The Paris Affair

by Pip Drysdale

  But wait, what’s that? Is that the intercom crackling? I stare at the speaker.

  ‘Hello?’ comes his voice.

  That’s my cue; I use my cutest voice. ‘Hey. It’s Harper. Can I come up?’

  The intercom goes silent but it’s still crackling so I know he’s still there.

  ‘Harper?’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He sounds a lot less happy to hear from me than I was hoping for. And while I could tell him the truth – that I’m here to use him for his skill base – I suspect a better way to get in the door is flattery.

  ‘I just wanted to see you,’ I say. ‘To talk to you. Things ended so weirdly last time.’ My voice comes out a perfect, fragile saccharine.

  ‘Now’s not a good time,’ he says.

  This is the problem with playing the crazy-girl card too well: they think you’re crazy.

  ‘Please, Thomas. I need you,’ I whine. Yes, we’re back to damsel in distress.

  The intercom is scratchy and he isn’t replying. I look up to his window in case he might be watching me and I could wave but he’s not.

  ‘Thomas? Please. I have no one to turn to. You have no idea what’s been going on for me.’ My voice is louder now. And I’m enunciating slowly so anyone walking past, any of his neighbours coming in or out of the building, might hear me. Because Thomas is a good guy. And so the best way to get him to let me inside is to make him feel very, very bad.

  ‘I mean this girl I know was murdered. You might have read about her in the papers. I… I just don’t want to be alone right now… please. I’m begging you.’ I find myself throwing in a couple of fake sobs.

  And then I wait.

  Nothing.

  Fuck.

  ‘Please,’ I try again, my voice a high-pitched screech.

  The intercom crackles.

  ‘Fine,’ he says, finally. ‘Just give me a second.’

  And so I stand on the pavement, waiting for the buzzer to sound so I can go up.

  And then, a few moments later: Bzzzzz.

  * * *

  I pull open the door and head inside, past the letterboxes on my left, towards the big wooden staircase in front of me. I take the stairs two by two, holding onto the thick, dark wood bannister all the way to the third floor.

  I’m out of breath by the time I get to his door. The same door I slammed shut after me, right after I pulled my meet-the-parents stunt. But right now I need to win him over, which means acting extra ‘normal’.

  I take a deep breath, flick my hair over to one side and knock.

  Tap-tap-tappity-tap.

  A cute, seductive knock. The sort you want to answer.

  I stand still, listening for sounds inside.

  Footsteps.

  The brass doorknob turns and the door creaks as it opens. Thomas looks just like he did over a week ago at the grocery store, but his tan has faded now and his caramel hair is the smallest bit longer, flopping over one brown eye.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. Breathy.

  ‘Hi,’ he replies, his eyes wide like he’s trying to read me. ‘Do you want to come in?’ Then he moves aside and I nod and move past him. He smells like laundry detergent and cigarettes, and a moment later the door clicks closed behind us.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ he asks, in typical polite British fashion, like he didn’t just try to get me to sod off.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Scotch?’

  Then I sit down on the brown leather sofa and watch him pull a bottle of Scotch from one cupboard in the kitchen and two glasses from another. Ice clinks and drinks are poured. I look around the large room: the TV is on. Netflix. It’s on mute. His computer, sitting on a desk against the wall, is on. His cigarettes and silver lighter are sitting on the coffee table in front of me beside his scarf – a multicoloured stripe. The bed in the corner is made this time and the candle beside it is unlit. But aside from those small details, everything else is exactly as it was last time I was here.

  ‘Hot in Herre’ starts playing from my bag and I reach for it: Camilla is calling.

  Shit.

  I stare down at the phone – I can’t not answer, not after the weekend, she’ll send out a search party – and then back up at Thomas, who is watching me from the kitchen. ‘Sorry,’ I say, screwing up my face a bit, ‘I have to get this, my friend is super anxious.’

  His jaw tightens like he’s wishing he never let me in but I answer anyway and say: ‘Hey.’

