Free Harm's Way by Celia Walden Page A

Sunday for the week. I can’t wait for you to meet her…’ the rubber-sealed doors of the bus wheezed shut and the final part of her sentence reached me as if from under water, ‘… you’ll love her! Let’s speak tomorrow to arrange supper.’
    I took my seat at the back of the bus, unexcited by the information I had just received.
    â€˜That should be fun – to meet her friend, this Ruth girl – shouldn’t it?’
    I hadn’t addressed a word to him since the credits had rolled, and took this as the pathetic attempt at mood-gauging that it was intended to be.
    â€˜Why should it be fun? You’ve never met her, and nor have I. She could be a nightmare for all we know.’
    â€˜Anna.’ He was smiling down at me complaisantly, my appalling behaviour apparently serving only to endear me further. ‘What’s all this about? Is it because of this girl, Beth’s friend? Are you jealous?’
    His face was close to mine, and I channelled my momentary dislike of him into the beauty spot which protruded, like a murky spent tear, from his left cheek.
    â€˜For God’s sake, Vincent,’ I jeered, with a laugh that sounded sour even to me. ‘You just have no idea what you’re talking about – do you? Why would I be jealous of some middle-aged woman?’
    â€˜I mean jealous because of Beth. Anyway I’m joking, baby. Why don’t you calm down?’
    â€˜I am calm: you’re just talking rubbish, that’s all.’
    He wasn’t, of course. The very idea of this woman’s presence annoyed me – and I hadn’t even met her yet.
    *    *    *
    â€˜La Péniche, that’s the name of it. It’s not far from where you are, just past the Musée d’Orsay as you go down on the right hand side towards the river and under the bridge. Christian suggested it.’
    â€˜Can I borrow a pen, Isabelle?’ Clamping my mobile phone to my ear with my shoulder, I lost the second part of Beth’s instructions. ‘And it’s a restaurant on a boat? La Péniche?’
    Isabelle, sitting in her usual chair in the staff room, had put her book down the second my phone had rung, as though the conversation included her. She mouthed ‘Yes it is’, and gave me a thumbs up.
    â€˜Great. But please don’t worry if you and Ruth fancy a night catching up together. I know it’s been a while since you last saw her.’
    Beth’s aptitude at saying the right thing was beginning to rub off on me. The only difference being that I didn’t believe a word I was saying.
    â€˜Don’t be stupid, we sat up until 2 a.m. last night catching up after she got in,’ Beth assured me, ‘and she’s dying to meet you.’
    I ended the call and put my mobile in my bag.
    â€˜It’s great fun – La Péniche.’
    I looked up absently at Isabelle.
    â€˜The boat. You’ll love it.’
    â€˜Oh. Yes, it sounds different.’
    She seemed to be waiting for something. Suddenly, I realised what it was.
    â€˜Would you like to join us? I mean, you’re probably busy, but if not, well …’
    â€˜I’d love to. Thank you.’
    *    *    *
    I dressed up for Ruth that night, not Christian or Beth, but a middle-aged doctor I had never met. It was she I thought of when I pulled the low-cut red silk dress over my head and belted it tightly around my waist. I thought of her, too, when I wound the cotton ribbons of my espadrilles around my calves. Surveying my reflection in the métro doors as we passed through a tunnel, I wondered why I was putting so much effort into making a woman instantly dislike me. The answer was obvious: so that I could be allowed to hate her.
    â€˜Anna – what a lovely dress.’
    They were all standing to meet me, Christian looking embarrassed by such formality, as I walked up the gangplank on to