Domina

by L. S. Hilton

  ‘Go on, I’m not dangerous.’

  ‘Unless you want me to be. I know, I know.’

  We clinked glasses.

  ‘Your heart to your mother.’

  ‘And my cock to the whores?’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Very good. Where is she? Your mother.’

  ‘I’m from Morocco.’ He said it half defiantly, half proud.

  ‘I’ve never been to Morocco.’

  So he told me about it for a while, a picture-postcard description of the sands of Essaouira and the delights of the Jemaa el-Fnaa, and then asked if I’d like to go to the back room.

  ‘That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I wanted to get to know him, to observe him, before I brought up Guiche’s name. ‘I was more hoping . . . for some company. For the night, as it were.’

  He brightened. ‘That can be arranged. It will be a pleasure.’

  ‘How much?’

  He looked convincingly offended at the question. ‘Really, it would be a pleasure to spend an evening with such a beautiful woman. Lady.’

  I remembered that game from my nights at the Gstaad Club – never look like you’re in it for the money. Though of course you’re in it for the money.

  ‘As you like,’ I replied. ‘Shall we go somewhere quieter?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He helped me on with my coat, without catching the eyes of his crowd lurking at the other end of the bar, and in the street he even managed to get the doorman to hail us a cab, into which he ceremoniously handed me. He was pretty good, given that I doubted girls were really his thing. I asked for the Place des Vosges and soon we were installed in one of the late-night bars off the Rue de Turenne, positively cosy on a plastic-shrouded terrace with electric stoves. As usual, it was empty inside. I ordered a bottle of red and topped him up liberally.

  *

  As we chatted, I learned that Timothy dreamed of working in fashion, that he’d had a job for a while as a waiter at the Hôtel Costes, but that right now he was ‘looking for the right opportunity’. He claimed to be staying with an uncle for the present, over in Aubervilliers. All standard lines for la nuit, but it felt so disarmingly pleasant to speak to anyone who wasn’t the Chinese concierge that now and again I almost forgot what I was there for. When most of the bottle was inside him, he asked if I’d like to go on to a party.

  ‘Sure.’

  We went through the cab performance once more, crossed the river and drove west along the quais.

  Paris was doing its usual sparkle of night-lumened loveliness, but the city’s brightness only emphasised the tar pit in my chest. The party, on a peniche anchored near the Musée d’Orsay wasn’t up to much more than I was, mostly idling twinks like Timothy and a scatter of screeching fag hags, but I was supposed to be hiring a night out, so I tried to look as though I was having fun, dancing a bit, talking to his friends. After a while the coke came out, with a lot of exaggerated trips to the stinking pothole of a loo, but as usual I didn’t indulge. I sat on a damp floor cushion, nodding along to the music and half following as the boasts and thick-voiced confessions became more urgent, as they all talked more and listened less. Timothy had made a few visits to the bathroom and was showing off his watch, explaining that he’d been given it after a super-crazy weekend in Tangier.

  ‘You should see this guy’s place!’ he was telling anyone who was paying attention, which was no one, except me. ‘It’s like – a fucking castle – like, walls and guards and shit! And they gave us all one of these –’ he flicked the Rolex to the pump of the music – ‘sick!’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I dunno, some Russian guy. I mean, they’re all crazy rich those Russians. My friend Edouard took me.’

  Bingo.

  ‘Edouard?’

  ‘He’s this guy I’m, like, seeing? He’s a lawyer. He’s from a really posh family. He’s married, of course.’

  ‘Aren’t they all, darling?’ I managed wryly. He misread the tone, suddenly pushed his face next to mine, all grinding teeth and exaggerated concern.

  ‘What’s the matter? Did you have a story with a married guy?’

  ‘Something like that. They’re all the same, aren’t they?’

  His serotonin rush slipped momentarily. ‘Yeah. But that’s how it is, isn’t it? They think they can fucking buy us. I mean, Edouard, he’s actually pretty cool, but sometimes he just treats me like a prostitute, you know?’

  ‘But you are a prostitute.’

  That hung between us for a moment, and I thought I might have lost him, but then he started laughing, so I did too, grabbing the nearest beer bottle to hand and raising a toast.

  ‘Fuck ’em!’ I yelled. ‘Fuck the married guys!’

