The Paris Apartment(46)

Still, I did not tell Jacques. I knew how badly he would react, which would only make things worse. I knew that by telling him I would make this thing real, would dredge up the past. And it would only further underscore the imbalance of power that existed between my husband and me. No, instead I would find a way to pay. I still felt able to handle it on my own. Just. I chose a diamond bracelet, this time: an anniversary gift.

The next morning, I dutifully left another wedge of grubby notes in a cream-colored envelope beneath the loose step.



Now, I look at myself in the mirror across the room. The spreading crimson stain of the wine. I’m transfixed by the sight of it. The red sinking into the pale silk of the shirt. Like spilled blood.

I rip the shirt from me. It tears so easily. The mother of pearl buttons explode from the fabric, skitter to the corners of the room. Next, the trousers. The fine soft wool is tight, clinging. A moment later I am on the ground, kicking them from me. I am sweating. I am panting like an animal.

I look at myself in my lingerie, bought at great expense by my husband but so seldom seen by him. Look at this body, denied so much pleasure, still so well-honed from the years of dieting. The xylophone of my décolletage, the wishbone of my pelvis. Once my body was all curves and ripeness. A thing to provoke lust or contempt. To be touched. With a great effort I changed it into something to be concealed, upon which to hang the garments made for a woman of my standing.

My lips are stained by the wine. My teeth, too. I open my mouth wide.

Holding my own gaze in the mirror I let out a silent scream.





Jess




I made my excuses to leave the penthouse as quickly as I could. I just wanted to get out. There was a moment, sensing them all watching, when I wondered if one of them might try and stop me. Even as I opened the door I thought I might feel a hand on my shoulder. I walked back down the stairs to Ben’s apartment quickly, the back of my neck prickling.

They’re a family. They’re a family. And this isn’t Ben’s apartment: not really. Right now I’m sitting here inside someone’s family home. Why on earth didn’t Ben tell me this? Did it not seem important? Did he somehow not know?

I think of how impressed I was with Nick’s fluent French in the police station. Of course he’s bloody fluent: it’s his first language. I’m trying to think back to our first conversation. At no point, as far as I can recall, did he actually tell me he was English. That stuff about Cambridge, I just assumed—and he let me.

Although he did lie to me about something. He pretended his surname was Miller. Why pick that in particular? I remember the results I got when I searched for him online: did he simply choose it because it’s so generic? I march to Ben’s bookshelf, pull out his dog-eared French dictionary, flip through to “M.” This is what I find:

meunier (m?nje, jεR) masculine noun: miller

Miller = Meunier. He gave me a translation of his surname.

One thing I can’t work out, though. If Nick has got some other, hidden agenda, why was he so keen to help? Why did he come to the police station with me, speak to Commissaire Blanchot? It doesn’t fit. Maybe he has another more innocent reason for keeping all of this from me. Maybe they’re just a really private family as they’re so rich. Or maybe I’ve been taken for a complete fool . . .

A chill goes through me as I think of them tonight at the drinks party. Observing me like an animal at the zoo. I think how it didn’t make sense that such a random group of people should choose to hang out together. That they seemed to have nothing in common. But a family . . . that’s different. You don’t have to have anything in common with your family; the thing that binds you is your shared blood. I mean, I assume that’s how it is. I’ve never had much of a family. And I wonder whether that’s why I didn’t spot the truth. I couldn’t read the signs, the important little clues. I don’t know how families work.

I go to put the dictionary back on the shelf. As I do, a sheet of paper comes loose and falls out onto the floor. I think it’s one of the pages of the book at first, because it’s such a ratty old thing, until I pick it up. It takes me a moment to work out why I recognize it. I’m sure it’s the top sheet of those accounts I found in the desk drawer in the penthouse apartment. Yes: there’s a “1” at the bottom of the page. The same sort of thing: the vintages, the prices paid, the surnames of the people who have bought them, all with a little “M.” in front of them. But what is interesting is what’s printed at the top of the sheet of paper. The symbol of a firework exploding, in raised gold emboss. Just like the strange metal card Ben had in his wallet: the one I’ve lent to Theo, yesterday. And what’s also interesting is that Ben—in the same scrawl he’d used in his notebook—has written something in the margin:

Numbers don’t make sense. Wines surely worth much less than these prices.



Then, underneath, underlined twice: ask Irina.

My heart starts beating a little faster. This is a connection. This is something important. But how on earth am I going to work out what it means? And who the hell is Irina?

I take out my phone, snap a photo. Piggybacking off Nick’s Wifi again, I send it to Theo.

Found this in Ben’s stuff. Any ideas?



I think of our meeting in the café. I’m not sure I entirely trust the guy. I’m not even convinced I’ll hear back from him. But he’s literally the only person I’ve got left—