The Paris Apartment(84)
I turn and follow, trying to run. But there are too many bodies and the gray vapor is catching up with me, swirling all around. I start coughing and can’t stop; I feel like I’m choking. My eyes are stinging, watering so much I can hardly see. Then I collide—smack!—into another body, someone who’s just standing still in the middle of the stampede. I ricochet back, winded by the impact. Then look up, squinting through the tears.
“Theo!”
He grabs hold of the arm of my jacket and I cling onto him. Together we turn and half-run, half-stumble, coughing and wheezing. Somehow we find a side street, manage to break free from the torrent of people.
A few minutes later we shove through the door of a nearby bar. My eyes are still streaming: I look at Theo and see his are red-rimmed too.
“Tear gas,” he says, putting his forearm up to rub at them. “Fuck.”
People are turning on their bar stools to stare at us.
“We need to wash this stuff out of our eyes,” Theo says. “Straightaway.”
The barman points us wordlessly in the right direction.
It’s a single, largish bathroom. We get the tap running and splash water onto our faces, leaning together over the small sink. I can hear ragged breathing. I’m not sure if it’s mine or his.
I blink. The water has helped to ease the stinging a little. It’s now, as my pulse returns to normal, that I remember: I don’t want to be in this guy’s company at all. I grope for the door.
“Jess,” Theo says. “About before . . .”
“No. Nope. Fuck off.”
“Please, hear me out.” He does, at least, look a little ashamed. He puts up a hand, mops his eyes. The fact that the tear gas makes him look like he’s been crying is an odd addition. He starts speaking, quickly, like he’s trying to get it all out before I can cut him off: “Please let me explain. Look. This job is a total pain in the arse, it pays absolutely nothing, it broke up my last relationship—but every so often something like this comes along and you get to expose the bad guys and suddenly it all seems worthwhile. Yeah—I realize that’s no excuse. I got carried away. I’m sorry.”
I look down at the floor, my arms crossed.
“And if I’m truthful, no, I didn’t really care about your brother. One key skill as a journalist is being able to read people. And can I be really, brutally honest now? Ben always seemed totally self-interested. Always out for numero uno.”
I hate him for saying it, not least because there’s a part of me that suspects he may be right. “How dare—”
“No, no. Let me speak. When he initially told me about his big scoop, I was skeptical. He’s also a bit of a bullshit merchant, no? But when you played me that voicemail, I thought: yeah, actually there might be a story here. Maybe he did get tangled up in something nasty. It might be worth seeing where this all leads after all. So no, I didn’t care about your brother. But you know what, Jess? I want to help you.”
“Oh f—”
“No, listen. I want to help you because I think you deserve a break and I think you’re pretty bloody brave and I also think you don’t have a bad bone in your body.”
“Ha! Then you really don’t know me at all.”
“Christ, does anyone really know anyone? But I’m not a bad guy, Jess. To be fair, I’m not an entirely good one, either. But—” He coughs, looks down at the floor.
I glance at him. Is he bullshitting me? My eyes have started streaming again: I really don’t want him to think they’re tears.
“Ow. Jesus,” I wince as I rub at them.
He steps toward me. “Hey. Can I take a look?”
I shrug.
He reaches out a hand and tilts my chin upward. “Yeah—they’re still pretty red. But I think we only got a little of it, thank God. It should wear off soon.”
His face is very close to mine. And I’m not quite sure how it happens, but one moment he’s holding my jaw and peering at me, his touch surprisingly gentle; the next I appear to be kissing him and he tastes like cigarettes and the wine from the club, which is suddenly one of the better tastes I can imagine, and he’s a lot taller than me so my neck is cricked but actually I don’t care, in fact I kind of like it, because this is hot—it’s really fucking hot—and also wrong in so many different ways, not least because I’m wearing his ex-girlfriend’s clothes.
And even though he’s so much bigger than me I’m the one pushing him back against the sink and he’s letting me and one of his big hands is tangling in my hair and then I’m taking his other hand and pulling it under this stupid, tiny dress. And it’s only now that we remember we should probably lock the door.
Sophie
Penthouse
The others have left the penthouse. I sent Mimi to her apartment, to wait. I don’t want her to witness any of what’s to come. My daughter is so fragile. Our relationship, too. We have to find a new way of being with one another.
I walk into the bathroom, gaze at myself in the mirror, grip the sides of the sink. I look pale and drawn. I look every one of my fifty years. If Jacques were here right now he would be appalled. I smooth my hair. I spray scent behind my ears, on the pulse points of my wrists. Powder the shine off my forehead. Then I pick up my lipstick and apply it. My hand falters only once; otherwise I am as precise as ever.