The Paris Apartment(71)
“Arrêtez,” the doorman says, barring our entry with a hand. He looks me over. “Votre mobile, s’il vous pla?t. No phone allowed—or camera.”
“Er—why?” I glance back at Theo. It occurs to me again that I know absolutely nothing about this guy beyond what it says on his business card. He could be anyone. He could have brought me anywhere.
Theo gives a tiny nod, gestures: don’t make a fuss. Do what the guy says. “O—K.” I hand my phone over, reluctantly.
“Vos masques.” The man holds up two pieces of material. I take one. A black mask, made of silk.
“Wha—”
“Just put it on,” Theo murmurs, near my ear. And then louder: “Let me help, darling.” I try to act natural as he smooths down my hair, ties the mask behind my head.
The doorman beckons us through.
With Theo close behind me, I begin to descend the stairs.
Jess
An underground room. I see dark red walls, low lighting, a small crowd of dimly lit figures sitting in front of a stage veiled by a wine-colored velvet curtain. Masked faces turn to look as we descend the final few steps. We’re definitely the last to turn up at the party.
“What the hell is this place?” I whisper to Theo.
“Shh.”
An usher in black tie meets us at the bottom of the stairs, beckons us forward. We pass walls decorated with stylized gold dancing figurines, then weave among little booths with masked figures sitting behind tables, more faces turning in our direction. I feel uncomfortably exposed. Luckily the table we’re taken to is tucked into a corner—definitely the worst view of the stage.
We slide into the booth. There really isn’t very much room in here, not with Theo’s long legs, which he has to pull up against himself, his knees hard against the wooden surround. He looks so uncomfortable that in different circumstances it might give me a laugh. The tiny amount of seat left means I have to sit with my thigh pressed right up against his.
I look about. It’s hard to tell whether this place is actually old or just a clever imitation. The others around us are all very well-heeled; judging by their clothes they could be out for an evening at the theatre. But the atmosphere is wrong. I lean back in my chair, trying to look casual, like I fit in here among the tailored suits, the jewel-encrusted earlobes and necks, the rich person hair. A weird, hungry hum of energy is coming off them, coiling through the room—an intense note of excitement, of anticipation.
A waiter comes over to take our drinks order. I open the leather-bound menu. No prices. I glance at Theo.
“A glass of champagne for my wife,” he says, quickly. He turns to me wearing a smile of fake adoration—so convincing it gives me a chill. “Seeing as we’re celebrating, darling.” I really hope he’s paying. He looks down the menu. “And a glass of this red for me.”
The waiter is back in a minute, brandishing two bottles in white napkins. He pours a stream of champagne into a glass and passes it to me. I take a sip. It’s very cold, tiny bubbles electric on the tip of my tongue. I can’t think when I’ve ever had the real stuff. Mum used to say she was “a champagne girl” but I’m not sure she ever had it either: just cheap, sweet knock-offs.
As the waiter pours Theo’s red the napkin slips a little and I notice the label.
“It’s the same wine,” I whisper to Theo, once the waiter’s left us. “The Meuniers have that in their cellar.”
Theo turns to look at me. “What was that name you just used?” He sounds suddenly excited.
“The Meuniers. The family I was telling you about.”
Theo lowers his voice. “Yesterday I submitted a request to see the matrice cadastrale—that’s like the Land Registry—for this place. It’s owned by one Meunier Wines SARL.”
I sit up very straight, everything sharpening into focus. A feeling like a thousand tiny pin-pricks across the surface of my skin.
“That’s them. That’s the family Ben’s been living with.” I try to think. “But why was Ben interested in this place? Could he have been reviewing it? Something like that?”
“He wasn’t reviewing it for me. And I’m not sure, being so exclusive, that it’s the sort of place that exactly courts press coverage.”
The lights begin to dim. But just before they do a figure in the crowd catches my eye, oddly familiar despite the mask they’re wearing. I try to shift my gaze back to the same spot but the lights are dimming further, voices lowering and the room falling into darkness.
I can hear the smallest rustle of people’s clothing, the odd sniff, their intakes of breath. Someone coughs and it sounds deafening in the sudden hush.
Then the velvet curtain begins to roll back.
A figure stands on the stage against a black background. Skin lit up pale blue. Face in shadow. Completely naked. No—not naked, a trick of the light—two scraps of material covering her modesty. She begins to dance. The music is deep, throbbing—some sort of jazz, I think . . . no melody to it, but a kind of rhythm. And she’s so in sync with it that it feels almost as if the music is coming from her, like the movements she is making are creating it, rather than following it. The dance is strange, intense, almost menacing. I’m torn between staring and tearing my eyes away; something about it disturbs me.