Maestra (26 page)

The concierge was still glued to a Brazilian
telenovela
. A woman with improbably sculpted breasts and buttocks stuffed into a laughable business suit was screeching in Portuguese at a guilty-looking man with a moustache. Every time she yelled, you could see the set tremble.

‘Excuse me, madame? I’m very sorry to disturb you, but has there been a message for me?’

There had been a caller, a man, didn’t give his name, what were those mobile phones for, the concierge would like to know, disturbing people at night, no, no message, but he had asked for me by name, Mademoiselle Rashleigh, not that the concierge had anything better to do than go trailing up and down stairs of an evening, no certainly no message, didn’t say if he would call back and if he does could he buzz mademoiselle directly please, it’s like that, isn’t it, people have no manners. And on and on, until I had apologised and agreed with her enough times that she was mollified and we had agreed that people were dreadfully inconsiderate, especially with regard to the concierge’s gammy hip, until the taxi tooted impatiently in the street and I departed in a hustle of ‘
vous
’ and sympathy.

*

It was still early, just after midnight, when I got to the Rue Thérèse. I had visited the club alone several times since the party at the townhouse, and I liked the way it worked. Julien’s door policy was democratic, if mercurial, balancing the two powers which mattered in the night world – money and beauty. The prettier you were, the less you paid, though the discreet bill handed over as the clients left was still fairly eye-watering. Expense bought secrecy: La Lumière was known to be frequented by some surprisingly respectable figures, though despite, or perhaps because of, its notoriety there were never any journos lurking outside the plain black door. Inside was a different matter. As I wandered down to the bar and ordered a terrible cognac (the cognac in these places is always terrible), I noticed that the banquettes had been recovered in zebra skin, and wondered, as I always did, which came first, the decor or the instinct. Are Europeans hardwired to associate animal skin and red paint and black leather with sex, or is it just habit? Though one could hardly imagine a
partouze
club decked out in tasteful neutrals.

There was no sign of Julien in the bar, so I slid off the stool and crossed the dance floor to the darkroom. Several groups were already gathered on the divans. A slim brunette was engaged in a complex daisy chain with three guys, one in her mouth, one behind, one underneath, the steady pant of her pleasure sighing and dipping between the glossy walls. The murmurs and gasps were decorous, though, unostentatious; the clientele here went in for action rather than performance. A young, very young man looked up at me expectantly, coffee-coloured hair falling across the tight line of his jaw. South American, maybe? I wouldn’t have minded, but I didn’t have the time tonight. Reluctantly, I shook my head and walked along the corridor past the individual changing cubicles, their short black-lacquered doors concealing shower, mirror and thoughtful Acqua di Parma toiletries. I found Julien back in the bar. He nodded in recognition as I approached him.

‘I’m not staying downstairs,’ I explained. ‘Do you have a moment? I should like to speak to you.’

Julien looked baffled and slightly offended. This was not form. But I noticed he didn’t look surprised, either. I followed him back up to the small, velvet-curtained lobby. I leaned forward over the counter, letting him see the 500-euro notes bunched in my black-gloved hand.

‘I’m sorry to bother you’ – this was obviously a big night for apologies – ‘but I need to know: has someone been here looking for me? A man? It’s quite important.’

Julien took his time, relishing my attention.

‘Yes, Mademoiselle Lauren. A man did come looking for you. He had a photograph.’

‘A photo?’

‘Yes, mademoiselle and another young lady.’

‘What did she look like – the other one?’

‘I couldn’t say, mademoiselle.’

I handed over a smacker.

‘Perhaps she had unusual hair. Red hair?’

Leanne. Fuck. It had to be Leanne.

‘And the man? Did you tell him you knew me?’

Julien’s eye was on the second note. I closed my fingers slightly.

‘Naturally, mademoiselle, I told him I had never seen you before in my life.’

‘Did he say anything else? Anything?’

‘No. Nothing. He was very correct.’

I released the money, which he pocketed whilst holding my gaze.

‘Would you like to leave a number? I can let you know if he calls again.’

I wondered who Julien thought he was kidding. I wondered how much the guy had given him. There was a faint noise of music from the basement, the sound of a woman’s heels crossing the floor. Down there, it was so easy to let people see who you really were, that’s what made it so curiously gentle. We both knew that, Julien and I. He traded on the differences between those two worlds. I couldn’t hold his cupidity against him.

