“Can you actually prove that?” Theo asks, sitting forward.
At this, she checks over her shoulder and lowers her voice. Then she nods. “I took some photos. Of the one they say is police.”
“You’ve got photos?” Theo leans forward, eagerly.
“They take our phones. But when I started speaking to Ben he gave me a camera. I was going to give this to your brother.” A hesitation. Her eyes dart between us and the window. “More money,” she says.
Both of us turn to Theo, wait as he finds some more cash and puts it on the table between us.
She fumbles her hand into the pocket of her jacket, then takes it back out, fist clenched, knuckles showing white. Very carefully, like she’s handling something explosive, she places a memory card on the table and pushes it toward me. “They’re not such good photos. I had to be so careful. But I think it’s enough.”
“Here,” Theo says, reaching out a hand.
“No,” Irina says, looking at me. “Not him. You.”
“Thank you.” I take it, slide it into my own jacket pocket. “I’m sorry,” I say, because it seems suddenly important to say it. “I’m sorry this has happened to you.”
She shrugs, hunches into herself. “Maybe it’s better than other things. You know? At least you’re not going to end up murdered at the end of an alley or in the Bois de Boulogne, or raped in some guy’s car. We have more control. And sometimes they buy us presents, to make us feel good. Some of the girls get nice clothes, jewelry. Some go on dates, become girlfriends. Everybody’s happy.”
Except she looks anything but happy.
“There’s even a story—” She leans closer, lowers her voice.
“What?” Theo asks.
“That the owner’s wife came from there.”
I stare at her. “What, from the club?”
“Yes. That she was one of the girls. So I guess it worked out OK for some.”
I’m trying to process this. Sophie Meunier? The diamond earrings, the silk shirts, the icy stare, the penthouse apartment, the whole vibe of being better than everyone else . . . she was one of them? A sex worker?
“But it’s not rich husbands for everyone. Some guys—they refuse to wear anything. Or they take it off when you’re not looking. Some girls get, you know . . . sick.”
“You mean STIs?” I ask.
“Yes.” And then in a small voice: “I caught something.” She makes a face, a grimace of disgust and embarrassment. “After that, I knew I had to leave. And some girls get pregnant. It happens, you know? There’s a story too, about a girl a long, long time ago—maybe it’s just a rumor. But they say she got pregnant and wanted to keep it, or maybe it was too late to do something . . . anyway, when she went into—” She mimes doubling over with pain.
“Labor?”
“Yes. When that happened she came to the club; she had no other place to go. When you’re illegal, you’re scared to go to hospital. She had the baby in the club. But they said it was a bad birth. Too much blood. They took her body away, no one ever knows she existed. No problem. Because she wasn’t official.”
Jesus Christ. “And you told all this to Ben?” I ask her.
“Yes. He said he would make sure I was safe. Help me out. A new start. I speak English. I’m clever. I want a normal job. Waitressing, something like that. Because—” Her voice wavers. She puts up a hand to her eyes. I see the shine of tears. She swipes at them with the heel of her hand, almost angrily, like she doesn’t have time for crying. “It’s not what I came to this country for. I came for a new life.”
And even though I never cry I feel my own eyes pricking. I hear her. Every woman deserves that. The chance of a new life.
Mimi
I sit here on my bed, staring into the darkness of his apartment, remembering. On his laptop, three nights ago, I read about a place with a locked room. About what happened in that room. About the women. The men.
About how it was—is—connected to this place. To this family.
I felt sick to my stomach. It couldn’t be right, what he’d written. But there were names. There was detail. So much horrible detail. And Papa—
No. It couldn’t be true. I refused to believe it. It had to be lies—
And then I saw my own name, like I had in his notebook, when it had been so exciting. Only now it filled me with fear. Somehow I was connected to that place, too. There were horrible things my older stepbrother had said. I had always thought they were just random insults. Now I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think I could bring myself to read it, but I knew I had to.
What I saw next . . . I felt my whole life fall apart. If it was true, it would explain exactly why I had always felt like an outsider. Why Papa had always treated me the way he had. Because I wasn’t really theirs. And there was more: I glimpsed a line, something about my real mother, but I couldn’t read it because my eyes had blurred with tears—
I froze. Then I heard footsteps outside, approaching the door. Merde. I slammed the laptop closed. The key was turning in the lock. He was back.
Oh God. I couldn’t face him. Not now. Not like this. Everything was changed between us, broken. Everything I believed in had just been shattered. Everything I had ever known was a lie. I didn’t even know who I was any more.
I ran into the bedroom. There was no time . . . The closet. I yanked the doors open, slipped inside, crouched down in the darkness.
I heard him put a record on the player in the main room and the music streamed out, just like the music I had heard every hot summer night, floating to me across the courtyard. As though he had been playing it for me.
It felt like my heart was breaking.
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true.
Then, over the sound of my own breathing, I heard him entering the room. Through the keyhole I saw him moving around. He pulled off his sweater. I saw his stomach, that line of hair I had noticed on the first day. I thought about that girl I had been, the one who had watched him from the balcony. I hated her for being such a clueless little idiot. A spoiled brat. Thinking she had issues. She had no idea. But at the same time I was grieving for the loss of her. Knowing I could never go back to her.
He paced close to the closet—I cringed back into the shadows—and then moved away again, stepping into the bathroom. I heard him turn on the shower. All I wanted, now, was to get out of there. This was my moment. I pushed the door open. I could hear him moving around in the bathroom, the shower door opening. I began to tiptoe across the floor. Quiet as I could. Then there was a knock on the front door to the apartment. Putain.
Back I ran, back to the closet, crouching down in the darkness.
I heard the shower stop. I heard him go to answer it, greeting whoever it was at the door.
And then I heard the other voice. I knew it straightaway, of course I did. They talked for a while, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I opened the closet door a crack, trying to hear.
Then they were coming into the bedroom. Why? What were they doing in the bedroom? Why would those two come in here? I could just make them out through the keyhole. Even in those snatched glimpses I could see there was something strange about their body language—something I couldn’t quite work out. But I knew that something was wrong . . . something was not how it should be.
And then it happened. I saw them move together, the two of them. I saw their lips meet. It felt like it was happening in slow motion. I was digging my nails so hard into my palms I thought I might be about to draw blood. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. I sank down into the darkness, fist in my mouth, teeth biting into my knuckles to stop myself from screaming.