The Paris Apartment (15 page)

They've all left. My jaw is stiff with the effort of maintaining a mask of serenity. The girl turning up here completely derailed
my plans for the evening. I haven't managed to achieve anything I wanted to with the others.

The bottle of wine is left open on the table. I have drunk far more than I would have had Jacques been here. He would be appalled
to see me have much more than a glass. But then I have also spent many evenings alone here over the years. I suppose I'm not
unlike other women of my social standing. Left to rattle around in their huge apartments while their husbands are away—with
their mistresses, caught up in their work.

When I married Jacques I understood it as an exchange. My youth and beauty for his wealth. Over the years, as is the way with
this particular kind of contract, my worth only diminished as his increased. I knew what I was getting into, and for the most
part I do not regret my choice. But maybe I hadn't reckoned with the loneliness, the empty hours. I glance over at Benoit,
sleeping in his bed in the corner. Small wonder that so many women like me have dogs.

But being alone is better than the company of my stepsons. I see how they look at me, Antoine and Nicolas.

I reach for the bottle and pour the remainder into a glass. The liquid reaches to the very rim. I drink it down. It's a very fine burgundy but it doesn't taste good like this. The acid stings the back of my throat and nostrils like vomit.

I open a new bottle and start drinking that too. I drink it straight from the neck this time, tipping the bottle vertical.
The wine rushes out too fast for me to gulp it down; I cough. My throat is burning, raw. The wine pours over my chin, down
my neck. The cool of it is strangely refreshing. I feel it sinking into the silk of my shirt.

 

I saw him in the courtyard the morning after our drinks, talking to Mimi's flatmate, Camille, in a puddle of sunlight. Jacques
once told me he approved of that girl living with our daughter. A good influence. Nothing to do with that little pink pout,
the delicate upturned nose, the small high breasts, I am sure.

She was leaning toward Benjamin Daniels as a sunflower in a Provençal field tilts toward the sun, Vichy-check top slipping
off brown shoulders, white shorts so brief that half a bronzed buttock was visible beneath each hem. The two of them together
were beautiful, just as he and Dominique had been beautiful; impossible not to see it.

“
Bonjour Madame Meunier
,” Camille trilled. A little wave as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. The “Madame” calculated, no doubt,
to make me feel all the cruel power of her youth. Her phone trilled. She read whatever had arrived, a smile forming as though
she were reading some secret message from a lover. Her fingers went to her lips. The whole thing was a display for him, perhaps:
meant to entice, intrigue. “I have to go,” she said. “
Salut
Ben!” She turned and blew him a kiss.

And then it was just me and Benjamin Daniels in the court
yard. And the concierge, of course. I was certain she would be watching all of this from her cabin.

“You've made it beautiful out here,” he said.

How did he know it was all my work? “It's not looking its best,” I told him. “This time of year—everything is almost over.”

“But I love the rich colors,” he said. “Tell me, what are those—over there?”

“Dahlias. Agapanthus.”

He asked me about several of the borders. He seemed genuinely interested, though I knew he was just humoring me. But I didn't
stop. I was enjoying telling him—telling somebody—about the oasis I had created. For a moment I almost forgot my suspicion
of him.

And then he turned to face me. “I've been meaning to ask you. Your accent intrigues me. Are you originally from France?”

“Excuse me?” I fought not to lose control of my expression, felt the mask slipping.

“I noticed that you don't always use the definite article,” he said. “And your consonants: they're a little harder than a
native speaker's.” He made a pinch with his thumb and forefinger. “Just a little. Where are you from originally?”

“I—” For a moment, I couldn't speak. No one had ever commented on my accent, not even the French—not even the Parisians, who
are the worst snobs of all. I had begun to flatter myself that I had perfected it. That my disguise was complete, foolproof.
But now I realized that if he had guessed, and he wasn't even French, it meant others would have done too, of course they
would. It was a chink, an opening in the shell through which my former self might be glimpsed. Everything I had carefully
put in place, all I had worked so hard at. With that one question he was saying:
you don't fool me
.

