The Paris Apartment(96)

I am acting on pure instinct, like an automaton, as I help to lift Ben, to carry him down the stairs. And though I am numb I am still aware of the strange and terrible echo of three nights ago, when I carried another body, so stiff and still, out into the courtyard garden.

For a moment, our eyes meet. He seems barely conscious, so perhaps I am imagining it . . . but I think I see something in his expression. An apology? A farewell? But just as quickly it is gone, and his eyes are closing again. And I know I wouldn’t trust it anyway. Because I never knew the real Benjamin Daniels at all.





A Week Later

Jess




We sit in silence across the Formica table, my brother and I. Ben knocks back the espresso in its little paper cup. I tear one end from my croissant and chew. This may be a hospital café but it’s France, so the pastries are still pretty good.

Finally, Ben speaks. “I couldn’t help myself, you know? That family. Everything we never had. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted them to love me. And at the same time, I wanted to destroy them. Partly for living off women who might have been Mum, at one stage in her life. But also, I suppose, just because I could.”

He’s looking bloody awful: half his face covered in dark green bruising, the skin above his eyebrow stapled together, his arm in a cast. When we sat down the woman next to us gave a little start of shock and glanced quickly away. But knowing Ben he’ll have an attractive scar to show for it soon enough, one he’ll work into his charm offensive.

I brought him to the hospital in a taxi: with cash from his wallet, naturally. Explained that he’d had a fall on his moped near his apartment, got a pretty bad head injury. Said he’d made it back to his place and collapsed there, totally out of it, until I turned up and saved the day. It raised a few eyebrows—crazy English tourists—but they’ve treated him.

“Thanks,” he says, suddenly. “I can’t believe what you went through. I knew I should have told you not to come and stay—”

“Well, thank God you didn’t, right? Because I wouldn’t have been able to save your life.”

He swallows. I can tell he doesn’t like hearing it. It’s uncomfortable, acknowledging that you need people. I know this.

“I’m sorry, Jess.”

“Well, don’t expect me to rescue you next time.”

“Not just for that. For not being there when you needed me. For not being there the one time it really mattered. You shouldn’t have had to find her alone.”

A long silence.

Then he says, “You know, in a way I’ve always been jealous of you.”

“For what?”

“You got to see her one last time. I never got to say goodbye.” I can’t think of anything to say to this. I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than finding her. But maybe a part of me understands.

Ben glances up.

I follow his gaze and see Theo in a dark coat and scarf, hand raised, on the other side of the windows. I might have lost my phone but luckily I still had his business card in my stuff. With his split lip he now looks like a pirate who’s been in some sort of duel. He looks good, too.

I turn back to Ben. “Hey,” I say. “Your article. You still have it, right?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yes. Christ knows what they did to my laptop, but I’d already backed it up to my Cloud. Any writer worth their salt knows that.”

“It needs to come out,” I say.

“I know, I was thinking the same thing—”

“But,” I hold up a finger. “We have to do it right. If it publishes, the police will have to look into the club. And those girls who work there—most of them will get deported, right?”

Ben nods.

“So it’ll be even worse for them than it is now,’ I say. I think of Irina. I can’t go back . . . it wasn’t a good situation. I think of how she spoke about wanting a new life. I promised that if I found Ben, I would find a way to help her. I’m definitely not going to be responsible for her being sent home. If we get this wrong, only the vulnerable will get screwed, I know this.

I look at Ben and then at Theo as he crosses the room to join us. “I have an idea.”





Sophie





Penthouse



The cream-colored envelope trembles in my grip. Hand-delivered to the apartment building’s postbox this morning.

I tear it open, slide out a folded letter. I have never seen this handwriting before—a rather untidy scrawl.

Madame Meunier,

There was something we didn’t get a chance to discuss. I think we both had other things on our minds? Anyway, I made you a promise: I haven’t talked to the police and I won’t. But Ben’s article about La Petite Mort will publish in two weeks’ time, whether you do anything or not.



I catch my breath.

But, if you help, it’ll have a different emphasis. Either you can be part of the story, take its starring role. Or he’ll make sure you aren’t named, that you’re left out of it as far as possible. And your daughter won’t be mentioned at all.



I grip the letter tighter. Mimi. I’ve sent her away to the South of France, to paint, to recuperate. This went against every maternal instinct; I didn’t want to be separated from her, knowing how vulnerable she was, how angry. But I knew she couldn’t stay here, with the shadow of death hanging over this place. But before she left I explained it all to her, in my own words. How much she was wanted when she came into my life. How much she is loved. How I have never thought of her as anything other than my very own. My miracle, my wondrous girl.