by L. S. Hilton
“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 favor?”
“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 okay, I know.”
“Listen, Frankie, I wondered if I could trouble you for something else?”
“Okay.”
“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 catalogs will cost a couple hundred, but the machine’s bust. Can I just pop in?”
He waited outside, smoking, while I went in to the counter where I wrote myself a check for ten thousand 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 bills of five hundred, most of which I stuffed in my bra. Then we walked over to Place 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 the 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 moldings 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 pajamas. Afterward we’d finish the bottle 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 L.A. 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 among French politicians now that the country’s media was finally getting up to kiss-’n’-tell celeb 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 wineglass.
“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 okay, 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.”
I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him about James, Leanne, all of it. I wanted to tell him about Dave, that I’d done it because Dave had lost his job, but that wouldn’t have been true, and somehow that mattered. I wanted to tell him about being on the outside, about feeling trapped, because no matter how brilliant or beautiful you were, there was no place in the world for someone like me. But that wasn’t true either.
“It wasn’t the money,” I said. “The money was a by-product.”
“Revenge?” He smiled.
“Nah, way too simple. Not revenge. Not interesting.”
“Interesting. I think, that is, I—” He broke off. Was he trying to trick me, by offering a confession of his own? Unlikely he’d try anything so obvious. It was his turn to take a contemplative slurp.
“So what, then?” he asked again.
Because I could, I suppose. Because I needed to see if I could. Why does there have to be a logic? It’s like sex, people always wanting reasons, to know how you bloody well feel.
“Can I tell you some other time?”
“Sure. Anytime.”
• • •
DAVE CAME THROUGH with the catalogs, a glossy brick that must have cost a fortune to post. He’d sweetly included a cigar box containing three Wispa bars, remembering that I was always a sucker for hydrogenated vegetable fat. I felt all warm and glowy when I opened it up. In the end, though, thinking of Steve, I told Renaud I’d decided to go for the Richter: contemporary was more of a cert with new money. I had half a mind to go over to London for the sale, take old Frankie out for a celebratory drink even, and Rupert could go screw himself, but Renaud thought it would be unwise to use my own passport.
“You’ll have a new one soon. I’m arranging it. When I’ve seen Moncada.”
I bought a copy of Condé Nast Traveler and thought about my future. Montenegro looked promising. Or Norway. Cold—suitable for murderers.
“Don’t be dumb, Judith.”
“What about my bank accounts?”
“Gentileschi will just have to take on a new employee.”
I settled on a phone bid, using the company name. We went to the FNAC to buy some headphones and Renaud set up my computer back at the flat so he could listen in. If I got the picture, it could be shipped in a couple weeks. To compensate for missing the auction in person, I dressed for the occasion. My Chanel two-piece, black, with an artful leather camellia on the hip pocket, stockings, classic Pigalle 120s in patent leather, hair severely pinned up, red lipstick that didn’t really suit me. I put crotchless seventies-style Bensimon panties underneath. I felt like a bit of an idiot, all that to sit at my own dining table, but it was worth it for the look Renaud gave me when I strolled out of the bathroom.
I’d applied online to bid, in Gentileschi’s name, and received a number, 38, for the telephone auction. We’d bought a chuck-away pay-as-you-go phone for the sale; the bank details were what would matter if I got the Richter. At eleven o’clock the House called to say the sale had begun. I had a pad and a pen in front of me, I didn’t know what for, just to make it seem businesslike. I’d been allowed to watch a good few sales at the House, enjoying the showmanship of the experts and the senior auctioneer, the vice-chairman of the House, and I tried to imagine the blond-wood room, the tense stillness of the bidders. At eleven-forty-two the cell rang again, the Richter was up. Renaud hunched forward over the computer, his hair a parrot’s quiff under the headphones. I wondered which of the snotty girls I’d spotted in the passageways of Other Place was managing the Gentileschi bid. I had a childish urge to shout down the line that it was me, Judith Rashleigh, but of course I didn’t. I even put a little Fransh accent into my voice.
The starting price was 400K. The Richter quickly raised four-point-five, five, five-five, then six. I stayed in. The bids continued rising in increments of fifty.
“I have seven hundred and fifty thousand against you, number thirty-eight. Will you bid?”
Renaud gave me a sharp nod. “Eight hundred.” He took my hand.
“Very good.”
I couldn’t help it, I was excited.
“Thirty-eight? I have eight hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Will you bid?”
“Nine hundred.”
Renaud was sweating, his shirt sticking to his back, his palm slippery in mine, carried along by the tension. I sat straighter, poised and cool in my perfect suit. Down the line I could faintly hear the auctioneer’s voice asking for any further bids. Pause.
“We have nine hundred and fifty thousand against you, madam. Will you bid?”
Fuck it. “A million. A million pounds.” We were into the straight now, the jockeys bobbing like monkeys, brandishing their whips for the last furlong, I was rushed.
“I’m going to cum,” I mouthed at Renaud.
I knew she would be nodding to the podium, raising one finger.
“One million and fifty thousand pounds, number thirty-eight. Will you bid?”
“One-point-one.”
Renaud was scowling, making a cut sign at his neck. I ignored him. I was crazed.
“Very good.”
The handler was holding out her phone, so I could hear “Ladies and gentlemen, I have one-point-one million pounds. Going once . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut, held my breath, my fingers shaking around the handset.
“Congratulations, madam.”
I pressed the little red button carefully, let my head fall back, and unpinned my hair.
“We’ve got it.”
“Good girl.”
