The Paris Affair

by Pip Drysdale

  ‘Well, what did she say, before she left?’

  C’est pour ta femme.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘It was in French. I think it was something about a painting.’

  We sit there in silence for a few moments. I can hear her breathing. Her eyes are down. I brace myself to be told that going to that party was unprofessional. That having the police seek me out in my place of work is unacceptable.

  But instead she just looks up, face blank, and says, ‘Okay, thanks, Harper.’

  And I head back towards my desk. Everyone is watching me now. Claudia is whispering something. Wesley is staring.

  They all know the police were here talking to me.

  They just don’t know why.

  Not yet.

  And so I set my gaze on the large windows that look out onto the stormy sky, raindrops sparkling from the panes.

  I sit down and fire up my computer. Wesley is shuffling around with papers on his side of the desk. The fluorescent light flickering above me is a little too bright. My computer sparks to life and I’m about to navigate to my inbox when Wesley stands up and says, ‘Are you coming?’

  Right. It’s just before ten on a Thursday.

  That means one thing: the editorial meeting.

  * * *

  Four minutes later I’m taking a seat at the meeting room table beside Wesley. I glance over at the sheet of paper in front of him. It’s folded over, like he thinks I’m going to steal his ideas.

  Hyacinth walks in and closes the door after her with a bang then sits at the head of the table.

  ‘Right,’ she says, ‘dazzle me. Who would like to go first?’

  ‘Me,’ comes Stan’s voice. Stern. Clear. We all turn to look at him. He’s sitting at the end of the table, slouched forward so the buttons of his light blue shirt tug at the fabric.

  Hyacinth hesitates for a split second. I think of him pacing around in her office on Tuesday then slamming the door as I ran to the loos to vomit.

  ‘As some of you might have already read, they found a woman’s body yesterday.’ A vein is popping out the side of his temple like he’s really fucking annoyed. ‘The one I spoke to you about on Tuesday, Hyacinth. You’ll be glad to know that she’s officially dead now. And, bless the lord, she’s pretty too. Will make perfect click-bait.’

  The bit about click-bait is said with a dark and venomous smile. It’s aimed at Hyacinth, at her moral compass.

  ‘So, obviously, I’m going to be writing about that.’

  I watch Hyacinth as she stares at him. Her fuchsia-painted lips are pursed, like her mouth just turned sour.

  The room is as silent as the Notre Dame during mass as they stare each other down. Then Hyacinth speaks. ‘No. Harper should write this,’ she says, eyes to me.

  Beat.

  ‘What?’ Stan’s face gets so pink it’s almost puce. ‘Why the hell would Harper write it?’

  He glares at me now and my stomach clenches.

  ‘Because Harper was there,’ Hyacinth says calmly. ‘You will only be able to write exactly what every other reporter will be writing. Harper has an angle.’

  ‘I have a source at the police,’ Stan snaps.

  Silence.

  ‘What the fuck do you know about this case? About any case?’ he snipes at me. ‘And I don’t mean what sort of cocktails they were serving. I mean what do you really know?’ He’s seething and my face is flushing pink and I hate him right now for making me feel so small.

  Hyacinth continues, ‘Harper will write it. And you’ll tell her what you know.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Harper, we can feature it on the landing page tomorrow. I’ll need it by 11 am at the latest.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, a little stunned. I have no idea if I can do that but I’ll figure out a way.

  Stan is sneering at me. ‘That’s horseshit,’ he blurts out.

  ‘Stan,’ she says, her voice a warning.

  And he shuts up.

  ‘Now, for the love of god would someone pitch me something that isn’t about pretty dead girls?’

  Chapitre dix-sept

  Stan glares at me, like he’s a horrible little schoolboy and I’m an insect, and the table between us is an enormous magnifying glass. If he holds it at just the right angle, maybe I’ll burst into flames and he’ll no longer have a problem on his hands. Well, bad luck, Stan, I’m here to stay.