  Maybe seeing me as a caring friend will soften Thomas up.

  ‘Hey,’ Camilla says, ‘just checking on you. Any news?’

  ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘I’m just at Thomas’s house.’ And then I give him a small smile. But, shit, that’s veering into crazy-girl territory, so I add, ‘A friend.’

  ‘Wait, which one was Thomas?’ Camilla asks.

  But I can’t exactly answer that with him listening, so instead I say, ‘Yeah, okay, thanks, chat tomorrow?’

  ‘Is he listening?’ Camilla asks with a small laugh.

  ‘Bye,’ I say in a sing-song voice.

  And then we hang up.

  Thomas comes over and hands me my drink.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says. Our eyes meet and we clink glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say and I take a sip.

  He’s trying to figure out what to say. I watch him grapple with the options. Should he start by telling me how he’s met someone else, just in case I am here to win him back? Or should he do the kind thing and find out whether I’m okay first? I mean, I did say the ‘m’ word: murdered.

  ‘So?’ he asks, sitting down beside me.

  What will he choose? What will he choose? What will he choose?

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks. His face is a tightly knit ball. Option B.

  I nod and take a sip of my drink. ‘It was just such a shock,’ I say. ‘I mean one minute I’m at a party and the next I’m looking at her picture in the paper, knowing I saw her right before she died.’

  ‘God,’ he says. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Sabine Roux,’ I say, doing my best wounded bird impersonation. I need to get his sympathy, so he’s amenable when I ask for his help in a little while. ‘You’ve probably read about it in the papers?’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘It was that artist’s party, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I was there for work. Talk about the assignment from hell.’

  ‘God, I know those,’ he says, eyes to the floor while he sips his drink.

  I glance at his body language: his feet are pointed away from me and his hands are grasping his glass instead of reaching for my hand right now. It all screams: I want to be nice but also I want you to leave. Now is not the time to ask for help.

  I need to soften him up first.

  The man with the frilly neckline is watching us from the canvas, wondering why the hell I’m back. Why won’t I just leave his owner alone? ‘This is interesting,’ I say, standing up and moving over to it.

  This is strategic, the painting is right by the bed. Because I’m going to need to sleep with him. Then he’ll feel like he took advantage of my vulnerable state and he’ll do whatever he needs to do to make himself feel better about that.

  ‘It came with the flat,’ Thomas says, swigging down his drink. I hear the glass hit the coffee table, then his footsteps.

  I reach out to touch the painting, like I’m inspecting the texture.

  I can feel his heat behind me now. Perfect.

  I turn and face him, our eyes meet and his pupils are huge so I know he wants me. I almost feel bad.

  * * *

  Twenty sweaty minutes later, we’re lying naked, the sheets tangled around our legs, one of his arms slung over my shoulder and my head on his chest. I’m listening to his heart beating, staring at the ugly painting once again.

  ‘That was great,’ I say, snuggling into his chest.

  And then I slowly, fluidly, pull away from him, reaching beside the bed for my (strategically positioned) handbag.
I pull out my lip gloss first, unscrew the top and dip my finger into it, swirling it around and then running the tip over my lips as he watches. It smells like vanilla.

  I look at him over my shoulder. ‘Want some?’

  He shakes his head and I drop it back into my bag and reach for what I really wanted all along.

  My phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, watching me as it unlocks.

  ‘Just checking my emails. Work.’ I smile back at him. ‘You know how it is.’

  I’m careful with the expression on my face; he’s watching me and I need to seem calm yet confused.

  I give a little frown at the screen and scroll a bit. Let his curiosity take hold. When I glance back at him he’s still watching me. Perfect.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’ I sigh heavily. ‘I’m just trying to figure something out.’ I scroll past the video of Sabine and the Klimt to the photograph I took of the financial document and scrunch my face up again. ‘Do you know what this is?’ I ask, showing him.

