‘Have you told Kate about the fire?’ Silas asks.
Jake nods again.
‘How did she take it?’ It’s very unlikely she’s involved, but they’ll still have to eliminate her from their inquiries.
‘Pleased that I’m safe.’
‘Is she still with her new man?’ Silas shouldn’t be asking. It’s none of his business.
‘He’s had to go back to London. Usually comes down for the weekend.’
Jake’s still in love with Kate, poor sod. At least it was mutual when Silas and Mel, his ex, split up. No arguments, just a heavy-hearted acceptance that they no longer had anything in common.
‘Leave it to us from now on, eh?’ Silas says, putting a hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘And try to get some sleep.’
21
Kate
Kate can’t sleep, not after talking to Jake on the phone. She wants to call him back, let him unload a bit more about what’s happened, but she knows he’s no longer her problem. He’s safe and there her concern should end. She’s just not sure that Bruce and Sue, the kind couple who are putting him up for the night, will want to listen until dawn. Jake never keeps things in: he likes to discuss a problem until it has been examined from every angle. It’s why she’s not given him the chance to give his side of what she saw on the CCTV that night. She doesn’t want them to talk about it until they reach the point where his infidelity somehow becomes forgivable or acceptable.
Bex went to bed after they chatted some more on the terrace and Kate is now in the open-plan sitting room, tucked up on the sofa, about to surf through late-night TV channels on the vast home-cinema screen. When she asked Rob if such a big TV was necessary, he said he needed it for his work. He hasn’t watched anything on it yet, apart from the tennis.
She turns on the TV and gawps. A naked couple are having sex on a benchpress in a gym, the woman lying on her back, head hanging awkwardly off the end of the bench as she sucks off the man, who is standing. Instinctively she switches channels, shocked by the explicitness of what she’s just seen, and then switches back to watch again, turning her head ninety degrees to see the poor woman’s face. There’s nothing remotely arousing about the couple, who seem more focused on holding their positions than giving each other pleasure. What concerns her is why the TV has been left tuned to a porn channel. Did Rob come in here last night while she was asleep? Wasn’t he satisfied after they’d had sex?
She works her way through some dodgy films, darts and a shopping channel, trying not to feel disappointed, hurt. Does he need porn as well as her? She knows Jake was an occasional user, but that was after they’d stopped having sex. And then she acknowledges the thought that she’s been struggling to keep out of her head. It doesn’t feel like the sort of thing Rob would do: slipping out of bed in the middle of the night to watch other couples having sex. Coding, perhaps, answering emails, maybe practising his backhand, but not porn. He doesn’t have enough hours in his day as it is.
She pushes the thought away and alights on France 24, the French news channel, half watching a report about another gilets jaunes riot. It’s followed by an item on the rise of the tech sector in France and the growth of Station F, the world’s largest start-up campus, in Paris’s 13th arrondissement. She’s about to change channels again when news footage of Rob flashes up on the screen. He’s in Brest, talking about the ‘rich digital ecosystems’ of western Brittany. Talking in fluent French.
She holds her hand to her mouth and stares at the screen in disbelief. Rob is hopeless at French. It’s why he’s recently started to have lessons. She’s always been good at languages, speaking decent French and Spanish, and has been teaching him too, marvelling at how little he can recall from his schooldays. She steps closer, listening to the words coming out of this man’s mouth. It looks like Rob – same blinking eyes, shy smile, lanky gait – but it’s not him. She’s sure of it. It can’t be. ‘Jesus,’ she says quietly. The presenter is speaking, but she’s not listening.
She rushes down to Bex’s bedroom, opposite Rob’s office, and opens the door. ‘Bex? Are you awake? Bex?’ She can’t disguise the urgency in her voice.
She’s forgotten what a deep sleeper Bex is.
‘Bex?’ she asks again, rocking her shoulder.
‘What time is it?’ Bex asks, bleary eyed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kate says. ‘I need to show you something.’
‘It’s one thirty in the bloody morning, Kate,’ Bex says, glancing at her mobile phone on the bedside table and sinking back on her pillow with a groan.
‘I know. I’m really sorry, but it’s important.’
It’s the second time today she’s shared her worries with her. She’s not sure she could cope without Bex.
‘It always is,’ Bex says.
Five minutes later, they’re in the sitting room on the sofa, a confused Stretch at their feet. Bex is watching France 24 while Kate tries to find the footage of Rob on her laptop.
‘It was on a few minutes ago,’ she says, wondering if she’s imagined the whole thing. ‘A feature about the tech sector in France. Rob was being interviewed in Brest, but I swear it wasn’t him. He was speaking in fluent French but he’s crap at languages.’
‘When was he there?’ Bex asks.
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t know he’d gone.’
Bex has every reason not to believe her without seeing the footage for herself. Where is it? And then Kate finds the story and she’s shocked all over again by the words.
‘Here,’ she says, turning the laptop so that Bex can see it. ‘Take a look at this.’
They both watch the item on the France 24 website, Kate offering a rough running translation.
‘He is saying how his company was drawn to that part of France… one of thirteen regions recently awarded “Capital French Tech” status or something… because it has a history of military digital expertise and investment in health tech.’ She stops, unable to go on. They both listen as Rob talks about Brest providing the perfect culture for developing neural networks and machine learning. It’s complicated, technical French. ‘Brest est la culture parfaite pour nous alors que nous cherchons à déveloper des réseaux de neurones profonds et un apprentissage automatique.’
‘See what I mean?’ Kate says, glancing at Bex.
Bex looks at her and then back at the laptop. ‘It looks like him, Kate,’ she says quietly, still staring at the screen. ‘That’s definitely Rob. The man I met at Paddington yesterday. Who I’ve met several times before. Your fit new boyfriend, you lucky bugger.’
‘Who’s suddenly fluent in fucking French.’
‘Maybe he’s got a good teacher – you said he’s having lessons.’
‘He’s rubbish, Bex,’ she says. ‘And I mean truly rubbish. I was trying to help him just the other day.’
They stand in silence, watching as the video finishes. Bex appears troubled by it too, at least momentarily.
‘Just the other day?’ she asks.
‘A couple of weeks ago.’