“He wasn’t reviewing it for me. And I’m not sure, being so exclusive, that it’s the sort of place that exactly courts press coverage.”
The lights begin to dim. But just before they do a figure in the crowd catches my eye, oddly familiar despite the mask they’re wearing. I try to shift my gaze back to the same spot but the lights are dimming further, voices lowering and the room falling into darkness.
I can hear the smallest rustle of people’s clothing, the odd sniff, their intakes of breath. Someone coughs and it sounds deafening in the sudden hush.
Then the velvet curtain begins to roll back.
A figure stands on the stage against a black background. Skin lit up pale blue. Face in shadow. Completely naked. No—not naked, a trick of the light—two scraps of material covering her modesty. She begins to dance. The music is deep, throbbing—some sort of jazz, I think . . . no melody to it, but a kind of rhythm. And she’s so in sync with it that it feels almost as if the music is coming from her, like the movements she is making are creating it, rather than following it. The dance is strange, intense, almost menacing. I’m torn between staring and tearing my eyes away; something about it disturbs me.
More girls appear, dressed—or undressed—in the same way. The music gets louder and louder, beating until it’s so overpowering that the pulse of it is like the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. With the blue light, the shifting, undulating bodies on stage, I feel as though I’m underwater, as though the outlines of everything are rippling and bleeding into one another. I think of last night. Could there be something in the champagne? Or is it just the effect of the lighting, the music, the darkness? I glance over at Theo. He shifts in his seat next to me; takes a sip of wine, his eyes locked on the stage. Is he turned on by what’s happening on stage? Am I? I’m suddenly aware of how close we are to each other, of how tightly my leg is pressed up against his.
The next act is just two women: one dressed in a close-fitting black suit and bow tie, the other in a tiny slip dress. Gradually they remove each other’s clothes until you can see that without them they’re almost identical. I can feel the audience sitting forward, drinking it in.
I lean toward Theo. Whisper: “What is this place?”
“A rather exclusive club,” he murmurs back. “Its nickname, apparently, is La Petite Mort. You can’t get in unless you have one of those cards. Like the one you found in Ben’s wallet.”
The lights dim again. Silence falls on the crowd. Another nearly naked girl—this one wearing a kind of feathered headdress rather than a mask—is lowered from the ceiling on a suspended silver hoop. Her act is all confined to the hoop: she does a somersault, a kind of backflip, lets herself fall and then catches herself with the flick of an ankle—the audience gasps.
Theo leans in close. “Careful now, but look behind you,” he whispers, breath tickling my ear. I start to swivel round. “No—Jesus, more subtly than that.”
God, he’s patronizing. But I do as he says. Several times I take small, sly glances behind me. And as I do I notice a series of booths hidden in the shadows at the back, their occupants shielded from the view of the regular punters by velvet curtains and attended by a constant flow of waiters carrying bottles of wine and trays of canapés. Every so often someone leaves or enters, and I notice that it always seems to be a man. All of a similar type and age: elegant, suited, masked, an air of wealth and importance about them.
Theo leans over, as though he’s whispering another sweet nothing. “Have you noticed?”
“How they’re all men?”
“Yes. And how every so often one of them goes through that door over there.”
I follow the direction of his gaze.
“But I’d stop looking now,” he murmurs. “Before we start to draw attention to ourselves.”
I turn back to the stage. The girl has stepped off the hoop. She smiles out at the audience, taking us all in in a sweeping glance. When she gets to me, she stops. I’m not imagining it: she freezes. She is staring at me in what looks like horror. I feel a thrill go through me. The sharp brown fringe, the height, even the little mole beneath her left eye which I can make out now under the spotlight. I know her.
Sophie
Penthouse
They file into the apartment. Nicolas, Antoine, Mimi. Take up the same positions on the sofas they occupied last night, when the girl interrupted us. Nick’s foot is tapping a frantic rhythm on the Ghom rug. As I watch I am certain I can make out a tiny black scorch mark just beneath his toe. One of several burned into the priceless silk. But you’d only spot them if you knew what you were looking for.
Suddenly I am assaulted by memories. It was my greatest transgression, inviting him up here. We stole a bottle from Jacques’ cellar: one of the finest vintages. Had each other there on the rug, Paris glittering nosily in at us through the vast windows. We lay tangled together afterward, warmed by the cashmere throw I had pulled around our naked bodies. If Jacques had come back unexpectedly . . . But wasn’t there some part of me that wanted to be caught? Look at me, who you have left here alone all these years. Wanted. Desired.
As we lay there I stroked his hair, enjoying the dense velvety softness of it between my fingers. He lit a cigarette that we passed back and forth like teenage lovers, hot ash scattering, sizzling into the silk of the rug. I didn’t care. All that mattered was that with him here the apartment suddenly seemed warm, full of life and sound and passion.
“My mum used to stroke my hair.”
I pulled my hand away, sharply.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, quickly. “I just meant I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.” And when he turned to look across at me I saw in his expression something undefended and frail, something that had hidden beneath all the charm. I thought I saw my own loneliness reflected there. But in the next moment he smiled and it had vanished.
A minute or so later he sat up, taking in the empty apartment around us. “Jacques is away a lot in the evenings, isn’t he?”
I nodded. Was he already planning our next encounter? “He’s very busy.”
His gaze seemed to sweep over the paintings on the walls, the furnishings, the richness of the place. “I suppose that must mean business is flourishing.”
I froze. He’d said it lightly. Too lightly? It brought me back to myself: the madness of what we were doing, all that was at stake. “You should go,” I told him, suddenly angry at him . . . at myself. “I can’t do this.” This time I really believed I meant it. “I have too much to lose.”
I close my eyes. Open them again and focus on my daughter’s face. She does not meet my eye. All the same, it has brought me back to myself. To what is important. I take a steadying sip of my wine. Force down the memories. “So,” I say to them all. “Let us begin.”
Nick
Second floor