The Paris Apartment (17 page)

The voices are a roar of sound over the top of the music. I can't believe how many people are packed into the space down here:
it must be well over a hundred. Fake cobwebs have been draped from the ceiling and candles placed along the floor, illuminating
the rough walls. The scent of the burning wax is strong in the tight, airless space. The reflection of the dancing flames
gives the impression that the stone is moving, wriggling like something alive.

I try to blend into the crowd. My costume is by far the worst one I can see. Most of the guests have gone all out. A nun in
a white habit drenched in blood is kissing a woman who has painted her entire semi-naked body red and is wearing a pair of
twisted devil horns. A plague doctor dressed from head to toe in a black cloak and hat lifts up the long, curved beak of his
mask to take a drag from a cigarette and then lets the smoke blow out of the eyeholes. A tall tuxedo-clad figure with a huge
wolf's head sips a cocktail through a straw. Everywhere I look there are mad monks, grim reapers, demons and ghouls. And a
strange thing: the surroundings make all these figures seem more sinister than they would up above ground, in proper lighting.
Even fake blood somehow looks more real down here.

I'm trying to work out how to insert myself into one of these groups of people and start a conversation about Ben. I also
desperately need a drink.

Suddenly I feel my sheet wrenched off my head. A dead cowboy puts up his hands: “Oops!” He must have tripped over the
trailing fabric. Crap, it's already grimy from the ground, wet with spilled beer. I scrunch it up into a dirty ball. I'll just have to do it without the disguise. There are so many people here I'm hardly going to stand out.

“Oh,
salut
!”

I turn to see a stupidly pretty girl wearing a huge flower crown and a floaty white peasant dress splattered with blood. It
takes me a moment to place her: Mimi's flatmate. Camille: that was it.

“It's you!” she says. “You're Ben's sister, right?” So much for trying to blend in.

“Um. I hope this is OK? I heard the music—”

“
Plus on est de fous, plus on rit
, you know? The more the merrier! Hey, such a shame Ben isn't here.” A little pout. “That guy seems to love a party!”

“So you know my brother?”

She wrinkles her tiny freckled nose. “Ben?
Oui, un peu
. A little.”

“And they all like him? The Meuniers, I mean? The family?”

“But of course. Everyone loves him! Jacques Meunier likes him a lot, I think. Maybe even more than his own children. Oh—”
She stops, like she's remembered something. “Antoine. He doesn't like him.”

I remember the scene in the courtyard that first morning. “Do you think there might have been something . . . well, between
my brother and Antoine's wife?”

The smile vanishes. “Ben and Dominique?
Jamais
.” A fierceness to the way she says it. “They flirted. But it was nothing more than that.”

I try a different tack. “You said you saw Ben on Friday, talking to Mimi on the stairs?”

She nods.

“What time was that? What I mean is . . . did you see him after that? Did you see him that night at all?”

A tiny hesitation. Then: “I wasn't here that night,” she says. Now she seems to spot someone over my shoulder. “
Coucou Simone!
” She turns back to me. “I must go. Have fun!” A little wave of her hand. The carefree party girl seems to be back. But when
I asked her about the night Ben disappeared, she didn't seem quite so happy-go-lucky. She suddenly seemed very keen to stop
talking. And for a moment I thought I saw the mask slip. A glimpse of someone totally different underneath.

By the time I get down to the
cave
there are already so many people crammed inside. I'm never good with crowds at the best of times, with people invading my
space. Camille's friend Henri has brought his decks and a massive speaker and is playing “La Femme”
at top volume. Camille's greeting newcomers at the entrance in her
Midsommar
dress, the flower crown wobbling on her head as she jumps up and throws her arms around people.

“Ah,
salut
Gus, Manu—
coucou
Dédé!”

No one pays me much attention even though it's my place. They've come for Camille, they're all her friends. I pour ten centimeters
of vodka into a glass and start drinking.

“
Salut
Mimi.”

I look down.
Merde
. It's Camille's friend LouLou. She's sitting on some guy's lap, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. She's dressed
as a cat; a headband with black lace ears, silk leopard-print slip dress falling off one shoulder. Long brown hair all tangled
like she just got out of bed and her lipstick smudged but in a sexy way. The perfect
Parisienne. Or like those Instagram cretins in their Bobo espadrilles and cat-eye liner doing fuck-me eyes at the lens. That's
how people think French girls should look. Not like me with my home-cut mullet and pimples round my mouth.

“I haven't seen you for so long.” She waves her cigarette—she's also one of those girls who lights cigarettes outside cafés but
doesn't actually inhale, just holds them and lets the smoke drift everywhere while she gestures with her pretty little hands. Hot ash lands on my arm. “
I
remember,” she says, her eyes widening. “It was at that bar in the park . . . August.
Mon Dieu
, I've never seen you like that. You were
crazy
.” A cute little giggle for weirdo Mimi.

