He passed me an Evian bottle. Suddenly I was thirsty, so thirsty. “Not too much,” he said. “Steady on—that’s enough.” He took the bottle away from me. We sat there for a while in silence. “How do you feel? Want to go back and find your friends?”
No. I shook my head. I didn’t want that. I wanted to stay here in the dark with the hot breeze moving the tall trees above us and the lapping of the lake water against the banks.
“They’re not my friends.”
He took out a cigarette. “You want one? I suppose it might help . . .”
I took one, put it between my lips. He went to pass me the lighter. “You do it,” I said.
I loved watching his fingers working the lighter, like he was casting some spell. The tip lit, glowed. I sucked in the smoke.
“Merci,” I said.
Suddenly the shadows under the next tree along seemed to move. There was someone there. No . . . two people. Tangled together. I heard a moan. Then a whisper: “Je suis ta petite pute.” I’m your little whore.
Normally I would have looked away. I would have been so embarrassed. But I couldn’t take my eyes off them. The pill, the darkness, him sitting so close—that most of all—it loosened something inside me. Loosened my tongue.
“I’ve never had that,” I whispered, looking toward the couple under the tree. And I found myself telling him my most embarrassing secret. That while Camille brought back different guys every week—sometimes girls, too—I’d never actually had sex with anyone. Except right then I didn’t feel embarrassed; it felt like I could say anything.
“Papa’s so strict,” I said. I thought of how he had looked at me earlier. A little slut. “He said this horrible thing this evening . . . about how I looked. And sometimes I get this feeling, like he’s ashamed, like he doesn’t really like me that much. He looks at me, talks to me, like I’m an . . . an imposter, or something.” I didn’t think I was explaining very well. I’d never said any of this to anyone. But Ben was listening and nodding and, for the first time, I felt heard.
Then he spoke. “You’re not a little girl any longer, Mimi. You’re a grown woman. Your father can’t control you anymore. And what you just described? The way he makes you feel? Use it, to drive yourself. Use it for inspiration in your art. All true artists are outsiders.” I looked at him. He’d spoken so fiercely. It felt like he was talking from experience. “I’m adopted,” he said then. “In my opinion, families are overrated.”
I looked toward him, sitting so close in the darkness. It made sense. It was part of that connection between us, the one I’d felt since the first time I saw him. We were both outsiders.
“And you know what?” he said—and his voice was still different than usual. More raw. More urgent. “It’s not about where you came from. What kind of shit might have happened to you in the past. It’s about who you are. What you do with the opportunities life presents to you.”
And then he put his hand gently on my arm. The lightest touch. The pads of his fingertips were hot against my skin. The feeling seemed to travel straight from my arm right to the very center of me. He could have done anything to me right there in the dark and I’d have been his.
And then he smiled. “It looks good, by the way.”
“Quoi?”
“Your hair.”
I put my hand up to touch it. I could feel where the hair was sticking to my forehead with sweat.
He smiled at me. “It suits you.”
And that was the moment. I leaned over and I grabbed hold of his face in both hands and kissed him. I wanted more. I half-clambered on top of him, tried to straddle him.
“Hey,” he laughed, pulling back, pushing me gently away, wiping his mouth. “Hey, Mimi. I like you too much for that.”
I got it, then. Not here; not like this: not for the first time. The first time between us had to be special. Perfect.
Maybe you could say it was the pill. But that was the moment I felt myself fall in love with him. I thought I had been in love once before but it didn’t work out. Now I knew how false the other time had been. Now I understood. I’d been waiting for Ben.
The song ends and the spell is broken. I’m back in the cave, surrounded by all these idiots in their stupid Halloween costumes. They’re playing Christine and the Queens now, everyone howling along to the chorus. People shoving past me, ignoring me, like always.
Wait. I’ve just spotted a face in the crowd. A face that has no business being at this party.
Putain de merde.
What the hell is she doing here?
Jess
I move through the cave, deeper into the crowd of masked faces and writhing bodies. The party’s getting wild; I’m pretty sure I spot a couple up against a wall having sex or something close to it and a little way on a small group doing lines. I wonder if the room full of wine has been locked. I reckon this many people could put quite a dent in those racks of bottles.
“Veux-tu un baiser de vampire?” a guy asks me. I see that he’s dressed as Dracula in a plasticky cape and some fake fangs—it’s almost as crap a costume as my ghost outfit was.
“Erm . . . sorry, what?” I say, turning toward him.
“A Vampire’s Kiss,” he says in English, with a grin. “I asked if you want one?” For a moment I wonder if he’s suggesting we make out. Then I look down and realize he’s holding out a glass swimming with bright red liquid.
“What’s in it?”
“Vodka, grenadine . . . maybe some Chambord.” He shrugs. “Mostly vodka.”
“OK. Sure.” I could do with some Dutch courage. He hands it over. I take a sip—Jesus, it’s even more grim than it looks, the metallic hit of the vodka beneath the sticky sweet of the syrup and raspberry liqueur. It tastes like something we might have served at the Copacabana, and that’s not a good thing. But it’s worth it for the vodka, even if I’d really prefer to take it neat. I take another long glug, braced this time for the sweetness.
“I’ve never met you before,” he says, sounding almost more French now he’s speaking English. “What’s your name?”
“Jess. You?”
“Victor. Enchanté.”
“Er . . . thanks.” I get straight to the point. “Hey, do you know Ben? Benjamin Daniels. From the third floor?”
He makes a face. “Non, désolé.” He looks genuinely sorry to have let me down. “I like your accent,” he adds. “It’s cool. You’re from London, non?”
“Yup,” I say. It’s not exactly true, but then where am I from, really?
“And you’re a friend of Mimi’s?”
“Er—yes, I suppose you could say that.” As in: I’ve met her precisely twice and she’s never seemed exactly delighted to see me, but I’m not going to go into particulars.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, and I wonder if I’ve made some sort of mistake.
“It’s just . . . most people here are friends of Camille. No one really knows Mimi. She—how do you say it in English?—keeps herself to herself. Kind of intense. A bit—” He makes a gesture that I take to mean: “cuckoo.”