by L. S. Hilton
Still nothing. I poured myself a whopping cognac, got a cigarette started. My phone blinked dumbly up at me, maddening. Who are you going to call when you’re alone in the night? No one, that’s who.
The sound of the street bell was so loud its wire could have been connected directly to my tendons. I stubbed out the fag, set the glass carefully on the floor, and crawled to my window. One of the things I loved about the flat was the recessed window seats in the thick eighteenth-century walls; now I angled myself over the cushion, squinting down into the courtyard, trying to see without showing a silhouette. The bell rang again. I had time to count to ten before I sensed, rather than heard, the low electric pulse of the buzzer in the lodge. The door clicked, swung heavily back. He was in. I saw his shape in the entry of the lodge, outlined in the rays of the concierge’s TV. Impossible to know what he was saying. Then I saw the concierge heave herself with maximum Gallic disgruntlement from her comfortable chair, pass through the lodge door, and cross the courtyard to the staircase. I held my breath. She trod heavily up the stairs; I could hear her muttering to herself in Portuguese. She buzzed my door. I held myself as tight as a cat before she pounces. One more buzz, then her weight in her sloppy Dr. Scholl’s receding, a creak on the banister, and she reappeared, returning to where he waited. I saw her flip her hand contemptuously, shake her head. He stepped back into the courtyard, careful, I noticed, to stand directly beneath the security light so that his face would be invisible. But I could feel him looking. He called “Merci, madame” to the concierge, pressed the illuminated release button next to the street door in its plastic envelope, and then he was gone.
It took me a while to stand up straight. I felt like an old woman. I closed the bathroom door before turning on the light and took a long shower, as hot as I could stand, mechanically going through the motions of soap, body scrub, cleansing oil, face wash, exfoliator, shampoo, conditioner. I shaved my legs and underarms, applied a moisturizing mask, spent a few minutes rubbing in body cream, monoï where it mattered, deodorant, scent. I made up my face—primer, foundation, bronzer, concealer, blush, eyebrow gel, eyeliner, mascara—and flipped my head upside down and blew out my hair. None of that stopped my hands from shaking, but it calmed me enough to think. I chose a short trapeze-line gray dress from APC, black hold-up stockings, added ankle boots, a scarf, diamond studs, my Vuitton raincoat. I called Taxis Bleus and drank a glass of water while they put me on hold, ordered a cab from my building, locked the door, lost my keys in my bag, went back to check the lock.
The concierge was still glued to a Brazilian telenovela. A woman with improbably sculpted breasts and buttocks stuffed into a laughable business suit was screeching in Portuguese at a guilty-looking man with a mustache. Every time she yelled, you could see the set tremble.
“Excuse me, madame? I’m very sorry to disturb you, but has there been a message for me?”
There had been a caller, a man, didn’t give his name, what were those mobile phones for, the concierge would like to know, disturbing people at night, no, no message, but he had asked for me by name, Mademoiselle Rashleigh, not that the concierge had anything better to do than go trailing up and down stairs of an evening, no certainly no message, didn’t say if he would call back and if he does could he buzz mademoiselle directly, please, it’s like that, isn’t it, people have no manners. And on and on, until I had apologized and agreed with her enough times that she was mollified and we had agreed that people were dreadfully inconsiderate, especially with regard to the concierge’s gammy hip, until the taxi tooted impatiently in the street and I departed in a hustle of vous and sympathy.
• • •
IT WAS STILL EARLY, just after midnight, when I got to the Rue Thérèse. I had visited the club alone several times since the party at the town house, and I liked the way it worked. Julien’s door policy was democratic, if mercurial, balancing the two powers—money and beauty—that mattered in the night world. The prettier you were, the less you paid, though the discreet bill handed over as the clients left was still fairly eye-watering. Expense bought secrecy: La Lumière was known to be frequented by some surprisingly respectable figures, though despite, or perhaps because of, its notoriety there were never any journos lurking outside the plain black door. Inside was a different matter. As I wandered down to the bar and ordered a terrible cognac (the cognac in these places is always terrible), I noticed that the banquettes had been recovered in zebra skin, and wondered, as I always did, which came first, the décor or the instinct. Are Europeans hardwired to associate animal skin and red paint and black leather with sex, or is it just habit? Though one could hardly imagine a partouze club decked out in tasteful neutrals.
