She notices my interest. “Do you want a glass?”
“Uh… that’s…”
“They’re in the kitchen.” She gestures vaguely behind herself. “Through there.”
“I think I’m okay, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
I take a seat on the sofa opposite her, wondering if she’s drunk. If this is her escape.
If the room is bugged by Fournier or her husband.
“Are you here long?” I ask.
“Don’t know.”
Okay. Closed question, let’s try an open one.
“What are your plans?”
“Don’t have any.”
“I’m sure there’s lots to do around here. What do you like?”
She sniffs and takes a sip of her drink. Which, when she says nothing more, seems to be my answer.
Perversely, for a fleeting moment, I miss talking to Van Wyk. Verbal sparring for my life against engaging with his zombified wife? Tough call.
“We didn’t get to talk much at the ball,” I say, practicing indifference but watching her closely. “It was nice of you to give me your number; sorry I haven’t called. So busy. I’m sure you have been too?”Not.
“Yeah.”
“You won’t believe who I ran into. A mutual acquaintance of ours.”
“Yeah?”
It’s a risk, but one worth taking. “Lucy. Your sister.”
There’s a flicker in her eyes. That’s it. Nothing else.
I try again. “Do you see each other much?”
“Occasionally.”
“Don’t get on?” I prompt, using my gentle voice. Sometimes, people respond better when you tell them something that’s obviously wrong.
“We used to,” she says sadly, yet with more animation than anything she’s giving me so far. Relatively speaking.
“Drift away, huh?” I nod. “I get how that is. We’re just sobusy, and…” I let it trail off in invitation.
This time, I get a scoff. “Not busy.”
“Traveling with your husband’s work, right?”
She freezes, save for her glass which begins to judder. Her hand’s trembling.
Fuck me.