At this moment the music changes. And I can barely believe it but it's that song. “Heads Will Roll,” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs
.
It feels like fate. And suddenly I'm back there.

 

It was too hot to be inside so I suggested to Camille we go to this bar, Rosa Bonheur, in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. I
hadn't told Camille but knew Ben might be there. He was writing a piece on the bar; I'd heard him talking to his editor through
the apartment's open windows.

Since he lent me that Yeah Yeah Yeahs record I'd Googled the lead singer, Karen O. I'd tried dressing like her and when I
did I felt like someone else. I'd spent the afternoon cutting my hair into her short, jagged style. And that evening I put
on my Karen O outfit: a thin white tank top, painted my lips red, ringed my eyes in black eyeliner. At the last moment I took
off my bra.

“
Waouh!
” Camille breathed, when I came out. “You look so . . . different. Oh my God . . . I can see your
nénés
!” She grinned. “Who's this for?”

“
Va te faire foutre.
”
I told her to fuck off because I was embarrassed. “It's not
for
anyone.” And it was hardly anything compared to what she was wearing: a loose-knit gold mesh dress that stopped just below
her
chatte
.

Outside the streets were so hot you could feel the burning pavement through the soles of your shoes and the air was shimmering with dust and exhaust fumes. And then the most horrible
coincidence: just as we were leaving through the front gate there was Papa, coming in the other direction. Despite the heat I felt cold all over. I wanted to die. I knew the exact moment when he saw me; his expression shifting dangerously.

“
Salut
,” Camille said, a little wave. He smiled at her—always a smile for Camille; like every other guy on earth. She was wearing
a jacket buttoned over her dress so you couldn't see that she was pretty much naked beneath. I've noticed that she has this
way of being exactly what men want her to be. With Papa she has always been so demure, so innocent, all “
oui Monsieur
” and “
non Monsieur
” from beneath her lowered eyelashes.

Papa turned from Camille to me. “What are you wearing?” he asked, his eyes glittering.

“I . . .” I stammered. “It's so hot, I thought . . .”

“
Tu ressembles à une petite putain.
”
That's what he said. I remember it so clearly because I felt the words like they were being burned into me: I can still feel
the sting of them now.
You look like a little slut.
He'd never spoken to me like that before. “And what have you done to your hair?”

I put my hand up, touched my new Karen O fringe.

“I'm ashamed of you. Do you hear me? Never dress like this again. Go and change.”

His tone scared me. I nodded. “
D'accord, Papa
.”

We followed him back into the building. But as soon as he had disappeared into the penthouse, Camille grabbed my hand and
we ran out of there and along the street to the Metro and I tried to forget about it, tried to be just another carefree nineteen-year-old
out for the night.

The park felt like a jungle, not part of the city: steam rising up off the grass, the bushes, the trees. A big crowd around the bar. This buzz, this wild energy. I could feel the beat of the music deep
under my rib cage, vibrating through my whole body. There were people wearing way less than me, less than Camille even: girls in tiny bikinis who'd probably spent the day sunbathing on the Paris Plages, those artificial beaches by the river they construct in the summer. The air smelled like sweat and suntan lotion and hot, dry grass and the sticky sweet of cocktails.

I drank my first Aperol Spritz like it was lemonade. I still felt sick about the look on Papa's face.
A little slut.
The way he spat out the words. I drank the second one quickly too. Then I didn't care so much.

The girl at the decks turned the music up and people started dancing. Camille took my hand and dragged me into the crowd.
There were some friends of ours—no, hers—from the Sorbonne. There were pills going round from a little plastic baggie. That's
not me. I drink but I never take drugs.

“
Allez Mimi
,” LouLou said, after she'd placed the tab on her tongue and swallowed it. “
Pourquoi pas?
”
Come on, Mimi. Why not?
“Just a half?”

And maybe I really had turned into someone else because I took the little half of the tab she held out to me. I kept it on
my tongue for a second, let it dissolve.

After that it got blurry. Suddenly I was dancing and I was right in the middle of the crowd and I just wanted to carry on
forever in the middle of all those sweaty bodies, these strangers. It seemed like everyone was smiling at me, love just pouring
out of them.

People were dancing on tables. Someone lifted me up onto one. I didn't care. I was someone different, someone new. Mimi was
gone. It was wonderful.

And then the song came on: “Heads Will Roll.” At the same moment I looked over and I saw him. Ben. Down there,
in the middle of the crowd. A pale gray T-shirt and jeans, despite the heat. A bottle of beer in his hand. It was like something from a film. I'd spent so much time watching him in his apartment, watching him across the table at dinner, it felt so weird to see him in the real world, surrounded by strangers. I had started to feel like he belonged to me.

And then he turned, like the pressure of my eyes had been enough for him to know I was there, and he raised a hand and smiled.
There was a current running through me. I went to step toward him. But suddenly I was falling; I had forgotten about the table,
and the ground was rushing up to meet me—

“Mimi. Mimi? Who are you here with?”