  He gave me a dry, hoppy kiss and told me he loved me before sashaying off to do another line, vanishing into an animated huddle of sinewy guys in tank tops who looked like Abercrombie models down on their luck. I set down the untouched beer bottle and went up to the deck, where people were smoking and talking more quietly. The Eiffel Tower winked at me.

  *

  As I had thought, Guiche was Timothy’s lover. Better still, Guiche had taken him to a party at Balensky’s Tangier home, the kind of party that red-blooded Russian males like Mr Putin might not approve of. Nor might Guiche’s partners at Saccard, Rougon and Busch approve of that kind of corporate socialising. It wasn’t much, but if I could use Timothy to introduce me to Guiche, that knowledge might be enough to make him tell me what, if anything, he knew about the person who was waiting for the Caravaggio on the night of the killing in the Place de l’Odéon, the source of Yermolov’s knowledge of my past. Then I could work out what to do with the picture, presently marking time in the base of my luggage at the Hotel Hearse.

  Timothy’s tousled mahogany head was poking prettily up from a hatch.

  ‘Hey! Where did you go?’

  ‘Right here,’ I answered. ‘Do you want to get going?’

  I reckoned I could get Timothy to crash at my place for a while. The uncle in Aubervilliers was hardly competition to the charms of the Hearse. Besides, I was paying.

  ‘We’re going to your place?’ Only the slightest hint of weariness in his tone.

  ‘Sure.’ I held out four fifties, rolled discreetly. ‘But as I said, I only want company.’ I knew by now that women were strictly business for him, but one less practical than me might have felt disappointed by his evident relief. Still, all that mattered was to get Timothy on my side, and for that, I needed a story.

  *

  Old hand that he was, Timothy had a toothbrush next to the condoms in his fancy jacket and a blister of Diazepam to take the high off. That night I slept better than I had in weeks. I felt purposeful and alert again, and even his physical presence, which usually I would have disliked, felt reassuring. As much as I was frantic to get moving, I knew I couldn’t rush him if I was to succeed in getting to Guiche, so for the next few days I concentrated on becoming his new best friend. My estimate that Timothy was broke seemed accurate – at least he seemed happy enough to scrounge his food and his bed for a while – so we got acquainted over cheap dinners in the eleventh and the odd joint smoked furtively out of the Hearse’s window. Not that I inhaled. I knew what he was, but we never alluded to it again, and our avoidance of the subject allowed him a degree of dignity that made him promisingly malleable in other ways.

  As far as I could tell, he had been born in France but had grown up in Rabat, where he attended the university for a while. His mother hoped he might become an engineer, but Timothy’s looks, and his liking for men, took him to Marrakech, where he lived off the numerous old-school French tourists and English expats who spiced-up their romances with the pretence that homosexuality was still illegal in Europe. One of his johns had brought him over on a visit to Paris, where the uncle – who apparently existed – had fixed him up with a carte de séjour and the waiting job at the Hôtel Costes. He talked about saving up for
fashion school, but his heart wasn’t in it, any more than it was in serving tagines to tourists. He hadn’t lasted as a waiter, but he’d met Edouard at the Costes and for a several months they’d lived as partners in the lawyer’s apartment on the Île Saint-Louis where I’d first seen him. I heard a lot about that. Edouard took him to parties, restaurants, trips, but had never come through with much more than pocket money. Then, about six months ago, he had told him that he couldn’t stay anymore, that his wife was coming up from the country, that he had a lot of work, leaving Timothy to fall back into la nuit. Timothy was puzzled by the sudden insistence on discretion. He still saw Edouard, who ‘helped him out’, but he was no longer allowed to stay over at the apartment. His days consisted of sleeping off the night before, then spiffing himself up to mooch around the boutiques in Saint-Germain or the Avenue George V until the clubs opened. Timothy wasn’t exactly unmotivated – he spent longer on exercise and grooming than I did – and he talked a good enough game about fashion, mentioning ‘Nicolas’ or ‘Demna’ as though he knew them from anything but Instagram, but he was twenty-one, and like the majority of the generation below mine he was mostly waiting confidently for the moment that he was discovered.

