Killing Eve: Resurrection (13)

The thirteenth instalment of a new Killing Eve story, published exclusively on Substack

 

           'The name of the tour company is Ossa and Pelion,' Balice says. 'There should be somebody waving some sort of flag.'

            She and Villanelle are waiting at the entry to the Eurostar departure hall at St Pancras International station. It's not long after seven am, but the place is already crowded with passengers, all of them anxious to get through security and passport control in good time for their Channel crossings.

            'I bet this is her,' Balice says, as a woman of about fifty approaches them, gripping a bulging sheaf of documents and pulling a wheeled cabin case.

            'Are you two mine? O and P? Jolly good, we like early birds.'

            'I'm Balice. And this is my friend Goz.'

            'I'm Pippa. Your tour leader.'

            'We're so excited,' Balice says.

            'Oh gosh, yes. Me too.' Tucking the folder under her arm, Pippa quickly touches up her lipstick. She has choppy blonde hair, a silk scarf knotted around her neck, and the air of one prepared to keep up appearances, come what may. Returning the lipstick to her bag, she takes a laminated card reading Ossa and Pelion from her folder, and holds it aloft.

The first to respond is a spry, sharp-featured man of about fifty, who introduces himself as Johnny Fernandes. He's followed by two older couples, the Vances and the Mortisheads, and by Dan Melbury, the expert garden lecturer, whose arrival sends something of a stir through the departures hall.

            'TV celebrity,' Balice whispers. 'He presents Topsoil, on Channel Four.'

            'Right.'

            The last of the group to arrive, in a state of some confusion, is Lorelei Vane-Muir. She appears to know William Mortishead, loudly greeting him as 'darling', before launching into a diatribe about taxi-drivers.

           With patient efficiency, Pippa shepherds the group through security and onto the waiting train, where Balice and Villanelle are seated opposite the Mortisheads. Lorna is sixtyish, with glossy chestnut hair and the bulging eyes of a spaniel. 'So,' she says excitedly. 'Next stop Paris.'

            William Mortishead, a distinguished if dishevelled figure, turns a mild blue gaze on his wife. 'Actually, it's more likely to be Ashford. Have you seen my briefcase?'

            'You didn't bring it, my love. We agreed. No work.'

            'Did we? Oh.'

            'Yes. A proper break, we agreed. We need to relax.'

            'I wish I'd known. I was planning a heart attack.'

            'Do you both work?' Balice asks.

            'I'm semi-retired. Freelance editor. William's an historian.'

            Villanelle allows her attention to cross the aisle, where Lorelei and Johnny are listening, somewhat passively, to Ingo Vance's theatrical reminiscences.

            '... And then, not a word of a lie, I dried. Couldn't remember a word. Could barely remember what play we were doing. Hamlet? One of the Henrys? Fanny by Gaslight? Of course Rupert, seasoned pro that he is, ad-libbed like mad...'

            Next to Ingo, his wife Teazel is sitting bolt upright, her pixie features immobile, her narrow shoulders and chest protected from the train's frigid air conditioning by multiple layers of pashmina shawl. She reminds Villanelle of one of the mummified cats in the Hermitage Museum. A quick phone search reveals that she was the teenage star of a 1970s TV series called The Gumdrops, about an an all-girl pop group. Teasel played Milly Mauve, the lead singer.

            Villanelle is distracted from her researches by Lorelei, who leans out into the aisle to flag down a train attendant.

            'This is a first class carriage, garçon, is it not?'

            'Oui, Madame.'

            'Excellent, then I'll have un Gin-tonic. Better make it a large one. William darling, keep me company.'

            'I might just hang on till lunch.'

            'God, you're a bore. You'll join me, Johnny. Surely?'

            Fernandes demurs with a flash of gold teeth.

            'Well, I must say,' Lorelei waves away the attendant. 'You lot are very dull dogs. I can see I'm going to have to wake things up around here'

            'Goz.' Balice nudges Villanelle with her elbow. 'William's just telling us about his new book.'

            'Oh, right. Sorry.'

            'It's about the younger Pitt,' William says.

            Villanelle brightens. 'Oh right! So like, when he was still with Jennifer Aniston?'

            They look away and smile. Not obviously, not like the French do. But politely, in that lethally dismissive British way. They think I'm stupid, just because I haven't had the same narrow, blinkered education that they have. I can tell that I embarrass Balice. She doesn't want them to start wondering what we have in common. What we are to each other.

            I've been watching Balice closely. It's part of my process, the process of moving on. This is not turning out to be easy, because Eve won't go away. I thought it was just a matter of deciding to forget her, of looking in the mirror and seeing only myself, and being happy with that. But I'm not happy with that. Is this what normal people call grieving? This flat sadness?

            Balice thinks she sees me, but she doesn't. Not really. Not like I see her. It's as if we're in an illustration, an ink drawing or a woodcut, from an old book of fairy stories. I'm the wolf, circling the snowy clearing in which she lingers. I watch her from every angle, noting the deep V of her throat, the sharp little collarbones, the modelling of her wrists. All of her, waiting for me, fearful and expectant. I'm not sure that I've got it in me to disappoint her.

            By the time the train pulls in to the Gare du Nord in Paris it's started to rain. Pippa shepherds the group into a waiting coach, and they depart for the Chateau de Faycelles, which according to the itinerary is situated an hour's drive away. Bestriding the aisle of the swaying coach, microphone in hand, Dan gives his first lecture of the tour, explaining how the chateau, a neoclassical gem, was built on the orders of Queen Marie Antoinette, and the gardens laid out in the fashionable anglo-chinese style. Not all of the Faycelles estate is open to the public, he tells them, but Ossa and Pelion have secured 'special access'.

On their arrival at the chateau the group is issued with umbrellas, and led from the coach to the orangery, an ornate building originally designed for the over-wintering of exotic plants and fruit trees. Here, beneath a painted ceiling, lunch has been laid out. Clear soup, fruits de mer, dry Muscadet wine. Beyond the curtained windows, the rain, which has deterred all but a few hardy members of the public, beats down steadily.

            'This is actually really nice,' Villanelle says to Balice, forking a langoustine into her mouth. 'I'd love to bring Eve here.'

            'Really,' Balice murmurs. 'I rather thought we'd moved on from Eve.'

            Villanelle eyes her thoughtfully. 'You shouldn't sulk. It makes you look old.'

            'And you shouldn't talk with your mouth full, it makes you look like a peasant.'

            'I am a peasant.'

            'Now now, you two,' Lorelei chides, splashily refilling their glasses. 'Don't whisper.' She subsides into her chair. 'Hands up who's had Botox. The truth, people, s'il vous plaît.'

            'Me,' says Lorna. 'Plus most of the professional women I know.'

            William peers at her. 'Is that true? I had no idea.'

            'What about you, Dan?' Lorelei demands. 'I bet all you TV types have been freezing your faces for yonks.'

            'Not me, I'm afraid.' His tanned features crease into a grin. 'But we're in for a real treat this afternoon. I'm particularly looking forward to the iris garden. The latifoliae should be in full bloom.'

            'Have you?' Ingo asks. 'Had work done, I mean?'

            Lorelei drains her glass. 'Darling, one more facelift and I'll be talking out of my cunt.'

            Pippa's smile doesn't falter. 'Can I take numbers for coffee? I'm pretty sure they have decaff.'

The story continues…