“Maman,” Mimi says now—and I am jolted, abruptly, guiltily, out of these memories. “Maman, I don’t know what to do.”
My wonderful miracle. My Merveille. My Mimi. She came to me when I had given up all hope of having a child. You see, she wasn’t always mine.
She was, quite simply, perfect. A baby: only a few weeks old. I did not know exactly where she had come from. I had my ideas, but I kept them to myself. I had learned it was important, sometimes, to look the other way. If you know that you aren’t going to like the reply, don’t ask the question. There was just one thing I needed to know and to that I got my answer: the mother was dead. “And illegal. So there’s no paper trail to worry about. I know someone at the mairie who will square the birth certificate.” A mere formality for the grand and powerful house of Meunier. It helps to have friends in high places.
And then she was mine. And that was the important thing. I could give her a better life.
“Shh,” I say. “I’m here. Everything will be OK. I’m sorry I was stern last night, with the wine. But you understand, don’t you? I didn’t want a scene. Leave it all with me, ma chérie.”
It was—is—so fierce, that feeling. Even though she didn’t come out of my body, I knew as soon as I saw her that I would do anything to protect her, to keep her safe. Other mothers might say that sort of thing casually. But perhaps it is clear by now that I don’t do or say anything casually. When I say something like that, I mean it.
Jess
I come up out of the Palais Royal Metro station. I almost don’t recognize the tall, smartly dressed guy waiting at the top of the steps until he starts walking toward me.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Theo says.
“You didn’t give me any time,” I say. “And I got caught up—”
“Come on,” Theo says. “We can still make it if we’re snappy about it.” I look him over, trying to work out why he looks so different from the last time I met him. Only a five o’clock shadow now, revealing a sharp jawline. Dark hair still in need of a cut but it’s had a brush and he’s swept it back from his face. A dark blazer over a white shirt and jeans. I even catch a waft of cologne. He’s definitely scrubbed up since the café. He still looks like a pirate, but now like one who’s had a wash and a shave and borrowed some civilian clothes.
“That’s not going to cut it,” he says, nodding at me. Clearly, he’s not having the same charitable thoughts about my outfit.
“It’s all I had to wear. I did try to say—”
“It’s fine, I thought that might be the case. I’ve brought you some stuff.”
He thrusts a Monoprix bag-for-life toward me. I look inside: I can see a tangle of clothes; a black dress and a pair of heels.
“You bought this?”
“Ex-girlfriend. You’re roughly the same size, I’d guess.”
“Ew. OK.” I remind myself that this might all somehow help me find out what’s happened to Ben, that beggars can’t be choosers about wearing the haunted clothes of girlfriends past. “Why do I have to wear this sort of stuff?”
He shrugs. “Them’s the rules.” And then, when he sees my expression: “No, they actually are. This place has a dress code. Women aren’t allowed to wear trousers, heels are mandatory.”
“That’s nice and sexist.” Echoes of The Pervert insisting I keep the top four buttons of my shirt undone “for the punters”: You want to look like you work in a kindergarten, sweetheart? Or a branch of fucking McDonald’s?
Theo shrugs. “Yeah, well, I agree. But that’s a certain part of Paris for you. Hyper-conservative, hypocritical, sexist. Anyway, don’t blame me. It’s not like I’m taking you to this place on a date.” He coughs. “Come on, we don’t have all night. We’re already running late.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see when we get there. Let’s just say you’re not going to find this place in your Lonely Planet guide.”
“How does this help us find Ben?”
“I’ll explain it when we get there. It’ll make more sense then.”
God, he’s infuriating. I’m also not completely sure I trust him, though I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s just that I still can’t work out what his angle is, why he’s so keen to help.
I hurry along next to him, trying to keep up. I didn’t see him standing up at the café the other day—I’d guessed he was tall, but now I realize he’s well over a foot taller than me and I have to take two steps for every one of his. After a few minutes of walking I’m actually panting.
To the left of us I catch sight of a huge glass pyramid, glowing with light, looking like something that’s just landed from outer space. “What is that thing?”
He gives me a look. It seems I’ve said something stupid. “That’s the Pyramide? In front of the Louvre? You know . . . the famous museum?”
I don’t like being made to feel like an idiot. “Oh. The Mona Lisa, right? Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit too busy trying to find my missing brother to take a nice tour of it yet.”
We push through crowds of tourists chattering in every language under the sun. As we walk, I tell him about what I’ve discovered: about them all being a family. One united front, acting together—and probably against me. I keep thinking about stumbling into Sophie Meunier’s apartment, all of them sitting together like that—an eerie family portrait. The words I’d heard, crouching outside. Elle est dangereuse. And Nick discovering that he wasn’t the ally I thought he was—that part still stings.
“And just before I left to come here the concierge gave me a kind of warning. She told me to ‘stop looking.’”
“Can I tell you something I’ve learned in my long and not especially illustrious career?” Theo asks.
“What?”
“When someone tells you to stop looking, it normally means you’re on the right track.”
I change quickly in the underground toilet of a chi-chi bar while Theo buys a demi beer upstairs so the staff don’t chuck us out. I shake out my hair, study my reflection in the foxed glass of the mirror. I don’t look like myself. I look like I’m playing a part. The dress is figure-hugging but classier than I’d expected. The label inside reads Isabel Marant, which I’m guessing might be a step up from my usual Primark. The shoes—Michel Vivien is the name printed on the footbed—are higher than anything I’d wear but surprisingly comfortable; I think I might actually be able to walk in them. So I guess I’m playing the part of Theo’s ex-girlfriend; not sure how I feel about that.
A girl comes out of the stall next to me: long shining dark hair, a silky dress falling off one shoulder underneath an oversized cardigan, wings of black eyeliner. She starts outlining her lips in lipstick. That’s what I need: the finishing touch.
“Hey.” I lean over to her, smile my most ingratiating smile. “Could I borrow some of that?”
She frowns at me, looks slightly disgusted, but hands it over. “Si tu veux.”