‘No, no thanks. Maybe I’ll see you some time.’

‘Always a pleasure, mademoiselle.’

I walked slowly down towards the river, crossed through the Louvre to the
quais
. Always so preposterously beautiful, Paris. I hadn’t eaten, but I wasn’t hungry. I called Yvette, who didn’t answer, because no one actually answers their phone anymore, but she returned the call in a few minutes.

‘Hey,
chérie
.’

We hadn’t spoken for ages, not since the party at the townhouse, but everyone’s a darling in the world of
la nuit
. There was music and loud conversation in the background. She would be outside in some smoking area, crowded under the fairy lights next to the thrumming heater.

‘I need a favour. Can you text me Stéphane’s number, please?’

‘Stéphane? Are you having a party?’

‘Yes. Something like that. A private one.’

‘Sure thing. Have fun. Call me,
chérie
!’

I waited until the text came through, then sent a message of my own.

‘I’m a friend of Yvette. I need a little favour. Please can you call me on this number? Thanks.’

I couldn’t face the flat yet, so I turned left and made for Le Fumoir. It took Stéphane about an hour to reply, by which time I’d drunk three Grasshoppers and was feeling more equal to the world.

‘You’re Yvette’s friend?’

‘Yes.’ I doubted he’d remember me from the club way back, but better to be someone else, keep more distance. ‘I’m Carlotta. Thanks for getting back to me.’

‘So, you need something?’

‘Yes. For a friend. But not the usual. Something . . . brown?’ My French wasn’t quite up to this; I felt comic.

He hesitated.

‘I see. Well, I could get you that. But not tonight.’

‘Tomorrow evening is fine.’

We agreed that he’d meet ‘Carlotta’s friend’ at eight in the café at the Panthéon. I wasn’t troubled that my
Figaro
-reading pal would be there. He would have packed up his stuff and taken the first Eurostar back to London, eager to report to whoever had employed him. He’d had a clear sighting, he had confirmed my name and address. With that photo he’d had of me and Leanne it had to be London. Someone in London was trying to find me. I was regretting the Grasshoppers now. I needed a clear head.

*

I forced myself awake at six, jittery and underslept. My running gear was next to the bed, no excuses. It had begun to rain as I was getting home, but now the late autumn sun was daffodil gold in the sky and the city looked scrubbed, lucent. I felt better by the second lap of the Luxembourg, ran a few sprints, sit-ups in the damp grass, stretches. I jogged slowly back to the Rue de l’Abbé de l’Epée, running over my day’s programme. Up to the tenth, where the shops specialise in African ladies’ hair, over to Belleville to a pharmacy, a pit stop at a café for some research, my local Nicolas for a bottle, a doctor’s appointment to make. That would take up most of my time. I’d give myself an hour to bathe and change ready to meet Stéphane.

The drugs trade had moved on since I’d last bought gear in Toxteth. Stéphane was white for a start. I’d positioned myself outside despite the heavy damp that followed a perfect autumn day, promising rain, but when he pulled up on his natty vintage Lambretta I didn’t clock him immediately amongst the
intello
crowd. Skinny and earnest-looking, with a bad-good Eighties haircut and heavy, black-framed glasses, he was doing his best not to look like a pusher. I saw him slowly scanning the crowd under the awning and stood up a little so the hair would catch the light. It was a bit awful, the wig, but I’d done my best with it, screwing it into a messy chignon to make it look more natural, wrapping my big Sprouse scarf tight around my neck so it covered the nape. I was casually dressed but deliberately over made-up, and we spoke in English. I wondered how convincing my old voice was after so long, but I guessed Stéphane wouldn’t have too precise a take on it. He sat down and waited until his espresso order was taken, then set a Camel Lights pack on the table, next to my Marlboro Gold. He smiled encouragingly – did he actually think I looked nice?

‘So, you know Yvette?’ he asked. I relaxed, no worries that he recognised me.

‘A bit. Carlotta is my friend.’

We sat for a few moments in silence.

‘Well, have fun. D’you want my number?’

‘Sure.’

I put it into my phone. ‘I’m not here for long, but you never know.’

‘So, bye-bye, then.’

‘Bye.’

