“May I?” He indicated the chair. To do anything other than agree would have been rude. I nodded, to show I didn’t care either way what he did.
It was the first time I had been so close to him. Now I saw that he wasn’t handsome, not in the traditional sense. His features were uneven. His confidence, charisma: that was what made him attractive.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m reviewing the place,” he said. “Jacques suggested it at dinner. I haven’t eaten yet but I’m already impressed by the space—the atmosphere, the art.”
I glanced at the painting he was looking at. A woman on her knees: powerfully built, almost masculine. Strong limbs, strong jaw. Nothing elegant about her, only a kind of feral strength. Her head thrown back, howling at the moon like a dog. The splayed legs, the skirt rucked . . . it was almost sexual. If you could get close enough to sniff it, I imagined it wouldn’t be paint you smelled but blood. I felt suddenly very aware of the sweat that might have soaked into the silk beneath my arms on the walk over here, hidden half-moons of damp in the fabric.
“What do you think?” he asked. “I love Paula Rego.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” I said.
He pointed to my lip. “You have a little—just there.”
I put the corner of the napkin up to my mouth and dabbed. Took it away and saw that the thick white linen was stained with blood. I stared at it.
He coughed. “I sense—look, I just wanted to say that I hope we haven’t got off on the wrong foot. The other day—when I commented on your accent. I hope I didn’t seem rude.”
“Mais non,” I said. “What would make you think that?”
“Look, I took French studies at Cambridge, you see, I’m just fascinated by such things.”
“I was not offended,” I told him. “Pas du tout.” Not at all.
He grinned. “That’s a relief. And I enjoyed the dinner on the roof terrace so much. It was kind of you to invite me.”
“I didn’t invite you,” I said. “That dinner was all Jacques’ idea.” Perhaps it sounded rude. But it was also true. No invitation would be offered without Jacques’ say-so.
“Poor Jacques, then,” he said, with a rueful smile. “The weather that night! I’ve never seen anyone so furious. I actually thought he was going to try and take the storm on, like Lear. The look on his face!”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I should have been appalled, offended. No one made a joke at my husband’s expense. But it was the surprise of it. And he’d pulled such an accurate impression of Jacques’ outraged expression.
Trying to regain my composure I reached for my water, took a sip. But I felt lighter than I had in a very long time.
“Tell me,” he said, “what is it like being married to a man like Jacques Meunier?”
The sip caught in my throat. Now I was coughing, my eyes watering. One of the waiters ran forward to offer assistance: I waved him away with a hand. All I could think was: what did Ben know? What could Nicolas have told him?
“Sorry.” He gave a quick smile. “I don’t think my question came out quite right. Sometimes I can be so clumsy in French. What I meant was: being married to such a successful businessman. What’s it like?”
I didn’t answer. The look I gave him by way of reply said: you don’t frighten me. Except I was frightened. He was the sender of the notes, I was certain of it now. He was the one collecting those envelopes of cash I left beneath the loose step.
“I just meant,” he said, “that should you ever want to give an interview, I’d be so interested to talk to you. You could talk about what it is to run such a successful business—”
“It’s not my business.”
“Oh, I’m sure that isn’t true. I’m sure you must—”
“No.” I leaned across the table to emphasize the point, tapped out each word with a fingernail on the tablecloth. “The business is nothing to do with me. Comprenez-vous?” Do you understand?
“OK. Well.” He looked at his watch. “The offer still stands. It could be . . . more of a lifestyle piece. On you as the quintessential Parisienne, something like that. You know where I am.” He smiled.
I just looked at him. Perhaps you don’t understand who you’re dealing with, here. There are things I have had to do to get to where I am. Sacrifices I have had to make. People I have had to climb over. You are nothing compared to all that.
“Anyway,” he stood. “I better be going. I have a meeting with my editor. I’ll see you around.”
When I was sure he had gone I called the waiter over. “The 1998.”
His eyes widened. He looked as though he was about to offer an alternative to such a heavy red in that heat. Then he saw my expression. He nodded, scurried away, returned with the bottle.
As I drank I remembered a night early in my marriage. The Opéra Garnier, where we watched Madame Butterfly beneath Chagall’s painted ceiling and sipped chilled champagne in the bar in the interval and I hoped Jacques might show me the famous reliefs of the moon and the sun painted in pure gold on the domed ceilings of the little chambers at each end. But he was more interested in pointing out people, clients of his. Ministers for certain governmental departments, businessmen, significant figures from the French media. Some of them even I recognized, though they didn’t know me. But they all knew Jacques. Returning his nod with tight little nods of their own.
I knew exactly what sort of man I was marrying. I went into the whole thing clear-eyed. I knew what I’d be getting out of it. No, our marriage would not always be perfect. But what marriage is? And he gave me my daughter, in the end. I could forgive anything for that.
Now, I pause for a moment on the landing outside the third-floor apartment. Stare at the brass number 3. Remember standing in this exact spot all those weeks ago. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon at the restaurant, drinking my way through the 1998 vintage as all the waiters no doubt watched, appalled. Madame Meunier has gone mad. As I drank I thought about Benjamin Daniels and his impertinence, about the notes, the horrible power they had over me. My rage blossomed. For the first time in a long time I felt truly alive. As though I might be capable of anything.
I came back to the apartment as dusk was falling, climbed the stairs, stood on this same spot and knocked on his door.
Benjamin answered it quickly, before I had a chance to change my mind.
“Sophie,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans; his feet were bare. There was music playing on the record player behind him, a record spinning round lazily. An open beer in his hand. It occurred to me that he might have someone there with him, which I hadn’t even considered.
“Come in,” he said. I followed him into the apartment. I suddenly felt as though I was trespassing, which was absurd. This was my home, he was the intruder.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
“No. Thank you.”
“Please—I have some wine open.” He gestured to his beer bottle. “It’s wrong—my drinking while you don’t.”