A word, from behind the penthouse door, and suddenly I am wrenched back into the present. I have just distinctly heard one of them say: “Concierge.” I step backward into the gloom, treading carefully to avoid the creaking floorboards. An instinct: I should not be here. I need to get back to my cabin. Now.
Mimi
Fourth floor
I burst back into the apartment. I go straight to my room, straight to the window, stare out through the glass. It was hell, sitting up there with all of them. Talking, shouting at each other. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted so badly to be alone.
Mimi. Mimi. Mimi.
It takes a moment for me to work out where the sound is coming from. I turn around and see Camille standing there in my doorway, hands on her hips.
“Mimi?” She walks toward me, clicks her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? What are you doing?”
“Quoi?” What? I stare at her.
“You were just staring out of the window. Like some sort of zombie.” She does an impression: eyes wide, jaw hanging open. “What were you looking at?”
I shrug. I hadn’t even realized. But I must have been looking into his apartment. Old habits die hard.
“Putain, you’re scaring me, Mimi. You’ve been acting so . . . so weird.” She pauses. “Even weirder than normal.” Then she frowns, like she’s working something out. “Ever since the other night. When I came back late and you were still up. What is it?”
“Rien,” I say. It’s nothing. Why won’t she just leave me alone?
“I don’t believe you,” she says. “What happened here, before I got back that night? What’s going on with you?”
I shut my eyes, clench my fists. I can’t cope with all these questions. All this probing. I feel like I’m about to explode. With as much control as I can manage, I say: “I just . . . I need to be on my own right now, Camille. I need my own space.”
She doesn't take the hint. “Hey—was it something to do with that guy you were being so mysterious about? Did it not work out? If you’d just tell me, maybe I could help—”
I can’t take any more. The white noise is buzzing in my head. I stand up. I hate the way she’s looking at me: the concern and worry in her expression. Why can’t she just get it? I suddenly feel like I don’t want to see her face any more. Like it would be much better if she weren’t here at all.
“Just shut up! Fous le camp!” Fuck off. “Just—just leave me alone.”
She takes a step back.
“And I’m sick of you bugging me,” I say. “I’m sick of all your mess around the place, everywhere I look. I’m sick of you bringing your, your . . . fuck-buddies back here. I might be a weirdo—yes, I know all of your friends think that—but you . . . you’re a disgusting little slut.”
I think I’ve done it now. Her eyes are wide as she steps farther away from me. Then she disappears from the room. I don’t feel good, but at least I can breathe again.
I hear sounds coming from her bedroom next door, drawers being pulled open, cupboard doors slamming. A few moments later she appears with a couple of canvas bags over each arm, stuff spilling out of them.
“You know what?” she says. “I might be a disgusting little slut, but you are one crazy bitch. I can’t be bothered with this any more, Mimi, I don’t need this. And Dominique’s got her own place now. No more sneaking around. I’m out of here.”
There’s only one person I know with that name. That doesn’t make any sense. “Dominique—”
“Yeah. Your brother’s ex. And all that time he thought she was flirting with Ben.” A little smile. “That was a good decoy, right? Anyway. This is different. This is the real deal. I love her. It’s one woman for me now. No more Camille the—what was it you called me?—disgusting little slut.” She hoists her bag higher on her shoulder. “Bof. Whatever. I’ll see you around, Mimi. Good luck with whatever the fuck is going on with you.”
A couple of minutes later she’s gone. I turn back to the window. I watch her striding across the courtyard, bags over her arm.
For a moment I actually feel better, calmer, freer. Like maybe I’ll be able to think more clearly with her gone. But now it’s too quiet. Because it’s still here; the storm in my head. And I don’t know whether I’m more frightened of it—or of what it’s drowning out.
I lift my gaze from the courtyard. I look back into his apartment. A few days ago, I let myself in there with the key I stole from the concierge’s cabin. I’ve been going into that cabin since I was a little girl, sneaking in while I was sure the old woman was on one of the top floors cleaning. It used to fascinate me: it was like the cabin in the woods from a fairytale. She has all these mysterious photographs on the walls, the proof she actually had another life before she came here, as hard as it is to believe. A beautiful young woman in so many of them: like a princess from the same fairytale.