The Paris Apartment (19 page)

I descend the staircase with Benoit trotting at my heels. As I pass the third floor I pause. I can feel her there behind the
door, like something poisonous at the heart of this place.

It was the same with him. His presence upset the building's equilibrium. I seemed to see him everywhere after that dinner
on the terrace: in the stairwell, crossing the courtyard, talking to the concierge. We never talk to the concierge beyond
issuing instructions. She is a member of staff, that sort of divide must be respected. Once I even saw him following her into
her cabin. What could they be speaking about in there? What might she be telling him?

When the third note came, it wasn't left in the letterbox. It was pushed beneath the door of the apartment, at a time when
I suppose my blackmailer knew Jacques would be out. I had returned from the boulangerie with Jacques' favorite quiche, which
I have bought for him every Friday for as long as I can remember. When I saw the note I dropped the box I was holding. Pastry
shattered across the floor. It sent a thrill through me that I knew had to be fear but for a moment felt almost like excitement.
And that was just as disturbing.

I had been invisible for so long, any currency spent long ago. But these notes, even as they frightened me, felt like the
first time in a very long while that I had been seen.

I knew I could not stay in the building for a moment longer.

Outside the streets were still white with heat, the air shimmering. At the cafés tourists clustered at pavement tables and
sweated into their
thé glacés
and
citron pressés
and wondered why they didn't feel refreshed. But in the restaurant it was dim and cool as some underwater grotto, as I had
known it would be. Dark paneled walls, white tablecloths, huge paintings upon the walls. They had given me the best table,
of course—Meunier SARL has supplied them with rare vintages over the years—and the air-conditioning sent an icy plume down
the back of my silk shirt as I sipped my mineral water.

“Madame Meunier.” The waiter came over. “
Bienvenue
. The usual?”

Every time I have eaten there with Jacques I have ordered the same. The endive salad with walnuts and tiny dabs of Roquefort.
An aging wife is one thing; a fat wife is another.

But Jacques was not there.

“
L'entrecôte
,” I said.

The waiter looked at me as though I had asked for a slab of human flesh. The steak has always been Jacques' choice.

“But Madame,” he said, “it is so
hot
. Perhaps the oysters—we have some wonderful
pousses en Claire—
or a little salmon, cooked
sous vide 
. . .”

“The steak,” I repeated. “Blue.”

The last time I ate steak was when a gynecologist, all those years ago, prescribed it for fertility; doctors here still recommend red meat and wine for many ailments. Months of eating like a caveman. When that didn't work came the indignity of the treatments. The injections into my buttocks. Jacques' glances of vague disgust. I had inherited two stepsons. What was this obsession with having a child? I could not explain that I simply wanted someone to love. Wholehearted, unreserved, requited. Of course,
the treatments didn't work. And Jacques refused to adopt. The paperwork, the scrutiny into his business affairs—he would not stand for it.

The steak came and I cut into it. Watched as the blood ran thin and palest pink from the incision. It was then that I looked
up and saw him, Benjamin Daniels, in the corner of the restaurant. He had his back to me, though I could see his reflection
in the mirror that ran along the wall. Something elegant about the line of his back: the way he sat, hands in his pockets.
The posture of someone very comfortable in their own skin.

I felt my pulse quicken. What was he doing here?

He glanced up and “caught” me watching him in the mirror. But I suspected he knew I was there all along, had been waiting
for me to notice him. His reflection raised the glass of beer.

I looked away. Sipped my mineral water.

A few seconds later, a shadow fell across the table. I looked up. That ingratiating smile. He wore a crumpled linen shirt
and shorts, legs bare and brown. His clothes were entirely inappropriate for the restaurant's formality. And yet he seemed
so relaxed in the space. I hated him for it.

“Hello Sophie,” he said.

I bristled at the familiarity, then remembered I had asked him not to call me “Madame.” But the way he said my name: it felt
like a transgression.

