‘I thought I didn’t exist, you know,’ she said, her voice as slurred as her steps were wobbly. He kept a firm hand on her coat – his coat – to steady her. She made a little frame with her thumbs and forefingers and held it up to capture the façade of the Ritz. ‘My life is just a series of photos and videos designed to make people want what they can’t have. None of it is real. Grandmama is so afraid of something happening to me. But I really think the world is… beautiful and… terrifying and… I didn’t even know how to buy a fucking ticket on the métro!’
‘You have your carnet of ten tickets now,’ Sacha said through gritted teeth. ‘You can go anywhere you like.’ She was growing heavy, propped up against him as they stumbled back to the Place Vendôme.
‘Thank you for giving me a ticket to Paris,’ she mumbled into his shoulder.
‘Shh, you will want to be quiet, now.’ He paused a few metres from the doors of the Ritz.
The fairy lights twinkled in the row of Christmas trees between every window and the doorman tipped his blue hat. Sacha sighed, knowing the outwardly polite action hid keen vigilance. Anyone would look suspicious dragging a drunken heiress back to her hotel room, even without the ancient jeans and visible tattoo. He hadn’t felt it was his right to stop her enthusiastically refilling her wineglass over dinner, but now he wished he had.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Schilling,’ Ren said to the doorman with a bright smile.
‘Bonsoir, Madame Asquith-Lewis,’ he responded. It somehow didn’t surprise Sacha that she knew the man’s name.
The smell – that Ritz smell – struck him as he entered the lobby, a warm spice with a hint of vanilla and hauteur. It held an overtone of cinnamon, too, in honour of the season. An enormous fir filled the lobby, tucked into the curving marble staircase and extending all the way to the high ceiling. He couldn’t help shooting a glance along the gallery to the doors of the Salon Proust, the scene of so much trouble that afternoon.
‘Je suis revenu ici pourquoi?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Why what?’ she asked.
‘Why am I here?’ he translated with an irritable sigh.
‘I’ve got it. You’re a philosopher.’
‘We’re all philosophers.’
‘Exactly what a real philosopher would say!’ she said, pointing a wobbly finger at him. ‘Maybe you can tell me if I really exist outside of Instagram.’ She hobbled a few steps on her own, but it pained him to watch her haphazard progress and he took her arm again to help her up the stairs.
‘If I am a philosopher,’ he said, ‘then I don’t get paid for it. But I’m pretty sure you exist, Ren, although there might be just as much alcohol in your veins as blood right now.’
Her room wasn’t far and they thankfully didn’t meet anyone in the corridor. She managed to extract an ornate key with a little crown on top from her handbag, but he had to fit it into the gold lock and open the door. He hesitated on the threshold as she stumbled in. Would she be all right?
‘Wait, your coat,’ she said, unzipping it. The phone in the room shrilled into the silence and they both froze. It was nearly midnight. Ren stumbled to answer, still wearing his coat. ‘Hello?’
After listening for the answer, her eyes squeezed shut. She thumped her forehead against the white-and-gold wood panelling, paused, and then did it again. Sacha sighed heavily and entered the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, but it came out like a sob. ‘How many times did you call? No, Charlie, it’s fine. Just… don’t worry about me. I know Grandmama’s upset. If she gets in touch, just say I’m fine.’ She set the handset back in the cradle with too much force and it clattered away. She had to try two more times before she managed to hang up.
‘God, why did I answer the phone? I’m such a mess,’ she moaned. She looked it, too, her eye make-up smeared and her hair askew. ‘I was always a mess, but at least before, I hid it. The only thing I ever did right in Grandmama’s eyes was get engaged to him, and now… she’d probably rather have him than me.’ She beat the wood panel behind her with her palm, still spitting expletives. ‘Why is it so satisfying to say fuck?’
‘It is not your fault that your grandmother doesn’t know how to choose friends. If she wasn’t your only family…’
Her miserable look returned and Sacha grimaced, biting back any further words. His perspective as the inappropriate fake boyfriend was obviously unhelpful. ‘But she is your only family,’ he said grimly. ‘Perhaps you will face it better tomorrow.’
‘You think I’m facing it badly?’
‘No,’ he insisted.
‘I can’t stop swearing. And every time I think about Charlie, I want to be sick.’
‘That might be the alcohol,’ he suggested. ‘You need to go to sleep and I have work in the morning.’
She sat heavily on the bed, her face worryingly devoid of expression. She tugged her shoes off with a groan and Sacha cursed when he saw blood on her heels, but he hastily turned away when she tugged up her skirt to peel off the tights.
‘Let me find a bandage,’ he muttered and headed for the enormous bathroom. Although he rummaged in every drawer, he couldn’t find one. Did the hotel expect rich people to heal themselves?
When he emerged empty-handed, she’d tucked herself into bed and was moving restlessly with her eyes closed. He called down to reception for plasters and sat gingerly on the bed while he waited for someone to bring them. Ren barely stirred when he dabbed at her heels with a compress and applied the dressing. But when he stood to go, her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.