  In return, I told him I was in Paris to complete research for a PhD thesis, hence my daily trips to the library. He brightened a little when I said it was art history – Edouard was apparently ‘really into’ art – but I didn’t want him getting curious at this stage, so I said it was technical stuff about colours and materials in old pictures. He was as uninterested in any holes in my story as I was in picking out those in his – I had taken enough of a shine to him to mean that he could sleep for free inside the Périphérique, and he wasn’t going to ask any questions. At least I thought so, until after I got back from my morning run I found him on the floor, with all my stuff laid out around him, riffling through the cash from the bottom of my bag. He was so engrossed that he hadn’t heard my Nikes on the stairs. Oh, not again. If he’d opened the lining . . .

  I was bracing myself to kick him swiftly in the face and then improvise, but I glimpsed the intact lining of the emptied bag over his shoulder in time. The Caravaggio and the Caracal were safe for now. Then he gave me a wide-eyed, red-handed shrug and put the money back on the horrible carpet, so I laughed instead. I hadn’t been planning on springing my Guiche story quite so soon, but this was obviously the moment.

  ‘You poxy little grifter.’

  ‘What?’

  I switched back to French. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for stuff to steal. Sorry. I wouldn’t have really taken it. I’ll go.’

  ‘It’s OK. You’re broke then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So you would have taken it?’

  ‘Well, all right. Yeah. I thought you were rich. You have really nice things.’ His eyes moved quite sadly over the rumpled pile of leather, cashmere, silk.

  ‘I do, don’t I? You should have asked.’

  ‘But you didn’t even want me to –’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have done that for free?’ His wince was genuine.

  ‘Just as well I didn’t ask! Look, you’re a nice guy, you’re pretty good at reading people . . .’ I flattered him.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So when we met, in the club, you could tell I was sad. I was really drunk?’

  ‘You’re English.’

  ‘You remember I told you I had a thing with a guy who was married?’ I turned over my scattered possessions until I found Eakin’s book, showed him the passages I’d marked.

  ‘That was my boyfriend. We were together for three years. He was going to leave his wife, but . . .’ I blinked back a few brave tears.

  ‘And now he’s passed on,’ he answered respectfully.

  ‘Yes. It’s a few years ago now. But when you said your guy? Edouard? Edouard knew –’ shit, what was the Pole’s name? – ‘Oskar. I just couldn’t believe it. It seemed like – a sign. I’d love to talk to him, just once. I couldn’t go to the funeral, out of respect for the family.’

  ‘You need closure.’ He’d seen enough reality shows to know his script.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence,’ prompted Timothy solemnly. We were both enjoying ourselves hugely.

  ‘So I was thinking – if you’d help me – I could, you know, help you out a bit? ‘I let my eyes slide over the pile of notes on the floor.

  ‘I’ll help. Of course I will.’

  ‘And then we’ll see. Thank you.’

  *

  Timothy’s empathy might have been contrived, but he seemed convinced enough by my story, so with that sa-tisfactory little improvisation played out respectably on both sides, I encouraged him a bit more by taking him to lunch at Thoumieux and buying him a pair of pointy-toed Saint Laurent Chelsea boots, which delighted him. I put the lid on any mourning for poor Oskar by saying that I Wasn’t Ready to Talk About It, which Timothy entirely Understood, and then we toasted the new boots with a kir royale while he messaged Edouard. We sat outside so we could smoke, but the October air was chilly and Edouard wasn’t replying.

  ‘How long is it since you actually spoke to him?’

  Of course I knew that Timothy had approached Edouard a few days ago, but the meeting hadn’t gone that well.

  ‘I told you, a while. He’s been weird lately. I’ll WhatsApp him.’

  ‘It’s probably best if you don’t mention me. I don’t want to be indiscreet. Just work out when you’ll meet and I’ll, you know, casually come along.’

  ‘He could be away. He travels a lot.’ We’d seen a burgundy velvet blazer in the Saint Laurent store and I could see that he was irritated – if he didn’t produce Edouard for our touching scene of reminiscence he didn’t have a chance at it.

  ‘No problem. I’m freezing, I’m going back to the hotel. I’ll see you there later.’

  *

  Housekeeping at the Hearse was not top-flight; the Caracal had been lurking in wait underneath the mattress since I arrived. I used Timothy’s absence to check the barrel was clean and lubricate it with the phial of gun oil I kept in my make-up bag, before checking the safety. I was stuffing it back into the bed just as he charged in, beaming.

  ‘He says he can meet me tomorrow!’ He sprawled right over the Caracal. ‘He called me back and asked me to an art reception – really smart – the Fondation Vuitton.’

