He shrugs. “Them’s the rules.” And then, when he sees my expression: “No, they actually are. This place has a dress code. Women aren’t allowed to wear trousers, heels are mandatory.”
“That’s nice and sexist.” Echoes of The Pervert insisting I keep the top four buttons of my shirt undone “for the punters”： You want to look like you work in a kindergarten, sweetheart? Or a branch of fucking McDonald’s?
Theo shrugs. “Yeah, well, I agree. But that’s a certain part of Paris for you. Hyper-conservative, hypocritical, sexist. Anyway, don’t blame me. It’s not like I’m taking you to this place on a date.” He coughs. “Come on, we don’t have all night. We’re already running late.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see when we get there. Let’s just say you’re not going to find this place in your Lonely Planet guide.”
“How does this help us find Ben?”
“I’ll explain it when we get there. It’ll make more sense then.”
God, he’s infuriating. I’m also not completely sure I trust him, though I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s just that I still can’t work out what his angle is, why he’s so keen to help.
I hurry along next to him, trying to keep up. I didn’t see him standing up at the café the other day—I’d guessed he was tall, but now I realize he’s well over a foot taller than me and I have to take two steps for every one of his. After a few minutes of walking I’m actually panting.
To the left of us I catch sight of a huge glass pyramid, glowing with light, looking like something that’s just landed from outer space. “What is that thing?”
He gives me a look. It seems I’ve said something stupid. “That’s the Pyramide? In front of the Louvre? You know . . . the famous museum?”
I don’t like being made to feel like an idiot. “Oh. The Mona Lisa, right? Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit too busy trying to find my missing brother to take a nice tour of it yet.”
We push through crowds of tourists chattering in every language under the sun. As we walk, I tell him about what I’ve discovered: about them all being a family. One united front, acting together—and probably against me. I keep thinking about stumbling into Sophie Meunier’s apartment, all of them sitting together like that—an eerie family portrait. The words I’d heard, crouching outside. Elle est dangereuse. And Nick discovering that he wasn’t the ally I thought he was—that part still stings.
“And just before I left to come here the concierge gave me a kind of warning. She told me to ‘stop looking.’”
“Can I tell you something I’ve learned in my long and not especially illustrious career?” Theo asks.
“What?”
“When someone tells you to stop looking, it normally means you’re on the right track.”
I change quickly in the underground toilet of a chi-chi bar while Theo buys a demi beer upstairs so the staff don’t chuck us out. I shake out my hair, study my reflection in the foxed glass of the mirror. I don’t look like myself. I look like I’m playing a part. The dress is figure-hugging but classier than I’d expected. The label inside reads Isabel Marant, which I’m guessing might be a step up from my usual Primark. The shoes—Michel Vivien is the name printed on the footbed—are higher than anything I’d wear but surprisingly comfortable; I think I might actually be able to walk in them. So I guess I’m playing the part of Theo’s ex-girlfriend; not sure how I feel about that.
A girl comes out of the stall next to me: long shining dark hair, a silky dress falling off one shoulder underneath an oversized cardigan, wings of black eyeliner. She starts outlining her lips in lipstick. That’s what I need: the finishing touch.
“Hey.” I lean over to her, smile my most ingratiating smile. “Could I borrow some of that?”
She frowns at me, looks slightly disgusted, but hands it over. “Si tu veux.”
I put some on a finger, dab it onto my lips—it’s a dark vampiric red—and pass it back to her.
She puts up a hand. “Non, merci. Keep it. I have another.” She tosses her gleaming hair over one shoulder.
“Oh. Thanks.” I put the lid back on and it closes with a satisfying magnetized click. I notice it has little interlocking “C”s stencilled on the top.
Mum had a lipstick like this, even though she definitely didn’t have spare cash to spend on expensive makeup. But then that was Mum all over: blow it on a lipstick and be left with nothing for dinner. Me, sitting on a chair, legs dangling. Her pressing the waxy stub of it against my lips. Turning me to face the mirror. There you go, darling. Don’t you look pretty?