There was no sign of Julien in the bar, so I slid off the stool and crossed the dance floor to the darkroom. Several groups were already gathered on the divans. A slim brunette was engaged in a complex daisy chain with three guys, one in her mouth, one behind, one underneath, the steady pant of her pleasure sighing and dipping between the glossy walls. The murmurs and gasps were decorous, though, unostentatious; the clientele here went in for action rather than performance. A young, very young, man looked up at me expectantly, coffee-colored hair falling across the tight line of his jaw. South American, maybe? Promising, but I didn’t have the time tonight. Reluctantly, I shook my head and walked along the corridor past the individual changing cubicles, their short black lacquered doors concealing shower, mirror, and thoughtful Acqua di Parma toiletries. I found Julien back in the bar; he nodded in recognition as I approached him.
“I’m not staying downstairs,” I explained. “Do you have a moment? I should like to speak to you.”
Julien looked baffled and slightly offended. This was not form. But I noticed he didn’t look surprised either. I followed him back up to the small, velvet-curtained lobby. I leaned forward over the counter, letting him see the five-hundred-euro notes bunched in my black-gloved hand.
“I’m sorry to bother you”—this was obviously a big night for apologies—“but I need to know, has someone been here looking for me? A man? It’s quite important.”
Julien took his time, relishing my attention.
“Yes, Mademoiselle Lauren. A man did come looking for you. He had a photograph.”
“A photo?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, and another young lady.”
“What did she look like—the other one?”
“I couldn’t say, mademoiselle.”
I handed over a smacker.
“Perhaps she had unusual hair. Red hair?”
Leanne. Fuck. It had to be Leanne.
“And the man? Did you tell him you knew me?”
Julien’s eye was on the second note. I closed my fingers slightly.
“Naturally, mademoiselle, I told him I had never seen you before in my life.”
“Did he say anything else? Anything?”
“No. Nothing. He was very correct.”
I released the money, which he pocketed while holding my gaze.
“Would you like to leave a number? I can let you know if he calls again?”
I wondered who Julien thought he was kidding. I wondered how much the guy had given him. There was a faint noise of music from the basement, the sound of a woman’s heels crossing the floor. Down there, it was so easy to let people see who you really were—that’s what made it so curiously gentle. We both knew that, Julien and I. He traded on the differences between those two worlds. I couldn’t hold his cupidity against him.
“No, no, thanks. Maybe I’ll see you sometime.”
“Always a pleasure, mademoiselle.”
I walked slowly down toward the river, crossed through the Louvre to the quai. Always so preposterously beautiful, Paris. I hadn’t eaten, but I wasn’t hungry. I called Yvette, who didn’t answer, because no one actually answers their phones anymore, but she returned the call in a few minutes.
�
��Hey, cherie.”
We hadn’t spoken for ages, not since the party at the town house, but everyone’s a darling in the world of la nuit. There was music and loud conversation in the background. She would be outside in some smoking area, crowded under the fairy lights next to the thrumming heater.
“I need a favor. Can you text me Stephane’s number, please?”
“Stephane? Are you having a party?”
“Yes. Something like that. A private one.”
“Sure thing. Have fun. Call me, cherie!”
I waited until the text came through, then sent a message of my own.
I’m a friend of Yvette’s. I need a little favor. Please can you call me on this number? Thanks.
I couldn’t face the flat yet, so I turned left and made for Le Fumoir. It took Stephane about an hour to reply, by which time I’d drunk three Grasshoppers and was feeling more equal to the world.
“You’re Yvette’s friend?”
“Yes.” I doubted he’d remember me from the club way back, but better to be someone else, keep more distance. “I’m Carlotta. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“So, you need something?”
