Sophie

Sophie

Penthouse

Back in the apartment I reach into my handbag—black leather Celine, ferociously expensive, extremely discreet, a gift from Jacques—take out my wallet and am almost surprised to find the note hasn’t burnt a hole through the leather. I cannot believe I was so clumsy as to drop it earlier. I am never normally clumsy.

Double the next time, bitch.

It arrived yesterday morning. The latest in the series. Well. It has no hold over me now. I rip it into tiny pieces and scatter them into the fireplace. I pull the tasseled cord set into the wall and flames roar into life, instantly incinerating the paper. Then I walk quickly through the apartment, past the floor-to-ceiling windows with their view out over Paris, along the hallway hung with its trio of Gerhard Richter abstracts, my heels tapping briefly over the parquet then silenced on the silk of the antique Persian runner.

In the kitchen I open the pastel box from the boulangerie. Inside is a quiche Lorraine, studded with lardons of bacon, the pastry so crisp it will shatter at the slightest touch. The dairy waft of the cream and egg yolk briefly makes me want to gag. When Jacques is away from home on one of his business trips I usually exist on black coffee and fruit—perhaps the odd piece of dark chocolate broken from a Maison Bonnat bar.

I did not feel like going out. I felt like hiding in here away from the world. But I am a regular customer and it is important to stick to the usual routines.

A couple of minutes later, I open the door to the apartment again and wait a few moments listening, looking down the staircase, making sure no one’s there. You cannot do anything in this building without half-expecting the concierge to appear from some dark corner as if formed from the shadows themselves. But for once it isn’t her that I’m concerned about. It’s this newcomer, this stranger.

When I am certain I am alone, I walk across the landing to the wooden stairs that lead up to the old chambres de bonne. I am the only one in the building with a key to these old rooms. Even the concierge’s access to the public spaces of this building ends here.

I fasten Benoit to the bottom rung of the wooden steps with his leash. He wears a matching set in blue leather from Hermès: both of us, with our expensive Hermès collars. He’ll bark if he sees anyone.

I take the key out of my pocket and climb the stairs. As I put the key into the lock my hand trembles a little; it takes a couple of attempts to turn.

I push the door open. Just before I step inside I check, again, that I am not being watched. I can’t afford to be too careful. Especially not with her here now, snooping around.

I spend perhaps ten minutes up here, in the chambres de bonne. Afterward I lock the padlock again just as carefully, pocket the little silver key. Benoit is waiting for me at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me with those dark eyes. My secret-keeper. I put a finger to my lips.

Shh.