  I need to be careful here, it needs to seem like a spontaneous question, not the reason for my surprise nocturnal visit.

  He reaches for my phone and takes a closer look. ‘It’s a convertible bond,’ he says. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I can’t really tell you,’ I say. ‘It’s for work. But… is this sort of thing legal?’

  ‘Totally legal.’ He shrugs.

  ‘Even for one hundred million?’

  ‘Harper, there are people in the world who trade bonds worth billions. But don’t you write about art? What’s this for?’

  ‘Long story.’ I smile, letting my eyes linger on his chest. I pause. Then my eyes click back to his like I’ve just thought of something. ‘Thomas…’ I start.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to ask this, I know you’re busy, but do you think maybe you could point me in the right direction? I just know nothing about this stuff; I don’t know where to start.’

  He frowns at the screen then looks back at me.

  ‘Sure.’ He shrugs. ‘I can try. Ask around.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, reaching for his arm. ‘That’d be amazing, thank you.’ I give a small smile, like it’s an unexpected win.

  ‘Send me the photo,’ he says, rolling onto his back.

  I hesitate for a brief moment, thinking of Stan and what happened on Friday. Thomas is a journalist too. What if he looks into it and finds something big and writes the story himself? But there’s nothing in that image that speaks of Agnès Bisset or the Klimt, so I attach it to a text message and press send. His phone beeps from somewhere over near the computer and I lean across and kiss him on the cheek then pull away and sit on the side of the bed.

  Mission accomplished. I can go home now.

  The air is cold without him hugging me and my arms prickle with goosebumps. I look around the room for my clothes. My bra is on the floor so I slip it on and fasten it in silence. My knickers are right beside it, so they go on next. Thomas just lies in bed watching me move.

  My skirt and jumper are hanging over the chair by the window and I get up out of bed and move towards them. Reach for them. I’m standing half-naked glancing out onto the street, scanning for anyone who might be looking in. But we’re on the third floor, I’m pretty safe from prying eyes… except.

  What. The. Fuck.

  My stomach clenches and I step back quickly from the window, peering around the curtain.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Thomas asks.

  I’m shaking my head, like if I say ‘no’ internally I can will it into falsehood. ‘There’s a guy out there,’ I say, my voice cracking. I’m mentally comparing the guy outside with Camilla’s description – tall, dark, beaky – and the guy on the metro on Monday.

  It’s him. I know it’s him.

  ‘He keeps following me,’ I say. ‘I don’t know who he is. Here.’ I scroll through to my photos. ‘I took some photos of him on Monday.’ I offer him the phone, but he’s too busy pulling on his jeans to look.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  I nod. But I’m dizzy now so I hold onto the wall for stability.

  ‘Okay… shit,’ Thomas says, pulling on a thick jumper. ‘I guess I’ll go and see what’s going on then.’ He grabs his keys and heads for the door, pulls on some boots and then, bang, he’s gone. And I’m just standing here not sure what to do. So I creep over to the window and, hiding behind the curtains, I peek out.

  First, I see Thomas appear from the bottom of the building.

  His arms swinging by his sides as he moves across the road and walks right up to the man.

  The man is acting surprised.

  Shit, I hope he’s not dangerous. My insides twist.

  They’re talking now.

  Oh wow, no, I think Thomas might be yelling.

  The man looks up at the window.

  Fuck.

  I move back to the side of the curtain so I can try to peek through.

  Thomas has the guy pinned up against a wall now, their faces really close. Then he lets go. The guy runs away. Fast.

  I feel sick. God, I might actually vomit. I move over to the bed and sit down, trying to calm my breath.

  Then Thomas is coming back inside.

  The door opens with a creak. Then closes gently.

  I look up at him and he smiles. ‘He’s gone,’ Thomas says, dropping his keys on the counter with a metallic clang.

  ‘Who was he?’ I ask.

  Thomas hands me a business card. ‘A private investigator.’ He sits down on the bed. ‘I told him I was going to call the police if he kept loitering. That I thought he was casing my flat.’ He looks proud of himself. All puffed up.

