The metal gate in front of me has a brass lion’s head knocker: the fat metal ring held between snarling teeth. Along the top of the gate, I notice, is a bristle of anti-climb spikes. And all along the high wall either side of the gate are embedded shards of glass. These security measures feel kind of at odds with the elegance of the building.
I lift up the knocker, cold and heavy in my hand, let it drop. The clang of it bounces off the cobblestones, so much louder than expected in the silence. In fact, it’s so quiet and dark here that it’s hard to imagine it’s part of the same city I’ve trundled across this evening from Gare du Nord: all the bright lights and crowds, people spilling in and out of restaurants and bars. I think of the area around that huge cathedral lit up on the hill, the Sacré-Coeur, which I passed beneath only twenty minutes ago: throngs of tourists out taking selfies and dodgy-looking guys in puffer jackets sharking between them, ready to nick a wallet or two. And the streets that I walked through with the neon signs, the blaring music, the all-night food, the crowds spilling out of bars, the queues for clubs. This is a different universe. I look back down the street behind me: not another person in sight. The only real sound comes from a scurry of dead ivy across the cobblestones. I can hear the roar of traffic at a distance, the honking of car horns—but even that seems muffled, like it wouldn’t dare intrude on this elegant, hushed world.
I didn’t stop to think much, pulling my case across town from the station. I was mainly concentrating on not getting mugged, or letting the broken wheel of my suitcase stick and throw me off balance. But now, for the first time, it sinks in: I’m here, in Paris. A different city, a different country. I’ve made it. I’ve left my old life behind.
A light snaps on in one of the windows up above. I glance up and there’s a dark figure standing there, head and shoulders in silhouette. Ben? If it were him, though, he’d wave down at me, surely. I know I must be lit up by the nearby streetlamp. But the figure at the window is as still as a statue. I can’t make out any features or even whether they’re male or female. But they’re watching me. They must be. I suppose I must look pretty shabby and out of place with my broken old suitcase trying to bust open despite the bungee cord wrapped around it. A strange feeling, knowing they can see me but I can’t see them properly. I drop my eyes.
Aha. To the right of the gate I spot a little panel of buttons for the different apartments with a lens set into it. The big lion’s head knocker must just be for show. I step forward and press the one for the third floor, for Ben’s place. I wait for his voice to crackle through the intercom.
No answer.
Sophie
Penthouse
Someone is knocking on the front door to the building. Loud enough for Benoit, my silver whippet, to leap to his feet and let out a volley of barks.
“Arrête ?a!” I shout. “Stop that.”
Benoit whimpers, then goes quiet. He looks up at me, confusion in his dark eyes. I can hear the change in my voice as well—too shrill, too loud. And I can hear my own breathing in the silence that follows, rough and shallow.
No one ever uses the door knocker. Certainly, no one familiar with this building. I go to the windows on this side of the apartment, which look down into the courtyard. I can’t see onto the street from here, but the front door from the street leads into the courtyard, so if anyone had come in I would see them there. But no one has entered and it must have been a few minutes since the knocking. Clearly it’s not someone the concierge thinks should be admitted. Fine. Good. I haven’t always liked that woman, but I know I can trust her in this at least.
In Paris you can live in the most luxurious apartment and the scum of the city will still wash up at your door on occasion. The drug addicts, the vagrants. The whores. Pigalle, the red-light district, lies just a little way away, clinging to the coattails of Montmartre. Up here, in this multi-million-euro fortress with its views out over the city’s rooftops, all the way to the Tour Eiffel, I have always felt comparatively safe. I can ignore the grime beneath the gilt. I am good at turning a blind eye. Usually. But tonight is . . . different.
I go to check my reflection in the mirror that hangs in the hallway. I pay close attention to what I see in the glass. Not so bad for fifty. It is partly due to the fact that I have adopted the French way when it comes to maintaining my forme. Which essentially means always being hungry. I know that even at this hour I will be looking immaculate. My lipstick is flawless. I never leave the apartment without it. Chanel, “La Somptueuse”: my signature color. A bluish, regal color that says: “stand back,” not “come hither.” My hair is a shining black bob cut every six weeks by David Mallet at Notre Dame des Victoires. The shape perfected, any silver painstakingly concealed. Jacques, my husband, made it quite clear once that he abhors women who allow themselves to go gray. Even if he hasn’t always been here to admire it.
I am wearing what I consider my uniform. My armor. Silk Equipment shirt, exquisitely-cut dark slim trousers. A scarf—brightly patterned Hermès silk—around my neck, which is excellent for concealing the ravages of time to the delicate skin there. A recent gift from Jacques, with his love of beautiful things. Like this apartment. Like me, as I was before I had the bad grace to age.
Perfect. As ever. As expected. But I feel dirty. Sullied by what I have had to do this evening. In the glass my eyes glitter. The only sign. Though my face is a little gaunt, too—if you were to look closely. I am even thinner than usual. Recently I have not had to watch my diet, to carefully mark each glass of wine or morsel of croissant. I couldn’t tell you what I ate for breakfast this morning; whether I remembered to eat at all. Each day my waistband hangs looser, the bones of my sternum protrude more sharply.
I undo the knot of my scarf. I can tie a scarf as well as any born and bred Parisian. By it you know me for one of them, those chic moneyed women with their small dogs and their excellent breeding.
I look at the text message I sent to Jacques last night. Bonne nuit, mon amour. Tout va bien ici. Good night, my love. Everything is fine here.
Everything is fine here. HA.
I don’t know how it has come to this. But I do know that it started with him coming here. Moving into the third floor. Benjamin Daniels. He destroyed everything.
Jess
I pull out my phone. Last time I checked Ben hadn’t replied to any of my messages. One on the Eurostar: On my way! And then: At Gare du Nord! Do you have an Uber account?!!! Just in case, you know, he suddenly felt generous enough to send a cab to collect me. Seemed worth a shot.
There is a new message on my phone. Only it’s not from Ben.
You stupid little bitch. Think you can get away with what you’ve done?