The steak came and I cut into it. Watched as the blood ran thin and palest pink from the incision. It was then that I looked up and saw him, Benjamin Daniels, in the corner of the restaurant. He had his back to me, though I could see his reflection in the mirror that ran along the wall. Something elegant about the line of his back: the way he sat, hands in his pockets. The posture of someone very comfortable in their own skin.
I felt my pulse quicken. What was he doing here?
He glanced up and “caught” me watching him in the mirror. But I suspected he knew I was there all along, had been waiting for me to notice him. His reflection raised the glass of beer.
I looked away. Sipped my mineral water.
A few seconds later, a shadow fell across the table. I looked up. That ingratiating smile. He wore a crumpled linen shirt and shorts, legs bare and brown. His clothes were entirely inappropriate for the restaurant’s formality. And yet he seemed so relaxed in the space. I hated him for it.
“Hello Sophie,” he said.
I bristled at the familiarity, then remembered I had asked him not to call me “Madame.” But the way he said my name: it felt like a transgression.
“May I?” He indicated the chair. To do anything other than agree would have been rude. I nodded, to show I didn’t care either way what he did.
It was the first time I had been so close to him. Now I saw that he wasn’t handsome, not in the traditional sense. His features were uneven. His confidence, charisma: that was what made him attractive.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m reviewing the place,” he said. “Jacques suggested it at dinner. I haven’t eaten yet but I’m already impressed by the space—the atmosphere, the art.”
I glanced at the painting he was looking at. A woman on her knees: powerfully built, almost masculine. Strong limbs, strong jaw. Nothing elegant about her, only a kind of feral strength. Her head thrown back, howling at the moon like a dog. The splayed legs, the skirt rucked . . . it was almost sexual. If you could get close enough to sniff it, I imagined it wouldn’t be paint you smelled but blood. I felt suddenly very aware of the sweat that might have soaked into the silk beneath my arms on the walk over here, hidden half-moons of damp in the fabric.
“What do you think?” he asked. “I love Paula Rego.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” I said.
He pointed to my lip. “You have a little—just there.”
I put the corner of the napkin up to my mouth and dabbed. Took it away and saw that the thick white linen was stained with blood. I stared at it.
He coughed. “I sense—look, I just wanted to say that I hope we haven’t got off on the wrong foot. The other day—when I commented on your accent. I hope I didn’t seem rude.”
“Mais non,” I said. “What would make you think that?”
“Look, I took French studies at Cambridge, you see, I’m just fascinated by such things.”
“I was not offended,” I told him. “Pas du tout.” Not at all.
He grinned. “That’s a relief. And I enjoyed the dinner on the roof terrace so much. It was kind of you to invite me.”
“I didn’t invite you,” I said. “That dinner was all Jacques’ idea.” Perhaps it sounded rude. But it was also true. No invitation would be offered without Jacques’ say-so.
“Poor Jacques, then,” he said, with a rueful smile. “The weather that night! I’ve never seen anyone so furious. I actually thought he was going to try and take the storm on, like Lear. The look on his face!”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I should have been appalled, offended. No one made a joke at my husband’s expense. But it was the surprise of it. And he’d pulled such an accurate impression of Jacques’ outraged expression.
Trying to regain my composure I reached for my water, took a sip. But I felt lighter than I had in a very long time.
“Tell me,” he said, “what is it like being married to a man like Jacques Meunier?”
The sip caught in my throat. Now I was coughing, my eyes watering. One of the waiters ran forward to offer assistance: I waved him away with a hand. All I could think was: what did Ben know? What could Nicolas have told him?
“Sorry.” He gave a quick smile. “I don’t think my question came out quite right. Sometimes I can be so clumsy in French. What I meant was: being married to such a successful businessman. What’s it like?”
I didn’t answer. The look I gave him by way of reply said: you don’t frighten me. Except I was frightened. He was the sender of the notes, I was certain of it now. He was the one collecting those envelopes of cash I left beneath the loose step.