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile.

  ‘It’s pretty creepy though. Are you sure it was the same guy?’

  I nod and scroll through the photos on my phone to the ones I took at the metro station the other day. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Look.’ And then I show him my phone, hovering beside him to make sure he doesn’t look at anything he shouldn’t. He swipes through them slowly, taking them in.

  ‘You can’t see his face,’ he says – and you can’t, the man’s face is well covered by his cap. ‘But why would he be following you anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, and a shiver runs through me. Because now ‘whatcha doin’ princess’ is floating back. Then the way Stan was looking at my screen on Monday. The way he watched me today as he headed across the office to his desk. That envelope with Sabine’s mother’s address in the bin under my desk. Stan knows I was there the night Sabine disappeared. That I know Noah. Is he following me to see if I lead him to a bigger story? Would he really go that far?

  The ping of a notification pulls me back to the present moment and we both stare at my phone screen. A message. From Nee-koh-lah via the dating app. Thomas saw it too and fuck, fuck, fuck the last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings while I need his help.

  ‘Right,’ Thomas says, handing me my phone back like nothing happened. ‘Let’s get you a cab. I’ll come wait with you.’

  Then he hands me my coat, I slip the card into my pocket and order an Uber home.

  Chapitre vingt-six

  Five minutes later I’m looking at Thomas through a rain-blurred Uber window as he waves goodbye. I wave too. He goes inside. And we start to drive.

  ‘Vous avez passé une bonne soirée?’ asks the cheery driver as I scan the streets for someone tall and beaky with dark hair. But all I see are a tangle of headlights, red tail lights and signage reflecting off the mirrored roads.

  ‘Oui,’ I say as I clench my jaw and sink back into the black leather seat and reach into my bag for my phone. The driver’s hand finds its way to the volume knob and he turns it up. ‘Bette Davis Eyes’. The whole of Paris seems to have an ongoing love affair with easy listening, as though everyone got together and decided nothing culturally valuable was going to happen on the music scene after 1995.

  ‘Ai
mez-vous la musique?’ asks the driver, smiling into his rearview mirror. He’s trying to be polite. To get a good rating. But I don’t want to chat, especially not in French, so I smile and nod and look down at my phone. I pull the business card from my pocket and take a picture of it.

  The driver’s eyes move back to the road. He’s tapping along to the music on the steering wheel as I send the picture of that business card and the photographs I took on Monday on the metro to Camilla with one line of text: Is this the guy?

  It’s just after 11 pm, which means it’s 10 pm in London; she might still be up.

  The rain pelts down on the metal roof, the easy listening station continues to play and I rest my head back and close my eyes. A highlight reel from the past few days flickers on the back of my eyelids: Better luck next time, princess, Sleeping Beauty’s castle, Camilla in that gold sequined dress, the tall creepy guy, the metro, him walking towards me, his face… A flicker of recognition, a feeling of knowing in my chest… I know him. I’ve seen him. His face in a crowd… then nothing.

  We take a corner and my eyes flick open. We turn left down Rue de Sèvres and head past the real estate agent, the pharmacy and Franprix. Then right, left and, before I know it, we’re at my street and my pulse is thudding in my ears. I scan the streets outside but it’s almost empty. I live on a one-way street so I’ll have to walk the final few metres alone.

  ‘This is okay,’ I say. ‘Ici.’

  The driver pulls to a stop, I take a deep breath, say ‘Merci’, get out and run through the rain to my big wooden gate, my hand trembling as I punch in the code.

  It opens, I push it and run across the cobbled courtyard, past the parked cars, and enter the next code. My hair is dripping and I’m shivering from cold by the time the light flicks on inside. And as I make my way up the ninety-six stairs, I feel for the cool metal of my keys in the bottom of my bag. I find them, put them into the lock, twist and exhale loudly as the door swings open and I go inside.