I glance up, feeling watched. My gaze goes straight to the cabin in the corner of the courtyard. But there’s no one inside. I looked for her that night. I searched the building from top to bottom, thinking that she couldn’t possibly have gone far with her injuries. I even looked in her cabin. But there was no sign. Along with the photographs on the wall, several of the smallest and yet most valuable items from the apartment—that little Matisse, for example—and also my silver whippet, Benoit, the concierge was gone.
An article in the Paris Gazette
It would appear that the owner of La Petite Mort, Jacques Meunier, has vanished in the wake of the sensational allegations about the exclusive nightclub. The police are now attempting to conduct a full-scale investigation, though this is reportedly hampered by the fact that there are no witnesses available for questioning. Every dancer formerly employed by the club has apparently disappeared.
This may come as something of a relief for the former patrons of the club’s alleged illegal activities. However, an anonymized website has recently published what it claims is a list of accounts from La Petite Mort’s records, listing dozens of names from the great and good of the French establishment.
In addition, a high-ranking police official, Commissaire Blanchot, has tendered his resignation following the circulation of explicit images purporting to show him in flagrante with several women in one of the club’s basement rooms.
As has previously been reported, Meunier’s son, Antoine Meunier (allegedly his father’s right-hand man), shot himself with an antique firearm at the family property in order to avoid being taken into custody.
Epilogue
Jess
I trundle my suitcase across the concourse at Gare de l’Est, the broken wheel catching every few steps; I really do need to get it fixed. I look up at the screen to find my train.
There it is: the night service to Milan, where I’ll change before going on to Rome. In the early hours of the morning we’ll travel along the shore of Lake Geneva and apparently when it’s clear you can see the Alps. Sounds pretty good to me. I thought it was time for my own European tour, of sorts. Ben’s staying here to make a name for himself as an investigative journalist. So for perhaps the first time ever, I’m the one leaving him. Not running from anything or anyone. Just traveling, in search of the next adventure.
I’ve even got a place waiting for me. A studio, which is actually a fancy word for a tiny room where you can reach everything from the bed. Funnily enough, it’s a conversion of an old maids’ quarters at the top of an apartment block. And apparently it has a view of St. Peter’s, if you squint. It probably won’t be much bigger than the concierge’s cabin. But then I don’t have that much to put in it: the contents of one broken suitcase.
Anyway, it’s all mine. No, not mine mine . . . I didn’t buy it—are you crazy? Even if I did somehow have the cash, I wouldn’t want my name on the deeds for anything. Wouldn’t want to be tied down. But I did put down the deposit on it and paid the first month in advance. I took a cut of the money the girls at the club were getting. A kind of finder’s fee, if you like. I’m not a saint, after all.
As for the girls—the women, I should say—of course I couldn’t hold each of their hands and make sure it was all going to be OK. But it’s nice to know that they’ve been given the same thing I have. That it’ll buy them time. A little breathing room. Maybe even the opportunity to do something else.
Twenty minutes before my train leaves. I look around for somewhere to grab a snack. And as I do I glimpse a figure moving through the crowd. Small, with a familiar, crouching, shuffling gait. A silk headscarf. A silver whippet on a lead. Joining the queue of people waiting to board a train—I look up at the screen above the platform—to Nice, in the South of France. And then I glance away, and don’t look again until the train is pulling out of the platform. Because we’re all entitled to that, aren’t we?
The chance of a new life.
Acknowledgments
I loved writing this book. At the same time, it was the hardest of my books to write: partly because it was the most complicated structure and premise I’ve attempted yet . . . and partly because it was written first while I was very pregnant and then with a new baby in tow. And during a pandemic, though on that score I know how lucky I am to have a job where I can easily work from home, unlike so many, especially those incredibly brave key workers.
Anyway, I’m so proud of this book and of releasing it into the world. It’s not very British to say it, but I am! At the same time, it feels so, so important to stress that none of it would have been possible without the hard work of some very kind, dedicated, and talented people. There really should be multiple names on that front cover: this book has been a huge team effort!
Thank you to the phenomenal Cath Summerhayes, for your endless wit and wisdom and sage counsel, and for being such fun to work with and to go for lunch with and for cocktails with . . . and for always being there on the end of the phone. I am so lucky to have you and so grateful for everything you do.
Thank you to the incredible Alexandra Machinist, for your unfailingly excellent advice and unbelievable negotiating skills. And though for the time being our planned Parisian adventures have fallen foul of the winter vomiting virus, I know we’ll be having a glass of champagne on the terrasses soon—I can’t wait to toast your brilliance!
Thank you to Kim Young, for being the most patient and supportive of editors, for championing this book from its first inception and (frankly fairly ropey) first draft. You always know how to coax my best work from me—you inspire me with your belief in me and my writing! Thank you for holding my hand throughout this whole process—and for always being ready to jump on the phone to discuss a mad new plot idea!
Thank you to Kate Nintzel, for your masterly editorial counsel—for your razor-sharp eye and overall publishing wizardry. I still can’t quite believe what you have achieved with The Guest List in the U.S., bringing my dark little British book to well over a million readers! I am so lucky to have you as my champion.
Thank you to the utterly brilliant Charlotte Brabbin. You are such a talented, dedicated editor. I am so grateful for all your hard work and advice, tact and creativity, and for always being ready and willing for a brainstorm—however small or silly the query, whatever time of day or night!
Thank you to Luke Speed, for all your kindness and wisdom . . . and for your endless patience in explaining the magical and mystifying world of film to me! And thank you at the same time for being such fun to work with. You and Cath are the dream team! May there be many more lunches . . . and cinema dates!