“May I?” He indicated the chair. To do anything other than agree would have been rude. I nodded, to show I didn't care either
way what he did.

It was the first time I had been so close to him. Now I saw that he wasn't handsome, not in the traditional sense. His features
were uneven. His confidence, charisma: that was what made him attractive.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I'm reviewing the place,” he said. “Jacques suggested it at dinner. I haven't eaten yet but I'm already impressed by the space—the atmosphere, the art.”

I glanced at the painting he was looking at. A woman on her knees: powerfully built, almost masculine. Strong limbs, strong
jaw. Nothing elegant about her, only a kind of feral strength. Her head thrown back, howling at the moon like a dog. The splayed
legs, the skirt rucked . . . it was almost sexual. If you could get close enough to sniff it, I imagined it wouldn't be paint
you smelled but blood. I felt suddenly very aware of the sweat that might have soaked into the silk beneath my arms on the
walk over here, hidden half-moons of damp in the fabric.

“What do you think?” he asked. “I love Paula Rego.”

“I'm not sure I agree,” I said.

He pointed to my lip. “You have a little—just there.”

I put the corner of the napkin up to my mouth and dabbed. Took it away and saw that the thick white linen was stained with
blood. I stared at it.

He coughed. “I sense—look, I just wanted to say that I hope we haven't got off on the wrong foot. The other day—when I commented
on your accent. I hope I didn't seem rude.”

“
Mais non
,” I said. “What would make you think that?”

“Look, I took French studies at Cambridge, you see, I'm just fascinated by such things.”

“I was not offended,” I told him. “
Pas du tout
.”
Not at all.

He grinned. “That's a relief. And I enjoyed the dinner on the roof terrace so much. It was kind of you to invite me.”

“I didn't invite you,” I said. “That dinner was all Jacques' idea.” Perhaps it sounded rude. But it was also true. No invitation
would be offered without Jacques' say-so.

“Poor Jacques, then,” he said, with a rueful smile. “The weather that night! I've never seen anyone so furious. I actually thought
he was going to try and take the storm on, like Lear. The look on his face!”

I laughed. I couldn't help it. I should have been appalled, offended. No one made a joke at my husband's expense. But it was
the surprise of it. And he'd pulled such an accurate impression of Jacques' outraged expression.

Trying to regain my composure I reached for my water, took a sip. But I felt lighter than I had in a very long time.

“Tell me,” he said, “what is it like being married to a man like Jacques Meunier?”

The sip caught in my throat. Now I was coughing, my eyes watering. One of the waiters ran forward to offer assistance: I waved
him away with a hand. All I could think was: what did Ben know? What could Nicolas have told him?

“Sorry.” He gave a quick smile. “I don't think my question came out quite right. Sometimes I can be so clumsy in French. What
I meant was: being married to such a successful businessman. What's it like?”

I didn't answer. The look I gave him by way of reply said:
you don't frighten me
. Except I was frightened. He was the sender of the notes, I was certain of it now. He was the one collecting those envelopes
of cash I left beneath the loose step.

“I just meant,” he said, “that should you ever want to give an interview, I'd be so interested to talk to you. You could talk
about what it is to run such a successful business—”

“It's not my business.”

“Oh, I'm sure that isn't true. I'm sure you must—”

“No.” I leaned across the table to emphasize the point, tapped out each word with a fingernail on the tablecloth. “The business
is nothing to do with me.
Comprenez-vous?
”
Do you understand?

“OK. Well.” He looked at his watch. “The offer still stands. It
could be . . . more of a lifestyle piece. On you as the quintessential Parisienne, something like that. You know where I am.” He smiled.

I just looked at him. Perhaps you don't understand who you're dealing with, here. There are things I have had to do to get
to where I am. Sacrifices I have had to make. People I have had to climb over. You are nothing compared to all that.

“Anyway,” he stood. “I better be going. I have a meeting with my editor. I'll see you around.”

