And then he smiled. “It looks good, by the way.”
“Quoi?”
“Your hair.”
I put my hand up to touch it. I could feel where the hair was sticking to my forehead with sweat.
He smiled at me. “It suits you.”
And that was the moment. I leaned over and I grabbed hold of his face in both hands and kissed him. I wanted more. I half-clambered on top of him, tried to straddle him.
“Hey,” he laughed, pulling back, pushing me gently away, wiping his mouth. “Hey, Mimi. I like you too much for that.”
I got it, then. Not here; not like this: not for the first time. The first time between us had to be special. Perfect.
Maybe you could say it was the pill. But that was the moment I felt myself fall in love with him. I thought I had been in love once before but it didn’t work out. Now I knew how false the other time had been. Now I understood. I’d been waiting for Ben.
The song ends and the spell is broken. I’m back in the cave, surrounded by all these idiots in their stupid Halloween costumes. They’re playing Christine and the Queens now, everyone howling along to the chorus. People shoving past me, ignoring me, like always.
Wait. I’ve just spotted a face in the crowd. A face that has no business being at this party.
Putain de merde.
What the hell is she doing here?
Jess
I move through the cave, deeper into the crowd of masked faces and writhing bodies. The party’s getting wild; I’m pretty sure I spot a couple up against a wall having sex or something close to it and a little way on a small group doing lines. I wonder if the room full of wine has been locked. I reckon this many people could put quite a dent in those racks of bottles.
“Veux-tu un baiser de vampire?” a guy asks me. I see that he’s dressed as Dracula in a plasticky cape and some fake fangs—it’s almost as crap a costume as my ghost outfit was.
“Erm . . . sorry, what?” I say, turning toward him.
“A Vampire’s Kiss,” he says in English, with a grin. “I asked if you want one?” For a moment I wonder if he’s suggesting we make out. Then I look down and realize he’s holding out a glass swimming with bright red liquid.
“What’s in it?”
“Vodka, grenadine . . . maybe some Chambord.” He shrugs. “Mostly vodka.”
“OK. Sure.” I could do with some Dutch courage. He hands it over. I take a sip—Jesus, it’s even more grim than it looks, the metallic hit of the vodka beneath the sticky sweet of the syrup and raspberry liqueur. It tastes like something we might have served at the Copacabana, and that’s not a good thing. But it’s worth it for the vodka, even if I’d really prefer to take it neat. I take another long glug, braced this time for the sweetness.
“I’ve never met you before,” he says, sounding almost more French now he’s speaking English. “What’s your name?”
“Jess. You?”
“Victor. Enchanté.”
“Er . . . thanks.” I get straight to the point. “Hey, do you know Ben? Benjamin Daniels. From the third floor?”
He makes a face. “Non, désolé.” He looks genuinely sorry to have let me down. “I like your accent,” he adds. “It’s cool. You’re from London, non?”
“Yup,” I say. It’s not exactly true, but then where am I from, really?
“And you’re a friend of Mimi’s?”
“Er—yes, I suppose you could say that.” As in: I’ve met her precisely twice and she’s never seemed exactly delighted to see me, but I’m not going to go into particulars.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, and I wonder if I’ve made some sort of mistake.
“It’s just . . . most people here are friends of Camille. No one really knows Mimi. She—how do you say it in English?—keeps herself to herself. Kind of intense. A bit—” He makes a gesture that I take to mean: “cuckoo.”
“I don’t know her that well,” I say, quickly.
“Some people don’t get why Camille’s friends with Mimi. But I say—you just have to look at Mimi’s apartment to know why. Mimi’s got rich parents. You know what I’m saying?” He points up toward the apartment. “In this part of town? Seriously expensive. That is some sick crib.” He attempts to do the last two words in a kind of American accent.
In other circumstances I could almost feel sorry for Mimi. That people would assume someone’s only friends with you because of your money: that’s rough. I mean, it’s never a problem I’ve had to deal with, but still.