‘Please don’t go. Just stay until I’m properly asleep. I don’t want you to go, Sacha. It will be dark without you.’
His skin prickled. A deep part of him didn’t want to go either and it had nothing to do with the opulent bedroom that reminded him he wasn’t good enough. ‘Shhh, I’ll stay,’ he murmured before he’d given it enough thought. The strength ebbed from her grip immediately and her hand fell to the blanket.
Sacha toed off his boots and peeled off the pullover that was too warm in the hotel heating. His phone battery was dead, but the ancient handset rarely lasted a day, so he had his charger with him and plugged it in, hoping the few minutes before he left would get him home. He was wary of the sudden exhaustion that gripped him, but Ren’s restlessness and the tears on her cheeks kept him where he was. He sat heavily on the other side of the bed. He would go soon.
The supposedly calming tune of his alarm had Sacha leaping out of bed with an immediate sense of unease. It was dark, but a faint glow from the bathroom illuminated the gilt cornicing and reminded him where he was.
Merde, he must have fallen asleep. He fumbled to turn off the alarm and took several deep breaths. An antique clock on the mantlepiece goaded him with its ticking and his own dim reflection in the mirror above the fireplace was terrifying. He was still wearing the T-shirt from yesterday; his hair was wild; he hadn’t tidied up his beard all weekend and shadows fell at odd angles over his face in the darkness.
He had to get out of here, for a multitude of reasons.
Daring a glance behind him, he saw the dark form of Ren still tucked under the blanket. He tiptoed around the bed, setting his phone on the side-table and retrieving his backpack. He sealed himself into the bathroom and, feeling rotten, he decided a quick shower would save him time at home.
He’d just stepped out of the luxurious spray of hot water, when a sound from behind the door made him freeze. With a curse, he recognised his ring tone. A phone call at antisocial o’clock could only be something important. He grabbed a towel from the pile and slung it around his hips.
He burst out of the bathroom and froze. Ren stood in the middle of the room, her eyes glazed with sleep and her jaw hanging open. She held his phone to her ear.
‘I’m – I’m sorry. Je parle un petit peu français seulement. Do you speak English?’ She jumped when she caught sight of him. Her eyes widened. ‘H-h-here is Sacha,’ she stammered and thrust the phone at him.
He nearly dropped it, but it was better than dropping his towel.
‘Allô?’ he asked, turning his back on Ren. Not that it helped, as he could still feel her gaze.
‘Sachou?’
For once, he let her get away with the teasing endearment, a combination of his name and ‘mon chou’, my little pastry. ‘Nadia? Qu’est-ce qu’il se passe?’
She answered him with a rush of words in her usual harried inflection, but he quickly caught on to the problem.
‘Don’t worry, Nadi. You’re right. His game console is probably at my place. He had it with him on Saturday night. I’ll check as soon as I get home and let you know, but don’t immediately assume—’
‘If you’re not at your place, where are you? And who answered the phone?’
He opened his mouth to speak, but none of the words he considered would do. ‘Euh,’ he said stupidly.
‘Did you cancel on me because of a rendez-vous?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that.’
A choking noise reached his ear and it took him a moment to realise she was laughing. ‘Have you… joined Tinder?’
‘Non!’ he insisted. ‘I’m not on Tinder. I’m not… looking. You know that.’
‘I know we don’t usually leave you much time for relationships,’ she said softly. ‘Good for you, Sachou.’
‘No, it’s not a… she’s not… I don’t know what the devil she is. A friend, maybe, who needed my help.’
Nadia groaned. ‘Are you collecting strays again?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Well, wherever you are, I hope you’re not far from home. I need to know if the console is at yours. He was out yesterday afternoon and if he’s sold it again…’
‘We solve that problem when it comes, Nadi. I’ll let you know.’
‘Is everything okay?’ Ren asked tentatively after he’d hung up.
‘Yes, but I don’t have much time.’ Perhaps he hadn’t schooled his expression enough. She was staring at him in dismay. ‘Ça va bien? Did you sleep? Do you have… mal de tête, ehm, headache?’ She shook her head so fiercely that he had to believe her. ‘Then… is something wrong?’
She stifled a cough. ‘No, just… go and put some clothes on.’ Heat swept up his chest to the back of his neck and he hoped it was just embarrassment.
When he emerged from the bathroom again, dressed in his own clothes, Ren had gone back to bed, lying on her side facing him, her eyes closed. He tiptoed to the nightstand and set down the glass of water he’d filled for her.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, her tone miserable. ‘For everything.’
He studied her for a long moment, rubbing a hand over his mouth in indecision. ‘D’accord,’ he whispered to himself. He couldn’t go without leaving the door to the future open a tiny crack. He rummaged in his backpack for a pen and a ripped a scrap of paper out of his notebook. He scribbled hurriedly, placed the note on the nightstand and then whispered, ‘Sleep again. It’s early.’
