Page 95 of Perfect Strangers

He reached out for her but she flinched backwards.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed.

‘Fine,’ he said, suddenly truculent. ‘Do it your way. You always do.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Ruth could hear her voice rising. ‘That this is all my fault?’

‘No, Ruth, nothing is ever your fault, is it?’ he said bitterly. ‘It’s fine for you to be late, it’s fine for you to be worried about your career, but when have you ever paid any attention to me or what I need?’

Ruth just gaped at him. ‘Unbelievable,’ she said. ‘You really are trying to make this my fault, aren’t you?’

‘Ruth, I’m not saying—’

‘Yes, you bloody are! If you’d wanted to tell

me about your work or your bruised fucking feelings, why didn’t you try talking to me? How many times have I asked you, “Honey, what’s wrong? How can I help?” But no, it was always, “Nothing, I’m fine.”’

‘Well, maybe if you’d tried a little harder—’

‘Fuck off, David,’ snapped Ruth. ‘This is nothing to do with me. Maybe we were having problems, maybe we could have worked it out, maybe not. But instead of fixing things, you chose to screw someone else. Someone who will laugh at your jokes, feed you stories, feed your ego.’

‘Susie isn’t—’

‘Spare me, David,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m sure she’s wonderful. And I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Oh, until she gets bored waiting for you to finish your phone call to Tokyo and screws someone else she thinks can help her career.’

He began to object, but Ruth wasn’t listening. She grabbed her bag and walked to the door.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ she said, holding up the key to the front door David had only given her a week ago. ‘If I see one word of that escort story in your shitty little paper, I will come back here and cut your balls off.’

She opened the door, closed it carefully behind her, then burst into tears.

28

If Sophie closed her eyes, she could imagine she was on holiday. With the car’s window open, she could feel the warm continental breeze on her face and for a moment she could convince herself that it was two, three summers earlier, she was just jumping in a cute little Jeep and pootling down to the beach in some gorgeous corner of Italy or Spain. It was only when she opened her eyes that she saw the inside of the cramped hire car and realised where she really was. Bumping along the back roads of Provence with someone she barely knew, trying to unearth the past of a dead man. Not how she’d planned to spend the summer, that was for sure. At least the countryside was gorgeous and distracting: endless rolling hills of green or sun-scorched orange and narrow winding roads lined by cloud-scraping poplar trees. And then there was Josh. Moody and maddening, sarcastic and confrontational, but there were worse people to get lost with, she thought, watching him with the crumpled map on his knees, his brow furrowed, his eyes focused on the pothole-strewn roads.

‘There it is,’ he announced, craning his neck to read a passing road sign. He twisted the steering wheel suddenly to the right and shoved the map at Sophie. ‘Bois du Lac, five kilometres, see if you can find it. We must be close to the road for Chateau Cavail by now.’

Sophie looked at the map, tracing their journey from Cannes up into the foothills of Provence towards Avignon. They hadn’t taken the most direct route, partly due to missed turnings and the rather laissez-faire attitude of the French towards road signs, and partly because it made sense. The more they could make their movements random and unpredictable, the less likely it was anyone could catch up with them. Not that she was in any particular hurry to get to Chateau Cavail, anyway. As far as Sophie was concerned, all she would find there were more questions and more heartache. She knew by now that what she had imagined she had with Nick was just that – imagined. And she was fairly sure there were dozens of women around Europe who had shared the same delusion, possibly at the same time. But she had no desire to meet any of Nick’s ex-lovers, especially a glamorous winemaker Monsieur Durand had described as a genius. If she’d had her choice, Sophie would have simply stopped the car and walked through the fields until she found a stream, then bathed her feet and felt the sinking sun on her face. But she couldn’t do that, could she? The freedom, the liberation she had felt arriving in Paris had turned into another kind of trap – she felt herself being forced down a path. She didn’t know what she’d find at the end, but she was fairly sure it wasn’t going to be a sunny meadow full of butterflies.

‘Well this is the Bois du Lac, though I can’t see the lac,’ said Josh.

The village Josh had spotted on the map was really just one dusty road with a few boxy cottages straggling either side; the population couldn’t be pushing much past two hundred. Still, there was a butcher’s, a baker’s and a chemist, plus a garage that obviously doubled as the propane outlet and farm shop.

‘There!’ said Sophie, pointing to a sign. It was peeling and half hidden by an overgrown hedge, but she could still read: ‘Chateau Cavail, 1 km’.

‘At least it’s a decent road,’ said Josh. ‘They must have to drive trucks up and down here with deliveries all the time.’

They drove up into the estate, hemmed in on both sides by line after line of crocodile-green vines set out in shaggy rows that undulated with the curves of the hills. Finally they came over a rise and saw the house: a shimmering white chateau with turrets at each corner and a long drive with yews either side.

‘Nice place,’ said Josh as they pulled up by the wide stone steps at the front of the house. ‘No wonder Nick wanted a piece of this.’

‘Josh, please,’ said Sophie quietly.

‘Sorry,’ he said, looking genuinely apologetic.

‘I’m not exactly looking forward to meeting this Sandrine, even if it does seem as though we have a lot in common.’

‘Yeah, I can see that. Well, think of yourself as Constable Ellis again. We’re just here to get information, remember? Because the more we know about what Nick was doing, the quicker we can get you back home, okay?’