“Yes. For a friend. But not the usual. Something . . . brown?” My French wasn’t quite up to this, I felt comic.
He hesitated.
“I see. Well, I could get you that. But not tonight.”
“Tomorrow evening is fine.”
We agreed that he’d meet “Carlotta’s friend” at eight in the café at Panthéon. I wasn’t troubled that my Figaro reading pal would be there. He would have packed up his stuff and taken the first Eurostar back to London, eager to report to whoever had employed him. He’d had a clear sighting, he had confirmed my name and address. With that photo he’d had of me and Leanne, it had to be London. Someone in London was trying to find me. I was regretting the Grasshoppers now. I needed a clear head.
• • •
I FORCED MYSELF awake at six, jittery and underslept. My running gear was next to the bed, no excuses. It had begun to rain as I was getting home, but now the late-autumn sun was daffodil gold in the sky and the city looked scrubbed, lucent. I felt better by the second lap of the Luxembourg, ran a few sprints, sit-ups in the damp grass, stretches. I jogged slowly back to the Rue de l’Abbé-de-l’Épée, running over my day’s program. Up to the tenth, where the shops specialize in African ladies’ hair, over to Belleville to a pharmacy, a pit stop at a café for some research, my local wine merchant for a bottle, a doctor’s appointment to make. That would take up most of my time. I’d give myself an hour to bathe and change, ready to meet Stephane.
The drugs trade had moved on since I’d last bought gear in Toxteth. Stephane was white, for a start. I’d positioned myself outside despite the heavy damp that followed a perfect autumn day, promising rain, but when he pulled up on his natty vintage Lambretta I didn’t clock him immediately among the intello crowd. Skinny and earnest-looking, with a bad-good eighties haircut and heavy black-framed glasses, he was doing his best not to look like a pusher. I saw him slowly scanning the crowd under the awning, stood up a little so the hair would catch the light. It was a bit awful, the wig, but I’d done my best with it, screwing it into a messy chignon to make it look more natural, wrapping my big Sprouse scarf tight around my neck so it covered the nape. I was casually dressed but deliberately overly made up, and we spoke in English. I wondered how convincing my old voice was, after so long, but I guessed Stephane wouldn’t have too precise a take on it. He sat down and waited until his espresso order was taken, then set a Camel Lights pack on the table, next to my Marlboro Gold. He smiled encouragingly—did he actually think I looked nice?
“So, you know Yvette?” he asked. I relaxed, no worries that he recognized me.
“A bit. Carlotta is my friend.”
We sat for a few moments in silence.
“Well, have fun. D’you want my number?”
“Sure.”
I put it into my phone. “I’m not here for long, but you never know.”
“So, bye-bye, then.”
“Bye.”
He kicked the scooter over while he checked his phone, no doubt for the next dropoff. He probably had an app, I thought. I waited until he was gone, then made my way through to the loo and unpinned the hair. It looked spooky, voodooish, stuffed in my bag, but if there was a chance of seeing Leanne on my way home I couldn’t risk it.
• • •
IF YOU’D ASKED ME how I knew Leanne was going to appear, I couldn’t have said. Somehow, I just knew it was the obvious thing to happen. If da Silva had been going to arrest me, he would just have arrested me, not given me time to disappear. Assuming my new chum had a London connection, and given Julien’s mention of the hair, London meant Leanne. She didn’t turn up until after ten, by which time I’d begun to doubt myself. I began to feel sick; maybe my casual assurance about da Silva had been wrong. I’d showered and put on white pajamas, men’s, from Charvet. The concierge had already been primed with a bunch of nasty cellophane chrysanthemums, to assuage the inconvenience of showing up any late-night guests. I’d lit candles, poured a meditative glass of red, Mozart’s twenty-first piano concerto on the stereo, the latest Philippe Claudel novel open on the arm of the sofa. A lovely quiet night in, I was having. Buzz, click, buzz. Voices, Scholl’s schlump, click, schlump, click of heels on the flagstones, “Allez vous par la,” click click click on the stairs, buzz.
