The Paris Apartment (27 page)

“I have to go,” Irina says. A nervous glance out at the dark, empty street beyond the windows. “We've been too long, talking
like this.”

I feel bad just letting her wander off into the city on her own. She's so young, so vulnerable.

“Will you be OK?” I ask her. She gives me a look. It says: I've been looking after myself for a very long time, babe. I trust
myself to do that better than anyone else. And there's something proud about her as she walks away, a kind of dignity. The
way she holds herself, so upright. A dancer's posture, I suppose.

I think how Ben promised to take care of her. I could make promises, too. But I don't know if I can keep them. I don't want
to lie to her. But I make a vow to myself, in this moment, that if I can find a way, I will.

 

As Theo and I walk toward the Metro I'm reeling, running through everything Irina told us. Do they all know? The whole family?
Even “nice guy” Nick? The thought makes me feel nauseous. I think of how he told me that he was “between jobs,” how it clearly
didn't make much odds to him. I suppose it wouldn't if you don't need an income, if your lifestyle is being bankrolled by
a load of girls selling themselves.

And if the Meunier family knew that Ben had found out the truth about La Petite Mort, what might they have done to prevent
a secret like that from getting out?

I turn to Theo.
“If Ben's story had printed the police would have to act, wouldn't they? It wouldn't matter if the Meuniers have some high-up
contacts. Surely there'd be public pressure to investigate.”

Theo nods, but I sense he's not really listening. “So he really was onto something, after all,” he mutters quickly, almost
to himself. He sounds very different from his usual sardonic, downbeat self. He sounds . . . I try to put my finger on it.
Excited? I glance at him.

“It's going to be a huge scoop,” he says. “It's big. It's really big. Especially if establishment figures are involved. It's
like the President's Club but way, way darker. It's the sort of thing that wins awards . . .”

I stop dead. “Are you taking the piss?” I can feel anger pulsing through me. “Do you even care about Ben at all?” I stare
at him. “You don't, do you?” Theo opens his mouth to say something but I don't want to hear another word. “Ugh. You know what?
Fuck you.”

I march away from him, as fast as I can in these ridiculous heels. I'm not completely sure where I'm going, and of course
my stupid phone ran out of data, but I'll work it out. Far better than having to spend literally another second in his company.

“Jess!” Theo calls.

I'm half jogging now. I turn left onto another street. I can't hear him anymore, thank God. I think this is the way. But the
problem is that all the crappy phone shops look exactly the same, especially with their lights off and grilles down, no one
about. There's an odd smell coming from somewhere, acrid, like burning plastic.

What a bastard. I seem to be crying. Why the hell am I crying? I always knew I couldn't trust him, really; I suspected he'd had some angle the first time we met. So it's not like it's a big surprise. It must be everything, the stress of the last few days. Or
Irina: the horror of everything she just told us. Or simply the fact that, even though I half saw it coming, I'd kind of hoped I was wrong, just this once.

And now here I am alone, again. Like always.

I turn onto a new street. Hesitate. I don't think I recognize this. But there seem to be Metro stops everywhere in this city.
If I walk for another couple of blocks I'm sure I'll find one. Over the churn of angry thoughts in my head I'm vaguely aware
of some sort of commotion nearby. Yelling and shouting: a street party? Maybe I should head in that direction. Because I've
just realized there's a lone guy walking in my direction from the other end of the street, hands in his pockets, and I'm sure
he's fine, but I don't really want to test it.

I turn off, head toward the noise. And way, way too late I realize this is no street party. I see a mass of people surging
in my direction, some of them wearing balaclavas and swim goggles and ski masks. Huge plumes of black smoke are mushrooming
into the air. I can hear screaming, shouting, the sound of metal being struck.

Heat roars toward me in a powerful wave and I see the fire in the middle of the street: the flames as high as the second-floor
windows of the buildings opposite. In the middle you can just make out the blackened skeleton of a police van that has been
turned on its side and lit ablaze.

Now I can make out the police approaching the protestors in riot gear, helmets and plastic visors, waving batons in the air. I hear the whiplash crack of the batons as they make contact. And mixing with the black smoke is another kind of vapor: grayish, spilling in all directions—coming toward me. For a moment I stand, frozen, watching. People are running in this direction, slaloming around me. Pushing, yelling, desperate, holding scarves
and T-shirts over their mouths. A guy next to me turns and lobs something—a bottle?—back in the direction of the police.

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.

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.

Then I walk back to the main room of the apartment. The bottle of wine is still there on the table. Another glass, just to
help me think—

I start as I realize I am not alone. Antoine stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching me: a malignant presence. He
must have stayed behind after the other two left.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him. I try to keep my voice controlled, even though my pulse is fluttering up somewhere near
my throat.

He steps forward, under the spotlights. The mark of my hand is still pink on his cheek. I'm not proud of myself for that loss of restraint. It happens so rarely; I have become good at keeping
my emotions in check over the years. But on those very rare occasions when the provocation is great enough, I seem to lose all sense of proportion. The rage takes over.

“It's been fun,” he says, coming nearer still.

