The Paris Apartment (31 page)

From the moment I saw her, covered in blood—my husband's blood—I acted so quickly, almost without thought. Everything I did
was to protect my daughter. It is possible that I was in shock too but my mind seemed very clear. I have always been single-minded,
focused. Able to make the best out of a bad situation. It's how I ended up with this life, after all.

I knew that if I were to have the cooperation of his sons, their help in this, Jacques would have to be alive. I knew that
it had to be Benjamin who had died. Before I wrapped the body I had held Jacques' phone up to his face, unlocked it, changed
the passcode. I have kept it on me ever since, messaging Antoine and Nicolas as their papa. The longer I could keep Jacques
“alive,” the more I could get out of his sons.

After I had done what I could for Benjamin—stemming the blood with a towel, cleaning the wounds—the concierge and I brought
him up here to the
chambres de bonne
. He was too concussed to struggle; too badly injured to try and free himself. Here I've been keeping him alive—just. I've been giving him water, scraps of food: the other day a quiche from the boulangerie. All until I could decide what to do with him. He was so badly wounded that it might have been easier to let nature take its course. But we had been lovers. There was still that reminder of what we had briefly been to each other. I am many things: a
whore, a mother, a liar. But I am not a killer. Unlike my beloved daughter.

“Jacques has gone away for a while,” I told my stepsons, when they arrived. “It is best that no one knows he was here in Paris
tonight. So as far as you know, should anyone ask, he has been away the entire time on one of his trips. Yes?”

They nodded at me. They have never liked me, never approved of me. But in their father's absence they were hanging on my every
word. Wanting to be told what to do, how to act. They have never really grown up, either of them. Jacques never allowed them
to.

I think of the gratitude that I'd felt to Jacques in the beginning, for “rescuing” me from my previous life. I didn't realize
at the time how cheaply I had been bought. I didn't free myself when I married my husband, as I'd thought. I didn't elevate
myself. I did the exact opposite. I married my pimp: I chained myself to him for life.

Perhaps my daughter did the very thing I hadn't had the courage to do.

I grip the knife, ready to defend Ben—and myself—should either of them come closer. Strangely, they don't seem so threatening
right now. The air feels less charged with tension. Nick is looking from Sophie to Ben and back; his eyes wild. Something
else is going on here, something I can't understand. And yet still I grip the knife. I can't let my guard down.

“My husband is dead,” Sophie Meunier says. “That is what happened.” At these words I watch Nick stagger backward.
He didn't know?

“
Qui?
” he says, hoarsely. “
Qui?
” I think he must be asking who.

“My daughter,” Sophie Meunier says, “she was trying to protect Ben. I have been keeping your brother here,” she gestures in
our direction, “I have kept him alive.” She says it like she thinks she deserves some sort of credit. I can't find the words
to answer.

I look from one to the other, trying to work out how to play this. Nick is a shrunken figure: crouched down, head in his hands.
Sophie Meunier is the threat here, I'm sure. I'm the one with the knife but I wouldn't put anything past her. She steps toward
me. I raise the knife but she barely seems fazed.

“You are going to let us go,” I say: trying to sound a lot more assertive than I feel. I might have a knife, but she has us
trapped here: the outside gate is locked. I'm quickly realizing there's no way we're getting out of this place unless she
agrees to it. I doubt Ben can stand without a lot of help and there's the whole building between us and the outside world.
She's probably thinking the same thing.

She shakes her head. “I cannot do that.”

“Yes. You have to. I need to take him to a hospital.”

“No—”

“I won't tell them,” I say, quickly. “Look . . . I won't say how he got the injuries. I'll . . . I'll tell them he fell off
his moped, or something. I'll say he must have come back to his apartment—that I found him.”

“They won't believe you,” she says.

“I'll find a way to convince them. I won't tell.” I can hear desperation in my voice now. I'm begging. “Please. You can take
my word for it.”

“And how can I be sure of that?”

“What other choice do you have?” I ask. “What else can you do?” I take a risk here. “Because you can't keep us here forever.
People know I'm here. They'll come looking.” Not exactly true. There's Theo, but he's presumably banged up in a cell right
now and I never told him the address: it would take him some time to find out. But she doesn't need to know this. I just need
to sell it. “And I know you aren't a killer, Sophie. As you say, you kept him alive. You wouldn't have done that if you were.”

