Theo leans in close. “Careful now, but look behind you,” he whispers, breath tickling my ear. I start to swivel round. “No—Jesus, more subtly than that.”
God, he’s patronizing. But I do as he says. Several times I take small, sly glances behind me. And as I do I notice a series of booths hidden in the shadows at the back, their occupants shielded from the view of the regular punters by velvet curtains and attended by a constant flow of waiters carrying bottles of wine and trays of canapés. Every so often someone leaves or enters, and I notice that it always seems to be a man. All of a similar type and age: elegant, suited, masked, an air of wealth and importance about them.
Theo leans over, as though he’s whispering another sweet nothing. “Have you noticed?”
“How they’re all men?”
“Yes. And how every so often one of them goes through that door over there.”
I follow the direction of his gaze.
“But I’d stop looking now,” he murmurs. “Before we start to draw attention to ourselves.”
I turn back to the stage. The girl has stepped off the hoop. She smiles out at the audience, taking us all in in a sweeping glance. When she gets to me, she stops. I’m not imagining it: she freezes. She is staring at me in what looks like horror. I feel a thrill go through me. The sharp brown fringe, the height, even the little mole beneath her left eye which I can make out now under the spotlight. I know her.
Sophie
Penthouse
They file into the apartment. Nicolas, Antoine, Mimi. Take up the same positions on the sofas they occupied last night, when the girl interrupted us. Nick’s foot is tapping a frantic rhythm on the Ghom rug. As I watch I am certain I can make out a tiny black scorch mark just beneath his toe. One of several burned into the priceless silk. But you’d only spot them if you knew what you were looking for.
Suddenly I am assaulted by memories. It was my greatest transgression, inviting him up here. We stole a bottle from Jacques’ cellar: one of the finest vintages. Had each other there on the rug, Paris glittering nosily in at us through the vast windows. We lay tangled together afterward, warmed by the cashmere throw I had pulled around our naked bodies. If Jacques had come back unexpectedly . . . But wasn’t there some part of me that wanted to be caught? Look at me, who you have left here alone all these years. Wanted. Desired.
As we lay there I stroked his hair, enjoying the dense velvety softness of it between my fingers. He lit a cigarette that we passed back and forth like teenage lovers, hot ash scattering, sizzling into the silk of the rug. I didn’t care. All that mattered was that with him here the apartment suddenly seemed warm, full of life and sound and passion.
“My mum used to stroke my hair.”
I pulled my hand away, sharply.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, quickly. “I just meant I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.” And when he turned to look across at me I saw in his expression something undefended and frail, something that had hidden beneath all the charm. I thought I saw my own loneliness reflected there. But in the next moment he smiled and it had vanished.
A minute or so later he sat up, taking in the empty apartment around us. “Jacques is away a lot in the evenings, isn’t he?”
I nodded. Was he already planning our next encounter? “He’s very busy.”
His gaze seemed to sweep over the paintings on the walls, the furnishings, the richness of the place. “I suppose that must mean business is flourishing.”
I froze. He’d said it lightly. Too lightly? It brought me back to myself: the madness of what we were doing, all that was at stake. “You should go,” I told him, suddenly angry at him . . . at myself. “I can’t do this.” This time I really believed I meant it. “I have too much to lose.”
I close my eyes. Open them again and focus on my daughter’s face. She does not meet my eye. All the same, it has brought me back to myself. To what is important. I take a steadying sip of my wine. Force down the memories. “So,” I say to them all. “Let us begin.”
Nick
Second floor
My stepmother has called us all to order. We’re sitting upstairs in the penthouse apartment. A dysfunctional little family conference. Like the one we’d been going to have last night before Jess turned up unannounced and set the cat among the pigeons. I was always a keen student of English idioms. We have a French one like it, actually: jeter un pavé dans la mare—throw a paving stone in the pond. And maybe that’s a more accurate description of what happened when she arrived here. She has displaced everything.