I couldn't see the others. All the faces that had seemed to be smiling before weren't now. I could see them looking and I
could hear laughter and it seemed like I was surrounded by a pack of wild animals, teeth gnashing, eyes staring. But he was
there; and I felt like he would keep me safe.

“I think you need some air.” He put out his hand. I grasped hold of it. It was the first time he had touched me. I didn't
want to let go, even after he had pulled me up. I didn't ever want to let go. He had beautiful hands, the fingers long, elegant.
I wanted to put them in my mouth, to taste his skin.

The park was dark, so dark, away from the lights and sounds of the bar. Everything was a million miles away. The farther we
went the more it felt like none of the rest of it was real. Just him. The sound of his voice.

We went down to the lake. He made to go and sit on a bench but I saw a tree right next to the water, roots spreading beneath
the surface. “Here,” I said. He sat down beside me. I could smell him: clean sweat and citrus.

He passed me an Evian bottle. Suddenly I was thirsty, so thirsty. “Not too much,” he said. “Steady on—that's enough.” He
took the bottle away from me. We sat there for a while in silence. “How do you feel? Want to go back and find your friends?”

No. I shook my head. I didn't want that. I wanted to stay here in the dark with the hot breeze moving the tall trees above
us and the lapping of the lake water against the banks.

“They're not my friends.”

He took out a cigarette. “You want one? I suppose it might help . . .”

I took one, put it between my lips. He went to pass me the lighter. “You do it,” I said.

I loved watching his fingers working the lighter, like he was casting some spell. The tip lit, glowed. I sucked in the smoke.

“
Merci
,” I said.

Suddenly the shadows under the next tree along seemed to move. There was someone there. No . . . two people. Tangled together.
I heard a moan. Then a whisper: “
Je suis ta petite pute.
”
I'm your little whore.

Normally I would have looked away. I would have been so embarrassed. But I couldn't take my eyes off them. The pill, the darkness,
him sitting so close—that most of all—it loosened something inside me. Loosened my tongue.

“I've never had that,” I whispered, looking toward the couple under the tree. And I found myself telling him my most embarrassing
secret. That while Camille brought back different guys every week—sometimes girls, too—I'd never actually had sex with anyone.
Except right then I didn't feel embarrassed; it felt like I could say anything.

“Papa's so strict,” I said. I thought of how he had looked at me earlier.
A little slut.
“He said this horrible thing this evening . . . about how I looked. And sometimes I get this feeling, like he's ashamed, like he doesn't really like me that much. He looks at me, talks to me, like I'm an . . . an imposter, or something.” I
didn't think I was explaining very well. I'd never said any of this to anyone. But Ben was listening and nodding and, for the first time, I felt heard.

Then he spoke. “You're not a little girl any longer, Mimi. You're a grown woman. Your father can't control you anymore. And
what you just described? The way he makes you feel? Use it, to drive yourself. Use it for inspiration in your art. All true
artists are outsiders.” I looked at him. He'd spoken so fiercely. It felt like he was talking from experience. “I'm adopted,”
he said then. “In my opinion, families are overrated.”

I looked toward him, sitting so close in the darkness. It made sense. It was part of that connection between us, the one I'd
felt since the first time I saw him. We were both outsiders.

“And you know what?” he said—and his voice was still different than usual. More raw. More urgent. “It's not about where you
came from. What kind of shit might have happened to you in the past. It's about who
you
are. What you do with the opportunities life presents to you.”

And then he put his hand gently on my arm. The lightest touch. The pads of his fingertips were hot against my skin. The feeling
seemed to travel straight from my arm right to the very center of me. He could have done anything to me right there in the
dark and I'd have been his.

And then he smiled. “It looks good, by the way.”

“
Quoi?
”

“Your hair.”

I put my hand up to touch it. I could feel where the hair was sticking to my forehead with sweat.

He smiled at me. “It suits you.”

And that was the moment. I leaned over and I grabbed hold of his face in both hands and kissed him. I wanted more. I half-clambered
on top of him, tried to straddle him.

“Hey,” he laughed, pulling back, pushing me gently away, wiping his mouth. “Hey, Mimi. I like you too much for that.”

I got it, then. Not here; not like this: not for the first time. The first time between us had to be special. Perfect.

Maybe you could say it was the pill. But that was the moment I felt myself fall in love with him. I thought I had been in
love once before but it didn't work out. Now I knew how false the other time had been. Now I understood. I'd been waiting
for Ben.

 

The song ends and the spell is broken. I'm back in the
cave
, surrounded by all these idiots in their stupid Halloween costumes. They're playing Christine and the Queens now, everyone
howling along to the chorus. People shoving past me, ignoring me, like always.

Wait. I've just spotted a face in the crowd. A face that has no business being at this party.

Putain de merde.

What the hell is
she
doing here?