I put some on a finger, dab it onto my lips—it’s a dark vampiric red—and pass it back to her.
She puts up a hand. “Non, merci. Keep it. I have another.” She tosses her gleaming hair over one shoulder.
“Oh. Thanks.” I put the lid back on and it closes with a satisfying magnetized click. I notice it has little interlocking “C”s stencilled on the top.
Mum had a lipstick like this, even though she definitely didn’t have spare cash to spend on expensive makeup. But then that was Mum all over: blow it on a lipstick and be left with nothing for dinner. Me, sitting on a chair, legs dangling. Her pressing the waxy stub of it against my lips. Turning me to face the mirror. There you go, darling. Don’t you look pretty?
I look at myself in the mirror now. Pout just like she asked me to do all those years—a million years, a whole lifetime—ago. There; done. Costume complete.
I head back upstairs. “Ready,” I tell Theo. He downs the dregs of his stupidly tiny glass of beer. I can feel him running a quick eye over the outfit. His mouth opens and for a moment I think he might say something nice. I mean, part of me wouldn’t know what to do with a compliment right now, but at the same time it might be nice to hear. And then he points to my mouth.
“Missed a bit,” he says. “But yeah, otherwise that should do.”
Oh fuck off. I rub at the edge of my lips. I hate myself for even having cared what he thought.
We leave the bar, turn onto a street thronged with very well-dressed shoppers. I could swear the air around here smells of expensive leather. We pass the glittering windows of rich people shops: Chanel, Celine, and aha!—Isabel Marant. He leads me away from the crowds into a much smaller side street. Gleaming cars flank the pavements. In contrast to the crowded shopping boulevard there’s no one in sight and it’s darker here, fewer streetlamps. A deep hush over everything.
Then Theo stops at a door. “Here we are.” He looks at his watch. “We’re definitely a little late. Hopefully they’ll let us in.”
I look at the door. No number, but there’s a plaque with a symbol I recognize: an exploding firework. Where are we?
Theo reaches past me—a trace of that citrus cologne again—and presses a doorbell I hadn’t noticed. The door swings open with a click. A man appears, dressed in a black suit and bow tie. I watch as Theo fishes a card from his pocket, the same one I found in Ben’s wallet.
The doorman glances at the card, nods his head toward us. “Entrez, s’il vous pla?t. The evening is about to start.”
I try and peer past the doorman to get a glimpse of what lies beyond. At the end of the corridor I see a staircase leading downward, dimly lit by sconces with real candles burning in them.
Theo plants a hand in the small of my back and, with a little push, steers me forward. “Come on,” he says. “We don’t have all night.”
“Arrêtez,” the doorman says, barring our entry with a hand. He looks me over. “Votre mobile, s’il vous pla?t. No phone allowed—or camera.”
“Er—why?” I glance back at Theo. It occurs to me again that I know absolutely nothing about this guy beyond what it says on his business card. He could be anyone. He could have brought me anywhere.
Theo gives a tiny nod, gestures: don’t make a fuss. Do what the guy says. “O—K.” I hand my phone over, reluctantly.
“Vos masques.” The man holds up two pieces of material. I take one. A black mask, made of silk.
“Wha—”
“Just put it on,” Theo murmurs, near my ear. And then louder: “Let me help, darling.” I try to act natural as he smooths down my hair, ties the mask behind my head.
The doorman beckons us through.
With Theo close behind me, I begin to descend the stairs.
Jess
An underground room. I see dark red walls, low lighting, a small crowd of dimly lit figures sitting in front of a stage veiled by a wine-colored velvet curtain. Masked faces turn to look as we descend the final few steps. We’re definitely the last to turn up at the party.
“What the hell is this place?” I whisper to Theo.
“Shh.”
An usher in black tie meets us at the bottom of the stairs, beckons us forward. We pass walls decorated with stylized gold dancing figurines, then weave among little booths with masked figures sitting behind tables, more faces turning in our direction. I feel uncomfortably exposed. Luckily the table we’re taken to is tucked into a corner—definitely the worst view of the stage.
We slide into the booth. There really isn’t very much room in here, not with Theo’s long legs, which he has to pull up against himself, his knees hard against the wooden surround. He looks so uncomfortable that in different circumstances it might give me a laugh. The tiny amount of seat left means I have to sit with my thigh pressed right up against his.
I look about. It’s hard to tell whether this place is actually old or just a clever imitation. The others around us are all very well-heeled; judging by their clothes they could be out for an evening at the theatre. But the atmosphere is wrong. I lean back in my chair, trying to look casual, like I fit in here among the tailored suits, the jewel-encrusted earlobes and necks, the rich person hair. A weird, hungry hum of energy is coming off them, coiling through the room—an intense note of excitement, of anticipation.
A waiter comes over to take our drinks order. I open the leather-bound menu. No prices. I glance at Theo.
“A glass of champagne for my wife,” he says, quickly. He turns to me wearing a smile of fake adoration—so convincing it gives me a chill. “Seeing as we’re celebrating, darling.” I really hope he’s paying. He looks down the menu. “And a glass of this red for me.”
The waiter is back in a minute, brandishing two bottles in white napkins. He pours a stream of champagne into a glass and passes it to me. I take a sip. It’s very cold, tiny bubbles electric on the tip of my tongue. I can’t think when I’ve ever had the real stuff. Mum used to say she was “a champagne girl” but I’m not sure she ever had it either: just cheap, sweet knock-offs.
As the waiter pours Theo’s red the napkin slips a little and I notice the label.
“It’s the same wine,” I whisper to Theo, once the waiter’s left us. “The Meuniers have that in their cellar.”
Theo turns to look at me. “What was that name you just used?” He sounds suddenly excited.
“The Meuniers. The family I was telling you about.”
Theo lowers his voice. “Yesterday I submitted a request to see the matrice cadastrale—that’s like the Land Registry—for this place. It’s owned by one Meunier Wines SARL.”
I sit up very straight, everything sharpening into focus. A feeling like a thousand tiny pin-pricks across the surface of my skin.
“That’s them. That’s the family Ben’s been living with.” I try to think. “But why was Ben interested in this place? Could he have been reviewing it? Something like that?”