The silence that followed their exit rang like a tuning fork.
Later, while Jacques took a phone call, I went and took a shower in my bathroom. I found myself almost idly directing the shower head between my legs. The image that came to my mind was of the two of them: Dominique and Ben, up in the roof garden. Of all the things that might have occurred between them while the rest of us made small talk downstairs. And as my husband barked instructions—just audible through the wall—I had a silent orgasm, my head pressed against the cool tiles. The little death, it’s called. La petite mort. And perhaps that was only appropriate. A small part of me had died that evening. Another part had come alive.
Jess
It’s evening and I’m back in the apartment. Gazing out into the courtyard, looking up and down at the illuminated squares of my neighbors’ windows, trying to catch a glimpse of one of them moving around.
I’ve texted Nick a couple of times to ask if he’s heard anything from the police but I haven’t had anything back yet. I know it’s way too soon, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m grateful for his help earlier. It’s good to feel I have an ally in this. But I still don’t trust the police to do anything. And I’m starting to feel itchy again. I can’t just sit around waiting to hear.
I shrug on my jacket and step out of the apartment onto the landing, not knowing what I’m going to do but knowing I need to do something. As I pause, trying to decide what that is, I realize I can hear raised voices somewhere above me, echoing down the stairwell. I can’t resist following the sound upward. I start to climb the stairs, up past Mimi’s on the fourth floor, listening for a moment to the silence behind the door. The voices must be coming from the penthouse. I can hear a man speaking over the others, louder than the rest. But I can hear other voices now, too, they all seem to be talking at once. I can’t make out any of the words, though. Another flight of stairs and I’m on the top landing, with the door to the penthouse apartment in front of me and to my left that wooden stepladder leading up to the old maids’ quarters.
I creep toward the door of the penthouse apartment, wincing at every creak in the floorboards. Hopefully the people inside are too distracted by the sounds of their own voices to pay attention to anything outside. I get right up close to the door, then drop down and put my ear to the keyhole.
The man starts to speak again, louder than before. Crap—it’s all in French, of course it is. I think I hear Ben’s name and I go tense, craning to hear more. But I can’t make out a single—
“Elle est dangereuse.”
Wait. Even I can guess what that means: She is dangerous. I press my ear closer to the keyhole, listening hard for anything else I might understand.
Suddenly there’s the sound of barking, right up close to my ear. I stumble away from the keyhole, half-fall backward, try and scrabble my way to standing. Shit, I need to get out of here. I can’t let them see—
“You.”
Too late. I turn back. She stands there in the doorway, Sophie Meunier, wearing a cream silk shirt and black trousers, crazily sparkling diamonds at her earlobes—her expression so frosty that they might be tiny icicles she just sprouted there. There’s a small gray dog at her feet—a whippet?—looking at me with gleaming black eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard voices, I . . .” I trail off, realizing that hearing voices behind someone else’s apartment door isn’t exactly a good excuse to go and eavesdrop. Silver-tongued Ben might be able to, but I can’t find a way of talking myself out of this one.
She looks like she’s trying to decide what to do with me. Finally, she speaks. “Well. As you are here, perhaps you will come in and join us for a drink?”
“Er—”
She’s watching me, waiting for an answer. Every instinct is telling me that going inside this apartment would be a very bad idea.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.” I look down at my outfit—Converse, shabby jacket, jeans with a rip at the knee. “Am I dressed OK?”
Her expression says she thinks there’s nothing remotely OK about anything I’m wearing. But she says, “You’re fine as you are. Please, come with me.”
I follow her into the apartment. I can smell the perfume she’s wearing, something rich and floral—although really it just smells like money.
Inside, I stare. The apartment is at least double the size of Ben’s, perhaps bigger. A brightly lit, open-plan space bisected by a giant bookcase. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the rooftops and buildings of Paris. In the darkness the illuminated windows of all the apartment buildings surrounding us make a kind of tapestry of light.