a tomato for herself, the skin warm against her lips. ‘I like being able to eat something I’ve grown myself. That way I know it’s not full of pesticides or things grown in labs.’
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘You’re the perfect experiment gone wrong.’ She smiled, going back inside and through to the bedroom. Shrugging out of her running gear she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. ‘I bumped into Guillaume.’
Christophe’s head appeared around the doorway. ‘Really? Is he still tall, dark and ever so handsome?’
‘Tired.’ Veronique ducked her head under the stream of cool water then picked up a loofah and began to massage her ankles, then continued up the length of her body to finish at the back of her neck.
‘The stress of being Mr Perfect is obviously getting to him.’ Christophe opened the mirrored cupboard above the sink and began to apply mascara to feathery lashes. ‘What did he want?’
‘He caught me at the park.’ She scrubbed at her hands.
Christophe pushed back from the sink to stare at her. ‘He was there? Merde. What did he say?’
‘That he knows it was you who told me.’ Stepping out of the shower she reached for a towel on the rail opposite, her hand lingering on the soft cotton.
‘So what? He can’t prove it.’
‘You need to be more careful.’ She dried herself from the face down, following the line of her scar.
‘I was careful.’
‘Christophe, if anyone gets their hands on your phone they’ll be able to see who and what you have been messaging so I hope you really have deleted everything, including any back-ups. You can’t afford another warning and I’d hate for you to lose your job. You love it there, surrounded by other like-minded science geeks.’
‘I’ll ignore that. Science is the key to everything and you know it. Did you find anything?’
Veronique went back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Two rails of clothing, one pale and the other dark, arranged by fabric and then season. The drawers contained both her lace underwear and workout gear, all folded and stored away amongst layers of tissue paper. At the bottom stood row upon row of stacked boxes, each labelled with a Polaroid photograph of the shoes contained therein.
Her eye fell on a box pushed to the back. Inside was the sweatshirt Guillaume had left behind, fire engine red with bleached stitching and bare patches bleeding out from the elbows. Like a favourite teddy she had cocooned her frame in the soft cotton, wishing she could tattoo the memory of him onto her skin.
You asked him to leave, remember? she told herself, pushing the box out of sight and pulling on a pair of ivory chinos and silk T-shirt the colour of a midnight sky.
‘Nothing specific, but I think she’s still alive. Unless of course you can tell me otherwise? Did Guillaume search the park?’
‘Didn’t you just tell me to be more careful?’
‘Did they find a body?’ Veronique went into the kitchen and poured two cups of muddy coffee, adding a teaspoon of honey to one and handing it to Christophe.
‘Don’t you think I would still be at the park if they had?’
‘So someone either moved the body or she left of her own accord.’
Christophe took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Pretty much, but I’m under strict instructions not to divulge any information to the press.’
‘I’m not press.’
Christophe smiled. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t tell Guillaume about visiting the boyfriend? Nor that he’s the one responsible for the rather alarming bruise on your face that I wasn’t going to mention?’
‘Don’t worry, his broken nose more than makes up for it.’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t think we can rule out the possibility that he had something to do with Mathilde’s disappearance. Frederic is violent, arrogant and thinks he’s untouchable.’
‘Sounds a little like someone else I know, minus the arrogance of course.’
‘I’m never unnecessarily violent.’
‘Who said I was talking about you? I’ve come across plenty of men in my time who accurately fit that description.’
Veronique rolled her eyes. ‘Back to Mathilde. I need to do some more digging, find out about Frederic’s past.’
‘I can do that. George owes me a favour.’
‘Fine, but don’t let him in here. I can’t risk having anything traced back to my IP address, not now we’re being watched. I also need to get to the boss before Guillaume.’
‘Where did the girl work? Perhaps I can meet George there, scout out the place for you, faire d’une pierre deux coups and all that.’
‘A bar near Montmartre.’
Christophe pulled a face. ‘When you say “bar”, do you mean upstairs or behind the curtain?’
‘No idea. All we have is the name of her boss, Valentine Dubois, which just so happens to be the same name as the eyewitness the police were too quick to dismiss. Guillaume is bound to go back and question him, unless I can get there first.’
Christophe looked at her. ‘Promise me this is about the girl and not him.’
‘It’s about the girl. And he wasn’t the only one to blame.’ Veronique’s phone beeped and she slid her thumb across the screen, frowning at the reminder that popped up.
‘All the more reason never to go back there, no matter how good the sex was.’ Christophe peered over her shoulder. ‘You can’t keep avoiding that.’
Veronique tucked the phone in her pocket. ‘Who says I’m avoiding it?’
‘I’ll come with you. Isn’t the clinic on Boulevard Jourdan? I know a girl from the clinic who lives there and used to work in Montmartre. If Mathilde was more than just a barmaid, Giselle might recognise her or at least point us in the right direction.’
Veronique looked at him then drained her coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink before placing it in the dishwasher. ‘Fine. But you’re not coming in with me.’
‘No need to be so shy, darling,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘it’s not as if I haven’t already seen what you’ve got.’
Veronique
‘I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’ The doctor sat down opposite Veronique and opened a file.
‘I wasn’t sure myself,’ Veronique replied. ‘It’s good to see you, Mingxia; it’s been too long.’
‘Well I’m glad to see you now.’ Mingxia glanced at her notes, running a finger down the page. ‘I have the blood work back and everything looks normal. Your testosterone levels are still slightly elevated, but nothing to be concerned about so we can proceed as planned.’
‘I’m not comfortable with the idea of an operation.’
‘Of course, but it’s relatively non-invasive. We would keep you in overnight for observation and the risk is minimal.’
‘It’s just that if it doesn’t work…’ Veronique looked over at a board on the wall, full of smiling cherubic faces and letters of thanks from their parents. How many more faces were there telling a different story, of lost hope?
Hope. A single word containing so much possibility. What was it that she hoped for?