Testing the water temperature on the back of her hand, Eve rinses Villanelle’s hair with the shower head. If you know that you’re being manipulated, she tells herself, then you aren’t. Inside her, something has shifted. Something has tilted her world on its axis.
When she’s done, she drapes a towel over Villanelle’s head, twists it into a turban and picks up her Glock. ‘So what do you really want from me?’ she asks, jabbing the end of the barrel into the base of Villanelle’s skull.
‘I put some champagne in the fridge. Could you open it for us?’ Villenelle yawns, baring her teeth. ‘I unloaded that thing, by the way. And the Sig.’
Eve checks both weapons. It’s true.
Abruptly standing up, Villanelle stretches, revealing unshaved armpits. Then she reaches across to the medicine cabinet, takes out a pair of scissors, removes her gloves, and starts cutting her fingernails into the grey bathwater.
‘I thought you were worried about forensics?’
‘I’ll deal with it. And talking of forensics, I could really use some clean pants.’
‘Knickers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Couldn’t you have brought some with you?’
‘I forgot. Sorry.’
‘Jesus, Villanelle.’
When Eve returns, Villanelle is wrapped in a towel, gazing at herself in the mirror. Eve throws her the pants but Villanelle, absorbed in her reflection, doesn’t notice, and they land on her wet hair. Frowningly, she lifts them off. ‘Eve, these are not very pretty.’
‘Tough. They’re all I’ve got.’
‘You have only one pair?’
‘No, I’ve got lots, but they’re all the same.’
For a moment, Villanelle appears to wrestle with this concept, then she nods. ‘So will you open the champagne now?’
‘If you tell me why you’re really here.’
The midwinter gaze meets hers. ‘Because you need me, Eve. Because everything has changed.’
Leaning against the wall in the living room with a glass of pink Taittinger champagne in her hand, Villanelle looks poised, efficient and feminine. Her dark blonde hair is slicked back neatly from her forehead, and her outfit – black cashmere sweater, jeans, trainers – is chic but forgettable. She could be any smart young professional woman. But Eve can sense her feral aspect, too. The potential for savagery that beats like a pulse beneath the urbane exterior. It’s a barely perceptible murmur, right now, but it’s there.
‘Have you got any nice dessert in the fridge?’ Villanelle asks. ‘Something that will go with this champagne?’
‘There’s ice-cream cake in the freezer compartment.’
‘Can you get it?’
‘You fucking get it.’
‘Eve, kotik, I’m your guest.’ She takes her Sig Sauer from the waistband of her jeans. ‘And this time the gun’s loaded.’
Wordlessly, Eve does as she’s been asked, and then, turning back from the fridge, sees Villanelle raise the pistol and turn towards her. Her mind emptying, Eve sinks to her knees and squeezes her eyes closed. A long silence roars in her ears. Slowly, she opens her eyes to discover Villanelle’s face inches from hers. Eve can smell her skin, the wine on her breath, the scent of shampoo. With shaking hands, she gives Villanelle the frozen cake.
‘Eve, listen. I need you to trust me, OK?’
‘Trust you?’ Slowly, Eve stands. Villanelle has put the automatic down on the dining table. It’s within easy reach. One good lunge, and . . . she’s hardly even formed the thought when Villanelle catches her across the face with a stinging backhand slap. Breathless with shock, Eve staggers towards the sofa and sits down.
‘I said. I need you. To trust me.’
‘Fuck you,’ Eve mouths, the side of her face throbbing painfully.
‘No, fuck you, suka.’
They stand there, face to face, then Villanelle reaches out a hand and touches Eve’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
Probing her teeth with her tongue, tasting blood, Eve shrugs.
Villanelle gathers up the glasses and champagne bottle, and deposits herself beside her on the sofa. ‘Come on, let’s talk. For a start, how was the bracelet? Did you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘So . . . what do you say?’
Eve looks at her. Notes how Villanelle mirrors the way she sits, the way she carries her head and neck, the way she holds her glass. If she blinks, Villanelle blinks. If she moves a hand or touches her face, so does Villanelle. It’s as if she’s learning her. As if she’s occupying her, inch by stealthy inch, slithering into her consciousness like a snake.
‘You killed Simon Mortimer,’ Eve says. ‘You almost hacked his head off.’
‘Simon . . . Was that the one in Shanghai?’
‘You don’t remember?’
Villanelle shrugs. ‘What can I say? It must have seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘No I’m not, Eve. I’m just you without the guilt. Cake?’
For several minutes they sit there in silence, spooning ice cream, chocolate chips and frozen cherries into their mouths.
‘That was heaven,’ Villanelle murmurs, putting her bowl on the floor. ‘Now I need you to listen to me very carefully. And before I forget’ – she pulls a dozen 9mm rounds from her jeans pocket and hands them to Eve – ‘these are yours.’
Eve reloads the Glock, and, uncertain what to do with it, pushes it into the back waistband of her jeans, where it lodges uncomfortably.
‘That’s probably not a good idea,’ says Villanelle. ‘But whatever.’ Taking her phone from her pocket, she retrieves an image and shows it to Eve. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’
Eve peers at it. He’s about thirty, lean and sunburned, wearing a khaki T-shirt and the sand-coloured beret of the Special Air Service. The photographer has caught him in the act of turning, his eyes narrowed in annoyance, with one hand raised, perhaps to shield his face. Behind him are the unfocused outlines of military vehicles.
‘No. Who is he?’
‘I know him as Anton. He used to command E Squadron, who handle black operations for MI6, and now he’s my controller. On Thursday he ordered