  All around us people gather up their things and head for the door. Claudia is telling Nathalie about some dress or other she just has to get and Wesley is stomping around even louder than normal because Hyacinth said he wasn’t allowed to write about yet another opera and needed to choose something more accessible.

  Wesley gives one last huff and closes the door – click – and now it’s just me and Stan in here.

  Stan shuffles the papers in front of him: a signal that he’s more important than me and so isn’t going to speak first.

  ‘So,’ I say, my voice perfectly congenial as I pick up my pen and reach for my notepad. ‘What have you got?’

  His jaw tightens. ‘Nothing.’

  I sigh and swallow my irritation. ‘Well, what does your source at the police say? Do they have any evidence?’

  ‘Nope.’

  I try to control my expression.

  ‘Well, they questioned me this morning so they must have questioned other people too. Someone must have said something?’

  ‘I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,’ he says.

  I give him an are-you-fucking-joking look and drop my pen to the desk as a punctuation point. Ching. ‘Stan, you just sat there maybe twenty minutes ago saying you knew a lot more than I did about this story so you should be writing it,’ I snap. ‘So you must know something.’

  He leans forward across the table. ‘I know that Sabine Roux was murdered,’ he says, batting his eyes. He’s taunting me. Mimicking me. And he’s not going to help. Not one bit.

  Irritation bubbles up in my stomach. I could go and tattletale to Hyacinth but where would that get me? It won’t change anything.

  ‘Anyway, I’m so sorry I couldn’t be any more help, princess,’ he says with a smug smile. ‘But I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.’

  Panic floods through me. I don’t have enough for a whole story right now, just: I went to a party, Sabine saw us on the roof and ran out and Noah followed her. I can’t mention the CCTV in the metro without pissing off Luneau and I’m loathe to mention the white car. As much as I want this story, I don’t want to impede the investigation. But I need more. I need a spine for it. Something to make it stand out. A hook.

  ‘Well, could I speak to your source?’ I ask. ‘Hyacinth did ask you to help me.’

  ‘She asked me to tell you what I knew. I’ve done that.’ He stands up. ‘And no, Harper, I cannot reveal my source to you. But if you’re so well qualified to write this story, I’m sure you’ll figure it all out.’ He heads for the door. ‘Now, I’ve got to get back to work, I’m afraid. Good luck.’ Then the door bangs shut after him.

  And I’m left with an empty notebook, twenty-four hours to write my first feature article and the sibilant whisperings of my inner critic: Don’t fail now, princess…

  * * *

  My phone beeps and my eyes dart to the screen.

  Camilla: Love you.

  I love her too, but I’m too stressed to answer. Because the time has just clicked over to 12.43 pm and the letters of my article are glowering at me like little black question marks against the blue-white light of my screen. I’ve been staring at this first draft for twenty minutes now, trying to talk myself off the ledge. Because at the moment it reads like a woman’s magazine article, a slightly eerie puff piece. And that’s not what I’m going for. Because this is my chance to show Hyacinth what I can do. I might not get another one.

  My phone beeps again: xxx.

  She’s worried because after that shitty interlude with Stan I needed space to think. And so I hid in the loos for fifteen minutes, struggling to swallow, tex
ting Camilla: They found her body. She’s definitely dead.

  Camilla called me straight away, of course. And I answered in a whisper in case somebody came in: ‘Hey.’

  ‘Come home. It’ll be fine. But just come home.’

  And that, right there, was the moment I knew I didn’t want to go home. Not now that I’d been given this story to write; because you don’t get that many chances to next level yourself in this life. It’s all brick walls and work and struggle and work and struggle and then, out of nowhere, comes a trapdoor moment. A chance to get to the other side of that wall. This story is one of those moments.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ came Camilla’s voice.

  But before I could reassure her, the bathroom door creaked open and someone moved into the cubicle next to mine. So I whispered, ‘I have to go but I’ll call you soon’, with my hand shielding the mouthpiece, hung up and flushed the loo for authenticity.

