The door to the apartment was open and Kristin walked in, letting the door shut behind her with a clunk. “Olivia?”
“In the lounge. Watching terror on TV.”
Kristin stood behind the couch and let her bag fall to the floor. She reached over the back of the couch and squeezed Olivia’s shoulders. “Hey.”
“Hey you. This is bad, huh? Alice okay?”
“Yeah. She’s fine.” Kristin let go of Olivia, then flopped beside her on the couch. She thought she saw a flicker of annoyance cross Olivia’s face, but couldn't be certain. They watched the TV for several minutes, but the silence between them threatened to fester and rather than let it grow, Kristin leaned into Olivia and asked, “You okay?”
Olivia nodded. “Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know for sure. Intuition?”
“What do you mean intuition?”
Kristin took Olivia’s hand in hers. “Us. You know. Something’s not right. Is it me?”
“No. It’s just this terrorist thing. You should have called earlier than you did.”
“Sorry. I went to Alice’s. I mean, she was, like, there. She knew the terrorist...”
“You already told me. And I saw the TV.” She turned to face Kristin. “But I was worried about you.”
“You could have called me first.”
“Supposing there was no answer? What would I think? I thought you’d call and when you didn't, I got worried. I hoped you would be thinking about me.”
“I was.”
Olivia pulled a face. “Yeah. But Alice was more important?”
“What do you mean?”
Olivia looked back to the TV. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Alice is with Ian.”
“You told me she was thinking of leaving him.”
Kristin shrugged. “I don't know.”
“Do you want her, huh?”
“Gosh no, Olivia. No. I want you.” Kristin pressed her fingers into her thigh until she felt it hurt. “Question is do you still want me?”
“About as much as you want me, I guess.” Olivia got to her feet. “I’m going to open a bottle of wine. You want a glass?”
“If you don't mind.”
Olivia looked straight at Kristin. “Don't be bitchy. It doesn't suit you.”
When Olivia left, Kristin winced and told herself to lay off. She sighed and let her eyes wander to Olivia’s bag on the coffee table in front of her. The bag was open, and she glimpsed the edge of something unfamiliar in amongst the contents. Was it Tampax? She tried to remember where Olivia was on her cycle and if that would explain her mood. When she heard a cork squeak in the kitchen, she leaned over and peered into the bag while she fingered through it. She pulled on the packet by the edge and she swallowed hard before she pushed it back down. What was Olivia doing with a packet of condoms?
13
Ian sat with Alice in the lounge watching the ongoing news coverage. Reports shifted focus from victims to perpetrators. A round table discussion debated the impact of government policy on terrorism and what actions could prevent attacks like the one in South Kensington.
As Ian’s attention wandered between the TV and the imminent arrival of the police to question Alice, the channel interrupted the debate and cut to a police press conference. A chief constable spoke in sombre tones. He assured the public there was no known imminent threat. The sole suspect was in custody. To Ian, it sounded identical to the speech they gave after the previous terror attack. The same careful words designed to sooth public fear. Keep calm and carry on. Our way of life will prevail.
Alice said nothing, she sat on the sofa beside him, looking lost in thought. Then the screen cut to CCTV footage of a girl sitting at an outdoor table. In the grainy footage, she drank from a glass and tapped on her phone. When the girl on screen paused, she looked up at the camera.
“Oh no,” Alice said.
Ian sat upright. His mouth opened, and he stared at the TV.
Alice buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe this.”
Ian upped the volume.
“...keen to contact this woman. Staff at the Provence Wine Bar have told us she is from Copenhagen. We have reason to believe she spoke to the suspect prior to the incident. We are appealing to her to come forward. She may have vital information for us....”
The scene cut back to the press conference. Reporters fired questions all at once.
“Jesus. Why are they showing this?” he asked. “We’ve been in touch already. There’s no need to broadcast it.” He turned to look at her and touched her arm. “Do you want me to turn it off?”
She dropped her hands and reached for her wine. “No. I need to see what I’m up against.”
On the TV, reporters hurled questions at the police, most of which they batted away, but one question cut through the noise.
“Was she drinking champagne? If so, do you think she was celebrating the attack?”
Ian shook his head and cursed journalists.
On screen, the chief constable paused. “I’m not prepared to speculate. No further questions. Thank you. That’s all. Thank you.”
The picture cut back to the studio debate where the panel discussed the latest development. Then they re-ran the witness interview from earlier. Ian put his arm around Alice and pulled her close.
“.... A blonde girl drinking champagne. Short black dress. White jacket draped on a chair. Didn't look like a Muslim. But I reckon they knew each other....”
The picture reverted to the panel, and the discussion moderator spoke into the camera.