She watches me levelly. I have no idea if any of this is working. I sense I need something more.

I think of how she said, “My daughter,” the intensity of feeling in it. I need to appeal to that part of her.

“Mimi is safe,” I say. “I promise you that much. If what you're saying is true, she saved Ben's life. That means a lot—that
means everything. I will never tell anyone what she did. I swear to you. That secret is safe with me.”

Can I trust her? Do I have any other choice?

“
I will never tell anyone what she did
.” Somehow she has managed to guess my greatest fear.

She is right: if I wanted to kill them, I would have done so already. I know that I cannot trap the two of them here indefinitely.
Nor do I want to. And I don't think my stepsons will cooperate with me now. Nicolas appears to be falling apart at the realization
of his father's death; Antoine has helped so far only because he thought he was doing his father's bidding. I dread to think
what his reaction will be when he learns the truth. I will have to work out what to do with him, but that's not my main problem
now.

“You will not tell the police,” I say. It isn't a question.

She shakes her head. “The police and I don't get along.” She points to Nicolas. “He'll back me up on that.” But Nicolas barely seems to hear her. So she keeps talking, her voice low and urgent. “Look. I'll tell you something, if it helps. My dad was a copper, actually. A real fucking hero to everyone else. Except he made my mum's life hell. But no one would believe me when I told them about it: how he treated her, how he hit her. Because he was a ‘good guy,' because he put bad guys in jail. And then . . .” she clears her throat, “and then one day it got too much for my mum. She decided it would just be easier to stop trying. So . . . no. I don't trust the police. Not here, not anywhere. Even before I met
your guy—Blanchot. You have my word that I am not going to go and tell them about this.”

So she knows about Blanchot. I had wondered about calling him for help here. But he has always been Jacques' man, I do not
know if his loyalties would extend to me. I cannot risk him learning the truth.

I size the girl up. I realize that, almost in spite of myself, I believe her. Partly because of what she's just told me, about
her father. Partly because I can see it in her face, the truth of it. And finally, because I'm not sure I have any other choice
but to trust her. I have to protect my daughter at all costs: that is all that matters now.

I am numb. I know that feeling will return at some point, and that no doubt when it does the pain will be terrible. But for
now there is only this numbness. There is a kind of relief in it. Perhaps I do not yet know what to feel. My father is dead.
I spent a childhood terrorized by him, my whole adult life trying to escape him. And yet, God help me, I loved him, too.

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.

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.”

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.

I catch my breath.

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.

I have also tried to make her see that in the circumstances she did the only thing she could that night. That she saved a
life as well as taking one. That she, too, acted out of love. I did not tell her I might have done the same. That for a brief
time he was almost everything to me, too. But I suspect she knows, somehow, about the affair—if that is what one can call
those snatched few weeks of selfish, reckless, glorious insanity.

I know that things may never again be the same between my daughter and I. But I can hope. And love her. It is all I can do.

I, too, would leave this place and join her—given the choice. But my late husband is buried in the garden. I have to stay.
It is something I have made my peace with. This may be a gilded cage, but it is the life I have chosen.

I keep reading.

Nicolas has also left, along with the few possessions he kept here. I don't think he'll be back. I think it will be good for
him to leave this place. To stand on his own two feet.

My other stepson remains here and while he isn't the most congenial of neighbors it is better having him where I can keep
an eye on him. And he is a less threatening presence now. I don't think I'll be receiving any more of his little notes. He
seems diminished by everything, by the grief he feels for a father who was rarely anything other than cruel to him. In spite
of myself I feel for him.

I turn the letter over. Read on:

I shake my head. “There's no way—”

I fold the letter again. Slide it back into the envelope.

And then I nod.

I glance up, feeling watched. My gaze goes straight to the cabin in the corner of the courtyard. But there's no one inside. I looked for her that night. I searched the building from top to
bottom, thinking that she couldn't possibly have gone far with her injuries. I even looked in her cabin. But there was no sign. Along with the photographs on the wall, several of the smallest and yet most valuable items from the apartment—that little Matisse, for example—and also my silver whippet, Benoit, the concierge was gone.