  And then I headed back to my desk. Which is where I am right now, staring once again at my blinking cursor at the end of my fourth paragraph, thinking, How do I make this better?

  There’s something missing at the moment and I don’t know what it is.

  I pull up a browser window and go to Sabine’s Vimeo page, staring down at the clips I’ve already seen. I could talk about her being an artist in her own right, talk about her work… I move to Instagram. She has almost four thousand followers now – that’s two thousand more than when she was alive a week ago. My stomach twists: so few of those people actually know her. She’s just another victim, just another hashtag, just another way to pass a mundane fifteen minutes before they head back to the safety of their cubicle or suburbia. Sabine will be forgotten within the week.

  ‘How are you doing there?’ comes Stan’s voice over my shoulder. I close the browser window and glare at him.

  ‘Going well,’ I say. Deadpan.

  He smirks and ponces away in his tight navy trousers and my stomach starts pumping out acid as I stare back at Sabine’s Instagram page, at her follower count…

  And then, I know. I know how to make this different.

  Right now Sabine Roux is just another dead girl, the latest sacrifice for the media’s altar. I need to make her into a real person, with hopes and dreams and life choices and, shock of all horrors, flaws. If she’s a real person people will care about the night she died. Because, if she’s a real person, it could happen to them too.

  But I don’t know where to look for more information. I could contact one of many people now claiming her as a friend on social media, but I have limited time and it’s impossible to know where to start. Who she was really close to. What I need to do is to talk to her mother. But how can I find her?

  Of course, there is one way I can think of… but it’s risky.

  Risky, but worth it.

  I google Le Voltage, press the phone number into my dial pad and listen as it rings.

  ‘Bonjour, Le Voltage,’ comes a sweet, young voice.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I start then switch to English. ‘Please could I speak to Agnès Bisset?’

  A moment of pause.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says the voice. ‘Madame Bisset won’t be back until tomorrow. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s okay. I’ll call back then.’

  And as I hang up, I think, Perfect.

  Chapitre dix-huit

  Rue Bonaparte looks different in the afternoon light: more ordinary somehow without the amber glow of streetlights; its stark grey pavements the same colour as the sky. Like all the magic of the Parisian night was wrung out with the dawn. I move past the little alleyway to my left, where I smoked with Noah. I glance down it and can almost see our ghosts there, laughing, smoking in the dark before all this happened. A flicker of warmth as I remember him reaching for my necklace. And then a chill as I remember what he might have done to Sabine. Why I’m here.

  The door to Le Voltage is right in front of me now. I glance to the window: the poster for Noah’s exhibition is gone.

  I take a deep breath and step inside, reminding myself of the plan.

  The gallery is empty. But it smells familiar now: like an old, dusty mansion that has just had its floors polished. Noah’s paintings are still hanging on one wall, among a series of others I haven’t seen before: a black-and-white Paris at night scene; a portrait of a young girl in rags sitting on the edge of a bed; a large, brightly coloured pop-art parakeet.

  There is a jug of water with cucumbers swimming in it sitting on the right hand side of a big dark wood desk. In front of it sit two crystal-cut glasses, both upside down to signal that they’ve not been used yet. On the other side of the desk is a little wooden business card holder full of bright white cards. They read: Lors Carron, Gallery Assistant, Le Voltage. I reach forward and take a couple, dropping them into my bag.

  I’ll need those.

  ‘Hello?’ I say into the void.

  A door at the back of the room opens, a mousy-haired girl emerges and locks it behind her. ‘Bonjour.’ She smiles at me, heading to the big desk with the water.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Welcome to Le Voltage,’ she says, switching to English and opening the top drawer. She drops a small plastic fob into it and my eyes trace her profile as she locks it. I recognise her. She was here the other night at Noah’s exhibition, handing out champagne. She must have answered my call when I rang.

  I clench my jaw, look at the floor and force myself not to blink so my eyes tear up a bit.

