Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“You think I arranged this.”

Strike said nothing. He had no desire to become enmeshed in disagreement or reminiscence. They had walked for two blocks before he spoke.

“Where is this place?”

“Jermyn Street. Franco’s.”

The moment she said the name, he recognized it as the very same one in which they had met Charlotte’s father all those years previously. The ensuing row had been short but exceedingly vicious, for a vein of incontinent spite ran right through every member of Charlotte’s aristocratic family, but then she and Strike had gone back to her flat and made love with an intensity and urgency that he now wished he could expunge from his brain, the memory of her crying even as she climaxed, hot tears falling onto his face as she shouted with pleasure.

“Ouch. Stop,” she said sharply.

He turned. Cradling her belly with both hands, she backed into a doorway, frowning.

“Sit down,” he said, resenting even having to make suggestions to help her. “On the step there.”

“No,” she said, taking deep breaths. “Just get me to Franco’s and you can go.”

They walked on.

The maître d’hôtel was all concern: it was clear that Charlotte was not well.

“Is my sister here?” Charlotte asked.

“Not yet,” said the maître d’ anxiously, and like Henry Drummond and Lucinda, he looked to Strike to share responsibility for this alarming and unsought problem.

Barely a minute later, Strike was sitting in Amelia’s seat at the table for two beside the window, and the waiter was bringing a bottle of water, and Charlotte was still taking deep breaths, and the maître d’ was putting bread down between them, saying uncertainly that Charlotte might feel better if she ate something, but also suggesting quietly to Strike that he could call an ambulance at any moment, if that seemed desirable.

At last they were left alone. Still, Strike did not speak. He intended to leave the moment her color improved, or her sister arrived. All around them sat well-heeled diners, enjoying wine and pasta amid tasteful wood, leather and glass, with black and white prints on the geometric white and red wallpaper.

“You think I arranged this,” mumbled Charlotte again.

Strike said nothing. He was keeping lookout for Charlotte’s sister, whom he had not seen for years and who doubtless would be appalled to find them sitting together. Perhaps there would be another tight-lipped row, hidden from their fellow diners, in which fresh aspersions would be cast upon his personality, his background and his motives in escorting his wealthy, pregnant, married ex-girlfriend to her dinner date.

Charlotte took a breadstick and began to eat it, watching him.

“I really didn’t know you were going to be there today, Corm.”

He didn’t believe it for a second. The meeting at Lancaster House had been chance: he had seen her shock when their eyes met, but this was far too much of a coincidence. If he hadn’t known it to be impossible, he would even have supposed that she knew he had split up with his girlfriend that morning.

“You don’t believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, still scanning the street for Amelia.

“I got a real shock when Lucinda said you were there.”

Bollocks. She wouldn’t have told you who was in the office. You already knew.

“This happens a lot lately,” she persisted. “They call them Braxton Hicks contractions. I hate being pregnant.”

He knew he had not disguised his immediate thought when she leaned towards him and said quietly:

“I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t get rid of ours. I didn’t.”

“Don’t start, Charlotte,” he said, with the sensation that the firm ground beneath his feet was starting to crack and shift.

“I lost—”

“I’m not doing this again,” he said, a warning note in his voice. “We’re not going back over dates from two years ago. I don’t care.”

“I took a test at my mother’s—”

“I said I don’t care.”

He wanted to leave, but she was if anything paler now, her lips trembling as she gazed at him with those horribly familiar, russet-flecked green eyes, now brimming with tears. The swollen belly still didn’t seem part of her. He would not have been entirely surprised had she lifted her T-shirt to show a cushion.

“I wish they were yours.”

“Fuck’s sake, Charlotte—”

“If they were yours, I’d be happy about it.”

“Don’t give me that. You didn’t want kids any more than I did.”

Tears now tipped over onto her cheeks. She wiped them away, her fingers shaking more violently than ever. A man at the next table was trying to pretend that he wasn’t watching. Always hyperaware of the effect that she was having on those around her, Charlotte threw the eavesdropper a look that made him return hurriedly to his tortellini, then tore off a piece of bread and put it in her mouth, chewing while crying. Finally she gulped water to help her swallow, then pointed at her belly and whispered: