The Paris Affair

by Pip Drysdale

  ‘I was googling Noah X and then I looked up Sabine Roux,’ she says, her voice small and fragile.

  ‘And?’ I ask.

  ‘I found this.’

  She hands me her phone. It’s an article. The first thing I notice is it’s in English. I glance up at the URL. It’s from a UK tabloid. And the headline reads ‘Does Paris Have a Serial Killer?’.

  I scan the text.

  First a legal secretary, Matilde Beaumont, 28, was found dead in a forest to the south-west of Paris. Now, three weeks later, another body has been uncovered. This one belongs to a student at Parsons Paris, Sabine Roux, 22. Both women were attractive and in their twenties, were French nationals, disappeared in inner Paris, and were found strangled and laid out in parkland. What other similarities are there between these two cases? More details as we have them, but for now we’ll leave you with these terrifying questions: ‘Is this the work of the same killer? And, if so, who is next?’

  A shiver runs through me.

  ‘What the hell,’ I say, swallowing hard.

  ‘What if it’s true, Harps? You were right there. It could have been you.’

  ‘It wasn’t a serial killer,’ I say. ‘It was Noah. I’m not saying he did it on purpose but I saw him go off with her.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he killed her,’ Camilla says.

  I frown down at the words. ‘He had two hours, a shit alibi and a reason to kill her. It was him.’

  She’s wrapping her arms around herself now, like it’s cold. But it’s not cold in here, the heating is right up. ‘I’m just scared for you,’ she says.

  ‘It’s a tabloid. Last week they were probably announcing Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt had eloped before purchasing an avocado farm. Also, think about it: how many cases have you heard of where a girl was strangled and her body was left in a park? Tonnes, right? It’s not exactly a niche method. They just want to sell magazines.’

  She gives a small nod and I sit down next to her.

  ‘So, what are we doing today?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.

  She smiles, reaches into her bag and pulls out two A4 printouts. ‘We may or may not be going to the happiest place on earth.’

  ‘Sephora?’ I ask.

  ‘Fuck off.’ She laughs, putting down her phone. ‘We’re going to… Disneyland!’

  Chapitre vingt-deux

  Seven rides, one questionable burger, three lattes, two long train trips, two pairs of Mickey Mouse ears, and twelve hours later, we’re in a bar not too far from home. Camilla has just ordered four more shots and my calves and feet are aching from walking around the theme park all day. I want to go home. The lights are dim and we’re sitting on two stools at the end of the metal bar, trying not to get elbowed by strangers. The coloured glass of the liquor bottles – amber, brown and blue – refracts the lights that hang from the ceiling.

  ‘Just these two more. Promise,’ she says with an it’ll-be-fun grin.

  I reach for my phone and check the time – 10.02 pm – then go to scroll through my emails. But Camilla grabs it from me.

  ‘You promised no work,’ she says, squishing her face against mine and holding up the camera. We both smile and she takes a selfie.

  ‘Oh, it’s a pretty one. Send it to me so I can show him how amazing my life is?’ she says. She’s wearing a gold sequined dress she took from Anne’s cupboard, with a big black blazer hanging over her seat back. I’m wearing a black lace top, the same black jeans I wore earlier today and my leather jacket is on the stool beneath me.

  I send the photo to her, she forwards it to Mr Fourteenth Floor, and I resist posting it to Instagram – I already uploaded one just like it with #whatanight when we arrived an hour ago – then I put my phone face down on the bar.

  The bartender delivers our drinks, Camilla grins at him, slides one towards me and we both pour a bit of salt on our hands. Then it’s cheers, salt, drink, and a lemon wedge. Heat in my throat, my stomach, my veins and the room starts to spin a bit.

  ‘Can we go now?’ I say, putting my glass down. I don’t even like tequila.

  ‘No. We still have one more. We can’t waste it,’ she says. ‘Ready.’

  But then her phone screen lights up from the bar beside her. Her eyes get big and her mouth opens a bit then she looks at me: ‘He’s calling me.’

  I look down at the screen. It’s the sketch the Etsy-guy did. Mr Fourteenth Floor.

  ‘Well, go answer it,’ I say.

  Camilla grabs her phone and pushes through the crowd, and just before she disappears behind a big guy in a dark blazer, she answers.

  The bartender comes back to collect our empty glasses, a man in a grey coat pushes past me to get to the bar and I look back towards the door for Camilla. But I can’t see her – she must be outside.

  There are two more shots sitting on the bar and I do one of them alone, then reach again for my own phone. That’s when I see it: a missed call. From a US number.

  Noah.

  My abdomen clenches: why is he calling? Did he see that first person account? Is he pissed because he thinks I went to the press? Or is it about the police? Is he worried I told them about that video? And why the fuck do I feel guilty?

  I’m about to reach for the other shot, when a hand finds my arm and I swivel. It’s Camilla. She’s back. But her dark eyes are huge and her grip is tight. She leans into my ear and says loudly, ‘We have to leave.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  But she’s looking back at the direction she just came from, and her shoulders are hunched.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, putting on my leather jacket.

  She’s shaking her head as though she doesn’t know whether to believe something or not.

  ‘There’s a guy out there,’ she says. ‘I want to show him to you.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, as I grab my things and follow her through the crowd.

  We’re outside now and the wind is cold against my cheeks. She’s looking left and right, scouring the street. And I’m not sure what she’s looking for because there are just a bunch of people wearing navy and black with tasteful tailoring and well-cut shiny hair.

  ‘There,’ she says, pointing.

  I follow her finger. There’s a guy walking away from us.

  ‘The guy in the cap?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says.

  I take him in: he’s tall, broad shoulders. But soon he’s gone and I can’t really see anything else.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Harps, I know this sounds insane but I think he’s following you.’

  My face crunches up into an expression that says: ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve seen him before. He was outside your flat when I arrived last night.’

  I look back to her. All colour has drained from her face.

  ‘What did he look like?’ I ask. Maybe it’s one of the neighbours.

  ‘Tall, dark, beaky,’ she says. And I’m pretty sure this is just because of that article she read this morning, but she’s scared. Really scared.

  I look back towards the space where that guy was standing just a few moments ago, but he’s well gone now. ‘Hon, are you sure? I mean there are a lot of tall guys with dark hair around here.’ I mentally run through the guys I’ve slept with while in Paris. Please, dear god, don’t let me have a stalker situation on my hands. But none of them match her description. Camilla is gripping her jaw and I need to reassure her. ‘I mean, look around.’

  She glances back inside, over the crowd – and there are, indeed, many tall, dark-haired men among them. But then her gaze snaps back to me.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  * * *

  I wake up breathless, my legs tangled in damp sheets. I was having a bad dream but I can’t remember what it was. I pull my eye mask from my face and lie still in the darkness, my eyes fixed on a silvery spider’s web in the upper corner of my window, until my breath slows down. I’d go back to sleep but I need to pee, so I tiptoe through to the bathroom in a daze
.

  There’s a blue-white glow coming from the sofa. It’s Camilla. I can just make out her face in the light cast from her phone.

  ‘Mills?’ I ask.

  She looks up at me.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  She shakes her head and I feel around on the wall for a light switch.

  Flick.

  We both squint against the light. She’s huddled beneath her blankets, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, moving over to her and sitting down.

  ‘I’m just so scared,’ she says, ‘my heart won’t stop racing.’

  I take her hand in both of mine. ‘What are you scared of?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘What if something happens to you?’ she says, holding up her phone.

  I look at it. ‘What have you been reading?’

  ‘Everything,’ she says. ‘I can’t stop reading it. I’m telling you, that guy tonight was bad news. I could feel it. I know it was the same guy I saw outside here. I just know. And as soon as I clocked him, he left. Why would he do that if he wasn’t doing something bad? What if that article’s right? What if there is some crazed killer on the loose?’ It all comes out like a waterfall.

  ‘Hon,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘Have you seen how many door codes are between me and the outside world? How many stairs? Someone would have to be pretty fucking committed to kill me.’

  She starts to laugh. ‘Don’t joke about this. It’s serious. It could have been you.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I say. ‘I promise. But also, have you met me?’ I smile. ‘I’m the girl who writes about how to get out of duct tape. I’m the girl who told you to scratch a guy’s face if you’re ever attacked so he knows he’ll have to answer questions about it if you turn up dead. I’m the girl who knows how to get out of a car boot. Good luck to any psycho who tries that shit on,’ I say.

  She squeezes my hand.

  ‘I just…’ she starts. ‘I wish you’d just come home. I wish I’d never sent you the advert for this job. Then you’d still be living in London and you’d be safe.’

  ‘But also, I’d still be miserable. A tabloid wrote that article. I’m not sure we should be basing our life choices on anything they say, you know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, wiping her tears away. ‘I’m just scared.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, gently. ‘And if I could come home I would. But I’ve worked so hard to get here. And I finally have something of my own. I can’t just run away from that.’

  She sniffs back tears.

  ‘Okay?’

  She nods and I get up.

  ‘So, I’m going to go pee, and then I’m going to make us some camomile tea, and then we are going to watch something super funny on Netflix. Yes?’

  She nods again and I smile. I head to the kitchen and flick on the kettle, then go through to the loo. But as I close the door behind me, all I can hear is my pulse in my ears, and when I sit down my vision gets fuzzy. Because I’m great at calming other people down, defusing things with humour and keeping my shit together in a crisis. But sitting here with just my own thoughts, I can’t help but wonder, What if Camilla’s right?

  Chapitre vingt-trois

  ‘You’re in early,’ Wesley says, plonking himself down in his chair.

  I glance up at him and give a small nod.

  And as I watch him lean forward and stab his password into his keyboard, I can’t help but wonder what his Tinder profile might look like. Is he smiling in his pictures? Does his bio say: friendly, kind, normal guy seeks kindred spirit? What would I do if I saw him on an app, the way Camilla saw her new guy?

  What if I accidentally super-swiped him?

  I shake the thoughts away and look back at the street scene on my screen. I’ve been in since 7 am, wading through footage on that hard drive Sabine’s mother pressed into my hands on Friday. Needing there to be another angle on there somewhere; another way for me to write her story.

  Because last week gave me a taste of what it might feel like to have the job I wanted. And it’s hard to just let that go. But here I am, back to writing the ‘accessible’ pieces on art and cinema that give people like Stan intellectual superiority complexes.

  But then, at least I still have a job. I might not be so lucky if Hyacinth knew what really happened on that roof with Noah; if she knew how I got this drive, that I’d gone to Sabine’s mother’s house searching for a story without running it past her first. Of course, if that story had worked out the way I planned, going there would have shown ‘initiative’. But it didn’t.

  So now all I can do is watch yet another boring, drawn-out street scene and pray.

  Raw is an understatement. It’s as though Sabine turned on her iPhone camera and then wandered around Paris, hoping something would happen by serendipity. Most of the videos are filmed either around Le Voltage, where she used to work, or Montmartre, presumably because that’s where she’d sit for Noah’s paintings. The one I’m watching at the moment is at least familiar, it’s the clip from the bridge I saw on her Vimeo page, the one that video of the couple fighting was cut from. I’ve passed the part where they run through their sequence: fight, stare each other down, embrace. I’ve passed the part where it would usually fade to black and the words Love Actually would flash up in white on the screen. And now I’m watching the next bit, the part after that, the part where the arguing couple moves out of frame and the camera keeps rolling. It’s as though Sabine didn’t understand the weight of what she’d captured until she watched it back. There are two other couples on either side of the frame now. To the left is a girl with long, shiny dark hair so straight it looks artificial, who poses and reposes as her boyfriend takes her picture on his phone. She checks it, issues instructions and he takes another; just your garden-variety Instagram husband at work. And on the other side, a couple stands hand in hand, looking out at the water. She’s small and wearing a sundress and the guy takes off his jacket and puts it around her shoulders like maybe she was cold. There’s something painted on the back. I’m peering in at it thinking, What is that, a tiger?

  Then, with no warning, no fucking footsteps, nothing, I hear, ‘Whatcha doin’, princess?’

  My shoulders hunch and my body recoils as I swivel in my chair.

  ‘Hi, Stan,’ I say, minimising the viewing window as some pretty strong lower-octane thoughts bounce around my skull. Mainly variations on: Oh fuck off.

  ‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ I say, in that brittle way people do when they’re being disingenuous. I hope he notices.

  ‘Marvellous,’ he says, his eyes flicking from me to the now empty screen to the hard drive. He’s wondering what I was doing. Why I was so quick to close down the window. ‘Yourself?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ I say, and then I turn away from him and look back at my screen, opening up a perfectly innocent Word document containing a list of pitches pre-approved by Hyacinth.

  ‘Well, chin up. It’s a new day, a new week!’ And then fuckhead disappears off to the kitchen. A moment later the coffee machine whirrs to life and I take the opportunity to eject Sabine’s hard drive and drop it into my handbag.

  I stare at the list of pitch ideas. There has to be one here that doesn’t make me want to shove a pencil up my nose.

  If only I’d changed my password, none of this would have happened. As if on cue, Stan emerges with his coffee. I can feel his eyes on me as he moves over to his desk but I refuse to look up.

  I hate him.

  Instead, I try to ignore the heat simmering beneath my skin and focus on the screen. There’s a photographic exhibition in the 1st arrondissement I could go to: a young German photographer with strong Saul Leiter influences. That would get me out of the office for a while, away from dangerous combinations like pencils and Stan.

  Pulling up the gallery webpage, I press print on the address; the printer hums with industry.

  I glance up at the time, it’s just before ni
ne. Hyacinth will be in soon. And if I can avoid seeing the disappointment in her eyes for a few hours more that would suit me just fine. So I pick up my bag, turn off my computer, grab my coat and phone, and head for the elevator door.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I’m on the platform at Bastille, standing back from the edge as the metro arrives. There aren’t that many of us here now. The responsible people of the world are in their office cubicles by now. Doing their personal expenses. Seething as they reply to a passive-aggressive email from a colleague. Applying for another job. Sexting with the guy from last night while pretending to work. All the covert operations that allow the more superficial aspects of office life to hum along unhindered.

  It’s just me, and the artists, the retired, the unemployed and the young mothers with strollers. I press down the metal lever – it’s cool in my hand – the foghorn sounds and the doors slide open. A man gets off, pushing past me in a mood, and three of us get on. I take a seat halfway between the doors, put in my earbuds and scroll through to the podcast I started this morning on my commute into work. It’s just been revealed that the DNA evidence we’ve relied on until this point may not mean what we thought it did. Because DNA doesn’t exactly stay put. We leave it on escalator rails, door handles, coins and public transport. It can then be transferred onto anyone or anything that touches it, travelling with them before being transferred again. So right now, each and every one of us has our genetic material on a hand we’ve never held, in a room we’ve never even entered. And that’s scary as shit, because if you can’t rely on the certainty of DNA, what the hell can you rely on in this world?

  I look around the carriage as I listen to the narrator. Beyond her voice I can hear a baby cry and I look towards the sound. His mother picks him up, coos. A man nearby makes goo-goo faces at him. The train stops, a couple of people get on, a few get off, and then we speed up again.

  A couple of girls in matching school uniforms are sitting together laughing.