Sophie

Sophie

Penthouse

The others have left the penthouse. I sent Mimi to her apartment, to wait. I don’t want her to witness any of what’s to come. My daughter is so fragile. Our relationship, too. We have to find a new way of being with one another.

I walk into the bathroom, gaze at myself in the mirror, grip the sides of the sink. I look pale and drawn. I look every one of my fifty years. If Jacques were here right now he would be appalled. I smooth my hair. I spray scent behind my ears, on the pulse points of my wrists. Powder the shine off my forehead. Then I pick up my lipstick and apply it. My hand falters only once; otherwise I am as precise as ever.

Then I walk back to the main room of the apartment. The bottle of wine is still there on the table. Another glass, just to help me think—

I start as I realize I am not alone. Antoine stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching me: a malignant presence. He must have stayed behind after the other two left.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him. I try to keep my voice controlled, even though my pulse is fluttering up somewhere near my throat.

He steps forward, under the spotlights. The mark of my hand is still pink on his cheek. I’m not proud of myself for that loss of restraint. It happens so rarely; I have become good at keeping my emotions in check over the years. But on those very rare occasions when the provocation is great enough, I seem to lose all sense of proportion. The rage takes over.

“It’s been fun,” he says, coming nearer still.

“What has been fun?”

“Oh.” The grin he gives me now makes him look quite deranged. “But surely you have guessed by now? After that whole thing with the photograph in Papa’s study? You know. Leaving those little notes for you in your postbox, under your door. Waiting to collect my cash. I really do like how you package it up like that for me. Those nice cream envelopes. Very discreet.”

I stare at him. I feel as though everything has just been turned on its head. “You? It’s been you all along?”

He gives a little mock-curtsy. “Are you surprised? That I got it together enough? A ‘useless hothouse flower’ like me? I even managed to keep it all to myself . . . up till now. Didn’t want my darling brother to try and get in on the action too. Because, as you well know, he is just as much of a—what was the word you used again?—leech as I am. He’s just more hypocritical about it. Hides it better.”

“You don’t need money,” I tell him. “Your father—”

“That’s what you think. But you see, I had an inkling a few weeks ago that Dominique might be about to try and leave. Just as I suspected, she’s trying to fleece me for everything I’ve got. She’s always been a greedy little bitch. And darling Papa is so fucking tight-fisted. So I’ve wanted a little extra cash, you know? To squirrel away.”

“Did Jacques tell you?”

“No, no. I worked it all out on my own. I found the records. Papa keeps very precise notes, did you know that? Of the clients, but also of the girls. I always had my suspicions about you, but I wanted proof. So I went deep into the archives. I found the details of one Sofiya Volkova, who used to “work”—he puts the word in air quotes—“at the club nearly thirty years ago.”

That name. But Sofiya Volkova no longer exists. I left her back there, shut up in that place with the staircase leading deep underground, the velvet walls, the locked room.

“Anyway,” Antoine says. “I’m more switched on than people realize. I see a great deal more than everyone thinks.” That manic grin again. “But then you knew that part already, didn’t you?”