Giles spread his hands. “Your overall Loch score was above average, and certainly better than anything Ciaran or Monica managed. Plus, Hard Man tells me you’ve kept up your CQC.”
“In a gym, but I haven’t sparred in months. Anyway, Dr Nayar advised I keep it up as complementary therapy.”
“Bloody good advice it was, too. Look, I wouldn’t have put you on OIT in the first place if I didn’t think you had potential as a field asset. And this Zurich job is strictly no-contact, pure obbo. Get in, figure out if they’re dodgy, then we pull you out.”
Bridge’s first instinct was to immediately say no, before she let herself think about it too much. But at the back of her mind, the woman who accepted the job offer from SIS to begin with — the woman who wanted to make a difference, to put her skills to good use, to feel like she’d done something positive with her life before she wound up as worm food — that woman was preaching reason, urging her to think positively and conquer her fears.
Giles was watching her intently. She said, “My entire thought process is written all over my face, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary,” he smiled, “you look like you’re bored and thinking about what to have for dinner. Give yourself some credit, and sleep on it. Then come see me tomorrow morning.”
10
“For heaven’s sake, Bridge, how many times? Don’t call me Izzy in front of the kids.”
“You just called me Bridge.”
“You’re not their mother.”
“Can you two stop it for one night? Look, our table’s ready.”
Bridge pursed her lips, clamping down a frustrated response. Then she noticed Izzy (Isabelle, whatever) was doing the same, so Bridge looked away as their waitress led Karen and Julia into the main room of the restaurant.
“Go in front of me, Stéphanie,” Izzy said to her daughter. Stéphanie walked dutifully ahead of her mother, without a word. She was four years old now, but Bridge had often remarked on how remarkably self-composed she was, even as an infant. The current infant, Hugo, was rather different. Bridge made wide-eyed smiles at him as he struggled to escape Izzy’s arms and clamber over her shoulder, and he gurgled back.
There were two high chairs waiting at the table, but Izzy turned to the waitress and said, “We won’t need those.”
“Your children are so young, madam,” replied the waitress in a southeast European accent that Bridge identified as Slovenian. “Don’t you think they would be more comfortable?”
“My daughter is perfectly capable of sitting in a chair, and my son will stay on my lap. Take these away and bring us a booster cushion.”
Some nearby diners cast sideways glances at the fuss, but before Bridge could intervene, Karen spoke quietly to the waitress. “This is our last meal together for a few months, so quite frankly, we’re going to spend a lot of money. Do as you’re told.”
“Not quite how I would have put it,” said Bridge, sitting down.
Karen shrugged. “I’m in here three times a week with clients. They can bloody well shove it.” She and Julia were more Izzy’s friends than Bridge’s, but she’d always had a soft spot for Karen. The eldest of the group by several years, Karen had worked her entire life in the City, and was now a ‘wealth manager’ for the sort of people she’d once sarcastically described as “too busy being rich to worry about their money, too busy being paranoid not to worry about it.” Julia, meanwhile, had read English at the same university as Izzy, and worked her way up through the media to become a TV producer in Soho. She and Karen normally took it in turns to pick the restaurant for these get-togethers, with Izzy occasionally pitching in when she’d heard about somewhere new and fashionable.
Bridge was the baby of the group, four years her sister’s junior, and if they’d asked her to suggest a restaurant, most of the good ones she knew were either places Karen or Julia had taken them to in the first place, or vegetarian. She couldn’t really picture Karen licking her lips at a black bean and avocado wrap.
A waiter removed the high chairs, while the waitress returned with a booster cushion for Stéphanie, who thanked her, placed it on her seat, and climbed up on to it. Bridge smiled and nodded approvingly, and Stéphanie beamed back at her with pride.
“I pity her husband,” laughed Julia, nodding at Steph. “She’s going to be a right handful.”
The young girl smiled back, “I’m going to marry a socialist.”
Karen laughed and wagged a finger at Izzy. “Your Fred’s got a lot to answer for. Why isn’t he looking after the kids tonight, anyway?”
“Loads of admin to finish up before we go to the farm,” said Izzy. “There’s no internet or anything there.”
“God, what a blessing,” Julia laughed. “If I went off-grid for more than six hours, my PA wouldn’t know how to tie her own shoelaces.”
As if to prove her point, Julia’s purse buzzed, making the table vibrate. She rolled her eyes and pulled her iPhone out, apologising. “See? You watch, I’ll put it on do not disturb, and she’ll be calling the police to say I’ve been kidnapped. Tell you what, Izz, you should rent your farm out with a big sign, ‘No Mobile Signal’. You’d make a fortune.”
There were two things Karen and Julia didn’t know about Bridge and her sister. First, Izzy’s name was really Édith. Isabelle was her middle name, but for as long as Bridge could remember, she’d insisted everyone call her by it. She’d even considered legally changing her name to swap them round, but Bridge had talked her out of it. Édith was their late grandmother’s name, and while Izzy’s relationship with their Mamie had been strained