  ‘Umm. I’m Grace.’ I offer my hand, keeping it limp as she shakes it. A limp handshake means I’m not a threat. ‘I was friends with Sabine?’ I say, my voice cracking right on cue, like I’m hoping she mentioned me. ‘I just—’

  ‘You were here the other night, right?’ she says. ‘At the exhibition.’

  Shit.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, smiling. ‘I came with Sabine.’

  ‘It’s terrible, so terrible.’ She shakes her head and her forehead creases to make that expression people make when they’re scared they’ll say the wrong thing but know they have to say something.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I want to send her mother some flowers,’ I continue. ‘I’ve been to her place before but don’t know the delivery address. Do you have it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says, cautious.

  ‘It’ll be the same as Sabine’s address.’ I smile. Helpful. ‘She lived with her mother,’ I say, preparing to ramble. ‘I mean, I could just turn up in person but I don’t want to impose. One never knows what to do in these sorts of situations…’

  She looks at me a little startled. Hesitates. She’s wondering whether she’ll get in trouble but isn’t sure how to say no. Should she say she’s new and doesn’t know where they keep that information? But I haven’t blinked in a good sixty seconds and my eyes are burning with tears.

  ‘It’s right near le Bois de Boulogne,’ I add, thinking of Sabine’s Instagram page and that picture in the park.

  Her eyes flicker with relief. I’ve won her over. She sits down and starts clicking on her keyboard.

  ‘Sure. Of course.’

  Click-click-click fills the empty room. Then she reaches beside her for a pad and pen and notes down an address. She writes in the big, round, bubbly schoolgirl way that should have a heart to dot the ‘i’. She tears the page off and hands it to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, glancing down at it and dropping it into my handbag.

  But then: bang.

  A door slams somewhere behind the dividing wall.

  Footsteps.

  The mousy-haired girl looks at me and says, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ She wants me to leave.

  ‘Lors?’ comes a French voice. A female one. And a moment later a tall silhouette appears around the corner. She’s wearing a pair of navy trousers and a cream silk shirt that gleams in the light. Her hair is tucked behind her ears and her lipstick is the colour of last night’s wine.

  Noah’s
wife. The person who’s not supposed to be here until tomorrow morning.

  Shit.

  I glare at the mousy-haired girl – she lied to me.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, trying to act nonchalant.

  ‘Hello.’ She smiles, going about her business, but then she looks back at me, her eyes narrow just a little, there’s a flicker of recognition, a hint of a smile and then: ‘Have we met before?’

  And even though there’s no way she could have seen that video – unless Sabine sent it to her on Friday night before she died – my face flushes.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, grinning idiotically like I am happy she remembers, ‘I was at Noah’s exhibition last week. We spoke, actually. Right in front of that painting.’ I point to the painting of Sabine with the red lighter. But, with art, everything is about context. That painting looks different now. Sabine no longer looks composed, now she looks wounded, and the red looks a lot like blood. Now it looks like a warning, a warning none of us read.

  ‘Do you work here?’ I ask. Because, you know, it would be weird if I already knew that this was her gallery from e-stalking her.

  She laughs and her mouth makes a curve, but her eyes don’t crinkle. It’s as though the top and bottom parts of her face are disconnected. ‘I own this gallery,’ she says. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Grace was a friend of Sabine’s,’ the mousy-haired girl explains, interrupting my thought process.

  ‘It’s so sad,’ Agnès says. ‘We all loved Sabine. She had a real spirit. Such a talent.’ But all I can hear is Noah’s voice in my head saying: Agnès doesn’t even like Sabine’s work, she calls it a Hallmark card on steroids.

  Why do people only decide they like you, that you’re talented, once you’re dead? Still, at least this is safe territory.

  ‘Yes, you were going to exhibit Sabine here, right?’ I say, in an attempt to solidify my lie. ‘She was so excited. Wouldn’t stop talking about it.’

  But something in Agnès’s eyes changes. Like a match igniting. I’ve said something wrong and I don’t know what it is. I need to leave before this goes badly.