insisted on bringing out ‘only the best’. As they sat on a terrace overlooking one of Sandrine’s vineyards, course after course was placed before them, each more delicious than the last: bean soup with fresh parmesan, pasta parcels of mushroom and shallots, giant shrimps; there was even a plate of Parma ham and some of the juiciest grapes Sophie had ever tasted. As they ate, Josh poured a wonderful local wine and told her stories about his adventures. Hiking in the Scottish Highlands, a tour to Brazil with an amateur football team, motorbiking from coast to coast in America. He had once even dated the actress and model Summer Sinclair. Sophie knew he was cleaning it up for her, presenting himself as a lovable rogue with an interesting past, but she didn’t mind that; she was in no particular hurry to have reality intrude on what had been a magical night.

Now she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and peered through the peephole in the door. Josh’s face bulged up at her, looking impatient.

‘Who did you think it was, princess? Prince Albert?’ he asked as she undid the safety chain and let him in. He looked around at the tiny single bed and the ‘en suite’, a cupboard-sized toilet-cum-shower with a tiny sink.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘I think you got the better deal. My room looks like a prison cell.’

Sophie thought back to when they had checked in, how the Chinese night porter with the missing front tooth had smiled when he had said they had ‘velly nice’ doubles. Light-headed from the wine and conversation, she had hesitated for a moment then asked for two singles, whilst giving Josh a sidelong glance almost willing him to object. But this morning, the haze of the wine faded, she was glad they had not put themselves in a compromising situation.

Josh pulled a passport out of his back pocket.

‘Look what arrived this morning.’

‘Yours?’ said Sophie, raising a brow. ‘Or another dodgy friend’s?’

‘Mine,’ he said crossly. ‘Christopher went to the boat and retrieved it. He sent it to a friend in Paris who couriered it here overnight.’