The Paris Affair

by Pip Drysdale

  ‘It’s the worst, right?’ she says and I click to attention.

  ‘What is?’

  Silence rings down the line.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks. ‘You aren’t listening to me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I am, but I’m just making coffee.’ Camilla is the only person in the world I hate lying to. But I have to. Because in my eyeline right now is the sofa where she sat in the dark scrolling through articles, tears streaming down her cheeks. And she needs to focus on preparing for Monday.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she says.

  Shit, her bloody intuition is perking up.

  ‘What time is your interview?’ I say, moving the focus and taking a sip of coffee.

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ she says and then she lets out a little shriek.

  ‘Okay, I’ll be thinking of you,’ I say.

  ‘Let me know which outfit.’

  And then we hang up, I take another sip of coffee, and move through to my messages to help Camilla pick an outfit as promised.

  But wait.

  There.

  Just below Camilla’s messages is one from Noah. It came in early this morning.

  We were married on the third of November.

  And all I can think is, I guess I need duct tape.

  Chapitre trente-deux

  I walk briskly down Rue Bonaparte, my hands deep in my pockets as I scan the street for a tall silhouette. But I’ve left my curtains closed, my lights on, snuck out the back and taken such a roundabout route that it would be the shittiest of miracles if he were here right now. But he’s not. It’s just after 10 pm and there are only five other people I can see on the streets. Their hair shimmers under streetlights. One of them smokes a cigarette. All of them are a long way away from me – without night-vision goggles they couldn’t possibly see what I was doing even if they tried – but even so, I grit my jaw as I turn left, slipping into the alleyway beside the gallery. I’m not sure how much of the alleyway the CCTV takes in, so I skirt the far wall and keep my face angled down, until I’m past the camera and behind the stairs.

  I reach into my bag, feeling around for the roll of duct tape I bought from the DIY section of Franprix as soon as I got Noah’s message. There it was, all innocuous, right beside the mothballs, insect spray and little packets of screws.

  I use my teeth to rip off a small piece of tape, step up onto the back of the stairs, and cover the CCTV lens. Then I drop the roll back into my bag and feel around for the locksmith tools I found in the bottom of my suitcase. Because what if she’s changed the back door code? And what if that YouTube video is wrong: what if I can’t just pop the lock on that drawer with a couple of bobby pins?

  I make my way up the stairs to the back door, past the spot where I smoked with Noah, hold my breath and reach for the keypad and trace a cross, just like he did.

  Click.

  I push open the door and move into the dusty warmth, shutting the door behind me as I look around for the alarm. I expected beeping, but there is no beeping just the orange glow of a rectangular outline and some buttons up ahead on the wall. My heart bangs so loudly against my chest it feels like the vibration alone might set off the alarm. I rush towards that orange rectangle and punch in: 0-3-1-1.

  The orange glow turns green, I pull my phone from my bag and turn on the torch, using it to light the way past a small kitchen and a bathroom, through to the main room. None of the windows have curtains on them, anyone walking past could see me and so, once I know where the desk is, I turn off the torch and crawl quickly in the shadows to crouch behind it.

  Reaching into my bag I pull out the bobby pins.

  I insert one at the bottom of the lock and, with a thumb, maintain pressure in a down and sideways motion. Then I take the second pin – already free of its little plastic baubles and pulled out into a wide ‘v’ (prepared earlier at home under the instruction of that YouTube video). I insert one end into the top of the lock and jiggle it up and down, up and down… Up and down… and then, just like on the video, the lock begins to turn.

  Click.

  Slowly I pull the drawer open, as though someone might hear me.

  I reach inside and feel around: there. I have it. A small circular fob. I clasp onto it and crawl to the back room, lifting it to the pad by the door.

  Beep.

  Click.

  I reach for the handle and let myself in, my heart ricocheting.

  Closing the door behind me, I feel the walls either side of the door for a light switch.

  Flick.

  The room is flooded with light as I glance from one wall to the other.

  There’s a part of me that expected it to be empty. Or worse, for Mr Tall and Creepy to be waiting for me in here. But, instead, it looks exactly like it did in Sabine’s video: a small, tidy room with wooden crates the shape of canvases against the wall to my right and a sturdy metal set of shelves in the left-hand corner. It’s full of printing paper, boxes of pens and lever arch files.

  I rush towards it and my eyes scan the labels. Invoices. No. Tax files. No. Client details. Invoices. Artist invoices. No. No. No.

  I look around for a safe. Not that I will be able to get into a safe but I could try the codes I have… but there isn’t one. There are just files upon files upon files.

  And so I do the only thing I can, I pull down the first one and start to look through it.

  * * *

  It’s half an hour later and I’m halfway through a file labelled ‘Invoices’, when a small, thin, purple file – the cheap kind you’d find in a supermarket – catches my eye. It’s one level down and the spine reads ‘Notes diverses’. Loosely translated I’m pretty sure that means miscellaneous notes.

  I reach for it, lay it down on the floor and open it up. It’s a series of brightly coloured section dividers and I flip through them, scanning the first page of each section. There are stationery orders. Some sort of membership papers. And then, right in the middle, is a plastic pocket.

