by L. S. Hilton
‘As you said, what a coincidence.’
‘You perhaps need to be a bit more discreet. In your . . . amusements.’
‘What about Leanne?’
‘Ah. Leanne. Well, your face is very memorable, as I said. I’d seen your photo in London, seen someone who looked very much like you in Paris, but the lighting at Julien’s parties is always so . . . considerate.’
He switched to French.
‘Encore, I needed to be certain that it was the same girl. Julien didn’t have a name for you, except Lauren, but he gave me the details of several professional girls who share your – er – proclivities. Girls with international reputations, to use the old-fashioned phrase. Again, it took me a while, I had to track down each of the girls individually and eventually one recognised you. I found your friend Ashley at your other former place of employment.’
‘The Gstaad Club.’
‘Précisément. And then Rupert seems to have found your friend Leanne about the same time, in the very same place. It suited him to use her – he didn’t want your connection with British Pictures coming up any more than it had to. I came here with Leanne. She gave me a photo from the club to show Julien, to check. It was hardly a betrayal – we were both looking for you. She just didn’t know the reason.’
I didn’t dare to say another word. Fucking moronic selfies: the two of us snapped on her phone on a quiet night, gurning for the camera.
‘You don’t need to worry about them, Judith. Forget about Rupert. He’s got too much to lose; he made a dumb call on something that was bigger than he knew. Leanne was just some junkie semi-hooker, right?’
‘Was?’
‘Judith, please. It wasn’t very polite of you to leave a dead body in a hotel room I was paying for. Nice touch, though, leaving the dealer’s number. The police were pretty happy to have him.’
‘The police? I thought you said –’
‘I said I wasn’t a cop. That doesn’t mean I don’t have friends at the préfecture. I need them, in my line. How do you think I got your address?’
‘I thought you followed me.’
‘Form. Crossing the t’s, that’s all. Isn’t that what you say?’ He looked pleased with the idiom. ‘They had plenty of questions for your Stéphane. I told my friend that Leanne was just some girl I’d picked up, didn’t know her, didn’t know she was using. They’ll find her through the consulate eventually, ship her back. Don’t sweat.’ Another English phrase. I could hear his accent come through.
‘Anyway, Rupert. I think he just wanted to keep an eye on you, make sure you weren’t talking. You might even find a few doors open to you now, if you wanted to go back to London.’
I shook my head numbly. All that time. Over and over, I had thought myself so clever, and Cleret had only been waiting for me to stumble into his sights. I forced myself to speak.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want Moncada. I want my client’s money and I want my fee. That’s all.’
‘You know who he is, where he is. Why not just find him?’
‘I want him here, in Paris. He’s too dangerous in Rome.’
‘So what can I do?’
‘Sell him a painting, of course.’
‘And then?’
‘You deliver Moncada, you’re in the clear. We can even split the profit on your deal with him.’
I thought about that for a while.
‘But if I do, then won’t Moncada and his “associates” come after me? They won’t want to pay up for the Rothko, the one that belonged to your banker. And you say he’s dangerous.’
I hated the way I was feeling: childish, desperate, out of control.
‘Who would you rather have looking for you – them or the police? Anyway, I can arrange the details for you. I know a guy in Amsterdam, he’s good with passports. You’ll have to disappear for a while, leave Paris. But I don’t think you have a lot of choice, do you?’
I thought about that for a while. I could protest, deny what I hadn’t even admitted; I could run. As I said, I don’t like games, unless they’re ones I can win. He didn’t seem to care about Cameron or Leanne, at least not if I did what he wanted.
‘So you want Moncada here? That’s all? And I walk?’
‘I need to find a way of speaking to him in private. They’re wary, these people. You’re getting the hang of this, Judith.’
He whisked the jacket off my shoulders as he stood. He looked different to me now, contained, powerful even.
‘We’ll go to your place.’
‘My place?’
‘Do you think I’m going to let you out of my sight? I can even run round the Luxembourg if I have to. As long as it takes.’
