Perfect Strangers

‘Could you give me the number?’ said Josh. ‘It might be the link we’re looking for.’

They followed Sandrine into a study. She crossed to a writing desk just inside the door and pulled out a hardback address book, writing down the number on a Post-it note in her loopy Gallic writing.

‘Here, I have something else for you too,’ she said, opening a drawer and handing Josh a stiff white card. ‘This is the invitation to Polieux’s party. You should go. Perhaps you will find something there too.’

Thanking her, they walked back out into the sunshine. At the top of the stone steps, Sophie turned back to Sandrine.

‘What will you do now?’ she asked.

Sandrine gave her a half-smile. ‘Do not worry, I will be all right. Making the wine with Nick, it gave me confidence in what I do. I think I will try to sell my own wines – and if Pierre doesn’t like it, well . . . as I say, I will be okay.’

Sophie nodded, about to follow Josh down to the car, but Sandrine touched her arm.

‘Today, my heart aches, tomorrow too, I think,’ she said, holding Sophie’s gaze. ‘But a little piece of him will always be there.’

‘I know,’ said Sophie, reaching across to hug her goodbye. ‘I know just how you feel.’

29

Ruth stood in the darkening street, staring up at the windows of the Tribune’s office, two or three of them glowing orange even though it was past seven. Is this it? she thought. Is this really home? When she had tearfully run out of David’s building and grabbed a cab, there had been no hesitation when the driver asked ‘Where to?’

She had come straight to the one place she felt safe and valued, the place where she could lose herself in words and facts and stories. The place she could hide.

She allowed herself a wry smile as she walked inside, because that was the truth. All her life she had used work as a shield, throwing herself into her job when her parents had split up, burying herself in more and more assignments when her dad had died. She had blamed work for relationships that had gone awry, friendships that had petered out, the motherhood that had never happened, because, well, it was easier than looking inside herself for the real reason.

Waving to the security guard and swiping her card to activate the lift, Ruth thought back to a relationship she had once had with a South African photographer when she had been stationed in Cape Town. Jonathon. He had been so handsome – sharp, too. In fact, now she thought about it, Jon had been pretty damn perfect. So what had gone wrong? Isaac Grey, that was what. He had called wondering whether Ruth was interested in a post in Cairo. She had taken it on the spot, explaining to her heartbroken lover that it was a career opportunity she simply couldn’t miss. Of course that had been a lie, like all the others. Work was simply an excuse not to let anyone get close. Not for the first time, Ruth wondered if decisions were made in life not because of what you really wanted, but because of what you were afraid of.

As the lift took her up to the office floor, she closed her eyes and immediately she could see them together, as clearly as if it had just happened.

Her mum and Robert, the publisher of her dad’s paper. Together on the kitchen table, her mother’s long cotton skirt hiked up around her waist, his black leather briefcase propped up next to the radio blasting out the country and western songs she loved to listen to when she made meatloaf. And now it had happened to Ruth. Twenty-odd years later, the second she had let someone get close to her, she had been betrayed.

‘I thought you were going home.’

Ruth jumped as Chuck’s face appeared above the partition. She clutched at her chest and let out a long breath.

‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘My life flashed before me.’

‘How was it?’ smiled Chuck.

‘Not as exciting as I’d have liked. Anyway, what are you doing here?’

‘Finishing up your research about Michael Asner. All is about to be revealed.’

‘Well I’m glad someone is working hard today,’ she said, her mind involuntarily jumping back to the image of David standing in the bath.

‘Is there a problem?’ frowned Chuck.

Ruth sighed. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’

The Frontline Club, just a stone’s throw from Paddington station, was Ruth’s favourite London watering hole. Over the years she had become a permanent fixture at the bar, and she couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t have a good night out there. It was not a trendy media social watering hole like Soho or Shoreditch House, but in Ruth’s eyes, it was infinitely more interesting: a members’ club whose raison d’être was to champion independent journalism. She loved the gung-ho adventurers she might meet there: the war correspondents just back from the Sudan, the photographers who spent more time in jeeps than on the tube. She loved mixing with them, partly because they had shared experiences and friends, but partly because they reminded her why she had gone into journalism in the first place.

Ruth got a bottle of wine from the bar and found a table, while Chuck slid in opposite her and took a file out of his man bag. Gay? wondered Ruth idly. Choice of bag did not define your sexuality, of course, but then she couldn’t remember Chuck ever talking about any girlfriends, and he could be pretty bitchy. It would be a shame if he did swing the other way: he was good-looking in a clean-cut pretty-boy sort of way. Stop thinking like that, Ruth, she scolded herself. It’s only been about an hour since you became single. She closed her eyes to push the thought from her head – to push all thoughts from her head – and concentrated on the wine. She poured two generous glasses, then pushed one to Chuck.

‘Okay, tell me what you got.’

‘So you wanted to know about Michael Asner,’ said Chuck, opening his file.

‘Yes,’ she said, knocking back her wine. ‘Come on, blow my socks off.’