  And inside are a set of papers.

  They aren’t the papers I was looking for. They don’t pertain to Genovexa. But as I pull them from the plastic folder and leaf through them my breath catches. The top one is an invoice from a lawyer. It’s for: Liechtenstein Foundation: Requiem. The rest are pages of correspondence – letters, emails – with words like ‘appointees’ and ‘beneficiary’ dotted throughout. I’ll need to look through them properly when I’m at home. And then, at the bottom, there it is: a flimsy piece of paper.

  A share registry for Genovexa.

  One hundred shares owned by Requiem.

  My hands are shaking as I pull out my phone and take a picture of each page, double-checking the focus. I can’t come back. I need to get it right.

  I put the papers and the folder back where I found them.

  And then I hear it.

  A noise outside.

  What the hell is that? Have I tripped an alarm? Is it a security company? Are they shining torches through the window right now?

  I hold my breath and tiptoe over to the door, flicking off the light. The room falls into darkness.

  My heart hits the walls of its cage so hard I grit my teeth.

  And then I just sit dead still, listening for movement, watching the thin crack under the door for light, for movement, frightened to even breathe.

  But nothing more comes.

  I need to get the hell out of here.

  I edge open the door – a crack of grey light – and crawl over to the desk again. Opening the lowest drawer, I drop in the fob and close it again. And then I crawl to the back door. As soon as I’m out of sight, I stand up and set the alarm again. I take a deep breath, reach for the handle and crack the door open, peeking outside. There’s no one there. I move out into the cool night air, pulling it closed behind me with a gentle thud. Once I’m down the stairs, I hoist myself up onto the back of them and remove the tape from the camera. The only sound is water rushing into gutters and traffic in the distance as I skirt
the wall and rush towards the main road. I turn right towards the Seine, reach for my phone and, as people walk past me, I hold it against my ear and pretend to talk.

  Chapitre trente-trois

  It’s 7.48 am and the empty office echoes with the sound of the elevator doors opening. I step out into greyness and switch on the light. I’m the first one here. My head throbs as I make my way over to my desk, drop my bag on the floor, fire up my computer and take a sip of the coffee I grabbed on my way in.

  My mouth is dry and my head is thumping. I barely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Sabine then Agnès then the tall and creepy guy then Noah then the photographs I took last night.

  My screen glows to life and I feel around the bottom of my handbag for the memory stick in the inner pocket. There’s my lip gloss. Some crumpled expenses receipts. Bobby pins from last night. My heart speeds up as I think of that desk drawer, the fob, the dark back room and the sound outside. What if someone saw me leave?

  But then, there.

  I’ve found it.

  The memory stick.

  The one I put my story on late yesterday afternoon. I didn’t want to save it to Sabine’s drive – I suspect that might be logged as evidence soon – but I’ve learned the hard way not to email myself a work in progress. The same way I’ve learned not to tell the likes of Stan what I’m writing about. And I like it, this feeling, like I have a little secret. A small flickering flame I need to protect. It’s mine, all mine, until it burns Agnès’s whole house of cards down.

  I take another sip of coffee, click on the hard drive icon and open my article, scanning through what I’ve written so far. It’s passable. And I now have proof that Agnès Bisset set up the foundation that owns Genovexa; proof that she is the one who issued that 100 million euro bond to Philip Crawford-White. But is that a crime? I’m not so sure about that. It sounds like the sort of white collar crime that’s sectioned off from the rest of us with do not cross tape until it’s made into a Netflix Original.

  Because I might have video footage of that Klimt in her gallery but no proof that it isn’t simply a fake. I might have a hypothesis that the bond was used as a cover, a way for Mr Crawford-White to receive funds from the buyer of his Klimt entirely legally, but again, can I prove it?

  And as I sit here in the low light, all alone in the office, I realise this is how people get away with it. Not because nobody knows but because nobody can prove it.

  But Noah will stand before the juge d’instruction soon. I can’t just give up, he’ll go to jail and I know he didn’t do this. I need to do something with what I have. I need to help him.

  I think of Thomas, if I were transparent with him, gave him everything I have, would he be able to help? And even if he could, would he help me? Or would he do exactly what Stan did?

  * * *

  It’s an hour and a half later and Wesley is sitting across from me, sighing heavily, when my phone flashes with a message.

  Camilla: Just got out. Eeekkk! Xx

  Her interview.

  Wesley crinkles a paper bag and takes a bite of a Danish, as his eyes dart to my lit-up screen. I don’t want him listening in on a personal call, so I grab my phone and head past Judy. She’s talking to someone at reception but smiles at me as I press the down button for the elevator. The doors slide open. Down. Down. Rattling down. To the foyer. And then, when I’m alone, I call Camilla.

  It rings.

  ‘It went so well. So, so, so well. I can’t believe it,’ she gushes.

  It’s great to hear her so effervescent after years of corporate servitude, spending all her money on suits she said did nothing for her silhouette.

  ‘That’s amazing, when do you hear?’ I ask, moving to the back of the foyer.