 

“I don't like him,” I told Jacques, later. “I don't trust him.”

“What on earth do you mean? I was impressed by him last night. You can feel the ambition coming off him. Perhaps he'll be
a good influence on my wastrel sons.”

What could I tell him?
He made a comment about my accent? I don't like the way he seems to watch all of us? I don't like his smile?
It sounded so weak.

“I don't want him here,” I said. It was all I could think to say. “I think you should ask him to leave.”

“Oh really?” Jacques said, quite pleasantly. Too pleasantly. “You're going to tell me, now, are you, who I may and may not
have in my own house?”

And that was that. I knew not to say anything more on the matter. Not for the time being. I would just have to think of another
way to rid this place of Benjamin Daniels.

 

The next morning a new note arrived.

The amount my blackmailer was asking for had doubled.

I suppose a few thousand euros should sound like small fry to someone living in an apartment worth several million. But the apartment is in Jacques' name. The money tied up in Jacques' accounts, his investments, his business. Ours has always been an old-fashioned arrangement; at any given time I have only had what has been handed out to me for housekeeping, for my wardrobe. I did not realize before I became a part of this world how invisible the grease—the money—that moves its wheels really
is. It is all squirreled away, invested, liquid or fixed, so little of it available in ready cash.

Still, I did not tell Jacques. I knew how badly he would react, which would only make things worse. I knew that by telling
him I would make this thing real, would dredge up the past. And it would only further underscore the imbalance of power that
existed between my husband and me. No, instead I would find a way to pay. I still felt able to handle it on my own. Just.
I chose a diamond bracelet, this time: an anniversary gift.

The next morning, I dutifully left another wedge of grubby notes in a cream-colored envelope beneath the loose step.

 

Now, I look at myself in the mirror across the room. The spreading crimson stain of the wine. I'm transfixed by the sight
of it. The red sinking into the pale silk of the shirt. Like spilled blood.

I rip the shirt from me. It tears so easily. The mother of pearl buttons explode from the fabric, skitter to the corners of
the room. Next, the trousers. The fine soft wool is tight, clinging. A moment later I am on the ground, kicking them from
me. I am sweating. I am panting like an animal.

I look at myself in my lingerie, bought at great expense by my husband but so seldom seen by him. Look at this body, denied
so much pleasure, still so well-honed from the years of dieting. The xylophone of my décolletage, the wishbone of my pelvis.
Once my body was all curves and ripeness. A thing to provoke lust or contempt. To be touched. With a great effort I changed
it into something to be concealed, upon which to hang the garments made for a woman of my standing.

My lips are stained by the wine. My teeth, too. I open my mouth wide.

Holding my own gaze in the mirror I let out a silent scream.

I made my excuses to leave the penthouse as quickly as I could. I just wanted to get out. There was a moment, sensing them
all watching, when I wondered if one of them might try and stop me. Even as I opened the door I thought I might feel a hand
on my shoulder. I walked back down the stairs to Ben's apartment quickly, the back of my neck prickling.

They're a family. They're a family. And this isn't Ben's apartment: not really. Right now I'm sitting here inside someone's
family home. Why on earth didn't Ben tell me this? Did it not seem important? Did he somehow not know?

I think of how impressed I was with Nick's fluent French in the police station. Of course he's bloody fluent: it's his first
language. I'm trying to think back to our first conversation. At no point, as far as I can recall, did he actually tell me
he was English. That stuff about Cambridge, I just assumed—and he let me.

Although he
did
lie to me about something. He pretended his surname was Miller. Why pick that in particular? I remember the results I got
when I searched for him online: did he simply choose it because it's so generic? I march to Ben's bookshelf, pull out his
dog-eared French dictionary, flip through to “M.” This is what I find:

meunier (mønje, jεR)
masculine noun
: miller

Miller = Meunier. He gave me a translation of his surname.