“What has been fun?”

“Oh.” The grin he gives me now makes him look quite deranged. “But surely you have guessed by now? After that whole thing
with the photograph in Papa's study? You know. Leaving those little notes for you in your postbox, under your door. Waiting
to collect my cash. I really do like how you package it up like that for me. Those nice cream envelopes. Very discreet.”

I stare at him. I feel as though everything has just been turned on its head. “
You?
It's been you all along?”

He gives a little mock-curtsy. “Are you surprised? That I got it together enough? A ‘useless hothouse flower' like me? I even
managed to keep it all to myself . . . up till now. Didn't want my darling brother to try and get in on the action too. Because,
as you well know, he is just as much of a—what was the word you used again?—
leech
as I am. He's just more hypocritical about it. Hides it better.”

“You don't need money,” I tell him. “Your father—”

“That's what you think. But you see, I had an inkling a few weeks ago that Dominique might be about to try and leave. Just
as I suspected, she's trying to fleece me for everything I've got. She's always been a greedy little bitch. And darling Papa
is so fucking tight-fisted. So I've wanted a little extra cash, you know? To squirrel away.”

“Did Jacques tell you?”

“No, no. I worked it all out on my own. I found the records. Papa keeps very precise notes, did you know that? Of the clients, but also of the girls. I always had my suspicions about you, but I wanted proof. So I went deep into the archives. I found the
details of one Sofiya Volkova, who used to “work”—he puts the word in air quotes—“at the club nearly thirty years ago.”

That name. But Sofiya Volkova no longer exists. I left her back there, shut up in that place with the staircase leading deep
underground, the velvet walls, the locked room.

“Anyway,” Antoine says. “I'm more switched on than people realize. I see a great deal more than everyone thinks.” That manic
grin again. “But then you knew that part already, didn't you?”

Theo and I walk to the Metro together. Funny, how after you've slept with someone (not that you'd call what we just did up
against the sink “sleeping”) you can suddenly feel so shy, so unsure of what to say to each other. I feel stupid, thinking
about the time we might have just wasted. Even if, admittedly, neither of us took that much time. It also feels almost like
it just happened to someone else. Especially now I've changed back into my normal clothes.

Theo turns to face me, his expression solemn. “Jess. You obviously can't go back to that place. Back into the belly of the
beast? You'd be bloody mad.” His tone no longer has that drawling, sardonic edge to it: there's a softness there. “Don't take
this the wrong way. But you strike me as the kind of person who could be a little . . . reckless. I know you probably think
it's the only way you can help Ben. And it's really . . . commendable—”

I stare at him. “
Commendable
? I'm not trying to win some kind of bloody school prize. He's my brother. He's literally the only family I have in the entire
world.”

“OK,” Theo says, putting his hands up. “That was clearly the wrong word. But it's way, way too dangerous. Why don't you come
to mine? I have a couch. You'd still be in Paris. You'll be able to keep looking for Ben. You could speak to the police.”

“What, the same police who supposedly know about that place and haven't done anything about it? The same police who might
well actually be in on it? Yeah, fat lot of good that would do.”

We head down the steps to the Metro together, down onto the
platform. It's almost totally empty, just some drunk guy singing to himself on the opposite side. I hear the deep rumble of a train approaching, feel it behind my breastbone.

Then I have a sudden, definite feeling that something is wrong, though I can't work out what. A kind of sixth sense, I suppose.
Then I hear something else: the sound of running feet. Several pairs of running feet.

“Theo,” I say, “look, I think—”

But before I've even got the words out it's happening. Four big guys are tackling Theo to the ground. I realize that they're
in uniform—police uniforms—and one of them is triumphantly holding a baggie full of something white in the air.

“That's not mine!” Theo shouts. “You've planted that on me—fuck's s—”

But his next words are muffled, then replaced by a groan of pain as one policeman slams his face into the wall, while another
clips cuffs on him. The train is pulling into the platform: I see the people in the nearest carriage staring from the windows.

Then I see that another man is approaching us from the stairs onto the platform: older, wearing a smart suit beneath an equally
smart gray coat. That cropped steel-gray hair, that pitbull face. I know him. It's the guy Nick took me into the police station
to meet. Commissaire Blanchot.

Now, thinking wildly back, I make another connection. The figure I thought I recognized in the audience at the club, just
before the lights went down. It was him. He must have been following us all night.

The two policemen who aren't so preoccupied with holding Theo start toward me now: it's my turn. I know I only have a few
seconds to act. The train doors are opening. Suddenly a whole crowd of protestors are pouring from the carriage, carrying
signs and makeshift weapons.

Theo manages to turn his head toward me. “Jess,” he calls through a split lip, his voice slurred. “Get on the bloody train.” The guy behind him knees him in the back; he crumples onto the platform.

I hesitate. I can't just leave him here . . .

“Get on the fucking train, Jess. I'll be fine. And don't you dare go back there.”

The nearest policeman lunges for me. I step quickly out of his way, then turn and shove my way through the oncoming crowd.
I leap up into the carriage just before the doors close.