I look down at the floor, my arms crossed.
“And if I’m truthful, no, I didn’t really care about your brother. One key skill as a journalist is being able to read people. And can I be really, brutally honest now? Ben always seemed totally self-interested. Always out for numero uno.”
I hate him for saying it, not least because there’s a part of me that suspects he may be right. “How dare—”
“No, no. Let me speak. When he initially told me about his big scoop, I was skeptical. He’s also a bit of a bullshit merchant, no? But when you played me that voicemail, I thought: yeah, actually there might be a story here. Maybe he did get tangled up in something nasty. It might be worth seeing where this all leads after all. So no, I didn’t care about your brother. But you know what, Jess? I want to help you.”
“Oh f—”
“No, listen. I want to help you because I think you deserve a break and I think you’re pretty bloody brave and I also think you don’t have a bad bone in your body.”
“Ha! Then you really don’t know me at all.”
“Christ, does anyone really know anyone? But I’m not a bad guy, Jess. To be fair, I’m not an entirely good one, either. But—” He coughs, looks down at the floor.
I glance at him. Is he bullshitting me? My eyes have started streaming again: I really don’t want him to think they’re tears.
“Ow. Jesus,” I wince as I rub at them.
He steps toward me. “Hey. Can I take a look?”
I shrug.
He reaches out a hand and tilts my chin upward. “Yeah—they’re still pretty red. But I think we only got a little of it, thank God. It should wear off soon.”
His face is very close to mine. And I’m not quite sure how it happens, but one moment he’s holding my jaw and peering at me, his touch surprisingly gentle; the next I appear to be kissing him and he tastes like cigarettes and the wine from the club, which is suddenly one of the better tastes I can imagine, and he’s a lot taller than me so my neck is cricked but actually I don’t care, in fact I kind of like it, because this is hot—it’s really fucking hot—and also wrong in so many different ways, not least because I’m wearing his ex-girlfriend’s clothes.
And even though he’s so much bigger than me I’m the one pushing him back against the sink and he’s letting me and one of his big hands is tangling in my hair and then I’m taking his other hand and pulling it under this stupid, tiny dress. And it’s only now that we remember we should probably lock the door.
Sophie
Penthouse
The others have left the penthouse. I sent Mimi to her apartment, to wait. I don’t want her to witness any of what’s to come. My daughter is so fragile. Our relationship, too. We have to find a new way of being with one another.
I walk into the bathroom, gaze at myself in the mirror, grip the sides of the sink. I look pale and drawn. I look every one of my fifty years. If Jacques were here right now he would be appalled. I smooth my hair. I spray scent behind my ears, on the pulse points of my wrists. Powder the shine off my forehead. Then I pick up my lipstick and apply it. My hand falters only once; otherwise I am as precise as ever.
Then I walk back to the main room of the apartment. The bottle of wine is still there on the table. Another glass, just to help me think—
I start as I realize I am not alone. Antoine stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching me: a malignant presence. He must have stayed behind after the other two left.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. I try to keep my voice controlled, even though my pulse is fluttering up somewhere near my throat.
He steps forward, under the spotlights. The mark of my hand is still pink on his cheek. I’m not proud of myself for that loss of restraint. It happens so rarely; I have become good at keeping my emotions in check over the years. But on those very rare occasions when the provocation is great enough, I seem to lose all sense of proportion. The rage takes over.
“It’s been fun,” he says, coming nearer still.
“What has been fun?”
“Oh.” The grin he gives me now makes him look quite deranged. “But surely you have guessed by now? After that whole thing with the photograph in Papa’s study? You know. Leaving those little notes for you in your postbox, under your door. Waiting to collect my cash. I really do like how you package it up like that for me. Those nice cream envelopes. Very discreet.”
I stare at him. I feel as though everything has just been turned on its head. “You? It’s been you all along?”