I let it sit a little, wait for him to continue, to explain the long stretch of time. Silence.
“I have to ask,” I say, “what on earth happened in Amsterdam?” I mean it as a joke—mainly. But it feels like there’s something there. The way his voice changed when he spoke about it.
For a moment Nick’s face is a mask. Then it’s like he remembers to smile. “Ha. Just boys being boys. You know.”
A gust of icy wind hits us, ripping leaves from the shrubs and tossing them into the air.
“Jesus!” I say, wrapping my arms around myself.
“You’re shivering,” Nick says.
“Yeah, well—this jacket’s not really designed for the cold. Primarni’s finest.” Though I highly doubt Nick knows what Primark is.
He stretches a hand out toward me, such a sudden motion that I jerk backward.
“Sorry!” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You’ve got a leaf caught in your hair. Wait a second, I’ll get it out.”
“There’s probably all sorts in there,” I say, casting around for a joke. “Food, cigarette butts, the lot.” I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face, his fingers in my hair as he untangles the leaf.
“Here—” he plucks it out and shows it to me: it’s a dead brown ivy leaf. His face is still very close to mine. And in the way you do just know with these things, I think he might be about to kiss me. It’s a very long time since I’ve been kissed by anyone. I find myself letting my lips open slightly.
Then we’re plunged into darkness again.
“Shit,” Nick swears. “It’s the sensors—we’ve been too still.”
He waves an arm and they come back on. But whatever was just happening between us has been shattered. I blink spots of light from my eyes. What the hell was I thinking? I’m trying to find my missing brother. I don’t have time for this.
Nick takes a step away from me. “Right,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Shall we go back down?”
We climb back down into the apartment. “Hey,” I say. “I think I’ll just find a bathroom.” I need to pull myself together.
“You want me to show you the way?” Nick asks. Clearly he’s familiar with this apartment, I note, despite what he says about not doing this often.
“No, I’m good,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
He goes back to join the others. I wander down a dimly lit corridor. Thick carpet beneath my feet. More artworks hanging on the walls. I push open doors as I go: I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I do know I’ve got to find something that might tell me more about these people, or what Ben had to do with any of them.
I find two bedrooms: one very masculine and impersonal, like I imagine a room in a swanky business hotel might be, the other more feminine. It looks as though Sophie and Jacques Meunier sleep in different rooms. Interesting, though maybe not surprising. Off Sophie’s bedroom is a room-sized wardrobe, with rows of high heels and boots in sensible shades of black and tan and camel, hanging racks of dresses and silk shirts, expensive-looking sweaters with tissue interleaved between them. In one corner is an ornate dressing table with a spindly antique-looking chair and a big mirror. I thought only the Kardashians and people in films had rooms like this.
I find the bathroom too, big enough to hold a yoga class in, with a huge sunken bath encased in marble, his-and-hers sinks. The next door opens onto the toilet: if you’re rich I suppose you probably don’t wee in the same place that you bathe in your scented oils. A quick poke around in the cabinets, but I don’t find much beyond some very posh-looking wrapped soaps from somewhere called Santa Maria Novella. I pocket a couple.
The room opposite the toilet seems to be some sort of study. It smells like leather and old wood. A huge antique-looking desk with a burgundy leather top squats in the center. There’s a big black and white picture opposite it which I think is some abstract image at first but then suddenly—like a magic eye—realize is actually a photograph of a woman’s torso: breasts, belly button, vee of pubic hair between her legs. I stare at it for a moment, taken aback. It seems like quite an odd thing to hang in your study, but then I suppose you can do what you like if you work from home.
I try the drawers to the desk. They’re locked, but these kinds of locks are pretty easy to pick. I’ve got the first open in a minute or so. The first thing I find is a couple of sheets of paper. It looks like the top sheet must be missing, because these are numbered “2” and “3” at the bottom. Some sort of price list, it looks like. No: accounts. Wines, I think: I see “Vintage” at the top of one column. The number of bottles bought—never more than about four, I notice. A price next to each wine. Jesus. Some of these single bottles seem to be going for more than a thousand euros. And then what looks like a person’s name next to each of these entries. Who spends that much money on wine?