  ‘A party? I thought you said he was being secretive recently?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s obviously changed his mind. It could be a new beginning, don’t you think?’

  ‘So I get to meet him?’

  ‘Well, that too, of course. I asked if I could bring a friend and we’re on the list. Me plus one,’ he added proudly.

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll introduce myself, see how it goes.’

  ‘I’ll be there to support you,’ he muttered meaninglessly. I thought his mind must be fixed on the blazer, but something in his face was pathetically hopeful.

  ‘Are you in love with Edouard?’

  He rolled over onto his stomach. The last light of the Parisian dusk caught his sharp cheekbones.

  ‘I used to imagine the life we could have. You should see his place!’ I’d heard so much about the flat on the Quai d’Anjou I could have hosted a dinner party there blindfolded. The modern art, the rainfall shower, the maid’s room on the top floor done out as a Moroccan-style smoking room. With ingenuous venality, Timothy had even informed me of the thread count of Edouard’s Frette sheets and the full range of Tom Ford cosmetics available in the walk-in dressing room. Edouard’s firm was clearly doing very nicely off the back of their Russian connection.

  ‘He knows so many people,’ Timothy went on, ‘and he’s really kind. Thoughtful, you know? He’s just been very preoccupied with his work lately. But he said that he had something to tell me, something important. And the party, you know, public. Maybe he’s getting divorced?’

  I wanted to tell him tha
t they never get divorced, not for two-bit rent boys anyway, but the remaining scraps of my heart weren’t quite cold enough.

  ‘Shit, what will I wear?’ Timothy was still in the sweatshirt and T-shirt he’d had on three days ago at the peniche party, and his Calvin Kleins were looking a little tired from damp nights spent on the shower rail.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you some more stuff tomorrow. I really appreciate you helping me out. It means – so much.’ I rubbed my eyes brusquely.

  He reached up and pulled me into a hug. ‘That’s OK, Judith. I really care about you.’

  For a man who’d been in the process of robbing me blind four hours ago, he sounded remarkably sincere.

  18

  I made Timothy take the Métro up to the Bois de Boulogne. He grumbled, but shopping for him had left me with only a few thousand in cash and I wasn’t yet any closer to whoever had grassed me up. My own wardrobe wasn’t a worry. I’d learned by now that looking too polished marked you immediately as a nouv; the important thing was perfect confidence, which is why a duke can go to dinner in an old polo shirt. At least, that was what I’d read in the Tatler. Black high-waisted Miu Miu pants with droll, childish buttons and a mannish white Comme des Garcons shirt with flats looked suitable. Only waitresses wear cocktail dresses nowadays. Timothy was resplendent in blazer and boots, with a fresh T-shirt and a Paul Smith foulard for a touch of style anglais. He spent a touching amount of time shaving twice and applying just a stroke of Touche Éclat, and the result was, I admit, very lovely. He could have been a model; I hoped that maybe things with Édouard would work out and give him a chance.

  Gehry’s sequence of overlapping shells, a toppled Sydney Opera House, hovered above the trees of the park as we approached the Vuitton building. The show was commemorating twenty years of the artists of the 798 district in Beijing; the gallery was illuminated in a gold and black display of Chinese characters, morphing in and out of the brand’s logo. Walking inside was a step back into my old life, or at least Elisabeth Teerlinc’s life. As we approached the greeter, our feet crunched over a path made of shards of porcelain, a reference to Ai Weiwei’s 1995 photo stunt, where he smashed a supposed Han Dynasty vase. Waiters in gold Mao pyjamas held out trays of cocktails in teacups painted with Communist slogans. I asked for a water as I warily searched the crowd, prepared to slip into character as Elisabeth if I was approached by anyone who recognised me from the art circuit. Once we had our drinks, Timothy pulled me through the crowd, not even glancing at the exhibits. We made an anti-clockwise circle of the space and then another before he spotted Edouard, in a dark suit and open-collared white shirt. I hung back while Timothy approached him and the two discreetly shook hands. I watched for a few minutes as they talked, Guiche leaning in as though telling a story. Edouard looked the definition of straight-acting – blandly handsome, professionally confident. If I hadn’t heard about what they’d got up to in Tangier I would never have believed that the two had anything other than a casual social relationship.