Jess

Jess

I come up out of the Palais Royal Metro station. I almost don’t recognize the tall, smartly dressed guy waiting at the top of the steps until he starts walking toward me.

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Theo says.

“You didn’t give me any time,” I say. “And I got caught up—”

“Come on,” Theo says. “We can still make it if we’re snappy about it.” I look him over, trying to work out why he looks so different from the last time I met him. Only a five o’clock shadow now, revealing a sharp jawline. Dark hair still in need of a cut but it’s had a brush and he’s swept it back from his face. A dark blazer over a white shirt and jeans. I even catch a waft of cologne. He’s definitely scrubbed up since the café. He still looks like a pirate, but now like one who’s had a wash and a shave and borrowed some civilian clothes.

“That’s not going to cut it,” he says, nodding at me. Clearly, he’s not having the same charitable thoughts about my outfit.

“It’s all I had to wear. I did try to say—”

“It’s fine, I thought that might be the case. I’ve brought you some stuff.”

He thrusts a Monoprix bag-for-life toward me. I look inside: I can see a tangle of clothes; a black dress and a pair of heels.

“You bought this?”

“Ex-girlfriend. You’re roughly the same size, I’d guess.”

“Ew. OK.” I remind myself that this might all somehow help me find out what’s happened to Ben, that beggars can’t be choosers about wearing the haunted clothes of girlfriends past. “Why do I have to wear this sort of stuff?”

He shrugs. “Them’s the rules.” And then, when he sees my expression: “No, they actually are. This place has a dress code. Women aren’t allowed to wear trousers, heels are mandatory.”

“That’s nice and sexist.” Echoes of The Pervert insisting I keep the top four buttons of my shirt undone “for the punters”: You want to look like you work in a kindergarten, sweetheart? Or a branch of fucking McDonald’s?

Theo shrugs. “Yeah, well, I agree. But that’s a certain part of Paris for you. Hyper-conservative, hypocritical, sexist. Anyway, don’t blame me. It’s not like I’m taking you to this place on a date.” He coughs. “Come on, we don’t have all night. We’re already running late.”

“For what?”

“You’ll see when we get there. Let’s just say you’re not going to find this place in your Lonely Planet guide.”

“How does this help us find Ben?”

“I’ll explain it when we get there. It’ll make more sense then.”

God, he’s infuriating. I’m also not completely sure I trust him, though I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s just that I still can’t work out what his angle is, why he’s so keen to help.

I hurry along next to him, trying to keep up. I didn’t see him standing up at the café the other day—I’d guessed he was tall, but now I realize he’s well over a foot taller than me and I have to take two steps for every one of his. After a few minutes of walking I’m actually panting.

To the left of us I catch sight of a huge glass pyramid, glowing with light, looking like something that’s just landed from outer space. “What is that thing?”

He gives me a look. It seems I’ve said something stupid. “That’s the Pyramide? In front of the Louvre? You know . . . the famous museum?”

I don’t like being made to feel like an idiot. “Oh. The Mona Lisa, right? Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit too busy trying to find my missing brother to take a nice tour of it yet.”

We push through crowds of tourists chattering in every language under the sun. As we walk, I tell him about what I’ve discovered: about them all being a family. One united front, acting together—and probably against me. I keep thinking about stumbling into Sophie Meunier’s apartment, all of them sitting together like that—an eerie family portrait. The words I’d heard, crouching outside. Elle est dangereuse. And Nick discovering that he wasn’t the ally I thought he was—that part still stings.

“And just before I left to come here the concierge gave me a kind of warning. She told me to ‘stop looking.’”

“Can I tell you something I’ve learned in my long and not especially illustrious career?” Theo asks.

“What?”

“When someone tells you to stop looking, it normally means you’re on the right track.”

I change quickly in the underground toilet of a chi-chi bar while Theo buys a demi beer upstairs so the staff don’t chuck us out. I shake out my hair, study my reflection in the foxed glass of the mirror. I don’t look like myself. I look like I’m playing a part. The dress is figure-hugging but classier than I’d expected. The label inside reads Isabel Marant, which I’m guessing might be a step up from my usual Primark. The shoes—Michel Vivienis the name printed on the footbed—are higher than anything I’d wear but surprisingly comfortable; I think I might actually be able to walk in them. So I guess I’m playing the part of Theo’s ex-girlfriend; not sure how I feel about that.

A girl comes out of the stall next to me: long shining dark hair, a silky dress falling off one shoulder underneath an oversized cardigan, wings of black eyeliner. She starts outlining her lips in lipstick. That’s what I need: the finishing touch.

“Hey.” I lean over to her, smile my most ingratiating smile. “Could I borrow some of that?”

She frowns at me, looks slightly disgusted, but hands it over. “Si tu veux.”

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 plaît. 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 plaît. 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.