He kicked the scooter over while he checked his phone, no doubt for the next drop-off. He probably had an app, I thought. I waited until he was gone, then made my way through to the loo and unpinned the hair. It looked spooky, voodooish, stuffed in my bag, but if there was a chance of seeing Leanne on my way home I couldn’t risk it.

*

If you’d asked me how I knew Leanne was going to appear, I couldn’t have said. Somehow, I just knew it was the obvious thing to happen. If da Silva had been going to arrest me, he would just have arrested me, not given me time to disappear. Assuming my new chum had a London connection, and given Julien’s mention of the hair, London meant Leanne. She didn’t turn up until after ten, by which time I’d begun to doubt myself. I began to feel sick; maybe my casual assurance about da Silva had been wrong. I’d showered and put on white pyjamas, men’s, from Charvet. The concierge had already been primed with a bunch of nasty cellophaned chrysanthemums, to assuage the inconvenience of showing any late-night guests up to my flat. I’d lit candles, poured a meditative glass of red, Mozart’s 21st piano concerto on the stereo, the latest Philippe Claudel novel open on the arm of the sofa. A lovely quiet night in, I was having. Buzz, click, buzz. Voices, Scholl schlump, click, schlump, click of heels on the flagstones, ‘
Allez-vous par là
,’ click click click on the stairs, buzz.

‘Oh my God! Leanne! What a surprise! Come in, come in. It’s been what, more than a year! Ages!You look great! Come in.’

Actually, I was glad to note that she didn’t look that great. She was thin, but her face was pale and puffy, a crop of spots on her jawline heavily rubbed out with chalky concealer. The hair was still wildly red, but the gold-weave highlights were gone, dulling her skin further. She carried the Chanel bag we’d got in Cannes, but it was battered now, her tan coat was chain store and her boots were worn out at their pointed toes.

‘Look at this, eh? Fab.’

‘It’s only rented.’

I followed her eyes around the room. She wouldn’t know that the plain black sofa was Thonet, or that the Cocteau drawing was real, if she’d even heard of Cocteau, but as I echoed her gaze, I saw with pleasure that my flat sang with taste, and the money to supply it.

‘Still, you seem like you’re doing really well.’

I lowered my eyes. ‘You remember that guy with the boat. Steve? Well, we’ve been seeing each other ever since, on and off. He helps me out. And I have a new job, a proper dealer’s job. It’s . . . OK.’

She reached up and pulled me into a Prada Candy-scented hug.

‘Good for you, Jude. Good for you.’ She actually sounded like she meant it.

‘Let’s have a drink. I’d have got Roederer if I’d known you were coming,’ I smiled. I waved my own full glass and fetched her one from the cupboard. She took a long swallow and rooted in her bag for cigarettes. I joined her on the sofa and we lit up.

‘And how are you? Still at the club?’

‘Yeah. I’m a bit over it now, though.’ Her voice was flatter, more Estuary London; somehow it made her seem older, the sparkiness gone.

‘When did you get here? How come you’re in Paris?’

‘A guy at the club. Asked me for a weekend, you know.’

I answered brightly. ‘Cool! Did you stay anywhere nice?’

‘Yeah, dead nice. The something de la Reine? In that square?’ Perfect; she thought I was buying it. ‘So, um, then I heard you were here and I thought I’d look you up.’

‘You heard I was here. Right.’

I let the silence sit until she looked at me appealingly, floundering.

‘It’s great to see you,’ she muttered. ‘We had a laugh, right? In Cannes?’

‘Yes. It was a laugh.’

The 21st is a bit obvious for serious tastes, but there’s something in the tension of it, the hovering space between the notes, that makes me ache. I crossed the parquet in my bare feet, unplugged my phone from where it was charging, let her see me turn it off. Wordlessly, she retrieved hers and did the same. I held out my hand and she let me take it, as though hypnotised. I placed them side by side on the table. I sat down on the other end of the sofa, sipped my wine, tucked my legs underneath me, leaned forward.

‘Leanne. Please tell me why you’re here. It’s obviously not a coincidence. How did you even know I was in Paris, let alone where I live? Are you in trouble? Can I help?’

I could see her working out how much to tell me, setting it against what she thought I knew. Which was nothing much, right now.

‘Leanne. What’s up? I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.’

I didn’t ask anything else. We sat there on the sofa like a therapist and a patient, until the music came to its poised, protracted end.