Free Harm's Way by Celia Walden Page B

the picturesque wooden boat moored to the bank of the Seine. Ruth was taller than I’d imagined, almost six foot in the sexless flat sandals she was wearing. As pale-skinned as Beth, she had neither her poise nor beauty. She had Stephen’s mouth, but her face, cut into sharp angles like a cubist painting, had as its centrepiece two triangular nostrils, which, hoisted high, gave her a permanently austere look, like a governess from a nineteenth-century novel. Beth was a decorative collection of organic shapes next to this ungainly string of limbs.
    â€˜It’s a beautiful dress,’ said Ruth, with a touch of disapproval, ‘what’s it made of? Now, Christian, move out the way, I want Anna to sit right here, next to me.’
    She patted the chair next to her ominously, while he got up and seated himself beside Beth.
    â€˜Anna is the pefect shape for my designs, Ruth. I’m always getting her to model things for me, aren’t I?’
    I noticed Isabelle, standing awkwardly by the bar.
    â€˜Hey, Isabelle – I hope it’s OK, Beth, I invited this girl from work – we’re over here!’
    She had seen us, of course, but was too shy to come and introduce herself. Her leaf-coloured smock had been swapped for a brown linen dress, and her face was lightly but meticulously made-up.
    We were on the top deck, and the tables were quickly filling up before, at eight o’clock precisely, the boat loosened its moorings and began its gentle tour of the city. It was still bright, with the hum of summer exuberance drifting from the banks and bridges. An industrial-looking bateau-mouche sailed by noisily, spraying neon lights against the quais of Île St Louis as it passed, lighting up people’s dining rooms with a sudden flare as they sat down to supper.
    â€˜We’re moving. Look!’ Flushed with excitement, Beth winked at me across the table and I felt my clenched hands relax beneath the table.
    â€˜Great idea,’ I mouthed at her as the boat gained pace and Christian waved at a group of musicians setting up on the bank. But already, anxious to make Isabelle feel at ease, she was pouring her a glass of wine and asking her about herself.
    â€˜Anna.’ On Ruth’s lips my name sounded like a reproach. ‘Beth tells me you work at the Musée d’Orsay. That must be fascinating. When did you decide that you wanted to work in the art world?’
    I turned reluctantly towards her.
    â€˜Oh, I don’t. I mean, I don’t really know where I want to work yet, but I’m going to study art history at university next year, so this seemed like the best place to spend my gap year … I’m only eighteen,’ I added, by way of an explanation.
    â€˜At your age I had already enrolled in medical school.’
    â€˜Just like my mother – only she’s a lawyer. And do you have children?’
    â€˜Two, yes.’
    â€˜Two …’ I nodded, reaching for the bottle of white that had just arrived (Ruth must have ordered it before I arrived: Beth and I always drank rosé). ‘That must be difficult – having the time to see them, I mean. My mother seems to find it hard coping with just the one.’
    Conscious of the vulgarity of my gesture, I filled both of our glasses to the brim.
    â€˜Ah, ah, ah. That’s plenty for me: I’m not a big drinker. But you seem to have turned Beth into quite the party girl.’
    We both looked over at her. She was telling a joke with both hands on her hips and the corners of her mouth twitched in anticipation of the punchline. Both Christian and Isabelle waited, spellbound.
    â€˜I’m not sure I’ve “turned her” into anything – that woman has more staying power than I do most of the time.’
    â€˜Oh she’s never been short of that. But I think she’s gone out more in the past few weeks than she has in a long while – since leaving Ireland really, and