The Doll's House

In the photograph you can see the reflection of the flowers from the florist opposite, and a partial window display of Les Belles Boulangerie Patisserie. They both added a nice balance. I was wearing a cream raincoat. The collar was up, as if I had walked out of a Dick Tracy comic strip. I can see all of this as if it happened yesterday. I remember slowing the exposure on the camera lens to catch the movement of people walking by, each of them unaware of my thoughts. I take a lot of photographs, self-portraits. The camera is the eye. See how the picture is building up?

Less than an hour after I left the bookstore window, I stood outside the hotel. It was on a narrow street, set between the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The small wrought-iron balconies were charming, with their fleur-de-lis design, the red and pink geraniums plummeting through the bars. Inside, the hotel was very different. It had more grandeur, with greater sex appeal.

On the top floor, the glimmer of an overhead chandelier shone down the gold and ruby hallway that led me to him. After I’d tapped on the door, I heard his footsteps. Opening the door, he looked angry. He liked to drink mid-afternoon. But that day, his eyes seemed sharper than normal, piercing, the whites of them almost dazzling. He had wickedness on his mind.

All he wore was a pair of faded jeans, and I could see the tightening of his chest muscles, the curled blond hair on his chest, his tanned feet. He was quite extraordinary in his way, that dangerous mix of fulfilment and disaster, beauty and ugliness so close they almost sparkled. ‘You’re late, slut,’ were his first endearing words, as he held the door ajar, waiting for me to go inside. I walked past him. I heard the click, click, click of my red stilettos, his favourite, on the shiny marble floor as he locked the door.

Even with my back to him I knew his eyes were on me, taking without touching. It wasn’t long before he yanked my hair, kissing me feverishly, as if his life depended on it. My lipstick smeared his face and mine, like a stamp of ownership. I usually wear Carmine.

We had champagne cooling on a side table. He popped the cork, then handed me a glass. I swallowed fast. The bubbles felt cold, the tiny droplets teasing my face, mixing with the smudged lipstick.

I had a role to play. I looked chastised, the way he liked it. I was still standing in my raincoat as he talked about one of his favourite artist, Degas, and all his many masks. I balanced on my red high heels, him pretending a lack of interest, engrossed in his own clever conversation. I reached out, opened the top button of his jeans.

‘My little whore.’ He smiled.

I’m not a whore. If men pay, they believe they own more than your sexual favours, they think they own YOU. It’s not money I seek. It’s not that simple.

I removed my coat, slipping out of my dress. His right hand yanked my hair again. ‘I want you,’ he whispered, his tongue swirling in my ear as he pulled off my underwear. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and thought of the woman in the bookstore window. My nakedness changed me but, like Degas, I still wore my mask, one embroiled with lies and deceit. He groped me, as if I was some fiendish plaything, and again I stared at my reflection, seeing a stranger looking back.

He always took me from behind. I played my role with well-rehearsed modesty, pleading with him to stop. Afterwards he asked if I despised him. He was gentle then, crying big boyish tears, which I relished.

It was only in the tears that he was of any consequence. The killing didn’t come easy – endings are like beginnings: they change things. I DO CARE.

I’ve told you about this man because I need you to know something else about me. I will put myself in danger for what I want. Killing Pierre was risky. Others knew of my connection to him. But the truth isn’t always simple. It has its own concealments, and I have plenty of those.