  ‘They said within a week,’ she says. ‘I so want this. I keep reading my fucking horoscope in case there’s a prediction in there but god, Harps, I need this.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  It’s good to talk about normal things right now. I’ve missed her.

  The clicking of high heels fills the little foyer and I turn around to see who’s behind me. Hyacinth. I get a fright, push the phone against my ear and my earring hook digs into me. Ouch. But I give her a small smile. She gives me a tight-mouthed nod back then casts her eyes down.

  ‘Thanks so much for your time,’ I say, as Hyacinth gets into the elevator. ‘Really, it’s been so useful.’

  ‘What?’ Camilla asks.

  The elevator door closes and I can hear the mechanical rumblings as it moves up to our floor.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘My boss.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve got to go but well done.’

  And then we hang up and I wait two minutes and then head upstairs.

  I smile at Judy and make my way towards my desk and the tangle of information that is waiting for me there. Wesley is staring at his computer screen as he munches on his Danish and drops crumbs on his lap.

  I sit down at my desk and wiggle my mouse so the screen comes to life. ‘Harper?’

  I turn and Hyacinth is standing in her doorway. ‘A word?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, standing up and heading over to her.

  I step into her office and she closes the door behind me, moving over to her side of the desk. We both sit down and I wait for her to speak.

  ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘I have that Charlotte Gainsbourg concert coming up and a couple of galleries I still have to get to,’ I say.

  Her poker face is as strong as ever, but there’s something in her eyes, something I haven’t seen before, and her gaze doesn’t flinch from mine for even a moment. Then she leans in a little way and says, ‘Harper, what are you really working on?’

  I swallow hard. How does she know? My cheeks are getting warm and I don’t know what to say. Because what if I tell her and she shuts it down? But she’ll have to see it eventually and I need help figuring this out. And she’s the editor in chief.

  ‘I know you’re working on something,’ she continues. ‘You’re the first one in, you leave late, you’re distracted. I’ve been in this game for a long time. What is it?’

  ‘It’s to do with the Sabine Roux death,’ I say.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think there was more to it. A lot more to it.’

  ‘Do you have a source?’

  ‘I have evidence,’ I say.

  ‘Great,’ she says. ‘Send me what you have by tonight. I’ll look through it first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Chapitre trente-quatre

  I move out of the shelter of the metro just as it begins to rain again. I reach into my bag for my umbrella and as dried out amber leaves swirl around my feet and buildings reflect off puddles, I put it up. All I can hear is the beep and whirr of traffic, snippets of distant conversation and the pitter-patter of raindrops on the fabric of my umbrella as I wrap my free arm around my woolen coat and stride towards my street.

  But as I get closer to the corner my phone pings from my handbag. It will be Hyacinth. I sent her my story before I left the office. My stomach is tight as I pull my phone from my bag.

  Hi Harper, you said you have evidence. I’ll need that too. H

  Fuck. I intentionally didn’t include the evidence with my story; I wanted her feedback first. Because if she isn’t going to run it, I want someone else to, and a scoop by definition means the information isn’t already ‘out there’. But now she’s asking. And she’s my boss.

  A clear plastic bag dances in the wind as I stand still, staring at the screen, considering my options. But then my phone flashes with a low battery notification. I need to get home and plug it in.

  The rain is heavier now and my shoes are getting wet. I rush past the row of parked motorbikes all sparkling with droplets, my fingers white with cold as I feel around the bottom of my bag for my keys. There they are, next to Sabine’s hard drive.

  But just as I get to the corner of my street, the m
oment before I turn, I see a parked car.

  The occupant is looking down, doing something on his phone and his face is lit up by the screen.

  There’s no mistaking it: dark hair, beaky nose, big.

  It’s him.

  My stomach clenches.

  I stop.

  I turn.

  And I head right back the way I came.

  Quickly.

  My blood hurls through my veins like a rush hour metro through a tunnel as I head back to the main road thinking, Did he see me? Do they know I was there last night? Do they somehow know what I am writing about?

  But then I’ve turned the corner and I’m out of view and the air is thick with danger as I look around me: left then right. I need to get out of here. Quickly. I rush across the main road, weaving through traffic, and as I get to the other side I glance down at my phone: it’s already 7 pm.

  There’s only one place I can think of where I might be safe. One place he wouldn’t want to go again.

  And so I pull out my phone and text Thomas. Heya, I’m free now. I’ll come over.

  * * *

  It’s just as I head down Rue Vaneau and pass a papeterie that I realise he must have seen me. I glance into the shop window at the brightly coloured cards, a pile of Moleskine notebooks and a golden rabbit beside a rack of vintage pens. Then I focus on the pavement, huddling beneath my umbrella and as I pass a white van I glance at the side mirror. And there he is behind me, following on foot: tall, willowy, with a large black umbrella.

  My stomach twists.

  I look ahead of me and start to run, splashing through puddles, holding tight onto my handbag so nothing falls out. By the time I turn left onto Rue d’Olivet my lungs are burning from cold air and fear, but I can see Thomas’s building just up ahead on the left. I reach for my phone to call him, to tell him I’m here, and rush towards his door. But just before I get there, I see there’s a message from him.