The Paris Apartment(53)

Papa turned from Camille to me. “What are you wearing?” he asked, his eyes glittering.

“I . . .” I stammered. “It’s so hot, I thought . . .”

“Tu ressembles à une petite putain.” That’s what he said. I remember it so clearly because I felt the words like they were being burned into me: I can still feel the sting of them now. You look like a little slut. He’d never spoken to me like that before. “And what have you done to your hair?”

I put my hand up, touched my new Karen O fringe.

“I’m ashamed of you. Do you hear me? Never dress like this again. Go and change.”

His tone scared me. I nodded. “D’accord, Papa.”

We followed him back into the building. But as soon as he had disappeared into the penthouse, Camille grabbed my hand and we ran out of there and along the street to the Metro and I tried to forget about it, tried to be just another carefree nineteen-year-old out for the night.

The park felt like a jungle, not part of the city: steam rising up off the grass, the bushes, the trees. A big crowd around the bar. This buzz, this wild energy. I could feel the beat of the music deep under my rib cage, vibrating through my whole body. There were people wearing way less than me, less than Camille even: girls in tiny bikinis who’d probably spent the day sunbathing on the Paris Plages, those artificial beaches by the river they construct in the summer. The air smelled like sweat and suntan lotion and hot, dry grass and the sticky sweet of cocktails.

I drank my first Aperol Spritz like it was lemonade. I still felt sick about the look on Papa’s face. A little slut. The way he spat out the words. I drank the second one quickly too. Then I didn’t care so much.

The girl at the decks turned the music up and people started dancing. Camille took my hand and dragged me into the crowd. There were some friends of ours—no, hers—from the Sorbonne. There were pills going round from a little plastic baggie. That’s not me. I drink but I never take drugs.

“Allez Mimi,” LouLou said, after she’d placed the tab on her tongue and swallowed it. “Pourquoi pas?” Come on, Mimi. Why not? “Just a half?”

And maybe I really had turned into someone else because I took the little half of the tab she held out to me. I kept it on my tongue for a second, let it dissolve.

After that it got blurry. Suddenly I was dancing and I was right in the middle of the crowd and I just wanted to carry on forever in the middle of all those sweaty bodies, these strangers. It seemed like everyone was smiling at me, love just pouring out of them.

People were dancing on tables. Someone lifted me up onto one. I didn’t care. I was someone different, someone new. Mimi was gone. It was wonderful.

And then the song came on: “Heads Will Roll.” At the same moment I looked over and I saw him. Ben. Down there, in the middle of the crowd. A pale gray T-shirt and jeans, despite the heat. A bottle of beer in his hand. It was like something from a film. I’d spent so much time watching him in his apartment, watching him across the table at dinner, it felt so weird to see him in the real world, surrounded by strangers. I had started to feel like he belonged to me.

And then he turned, like the pressure of my eyes had been enough for him to know I was there, and he raised a hand and smiled. There was a current running through me. I went to step toward him. But suddenly I was falling; I had forgotten about the table, and the ground was rushing up to meet me—

“Mimi. Mimi? Who are you here with?”

I couldn’t see the others. All the faces that had seemed to be smiling before weren’t now. I could see them looking and I could hear laughter and it seemed like I was surrounded by a pack of wild animals, teeth gnashing, eyes staring. But he was there; and I felt like he would keep me safe.

“I think you need some air.” He put out his hand. I grasped hold of it. It was the first time he had touched me. I didn’t want to let go, even after he had pulled me up. I didn’t ever want to let go. He had beautiful hands, the fingers long, elegant. I wanted to put them in my mouth, to taste his skin.

The park was dark, so dark, away from the lights and sounds of the bar. Everything was a million miles away. The farther we went the more it felt like none of the rest of it was real. Just him. The sound of his voice.

We went down to the lake. He made to go and sit on a bench but I saw a tree right next to the water, roots spreading beneath the surface. “Here,” I said. He sat down beside me. I could smell him: clean sweat and citrus.

He passed me an Evian bottle. Suddenly I was thirsty, so thirsty. “Not too much,” he said. “Steady on—that’s enough.” He took the bottle away from me. We sat there for a while in silence. “How do you feel? Want to go back and find your friends?”

No. I shook my head. I didn’t want that. I wanted to stay here in the dark with the hot breeze moving the tall trees above us and the lapping of the lake water against the banks.

“They’re not my friends.”

He took out a cigarette. “You want one? I suppose it might help . . .”

I took one, put it between my lips. He went to pass me the lighter. “You do it,” I said.

I loved watching his fingers working the lighter, like he was casting some spell. The tip lit, glowed. I sucked in the smoke.

“Merci,” I said.

Suddenly the shadows under the next tree along seemed to move. There was someone there. No . . . two people. Tangled together. I heard a moan. Then a whisper: “Je suis ta petite pute.” I’m your little whore.