The Paris Apartment(69)

He just smiled.

Over the next few weeks we became reckless. Testing the boundaries, scaring ourselves a little. The adrenaline rush, the fear—so similar a feeling to the quickening of arousal. Each seemed to heighten the other, like the rush of some drug. I had behaved so well for so long.

The secret spaces of this building became our private playground. I took him in my mouth in the old servants’ staircase, my hands sliding into his trousers, expert, greedy. He had me in the laundry room in the cave, up against the washing machine as it thrummed out its cycle.

And every time I tried to end it. And every time I know we both heard the lie behind the words.



“Maman,” Mimi says now—and I am jolted, abruptly, guiltily, out of these memories. “Maman, I don’t know what to do.”

My wonderful miracle. My Merveille. My Mimi. She came to me when I had given up all hope of having a child. You see, she wasn’t always mine.

She was, quite simply, perfect. A baby: only a few weeks old. I did not know exactly where she had come from. I had my ideas, but I kept them to myself. I had learned it was important, sometimes, to look the other way. If you know that you aren’t going to like the reply, don’t ask the question. There was just one thing I needed to know and to that I got my answer: the mother was dead. “And illegal. So there’s no paper trail to worry about. I know someone at the mairie who will square the birth certificate.” A mere formality for the grand and powerful house of Meunier. It helps to have friends in high places.

And then she was mine. And that was the important thing. I could give her a better life.

“Shh,” I say. “I’m here. Everything will be OK. I’m sorry I was stern last night, with the wine. But you understand, don’t you? I didn’t want a scene. Leave it all with me, ma chérie.”

It was—is—so fierce, that feeling. Even though she didn’t come out of my body, I knew as soon as I saw her that I would do anything to protect her, to keep her safe. Other mothers might say that sort of thing casually. But perhaps it is clear by now that I don’t do or say anything casually. When I say something like that, I mean it.





Jess




I come up out of the Palais Royal Metro station. I almost don’t recognize the tall, smartly dressed guy waiting at the top of the steps until he starts walking toward me.

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Theo says.

“You didn’t give me any time,” I say. “And I got caught up—”

“Come on,” Theo says. “We can still make it if we’re snappy about it.” I look him over, trying to work out why he looks so different from the last time I met him. Only a five o’clock shadow now, revealing a sharp jawline. Dark hair still in need of a cut but it’s had a brush and he’s swept it back from his face. A dark blazer over a white shirt and jeans. I even catch a waft of cologne. He’s definitely scrubbed up since the café. He still looks like a pirate, but now like one who’s had a wash and a shave and borrowed some civilian clothes.

“That’s not going to cut it,” he says, nodding at me. Clearly, he’s not having the same charitable thoughts about my outfit.

“It’s all I had to wear. I did try to say—”

“It’s fine, I thought that might be the case. I’ve brought you some stuff.”

He thrusts a Monoprix bag-for-life toward me. I look inside: I can see a tangle of clothes; a black dress and a pair of heels.

“You bought this?”

“Ex-girlfriend. You’re roughly the same size, I’d guess.”

“Ew. OK.” I remind myself that this might all somehow help me find out what’s happened to Ben, that beggars can’t be choosers about wearing the haunted clothes of girlfriends past. “Why do I have to wear this sort of stuff?”

He shrugs. “Them’s the rules.” And then, when he sees my expression: “No, they actually are. This place has a dress code. Women aren’t allowed to wear trousers, heels are mandatory.”

“That’s nice and sexist.” Echoes of The Pervert insisting I keep the top four buttons of my shirt undone “for the punters”: You want to look like you work in a kindergarten, sweetheart? Or a branch of fucking McDonald’s?

Theo shrugs. “Yeah, well, I agree. But that’s a certain part of Paris for you. Hyper-conservative, hypocritical, sexist. Anyway, don’t blame me. It’s not like I’m taking you to this place on a date.” He coughs. “Come on, we don’t have all night. We’re already running late.”

“For what?”

“You’ll see when we get there. Let’s just say you’re not going to find this place in your Lonely Planet guide.”

“How does this help us find Ben?”

“I’ll explain it when we get there. It’ll make more sense then.”

God, he’s infuriating. I’m also not completely sure I trust him, though I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s just that I still can’t work out what his angle is, why he’s so keen to help.

I hurry along next to him, trying to keep up. I didn’t see him standing up at the café the other day—I’d guessed he was tall, but now I realize he’s well over a foot taller than me and I have to take two steps for every one of his. After a few minutes of walking I’m actually panting.