The Paris Apartment(70)

To the left of us I catch sight of a huge glass pyramid, glowing with light, looking like something that’s just landed from outer space. “What is that thing?”

He gives me a look. It seems I’ve said something stupid. “That’s the Pyramide? In front of the Louvre? You know . . . the famous museum?”

I don’t like being made to feel like an idiot. “Oh. The Mona Lisa, right? Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit too busy trying to find my missing brother to take a nice tour of it yet.”

We push through crowds of tourists chattering in every language under the sun. As we walk, I tell him about what I’ve discovered: about them all being a family. One united front, acting together—and probably against me. I keep thinking about stumbling into Sophie Meunier’s apartment, all of them sitting together like that—an eerie family portrait. The words I’d heard, crouching outside. Elle est dangereuse. And Nick discovering that he wasn’t the ally I thought he was—that part still stings.

“And just before I left to come here the concierge gave me a kind of warning. She told me to ‘stop looking.’”

“Can I tell you something I’ve learned in my long and not especially illustrious career?” Theo asks.

“What?”

“When someone tells you to stop looking, it normally means you’re on the right track.”



I change quickly in the underground toilet of a chi-chi bar while Theo buys a demi beer upstairs so the staff don’t chuck us out. I shake out my hair, study my reflection in the foxed glass of the mirror. I don’t look like myself. I look like I’m playing a part. The dress is figure-hugging but classier than I’d expected. The label inside reads Isabel Marant, which I’m guessing might be a step up from my usual Primark. The shoes—Michel Vivien is the name printed on the footbed—are higher than anything I’d wear but surprisingly comfortable; I think I might actually be able to walk in them. So I guess I’m playing the part of Theo’s ex-girlfriend; not sure how I feel about that.

A girl comes out of the stall next to me: long shining dark hair, a silky dress falling off one shoulder underneath an oversized cardigan, wings of black eyeliner. She starts outlining her lips in lipstick. That’s what I need: the finishing touch.

“Hey.” I lean over to her, smile my most ingratiating smile. “Could I borrow some of that?”

She frowns at me, looks slightly disgusted, but hands it over. “Si tu veux.”

I put some on a finger, dab it onto my lips—it’s a dark vampiric red—and pass it back to her.

She puts up a hand. “Non, merci. Keep it. I have another.” She tosses her gleaming hair over one shoulder.

“Oh. Thanks.” I put the lid back on and it closes with a satisfying magnetized click. I notice it has little interlocking “C”s stencilled on the top.

Mum had a lipstick like this, even though she definitely didn’t have spare cash to spend on expensive makeup. But then that was Mum all over: blow it on a lipstick and be left with nothing for dinner. Me, sitting on a chair, legs dangling. Her pressing the waxy stub of it against my lips. Turning me to face the mirror. There you go, darling. Don’t you look pretty?

I look at myself in the mirror now. Pout just like she asked me to do all those years—a million years, a whole lifetime—ago. There; done. Costume complete.



I head back upstairs. “Ready,” I tell Theo. He downs the dregs of his stupidly tiny glass of beer. I can feel him running a quick eye over the outfit. His mouth opens and for a moment I think he might say something nice. I mean, part of me wouldn’t know what to do with a compliment right now, but at the same time it might be nice to hear. And then he points to my mouth.

“Missed a bit,” he says. “But yeah, otherwise that should do.”

Oh fuck off. I rub at the edge of my lips. I hate myself for even having cared what he thought.

We leave the bar, turn onto a street thronged with very well-dressed shoppers. I could swear the air around here smells of expensive leather. We pass the glittering windows of rich people shops: Chanel, Celine, and aha!—Isabel Marant. He leads me away from the crowds into a much smaller side street. Gleaming cars flank the pavements. In contrast to the crowded shopping boulevard there’s no one in sight and it’s darker here, fewer streetlamps. A deep hush over everything.

Then Theo stops at a door. “Here we are.” He looks at his watch. “We’re definitely a little late. Hopefully they’ll let us in.”

I look at the door. No number, but there’s a plaque with a symbol I recognize: an exploding firework. Where are we?

Theo reaches past me—a trace of that citrus cologne again—and presses a doorbell I hadn’t noticed. The door swings open with a click. A man appears, dressed in a black suit and bow tie. I watch as Theo fishes a card from his pocket, the same one I found in Ben’s wallet.

The doorman glances at the card, nods his head toward us. “Entrez, s’il vous pla?t. The evening is about to start.”

I try and peer past the doorman to get a glimpse of what lies beyond. At the end of the corridor I see a staircase leading downward, dimly lit by sconces with real candles burning in them.

Theo plants a hand in the small of my back and, with a little push, steers me forward. “Come on,” he says. “We don’t have all night.”