A waiter comes over to take our drinks order. I open the leather-bound menu. No prices. I glance at Theo.
“A glass of champagne for my wife,” he says, quickly. He turns to me wearing a smile of fake adoration—so convincing it gives me a chill. “Seeing as we’re celebrating, darling.” I really hope he’s paying. He looks down the menu. “And a glass of this red for me.”
The waiter is back in a minute, brandishing two bottles in white napkins. He pours a stream of champagne into a glass and passes it to me. I take a sip. It’s very cold, tiny bubbles electric on the tip of my tongue. I can’t think when I’ve ever had the real stuff. Mum used to say she was “a champagne girl” but I’m not sure she ever had it either: just cheap, sweet knock-offs.
As the waiter pours Theo’s red the napkin slips a little and I notice the label.
“It’s the same wine,” I whisper to Theo, once the waiter’s left us. “The Meuniers have that in their cellar.”
Theo turns to look at me. “What was that name you just used?” He sounds suddenly excited.
“The Meuniers. The family I was telling you about.”
Theo lowers his voice. “Yesterday I submitted a request to see the matrice cadastrale—that’s like the Land Registry—for this place. It’s owned by one Meunier Wines SARL.”
I sit up very straight, everything sharpening into focus. A feeling like a thousand tiny pin-pricks across the surface of my skin.
“That’s them. That’s the family Ben’s been living with.” I try to think. “But why was Ben interested in this place? Could he have been reviewing it? Something like that?”
“He wasn’t reviewing it for me. And I’m not sure, being so exclusive, that it’s the sort of place that exactly courts press coverage.”
The lights begin to dim. But just before they do a figure in the crowd catches my eye, oddly familiar despite the mask they’re wearing. I try to shift my gaze back to the same spot but the lights are dimming further, voices lowering and the room falling into darkness.
I can hear the smallest rustle of people’s clothing, the odd sniff, their intakes of breath. Someone coughs and it sounds deafening in the sudden hush.
Then the velvet curtain begins to roll back.
A figure stands on the stage against a black background. Skin lit up pale blue. Face in shadow. Completely naked. No—not naked, a trick of the light—two scraps of material covering her modesty. She begins to dance. The music is deep, throbbing—some sort of jazz, I think . . . no melody to it, but a kind of rhythm. And she’s so in sync with it that it feels almost as if the music is coming from her, like the movements she is making are creating it, rather than following it. The dance is strange, intense, almost menacing. I’m torn between staring and tearing my eyes away; something about it disturbs me.
More girls appear, dressed—or undressed—in the same way. The music gets louder and louder, beating until it’s so overpowering that the pulse of it is like the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. With the blue light, the shifting, undulating bodies on stage, I feel as though I’m underwater, as though the outlines of everything are rippling and bleeding into one another. I think of last night. Could there be something in the champagne? Or is it just the effect of the lighting, the music, the darkness? I glance over at Theo. He shifts in his seat next to me; takes a sip of wine, his eyes locked on the stage. Is he turned on by what’s happening on stage? Am I? I’m suddenly aware of how close we are to each other, of how tightly my leg is pressed up against his.
The next act is just two women: one dressed in a close-fitting black suit and bow tie, the other in a tiny slip dress. Gradually they remove each other’s clothes until you can see that without them they’re almost identical. I can feel the audience sitting forward, drinking it in.
I lean toward Theo. Whisper: “What is this place?”
“A rather exclusive club,” he murmurs back. “Its nickname, apparently, is La Petite Mort. You can’t get in unless you have one of those cards. Like the one you found in Ben’s wallet.”
The lights dim again. Silence falls on the crowd. Another nearly naked girl—this one wearing a kind of feathered headdress rather than a mask—is lowered from the ceiling on a suspended silver hoop. Her act is all confined to the hoop: she does a somersault, a kind of backflip, lets herself fall and then catches herself with the flick of an ankle—the audience gasps.