Renaud had his things in a tourist hotel in the Latin Quarter. We tried to flag down a couple of cabs as we walked, but in true Parisian form none of them wanted to earn any money. My feet felt like bleeding stumps by the time we arrived in the kebab-stinking alleyway. He made me go up the four flights of dingily carpeted stairs with him while he collected his bags. I looked out of the window at a picturesque fire escape and a shamble of satellite dishes as he rummaged in the tiny bathroom.
‘The rooftops of Paris,’ I said, for something to say. He ignored me, but as my shoulders began to heave I felt his hand on my back. I turned and pressed my face to that damned shirt front, and he patted at me with that clumsy necessary tenderness that men show to weeping women. I cried for a long time, cried properly with my throat full of tears and snot, until I heard a strange noise. It seemed to come from outside, a keening, a baby maybe, or mating cats. Then I realised it was me, howling. I cried out all the tears I hadn’t allowed to fall since that day in London when Rupert had sent me to see Colonel Morris, and I was curious, even as I sobbed and gasped and writhed, at the alien sensation which had, finally, allowed me to let go. It was relief. Just for once, at last, someone else was in charge. For a few moments I even thought that it could end there, like that, with me molten and grateful in his arms, and occasionally, later, I would wish that it had. But, of course, it didn’t.
24
I had hardly ever woken up with a man. Few heads had ever lain beneath my faithless arm till morning. At 5 a.m., opening my eyes in my flat, I experienced a moment of bewildered panic about the hump under the duvet next to me. Steve? Jean-Christophe? Jan? Not Matteo. Renaud. I could smell last night’s drinks seeping from my skin, but for once I didn’t haul myself straight out of bed, I turned on my back and lay there, listening to his thick breathing. I was sore and sticky and there was a tinny pain below my right ear where he’d slapped me as we fucked. Because of course we’d fucked. Not before he’d relieved me of my passport and credit cards to make sure I really wasn’t going anywhere, but then against the closed door, tripping over his bags, me wriggling awkwardly out of my tight jeans, him on his knees, his face drenched from my already sodden and gaping cunt, his hand inside me, then on the floor, his teeth buried in the hollow of my throat. Then somehow we’d crawled to the bed, both of us naked now, and he’d smeared that beautiful cock and my exposed arse with some of my priceless body oil and battered into me, one hand gripping tight on my neck, the other stroking my clit in rhythm with his cock until my mouth found the soft hollow of his palm and I tasted the iron of his blood while he split and salved me. Nice, although the sheets were going to be a write-off.
He turned on his side, his belly shifting against my hip. Odd, given my preference for handsome men, but there was something about the heft of it, its unexpected firmness, that I found erotic. Me and fat men. I lay on my back and listened. Where was Rage? Where was that little voice, teasing me, telling me to do it, do it now? Nothing. It was – peaceful. My eyes slid sideways and met his, creased with sleep and smiles.
‘Open your legs.’
His breath was sour in my ear, but somehow I didn’t mind that, either.
‘I’m a mess.’
‘Open. Good. Wider.’
I stretched my thighs until I fel
t the tendons strain. He opened me, manoeuvred himself heavily on top, his face on my shoulder, guided himself slowly inside. My cunt gave a wet slurp, greedy, but he didn’t rush, just worked the length of his cock deeper, a centimetre at a time. His finger stabbed sharply into my arse. I gasped, but felt my muscles relaxing, already familiar. I was glued to his body by his weight, a leaf preserved in blotting paper, the muscles of my limbs twitching in fluttering arpeggios. I worked my hand between us, squeezed the head of his cock where it entered me, my clit and the lips of my cunt swollen against my palm, their heat spreading in waves, penetrating my guts.
‘Harder.’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘No.’
He raised his head as I caught him with my muscles, stalling.
‘Relax, I’m going to make you come.’
Prettier in French. Je vais te faire jouir.
‘Lick my face.’
I let my tongue loll softly from my mouth, licked his jaw, his cheeks, wetting him with my saliva.
‘Yes, like that. Like that, my bitch.’
