I look at myself in the mirror now. Pout just like she asked me to do all those years—a million years, a whole lifetime—ago. There; done. Costume complete.
I head back upstairs. “Ready,” I tell Theo. He downs the dregs of his stupidly tiny glass of beer. I can feel him running a quick eye over the outfit. His mouth opens and for a moment I think he might say something nice. I mean, part of me wouldn’t know what to do with a compliment right now, but at the same time it might be nice to hear. And then he points to my mouth.
“Missed a bit,” he says. “But yeah, otherwise that should do.”
Oh fuck off. I rub at the edge of my lips. I hate myself for even having cared what he thought.
We leave the bar, turn onto a street thronged with very well-dressed shoppers. I could swear the air around here smells of expensive leather. We pass the glittering windows of rich people shops: Chanel, Celine, and aha!—Isabel Marant. He leads me away from the crowds into a much smaller side street. Gleaming cars flank the pavements. In contrast to the crowded shopping boulevard there’s no one in sight and it’s darker here, fewer streetlamps. A deep hush over everything.
Then Theo stops at a door. “Here we are.” He looks at his watch. “We’re definitely a little late. Hopefully they’ll let us in.”
I look at the door. No number, but there’s a plaque with a symbol I recognize: an exploding firework. Where are we?
Theo reaches past me—a trace of that citrus cologne again—and presses a doorbell I hadn’t noticed. The door swings open with a click. A man appears, dressed in a black suit and bow tie. I watch as Theo fishes a card from his pocket, the same one I found in Ben’s wallet.
The doorman glances at the card, nods his head toward us. “Entrez, s’il vous pla?t. The evening is about to start.”
I try and peer past the doorman to get a glimpse of what lies beyond. At the end of the corridor I see a staircase leading downward, dimly lit by sconces with real candles burning in them.
Theo plants a hand in the small of my back and, with a little push, steers me forward. “Come on,” he says. “We don’t have all night.”
“Arrêtez,” the doorman says, barring our entry with a hand. He looks me over. “Votre mobile, s’il vous pla?t. No phone allowed—or camera.”
“Er—why?” I glance back at Theo. It occurs to me again that I know absolutely nothing about this guy beyond what it says on his business card. He could be anyone. He could have brought me anywhere.
Theo gives a tiny nod, gestures: don’t make a fuss. Do what the guy says. “O—K.” I hand my phone over, reluctantly.
“Vos masques.” The man holds up two pieces of material. I take one. A black mask, made of silk.
“Wha—”
“Just put it on,” Theo murmurs, near my ear. And then louder: “Let me help, darling.” I try to act natural as he smooths down my hair, ties the mask behind my head.
The doorman beckons us through.
With Theo close behind me, I begin to descend the stairs.
Jess
An underground room. I see dark red walls, low lighting, a small crowd of dimly lit figures sitting in front of a stage veiled by a wine-colored velvet curtain. Masked faces turn to look as we descend the final few steps. We’re definitely the last to turn up at the party.
“What the hell is this place?” I whisper to Theo.
“Shh.”
An usher in black tie meets us at the bottom of the stairs, beckons us forward. We pass walls decorated with stylized gold dancing figurines, then weave among little booths with masked figures sitting behind tables, more faces turning in our direction. I feel uncomfortably exposed. Luckily the table we’re taken to is tucked into a corner—definitely the worst view of the stage.
We slide into the booth. There really isn’t very much room in here, not with Theo’s long legs, which he has to pull up against himself, his knees hard against the wooden surround. He looks so uncomfortable that in different circumstances it might give me a laugh. The tiny amount of seat left means I have to sit with my thigh pressed right up against his.
I look about. It’s hard to tell whether this place is actually old or just a clever imitation. The others around us are all very well-heeled; judging by their clothes they could be out for an evening at the theatre. But the atmosphere is wrong. I lean back in my chair, trying to look casual, like I fit in here among the tailored suits, the jewel-encrusted earlobes and necks, the rich person hair. A weird, hungry hum of energy is coming off them, coiling through the room—an intense note of excitement, of anticipation.