“It belongs to my husband,” I said, curtly. “This is his study.”
“So this is where the great man works,” he said. “And do you work, yourself?”
“No,” I said. He must know that, surely. Women in my position do not work.
“But you must have done something before you met your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” he said, after the pause had grown so long it felt like a physical presence in the air between us. “It’s the journalist in me. I’m just . . . curious about people.” He shrugged. “It’s incurable, I’m afraid. Please, forgive me.”
I had thought it that first time I met him: that he wielded his charm like a weapon. But now I was sure of it. Our new neighbor was dangerous. I thought of the notes. My mystery blackmailer. Could it be a coincidence that they had arrived almost at the same time—this man, with his air of knowing—and the demand for money, threatening to reveal my secrets? If so, I would not allow it. I would not let this random stranger dismantle everything I had built.
I managed to find my voice. “I’ll show you to the roof terrace,” I told him. Followed him until he walked through the right door. He turned around and gave me a grin, a brief nod. I did not smile back.
I went back and joined the others. A few moments later Dominique stood up, announced that she, too, was going for a cigarette. Perhaps she was embarrassed by her husband drinking himself into a stupor on the sofa. Or—I thought of the way she looked at Ben when she arrived—she was simply shameless.
Antoine’s arm shot out; his hand gripped her wrist, hard. The wine glass in her hand jerked, a crimson splash landed on the pale knit of her dress. “Non,” he said. “Tu ne feras rien de la sorte.”
You’ll do no such thing.
Dominique glanced at me, then. Her eyes wide. Woman to woman. See how he treats me? I looked away. You have made your choices, chérie, just as I have made mine. I knew what sort of man my husband was when I married him; I’m sure it was the same for you. If not—well, you’re even more of a foolish little tart than I thought.
I watched as she wrenched her hand away from her husband’s grip and stalked off in the direction of the roof terrace. I imagined the two of them up there, could see the scene play out. The rooftops of Paris laid out before them, the illuminated streets like strings of fairy lights. Her bending forward as she lit her cigarette from his. Her lips brushing his hand.
They came back down a short while later. When he spotted them Antoine rose from the seat where he had been slumped. He lumbered over to Dominique. “We’re going.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to.”
He leaned in very close and hissed, loud enough for all of us to hear: “We’re going, you little slut.” Petite salope. And then he turned to Ben. “Stay away from my wife, you English bastard. Comprends-tu? Understand?” Like a final piece of punctuation he gestured with his full wine glass, and I could not tell if it was because he was drunk or if it was on purpose that it flew from his hand. An explosion of glass. Wine smattered up the wall.
Everything went very still and quiet.
Ben turned to Jacques: “I’m very sorry, Monsieur Meunier, I—”
“Please,” Jacques stood. “Do not apologize.” He stalked over to Antoine. “No one behaves like that in my apartment. You are not welcome here. Get out.” His voice was cold, heavy with menace.
Antoine’s mouth opened. I saw his teeth, stained by the wine. For a moment I thought he was about to say something unforgivable. Then he turned and looked at Ben. A long look that said more than any words could.
The silence that followed their exit rang like a tuning fork.
Later, while Jacques took a phone call, I went and took a shower in my bathroom. I found myself almost idly directing the shower head between my legs. The image that came to my mind was of the two of them: Dominique and Ben, up in the roof garden. Of all the things that might have occurred between them while the rest of us made small talk downstairs. And as my husband barked instructions—just audible through the wall—I had a silent orgasm, my head pressed against the cool tiles. The little death, it’s called. La petite mort. And perhaps that was only appropriate. A small part of me had died that evening. Another part had come alive.
Jess
It’s evening and I’m back in the apartment. Gazing out into the courtyard, looking up and down at the illuminated squares of my neighbors’ windows, trying to catch a glimpse of one of them moving around.
I’ve texted Nick a couple of times to ask if he’s heard anything from the police but I haven’t had anything back yet. I know it’s way too soon, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m grateful for his help earlier. It’s good to feel I have an ally in this. But I still don’t trust the police to do anything. And I’m starting to feel itchy again. I can’t just sit around waiting to hear.
I shrug on my jacket and step out of the apartment onto the landing, not knowing what I’m going to do but knowing I need to do something. As I pause, trying to decide what that is, I realize I can hear raised voices somewhere above me, echoing down the stairwell. I can’t resist following the sound upward. I start to climb the stairs, up past Mimi’s on the fourth floor, listening for a moment to the silence behind the door. The voices must be coming from the penthouse. I can hear a man speaking over the others, louder than the rest. But I can hear other voices now, too, they all seem to be talking at once. I can’t make out any of the words, though. Another flight of stairs and I’m on the top landing, with the door to the penthouse apartment in front of me and to my left that wooden stepladder leading up to the old maids’ quarters.
I creep toward the door of the penthouse apartment, wincing at every creak in the floorboards. Hopefully the people inside are too distracted by the sounds of their own voices to pay attention to anything outside. I get right up close to the door, then drop down and put my ear to the keyhole.
The man starts to speak again, louder than before. Crap—it’s all in French, of course it is. I think I hear Ben’s name and I go tense, craning to hear more. But I can’t make out a single—
“Elle est dangereuse.”
Wait. Even I can guess what that means: She is dangerous. I press my ear closer to the keyhole, listening hard for anything else I might understand.
Suddenly there’s the sound of barking, right up close to my ear. I stumble away from the keyhole, half-fall backward, try and scrabble my way to standing. Shit, I need to get out of here. I can’t let them see—
“You.”
Too late. I turn back. She stands there in the doorway, Sophie Meunier, wearing a cream silk shirt and black trousers, crazily sparkling diamonds at her earlobes—her expression so frosty that they might be tiny icicles she just sprouted there. There’s a small gray dog at her feet—a whippet?—looking at me with gleaming black eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard voices, I . . .” I trail off, realizing that hearing voices behind someone else’s apartment door isn’t exactly a good excuse to go and eavesdrop. Silver-tongued Ben might be able to, but I can’t find a way of talking myself out of this one.