I was so wet, I could feel my own juice streaming over my aching thighs. It began, like a ripple of wind across water, my body stroked by a shimmering wave, swirling around the red need between my legs. I was nothing; I was only flesh where it was touched by his cock. My eyelids juddered shut, open, shut, I could see his own orgasm begin to shake his pale torso, his hand wrapped in a tight skein of my hair. He growled, deep from his lungs, threw his body back, the veins in his arms pulsing blue neon, and I let myself fall deeper, deeper into my own ecstasy, drowning in the gouts of his sperm.
He collapsed on top of me, shuddering, panting. I held him for a moment, feeling the sweat cooling under the hair on his back.
‘Why are you laughing?’
I let my head bounce on the pillows. ‘Because – because . . . like, wow!’
‘Wow? Like?’
‘OK. You’re an exceptionally talented man. Surprisingly so.’
‘Slut. What time is it? Fuck, that’s indecent.’
‘I wake up early.’ But he was gathering himself to sleep again. It was a clever test. Without saying a word, he was giving me a chance to get away, but where was I going to run to? He would find me, and we both knew it. If I skipped out now, he could simply turn me in. So I hopped up, showered him off me, pulled on jeans and a sweater, grabbed my purse and ran down the stairs into rain-washed Paris. The boulangerie up the street was just opening. I bought croissants au beurre and a pot of salted-caramel jam, milk, orange juice. The concierge was grumbling into life in the lodge; she looked up as I smiled good morning. I made coffee, balanced spoons and knives on plates, then carried it through and curled up on the bed, watching him. There was something so soothing in the rise and fall of his chest that I must have slept again, too; at least when we woke the sun was in the courtyard and the coffee was cold.
That was the last time we were separated for three weeks. Renaud meant it when he said he wasn’t going to let me out of his sight – he even made me leave my phone behind when I was in the bathroom, and took it with him when he used it. He put the flat keys under his pillow every night, though they often got dislodged. Sometimes I’d tuck them back before he woke so he wouldn’t feel bad. I thought of asking him why he didn’t trust me, but that was obviously a stupid question. The first few mornings, I had work to do. After he’d staggered round the Luxo with me, in an ancient Nike T-shirt and my largest pair of track pants, he’d read the papers while I checked lots and prices online. I considered Urs Fischer and Alan Gussow, but Renaud thought I ought to go for something more blue chip. I couldn’t afford Bacon, but Twombly and Calder had pieces within the range of a million which Renaud specified. Finally I found a Gerhard Richter – more of a Richterette really, a small 1988 canvas in crimson and charcoal – in the autumn contemporary show at what I’d used to call the other place. Aside from my Fontana, it would be Gentileschi’s first major acquisition. But I hesitated. Maybe Moncada would be more likely to go for something strictly classic.
I explained to Renaud that I wanted some advice, told him about Dave and his passion for the eighteenth century. ‘Can I get him to send me some catalogues over? Recent sales?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to know how things are moving. In theory, I’m going to make a profit on this.’
‘We’re going to make a profit. Half and half.’
‘Of course. Well, I just want to check, before I bid on the Richter.’
He tossed me my phone. ‘Go ahead.’
*
‘Frankie, it’s Judith.’
‘Judith! Oh my God, hi, how are you?’
‘I’m great, thanks. You?’
‘Oh Judith, it’s so strange that you called today. I’ve just got engaged!’
‘That’s wonderful! I’m thrilled for you, Frankie, congratulations. Who’s the lucky chap?’
‘He’s called Henry. He’s in the Guards. We’re going to live in Kenya. Army wife, can you believe it?’
‘Is he heaven?’
‘Well, Mummy’s delighted.’
I could see Renaud looking at me quizzically. Time to stop with the Jane Austen stuff.
‘Frankie, remember ages ago I asked you a favour?’
‘Oh my God, I know. Wasn’t it awful about Cameron Fitzpatrick? It was in all the papers.’
‘Yes, I know, awful. And after you’d been so kind, too, helping me to try for a job with him. God, I didn’t mean it like that –’
‘That’s OK, I know.’
‘Listen, Frankie, I wondered if I could trouble you for something else?’