“Oh my God! Leanne! What a surprise! Come in, come in. It’s been what, more than a year! Ages! You look great! Come in.”
Actually, I was glad to note that she didn’t look that great. She was thin, but her face was pale and puffy, a crop of spots on her jawline heavily rubbed out with chalky concealer. The hair was still wildly red, but the gold-weave highlights were gone, dulling her skin further. She carried the Chanel bag we’d got in Cannes, but it was battered now; her tan coat was chain store and her boots were worn out at their pointed toes.
“Look at this, eh? Fab.”
“It’s only rented.”
I followed her eyes around the room. She wouldn’t know that the plain black sofa was Thonet, or that the Cocteau drawing was real, if she’d even heard of Cocteau, but as I echoed her gaze, I saw with pleasure that my flat sang with taste, and the money to supply it.
“Still, you seem like you’re doing really well.”
I lowered my eyes. “You remember that guy with the boat. Steve? Well, we’ve been seeing each other ever since, on and off. He helps me out. And I have a new job, a proper dealer’s job. It’s . . . okay.”
She reached up and pulled me into a Prada Candy–scented hug.
“Good for you, Jude. Good for you.” She actually sounded like she meant it.
“Let’s have a drink. I’d have got Roederer if I’d known you were coming,” I said and smiled. I waved my own full glass and fetched her one from the cupboard. She took a long swallow and rooted in her bag for cigarettes. I joined her on the sofa and we lit up.
“And how are you? Still at the club?”
“Yeah. I’m a bit over it now, though.” Her voice was flatter, more Estuary London. Somehow it made her seem older, the sparkiness gone.
“When did you get here? How come you’re in Paris?”
“A guy at the club. Asked me for a weekend, you know.”
I answered brightly, “Cool! Did you stay anywhere nice?”
“Yeah, dead nice. The something de la Reine? In that square?” Perfect, she thought I was buying it. “So, um, then I heard you were here and I thought I’d look you up.”
“You heard I was here. Right.”
I let the silence sit until she looked at me appealingly, floundering.
“It’s great to see you,” she muttered. “We had a laugh, right? In Cannes?”
“Yes. It was a laugh.”
T
he twenty-first is a bit obvious for serious tastes, but there’s something in the tension of it, the hovering space between the notes, that makes me ache. I crossed the parquet in my bare feet, unplugged my phone from where it was charging, let her see me turn it off. Wordlessly, she retrieved hers and did the same. I held out my hand and she let me take it, as though hypnotized. I placed them side by side on the table. I sat down on the other end of the sofa, sipped my wine, tucked my legs underneath me, leaned forward.
“Leanne. Please tell me why you’re here. It’s obviously not a coincidence. How did you even know I was in Paris, let alone where I live? Are you in trouble? Can I help?”
I could see her working out how much to tell me, setting it against what she thought I knew. Which was nothing much right now.
“Leanne. What’s up? I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”
I didn’t ask anything else. We sat there on the sofa like a therapist and a patient until the music came to its poised, protracted end.
“There was a bloke came asking at the club. He had a photo, it was on a security pass from that place you used to work.”
I made my voice a little harder. “And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing, I swear. I was bricking it. Olly recognized you, said you didn’t look like a Judith. But all I said was that you’d left. Nothing, I swear.”
“Why do you need to swear? What’s the problem?”
“I didn’t know, I thought it was about, well . . . you know . . . James. So I kept schtum. But there was this other girl, she’d been in the club a couple weeks, started after you left. Ashley. Blond, very tall? She told him she knew you.”
Ashley. The hooker from the party in Chester Square. Quelle sodding horrible surprise. I looked at Leanne, who was on her second glass, chain-smoking. I felt sorry, then. I believed her, she had kept quiet. And I’d been grassed up by a fucking Svetlana whom I’d last seen with her gob full of a stranger’s prick.