One thing I can't work out, though. If Nick has got some other, hidden agenda, why was he so keen to help? Why did
he come to the police station with me, speak to Commissaire Blanchot? It doesn't fit. Maybe he has another more innocent reason for keeping all of this from me. Maybe they're just a really private family as they're so rich. Or maybe I've been taken for a complete fool . . .

A chill goes through me as I think of them tonight at the drinks party. Observing me like an animal at the zoo. I think how
it didn't make sense that such a random group of people should choose to hang out together. That they seemed to have nothing
in common. But a family . . . that's different. You don't have to have anything in common with your family; the thing that
binds you is your shared blood. I mean, I assume that's how it is. I've never had much of a family. And I wonder whether that's
why I didn't spot the truth. I couldn't read the signs, the important little clues. I don't know how families work.

I go to put the dictionary back on the shelf. As I do, a sheet of paper comes loose and falls out onto the floor. I think
it's one of the pages of the book at first, because it's such a ratty old thing, until I pick it up. It takes me a moment
to work out why I recognize it. I'm sure it's the top sheet of those accounts I found in the desk drawer in the penthouse
apartment. Yes: there's a “1” at the bottom of the page. The same sort of thing: the vintages, the prices paid, the surnames
of the people who have bought them, all with a little “M.” in front of them. But what
is
interesting is what's printed at the top of the sheet of paper. The symbol of a firework exploding, in raised gold emboss.
Just like the strange metal card Ben had in his wallet: the one I've lent to Theo, yesterday. And what's also interesting
is that Ben—in the same scrawl he'd used in his notebook—has written something in the margin:

Then, underneath, underlined twice:
ask Irina.

My heart starts beating a little faster. This is a connection. This is something important. But how on earth am I going to
work out what it means? And who the hell is Irina?

I take out my phone, snap a photo. Piggybacking off Nick's Wifi again, I send it to Theo.

I think of our meeting in the café. I'm not sure I entirely trust the guy. I'm not even convinced I'll hear back from him.
But he's literally the only person I've got left—

My thumb freezes on the phone. I go very still. I just heard something. A scratching sound, at the apartment's front door.
I wonder briefly if it's the cat, before I realize it's lying stretched out on the sofa. My chest tightens. There's someone
out there, trying to get in.

I get up. I feel the need for something to defend myself with. I remember the very sharp knife in Ben's kitchen, the one with
the Japanese characters on it. I go and get it. And then I approach the door. Fling it open.

“You.”

It's the old woman. The concierge. She takes a step back. Puts her hands up. I think she's holding something in her right
fist. I can't tell what it is, the fingers are clenched too tightly.

“Please . . . Madame . . .” Her voice a rasp, as though it's rusty from lack of use. “Please . . . I did not know you were
here. I thought—”

She stops abruptly, but I catch her involuntary glance upward.

“You thought I was still up there, right? In the penthouse.” So she's been keeping an eye on my movements around this place.
“So you thought . . . what? You'd come and have a snoop around? What's that in your hand? A key?”

“No, Madame . . . it's nothing. I swear.” But she doesn't open her fingers to show me.

Something occurs to me. “Was that
you
last night? Sneaking in here? Creeping around?”

“Please. I do not know what you are talking about.”

She is cringing backward. And suddenly I don't feel good about this at all. I might not be big, but she's even smaller than
me. She's an old woman. I lower the knife: I hadn't even realized I was pointing it at her. I'm a little shocked at myself.

“Look, I'm sorry. It's OK.”

Because how harmless can she be, really? A little old lady like that?

 

Alone again, I think about my options. I could confront Nick about all this, see what he says. Ask him what the hell he thought
he was doing, giving me a fake name. Get him to explain himself. But I reject this pretty quickly. I have to pretend to know
nothing. If he knows I've discovered his secret—their secret—that will make me a threat to him and to whatever else he might
be trying to hide. If he thinks I still don't know anything, then perhaps I can keep digging—invisible in plain sight. When
I look at it like this, my new knowledge gives me a kind of power. From the beginning, from the moment I stepped foot in this
building, the others have held all the cards. Now I've got one of my own. Just one, but maybe it's an ace. And I'm going to
use it.