‘OK.’
‘You remember Dave, Dave who used to work in the warehouse?’
‘Yes, he left yonks ago.’
‘Do you still have an address for him on file?’
‘I could find it.’
‘Frankie, could you text it to me, please? I’m sorry to bother you again, I really don’t want you to get into trouble, but –’
‘No probs. Anyway, I don’t care, I’m off to Africa.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They’re all wankers here anyway.’
Wankers. Go Frankie.
I spent a bit of time on the computer while I waited for Frankie’s text, ordering two copies of a book from Amazon I thought Dave would like. One for him, one for me. They turned up next day; thank goodness for Prime. Then Renaud walked me down to the bank and handed me my card. I mistyped my code on purpose.
‘The catalogues will cost a couple of hundred, but the machine’s bust. Will I just pop in?’
He waited outside, smoking, while I went in to the counter where I wrote myself a cheque for 10,000 euro. I used my carte de séjour for ID. They were a bit sniffy about handing it over, but I pointed out that it was my money, and I took it in 500-euro notes, most of which I stuffed in my bra Then we walked over to Rue de Sèvres, as I explained to Renaud I wanted to send a birthday present to my old colleague’s wife. Not unreasonable. I wasn’t sure what kind of scent Dave’s wife would like, so I settled for Chanel No. 5, a gift box from Le Bon Marché with perfume, body lotion and soap. I popped to the store’s powder room and lurked in a cubicle while I retrieved the cash and put it underneath the plastic mouldings for the bottles. I added a hastily scribbled note with my Paris address along with some page references for the books. At the bottom, I wrote ‘Mercenary fee pending’. Renaud accompanied me to the post office, where I put the gift in a jiffy bag and had the package expressed to London. It turned out Dave lived up in Finsbury. I had to pray that he would understand.
*
In the evenings, we ate dinner together, another first. Sometimes we’d walk up to the Rue Mouffetard, Renaud solemnly carrying a straw basket, and buy ingredients to cook. It turned out Renaud could do fantastic risotto. I bought him a set of Japanese ceramic knives so he could prepare melting osso buco. He’d pour me a glass of wine while we chopped in our pyjamas and afterwards we’d finish the bot
tle and listen to music. Sometimes we went out, to the smaller, less obvious places we both preferred. I found I liked having company; maybe he liked it too. He told me a little about his work, about the calls he made to New York and LA while I read through the afternoons. It was apparently less dramatic than it seemed, chasing money. Mostly a waiting game. Testify. Often, though, we just chatted about articles we’d read in the papers – I was trying to wean him off Le Figaro – or about the latest sex scandals amongst French politicians now that the country’s media was finally getting up to kiss ’n’ tell sleb speed. A couple of times we went to the cinema, and he held my hand in the dark. One evening, though, he asked if I’d like to go to La Lumière. I thought about that.
‘Or Regrattier if you don’t fancy seeing Julien?’
‘You know your stuff.’
‘But of course, Mademoiselle No-Name.’
I smiled and let my hair fall across my cheekbone, twisted my wine glass.
‘Do you know, I don’t think I do? I’m . . . fine. Fine as we are.’
‘We?’
I backtracked. ‘For the present. Until you’ve talked to Moncada.’
Renaud reached over and gently pushed the fallen hair behind my ear. ‘That’s OK, Judith. I might like “we”.’
*
Another time, while we were slurping Vietnamese in a tiny café in Belleville, he asked me about Rome. I didn’t need to ask what he was referring to.
‘I thought you said you saw.’
‘I saw enough. I saw you go under the bridge. I saw you come out in your jogging gear. The rest I got from the police report. Inspector da Silva.’
‘Renaud, you total cunt.’
He mimed a huge shrug. ‘Saaarry.’
‘But you speak Italian?’
‘Certo. Well, a bit.’
I sucked a forkful of grilled pork noodles, considering.
‘Why didn’t you tell them – the police?’
‘You were my way to get to Moncada. Besides, I explained, I’m not a cop. And I was – interested. Interested in you, in how it would come out.’