I lit a cigarette and practically sucked it down in one. Then I went and sat on his knee and rested my brow against his.
“I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe it,” I whispered.
“Why not?” I liked that about Renaud, that unlike every other man I’d ever met, he was genuinely interested when I said that I felt something.
“I just bought a million-pound picture. Me. It seems impossible, crazy.”
“Yet you’ve done much more difficult things.”
The high dissipated as suddenly as it had risen. I stalked a few irritable paces about the room. “Do you have to keep going on about that? Can’t you just leave it alone? I’m doing what you want, aren’t I?”
He came toward me and crouched down by my feet, the absurd headphones still ruffling his hair as he pulled me close.
“I didn’t mean that. You forget, I know a lot about you. I’ve seen where you grew up, I’ve seen what you must have had to do to get out. I suppose what I’m saying is that I admire you, Judith.”
“Really? You admire me?”
“I said it; don’t make me flatter you. Now I think we should go and celebrate your first major acquisition. What’s your very favorite thing to eat in Paris?”
“Lobster salad at Laurent.”
“Then I’ll get changed. I’ll even wear decent clothes. I’ve got a tie, can you believe it? And mademoiselle shall have her lobster.”
But I’d already slipped off my skirt. The lips of my cunt were fat with desire, pulsing through the slit in the black mesh panties. I perched up on the table and opened my legs.
“Or we could dine at home?”
He pushed a finger inside me, so abruptly that I gasped, withdrew it slowly, a gossamer strand of cum stretching between us, brought it to his mouth.
“We could dine at home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I’D DEBATED ABOUT having the Richter shipped to my own address, eventually decided in favor. Gentileschi was registered, my money was clean, and what I did with my own property after I received it was nobody’s business. It was a standard sale; there was no reason for Rupert to look up the buyer of a picture he hadn’t even sold. It would appear in the trades, in the account of the sale, but there was no reason to connect my company to me personally, even if the name Gentileschi did tweak a memory. Besides, Rupert had other things to worry about, as he was down a cool half million since his game with Cameron hadn’t paid off. Renaud agreed. Once the paperwork arrived, expressed from London after the sale, I was ready to contact Moncada. Another throwaway phone, a list of numbers from Renaud’s notebook.
“How do you know these will work for Moncada?”
“One of them will. I told you, I have good contacts.”
“Yeah, yeah. You and your famous contacts. But he won’t call me back on this thing. We’ll have to find a payphone.”
“Good girl.”
“I found you can learn most things on the job if you concentrate.”
We took the Metro over to the tenth, found a call shack on the Rue de la Goutte d’Or where immigrants could buy cards to speak to their families among piles of plantains and limes and stacks of cheap African headcloths. Renaud bought a card and waited in line for the phone while I started on the list. The first two numbers were dead, the third was answered and hung up, the fourth responded “Pronto,” but hung up again as soon as I spoke. I tried two more, useless.
“What can we do if he doesn’t respond? Is this all you’ve got?”
Renaud had reached the last place in the queue. A lady with a complicated fan of melon-printed cotton on her head swung her enormous arse at him as though she were brushing off a tick, then went back to shouting in impenetrable Creole patois. The shop smelled of acrid sweat and treacle, a game show blared above the counter, half watched by the five or six people waiting behind Renaud for the phone.
“This could take forever. And even if we get him, this phone will be occupied till Christmas.”
“Just keep trying.”
This was pathetic. Did he actually want to get it done? I called over and over again until the mobile’s credit was exhausted. We went out for a coffee and a dry-mo
uthed cigarette, bought another phone, started again. More coffee, more cigarettes. My head ached with exhaust fumes and nicotine. I called until I didn’t need to look at the paper anymore.
“Renaud, this is useless.”
In his horrible jacket and shoes he fit right in on the Goutte d’Or. We must have looked ridiculous, a pair of small-time hustlers from a film student’s pattern book. By five p.m., we’d been there for three hours, and Renaud had given up his place in the queue so many times that even the game-show-watching cashier had started to peer at us.
“I want to go home. I want a shower.”
For the first time since he had stepped into my cab at the Hôtel de Ville, Renaud looked ruffled, uncontrolled.
“Wait here. I’ll make a call.”
“Sure,” I said wearily. I tried to watch his lips through a window display of Hello Kitty phone cases as he placed the call, but he squared his back to me in the street.
“Try these.”
Two more numbers. The first one was dead. The second one rang and rang.
“Pronto.” A woman’s voice.
“I need to speak to Signor Moncada. Judith Rashleigh. I worked for Cameron Fitzpatrick.”
Dial tone. I took a few breaths, called back. “Please give Signor Moncada this number. I’ll be waiting.” I gave Renaud a quick nod. “Maybe now.”
Renaud stepped forward, removed the handset from an etiolated Somali man in a nylon robe, and hung it up.
“What the fuck?”
Renaud was opening his jacket, pulling a badge from the pocket.
“Police.”
For a second, it was as though all the oxygen had been vacuumed from the room. Then the whole crowd scrambled for the door, knocking over an open sack of rice and a box of fake Ray-Bans. The cashier stood up, two huge fists bunched with rings on the counter.
“Listen, monsieur, you can’t just come in here . . .”
“You. Sit down and shut up. Better still, get in the back and stuff your fat face with fried chicken until I say so, or I’ll ask for your fucking papers too, okay? And then I’ll send you back to whatever fucking hole you come from faster than you can say ‘racial discrimination,’ you fat fuck. If your smashed mouth still works well enough to speak. Clear?”