“I don’t know her that well,” I say, quickly.
“Some people don’t get why Camille’s friends with Mimi. But I say—you just have to look at Mimi’s apartment to know why. Mimi’s got rich parents. You know what I’m saying?” He points up toward the apartment. “In this part of town? Seriously expensive. That is some sick crib.” He attempts to do the last two words in a kind of American accent.
In other circumstances I could almost feel sorry for Mimi. That people would assume someone’s only friends with you because of your money: that’s rough. I mean, it’s never a problem I’ve had to deal with, but still.
“So what are you?” he asks.
“What?” A beat, and then I realize he means my costume. “Oh—right.” Shit. I look down at my outfit: jeans and old bobbly sweater. “Well, I was a ghost but now I’m just an ex-barmaid who’s sick of everyone’s shit.”
“Quoi?” He frowns.
“It’s—er, a British thing,” I tell him. “It might not translate.”
“Oh right.” He nods. “Cool.”
An idea hits me. If Camille and Mimi are down here then no one is up there, in the apartment. I could take a look around.
“Hey,” I say, “Victor—could you do me a favor?”
“Tell me.”
“I really need to pee. But I don’t think there’s an, er—toilette—down here?”
He looks suddenly uncomfortable: clearly French boys get as embarrassed about such matters as their British counterparts.
“Could you ask Camille if we can borrow the key to the place?” I smile my most winning smile, the one I’d use on the big tippers at the bar. Little hair flip. “I’d be so grateful.”
He grins back. “Bien s?r.”
Bingo. Maybe Ben’s not the only one with the charm.
I sip my drink while I wait: it’s growing on me, now. Or maybe that’s the vodka kicking in. Victor comes back a few minutes later, holds up a key.
“Amazing,” I say, holding out my hand.
“I’ll come with you,” he says, with a grin. Crap. I wonder what he thinks is going to come out of this. But maybe it helps me look less suspicious if we go together.
I follow Victor up out of the cave, up the dark staircase. We take the lift—his suggestion—and we end up pressed against each other as there’s barely room for one person. I can smell his breath—cigarettes and vodka, not a totally unappealing combination. And he’s not bad-looking. But too pretty for my liking; you could cut a lemon on his jawline. Besides, he’s basically a child.
I have a sudden flashback to Nick and me a couple of hours ago on the roof terrace. That moment, after he’d taken the leaf out of my hair—when he didn’t move away as quickly as he should have. That snatched piece of time, just before the lights went out, when I was convinced he was going to kiss me. What would have happened if it hadn’t suddenly gone dark? If I hadn’t gone sneaking into the rest of the apartment and found that photograph? Would we have gone back to his apartment, fallen into his bed together—
“You know, I’ve always wanted to be with an older woman,” Victor says, earnestly, jolting me back into the real world.
Steady on, mate, I think. And besides, I’m only twenty-eight.
The lift grinds to a halt on the fourth floor. Victor unlocks the door to the apartment. There are a load of bottles and crates of beer stacked in the main room—must be extra party supplies.
“Hey,” I say. “Why don’t you fix us a couple more drinks while I go and pee? This time big on the vodka please, less of the red stuff.”
There’s a corridor leading off the main room with several doors. The layout reminds me a little of the penthouse flat, only everything here is more cramped and instead of original artworks on the walls there are peeling posters—CINDY SHERMAN: CENTRE POMPIDOU and a tour list for someone called DINOS. The first room I come to is an absolute tip: the floor scattered with clothes, lace lingerie in bright sorbet colors and shoes—bras and thongs tangled around the sharp points of heels. A dressing table covered in makeup, about twenty mashed lipsticks all missing their lids. The air’s so heavily scented with perfume and cigarette smoke it gives me an instant headache. A huge poster on one wall of Harry Styles in a tutu and, on the opposite, Dua Lipa in a tux. I think of Mimi and her scowl, her jagged, grungy fringe. I’m pretty sure this isn’t her vibe. I close the door.
The next room has to be Mimi’s. Dark walls. Big black and white angry prints on the walls—one of a freaky, blank-eyed woman—lots of serious-looking arty tomes on the bookshelf. A record player with a load of vinyls in a special case next to it. The one on the turntable is by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs: It’s Blitz!
I creep across to the window. It turns out that Mimi’s got a perfect diagonal view into the main living space of Ben’s apartment, across the courtyard. I can see his desk, the sofa. Interesting. I think of her dropping her wine glass earlier when I spoke about Ben. She’s hiding something, I know it.
I open the cupboard, search through drawers of clothes. Nothing to note. It’s all so neat, almost anally so. But the problem is I don’t know what I’m looking for—and I suspect I don’t have much time before Victor starts wondering why I’m taking so long.
I get on my knees and grope around under the bed. My hand connects with what feels like material wrapped around something harder, wood maybe, and I just know I’ve found something significant. I get a hold of the whole lot, pull it toward me. A piece of gray material falls open to reveal a ragged pile of artists’ canvases, slashed and torn into pieces. So much mess and chaos compared to the rest of the room.
I look more closely at the material they were wrapped in. It’s a gray T-shirt with Acne on the label, an exact match for the ones in Ben’s cupboard. I’m sure it’s one of his. It even smells like his cologne. Why has Mimi been keeping her art stuff in one of Ben’s T-shirts? More importantly: why has she got one of Ben’s T-shirts at all?
“Jessie?” Victor calls. “Are you OK, Jessie?”
Shit. It sounds like he’s getting closer.
I start trying to fit some of the scraps of canvas back together as quickly as I can. It’s like doing a really messy jigsaw puzzle. Finally I’ve pieced enough pieces of the first one together to see the picture. I stand back. It’s a really good likeness. She’s even managed to get his smile, which others have called charming but I’d definitely tell him makes him look like a smarmy git. Here he is, right in front of me. Ben. Just as he is in life.
Except for one terrible, terrifying difference. I lift a hand to my mouth. His eyes have been removed.
“Jessie?” Victor calls again, “où es-tu, Jessie?”