When I was sure he had gone I called the waiter over. “The 1998.”

His eyes widened. He looked as though he was about to offer an alternative to such a heavy red in that heat. Then he saw my
expression. He nodded, scurried away, returned with the bottle.

As I drank I remembered a night early in my marriage. The Opéra Garnier, where we watched
Madame Butterfly
beneath Chagall's painted ceiling and sipped chilled champagne in the bar in the interval and I hoped Jacques might show
me the famous reliefs of the moon and the sun painted in pure gold on the domed ceilings of the little chambers at each end.
But he was more interested in pointing out people, clients of his. Ministers for certain governmental departments, businessmen,
significant figures from the French media. Some of them even I recognized, though they didn't know me. But they all knew Jacques.
Returning his nod with tight little nods of their own.

I knew exactly what sort of man I was marrying. I went into the whole thing clear-eyed. I knew what I'd be getting out of
it. No, our marriage would not always be perfect. But what marriage is? And he gave me my daughter, in the end. I could forgive
anything for that.

 

Now, I pause for a moment on the landing outside the third-floor apartment. Stare at the brass number 3. Remember standing in this exact spot all those weeks ago. I'd spent the rest of the afternoon at the restaurant, drinking my way through the 1998 vintage as all the waiters no doubt watched, appalled.
Madame Meunier has gone mad
. As I drank I thought about Benjamin Daniels and his impertinence, about the notes, the horrible power they had over me.
My rage blossomed. For the first time in a long time I felt truly alive. As though I might be capable of anything.

I came back to the apartment as dusk was falling, climbed the stairs, stood on this same spot and knocked on his door.

Benjamin answered it quickly, before I had a chance to change my mind.

“Sophie,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans; his feet were bare. There was music playing on the record player behind him, a record spinning
round lazily. An open beer in his hand. It occurred to me that he might have someone there with him, which I hadn't even considered.

“Come in,” he said. I followed him into the apartment. I suddenly felt as though I was trespassing, which was absurd. This
was my home, he was the intruder.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

“No. Thank you.”

“Please—I have some wine open.” He gestured to his beer bottle. “It's wrong—my drinking while you don't.”

Somehow he had already managed to wrong-foot me, by being so gracious, so charming. I should have been prepared for it.

“No,” I said. “I don't want any. This is not a social visit.” Besides, I could still feel my head swimming from the wine I
had drunk in the restaurant.

He grimaced. “I apologize,” he said. “If this is about the
restaurant—my questions—I know that was presumptuous of me. I realize I crossed a line.”

“It's not that.” My heart was beating very fast. I had been carried here by my anger, but now I felt afraid. Voicing this
thing would bring it into the light, would finally make it real. “It's you, isn't it?”

He frowned. “What?” He hadn't expected this, I thought. Now it was his turn to be on the back foot. It gave me the confidence
I needed to go on.

“The notes.”

He looked nonplussed. “Notes?”

“You know what I'm talking about. The notes—the demands for payment. I have come to tell you that you do not want to threaten
me. There is little I will not do to protect myself. I will . . . I will stop at nothing.”

I can still hear his awkward, apologetic laugh. “Madame Meunier—Sophie—I'm so sorry but I have literally no idea what you're
talking about. What notes?”

“The ones you have been leaving for me,” I said. “In my letterbox. Under my door.”

I watched his face so carefully, but I saw only confusion. Either he was a consummate actor, which I wouldn't have put past
him, or what I was saying really didn't mean anything to him. Could it be true? I looked at him, at his bemused expression,
and I realized, in spite of myself, that I believed him. But it didn't make sense. If not him, then who?

“I—” The room seemed to tilt a little: a combination of the wine I had drunk and this new realization.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

And I did sit, because suddenly I wasn't sure that I could stand.

He poured me a glass of wine without asking, this time. I needed it. I took the offered glass and tried not to hold the stem
so tightly that it snapped.