Charlie did, and that was all that mattered. Stacey and two of her friends had peered into a bedroom with an open door, a room in which Charlie, stark naked, had been abandoned by Simon five seconds earlier. They’d been on the verge of getting into bed together for the first time when he’d fled without explanation, and they’d never properly discussed it since. Charlie had been too shocked and upset to run and close the door, or to grab a sheet to cover herself with. Simon’s departure had knocked her to the ground, too, so she was sprawled on the carpet when Stacey and her tipsy mates had decided to have a good gawp at her. The two friends had been embarrassed and retreated instantly, but Stacey, who knew Charlie, knew she was Sellers’ skipper, had giggled and said, ‘Oops!’ before disappearing. For that, Charlie would never forgive her.
Charlie had stayed at the party until Sellers threw everyone out, determined to prove she was able to enjoy herself in Simon’s absence. Later, in the early hours of the morning, she’d overheard Stacey gossiping about what she’d seen. Stacey hadn’t spotted Charlie sitting on the sofa she was leaning against, and was busy telling her friends that Charlie had been pursuing Simon for ages, asking them to imagine how awful it must be to bag the man of your dreams finally, only to have him scarper the minute you take your clothes off. Charlie couldn’t have put it better herself.
She realised Stacey was asking her something. Wanting to know if she spoke French. French? What did this have to do with Sellers screwing Suki Kitson?
‘I did an A level in it, but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent.’
‘I thought you used to be a language teacher at Cambridge uni.’
‘Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic. And it was more literature and history than language. Why?’
Stacey pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of her raincoat and pushed it across the table. Charlie stayed where she was, too far away to read it. She could see that there were two chunks of text. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s my French homework, to do over the summer holidays.’
You’ve come here at night, in your pyjamas, to talk about homework? Get a life, you silly cow.
‘You know I’m learning French?’
Like it had been announced on the ten o’clock news. ‘I do now.’
‘Our teacher gave it to us.’ Stacey paused to tip some vodka into her mouth. It dripped down her chin. ‘It’s a verse from a song, the same verse in French and in English. We have to work out if the song was written by a Frenchman or by an Englishman. It’s impossible!’ Stacey wept. ‘I mean, I’m as clever as the next person, and I’ve been doing really well with learning my vocab and my verbs, but… I just don’t see how you can tell. It could have been written by a… Outer Mongolian for all I know. And Colin-I hate him! He won’t help me! I’ve asked some of my friends, but no one’s got a clue. I thought of you and… well, I thought you must be able to help me.’
Charlie felt a stirring of interest. She picked up the piece of paper, read the English text first:
My Friend François
My friend François is rather a giggle.
My friend François burst into song.
We asked him politely to put a sock in it.
‘Keep your shirt on,’ he said,
And then there was a right hook
And that really upset the apple cart.
That’s my friend François for you!
The French version was headed ‘Mon Ami François’ and, apart from being in a different language, was exactly the same. Charlie wanted to laugh. Good on you, Mr French Teacher. Anyone could learn lists of vocab, but not everyone had a flair for the logic of languages. ‘I’m sure you won’t be the only one who’s stumped,’ she told Stacey. ‘Tell your tutor it was too hard.’
‘Colin knows the answer and he won’t tell me! He says if I can’t work it out I’m as thick as pig-shit and I’m wasting my time trying to improve myself. He can be so hateful sometimes!’
‘I used to think of him as the cuddly one, when we worked together,’ said Charlie. ‘But then, he was often standing next to Chris Gibbs.’
‘Did he ever used to… mention me? Say he loved me, or how he felt about me? I thought he might have… because you’re a woman…’
‘No,’ said Charlie flatly, sensing they were moving closer to the real reason for Stacey’s visit.
‘Can I stay here tonight?’ Stacey asked.
‘Sorry. There are no beds. Just a mattress on the floor, and that’s mine.’
‘I’ll sleep on the floor, I don’t care.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Absolutely not.
The doorbell rang. Stacey howled at Charlie not to tell Sellers she was there. ‘Your car’s parked outside, you stupid arse,’ Charlie muttered as she went to open the door. The possibility that her second late-night visitor might be anyone other than Colin Sellers did not occur to her, so she was startled into silence when she found, instead, Simon Waterhouse on her doorstep wearing his slightly puzzled grin, as if he was surprised to find himself there.
Charlie grabbed him with both hands and pulled him into the kitchen. ‘You’ll have to go now,’ she told Stacey. ‘Simon and I need to talk. Don’t we, Simon?’
He had rammed his hands deep into his trouser pockets and was looking embarrassed.
‘But you haven’t told me the answer!’ said Stacey. Her mouth hung open. The lower part of her face was covered in a shiny layer of mucus.
‘It defeats the object if I tell you,’ said Charlie. ‘What your teacher wants to know is whether you can figure it out, and you can’t.’
She watched as Stacey stumbled down the hall and out into the rain, hobbling past her second slipper without stopping to pick it up. Never before had closing the front door given Charlie so much satisfaction.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Simon.
As she explained, he picked up the sheet of paper that Stacey, in her distress, had left behind. He walked up and down as he read it. ‘An Englishman wrote it. Right?’
‘Obviously.’
‘The name François’s meant to make you think it’s by a Frenchman, so it can’t be or it’d be too easy.’
‘What? You’re kidding, right?’
Simon wasn’t.
‘Come on, it’s obvious.’
‘Not to me,’ he said.
‘Then you’re as thick as Stacey Sellers,’ said Charlie. ‘What do you want, anyway?’ She tried to sound off-hand.
‘You heard what we found at Corn Mill House?’
‘You want to talk about work? Your work? Go and wake up Sam Kombothekra. I’m off to bed.’
‘I also wondered… if you’d thought any more about the other business.’
‘The other business? The other business?’ She flew at him, slamming the palms of her hands into his chest, sending him staggering across the room. ‘You can’t even say it, can you? Because you don’t mean it! You don’t love me-at least, you’ve never said you do. Well?’ She was aware that she needed to create some silence if she wanted him to respond.
‘You make it impossible for me to say any of the things I want to say,’ he managed eventually.
‘Tough,’ Charlie snapped. ‘You used to treat me like a leper and now you want to marry me, when we’ve never even slept together, never been out on a date? What changed?’
‘You did.’
Charlie waited.
‘You need me now. You didn’t before. Even then, I cared more about you than I did anyone else, though I might not have shown it.’
Charlie dropped her cigarette end into what was left of Stacey’s vodka. ‘Maybe I should push the boat out and slit my wrists,’ she said. ‘Make myself utterly irresistible to you.’
Simon shook his head. ‘There’s no point, is there? I might as well go.’