The Paris Apartment(47)

My thumb freezes on the phone. I go very still. I just heard something. A scratching sound, at the apartment’s front door. I wonder briefly if it’s the cat, before I realize it’s lying stretched out on the sofa. My chest tightens. There’s someone out there, trying to get in.

I get up. I feel the need for something to defend myself with. I remember the very sharp knife in Ben’s kitchen, the one with the Japanese characters on it. I go and get it. And then I approach the door. Fling it open.

“You.”

It’s the old woman. The concierge. She takes a step back. Puts her hands up. I think she’s holding something in her right fist. I can’t tell what it is, the fingers are clenched too tightly.

“Please . . . Madame . . .” Her voice a rasp, as though it’s rusty from lack of use. “Please . . . I did not know you were here. I thought—”

She stops abruptly, but I catch her involuntary glance upward.

“You thought I was still up there, right? In the penthouse.” So she’s been keeping an eye on my movements around this place. “So you thought . . . what? You’d come and have a snoop around? What’s that in your hand? A key?”

“No, Madame . . . it’s nothing. I swear.” But she doesn’t open her fingers to show me.

Something occurs to me. “Was that you last night? Sneaking in here? Creeping around?”

“Please. I do not know what you are talking about.”

She is cringing backward. And suddenly I don’t feel good about this at all. I might not be big, but she’s even smaller than me. She’s an old woman. I lower the knife: I hadn’t even realized I was pointing it at her. I’m a little shocked at myself.

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s OK.”

Because how harmless can she be, really? A little old lady like that?



Alone again, I think about my options. I could confront Nick about all this, see what he says. Ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, giving me a fake name. Get him to explain himself. But I reject this pretty quickly. I have to pretend to know nothing. If he knows I’ve discovered his secret—their secret—that will make me a threat to him and to whatever else he might be trying to hide. If he thinks I still don’t know anything, then perhaps I can keep digging—invisible in plain sight. When I look at it like this, my new knowledge gives me a kind of power. From the beginning, from the moment I stepped foot in this building, the others have held all the cards. Now I’ve got one of my own. Just one, but maybe it’s an ace. And I’m going to use it.





Mimi





Fourth floor



When I get back to the apartment I just want to go to my room and pull the covers over my head, crawl deep down into the darkness with Monsieur Gus the penguin and sleep for days. I’m exhausted by the drinks upstairs, the effort it all took. But when I try to open the front door I find my way blocked with crates of beer, bottles of spirits and MC Solaar blaring out of the speakers.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” I call. “What’s going on?”

Camille appears in a pair of men’s boxers and lace camisole, dirty blond hair piled up on top of her head in an unraveling bun. A lit spliff dangles from one hand. “Our Halloween party?” she says, grinning. “It’s tonight.”

“Party?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah. Remember? Nine thirty, down in the cave, for the spooky atmosphere—then maybe bring a few people up here for an afterparty. You said before that your papa would probably be away this week.”

Putain. I totally forgot. Did I really agree to this? If I did it feels like a lifetime ago. I can’t have people here, I can’t cope—

“We can’t have a party,” I tell her. I try to sound firm, assertive. But my voice comes out small and shrill.

Camille looks at me. Then she laughs. “Ha! You’re joking, of course.” She strides over and ruffles my hair, plants a kiss on my cheek, wafting weed and Miss Dior. “But why the long face, ma petite chou?” Then she stands back and looks at me properly. “Wait. Es-tu sérieuse? What the fuck, Mimi? You think I can just cancel it now, at what, eight thirty?” She’s staring now, looking at me properly—as though for the first time. “What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?”

“Rien,” I say. Nothing. “It’s fine. I was only joking. I’m—uh—really looking forward to it, actually.” But I’m crossing my fingers behind me like I did as a little kid, hiding a lie. Camille is looking closely at me now; I can’t hold her gaze.

“I just didn’t sleep well last night,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other. “Look, I . . . I have to go and get ready.” I can feel my hands trembling. I clench them into fists. I want to stop this conversation right now. “I need to get my costume together.”

This distracts her, thank God. “Did I tell you I’m going as one of the villagers from Midsommar?” She asks. “I found this amazing vintage peasant dress from a stall at Les Puces market . . . and I’m going to throw a load of fake blood over it too—it’ll be super cool, non?”

“Yeah,” I say, hoarsely. “Super cool.”

I rush into my room and close the door behind me, then lean against it and breathe out. The indigo walls envelop me like a dark cocoon. I look up at the ceiling, where when I was small I stuck a load of glow-in-the-dark stars and try to remember the kid who used to stare at them before she fell asleep. Then I glance at my Cindy poster on the opposite wall and I know it is only my imagination but suddenly she looks different: her eyes wild and frightened.