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Veronique nodded towards his feet.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s the only make-up I can get away with in the lab.’
She smiled, wiping the back of her arm across her forehead as Christophe scooped up two pads and slipped them over his wrists.
‘Not too hard, remember.’ His eyes found the mirror on the wall behind as he adjusted his bleached-blonde quiff. ‘And stay clear of my face. I’ve got a date tonight.’
‘Who’s the poor soul this time?’
‘I take offence.’ Christophe’s hands flew upward as Veronique struck out with a right hook. ‘I am nothing but chivalrous to all of my dates.’
‘That’s my point.’ Veronique landed a one-two, gloves returning to position as she hopped backward. ‘There’s so many it’s a wonder you can ever tell the difference.’
‘This one’s a lawyer on secondment from Italy for six months. He’s got cheekbones to die for.’
‘I thought you had a pact to steer clear of lawyers? Something about it being against your moral code? Legs.’ She indicated for him to lower the pads before bringing her right knee up and then spinning full circle to strike out with her foot.
‘Sometimes it’s necessary to make exceptions. Stretch your boundaries, explore other territories.’
‘Meaning you want to see inside his pants.’
He raised his hands as Veronique came towards him. ‘That too. But there’s no reason we can’t enjoy a nice dinner first, especially if he’s paying. So did you take the case?’
‘I did.’ Two jabs, followed by an uppercut.
‘But?’
Veronique dropped her arms. ‘I don’t know. The mother isn’t what I expected.’
‘What were you expecting?’
Veronique shrugged. ‘Something more?’
‘Everyone has secrets; just because you don’t trust anyone that’s not to say she’s hiding something from you. Again?’
‘No, I’m done.’ Pulling at one glove’s Velcro wristband with her teeth she allowed Christophe to pull one hand free, then the next. The straps binding her fingers were wet, drops of sweat collecting at her feet as she unwound them. ‘But that’s just it, she has been hiding something, something significant. First of all there was a boyfriend.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mathilde recently had a nasty break-up. Secondly, she’s been stealing from her mother. Possibly to help fund a casual drug habit.’
‘I thought you said the mother was rich.’
‘She is.’ Veronique placed her legs in a V and dropped her head to the floor, stretching out her hamstrings. ‘Or at least her surroundings would suggest that she is.’
Christophe sat down cross-legged in front of her. ‘So why would Mathilde need to steal from her mother? Surely she had some kind of allowance?’
Veronique lifted her head to look at him, then bent over again. ‘Fair point, but in my experience rich kids are very good at hiding the true cost of their lifestyle from their parents. Besides, how do we know the mother gave her an allowance? Maybe it’s the husband’s money.’
‘Mathilde’s father?’
‘Non.’ She stood, balancing on one foot as she took hold of her ankle. ‘This is soon to be ex-husband number two.’
‘What happened to husband number one?’ Christophe watched as Veronique pulled backward on her leg, straightening it out behind her and hinging forward so that her body formed a perfect T.
‘No idea, but they split when Mathilde was just a baby and apparently have had no contact ever since, so I can’t imagine she’s run off to Daddy, but we can’t rule it out.’ She came back to standing. ‘For now I want to concentrate on the drugs. Just weed, as far as I can tell, but that’s not to say she hasn’t experimented further.’
‘I can ask at the clinic whether anyone recognises Mathilde’s photograph, see if they know who might have been supplying her?’
‘It’s worth a shot, but first I want to rule out everyone in her immediate social circle.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘It’s a possibility. Either that or someone from the bar where she worked. I’m heading to the ex’s apartment after I’ve finished here.’
‘I thought you had an appointment this morning?’
Veronique turned away from Christophe. ‘I haven’t decided if that’s the right way to go.’
‘What’s to decide? It’s just a preliminary meeting.’
‘I don’t like people asking questions about my past.’ She picked up her bag and walked towards the door.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Christophe said as he followed her into the changing rooms.
‘You can’t say that.’ Veronique rolled her leggings over her thighs and peeled off her sports bra. ‘You weren’t there.’ Her scar stretched all the way from cheek to thigh, a frosty glow against flushed skin. She stepped past Christophe into the shower, closing her eyes as hot droplets covered her body.
‘At some point you have to let it go.’
‘I can’t.’ She picked up a loofah and began to massage her body in slow, repetitive circles, beginning at her ankles then up over the taut muscles on her abdomen, the soft peaks of her breasts and around to the back of her neck.
‘It was twenty years ago. It has no reflection on who you are now.’
‘It has everything to do with who I am now.’ She scrubbed at the backs of her hands and the webs of her fingers, like a surgeon preparing to enter the operating theatre, paying particular attention to the space under her nails.
‘You can’t keep punishing yourself every time you look in the mirror. I only wish you could see what I see.’
Veronique began to rub shampoo into her scalp, the air filling with the scent of lavender.
‘You’re sweet, but unfortunately first impressions count.’ She tilted her head back, a long trail of soap snaking down her spine. ‘Then there’s always the issue of my mother.’
‘What the hell has this got to do with your mother?’
‘Genetics.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, not this again.’ He held out a towel. ‘That’s like saying you wouldn’t have a child with me in case I pass on my gay gene.’ Veronique didn’t respond. ‘Wait, is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, no, of course not; I love you dearly but you and I both know that you’re not exactly crying out to be a father.’ Wrapping the towel around her she wrung water from her hair. ‘Besides, do I really need to explain to you the genetic implications when you don’t know your family history?’
‘You’re not a sociopath.’
‘You don’t know that. I must have inherited something from her. How else would you explain what I did?’
‘I know that you are harder on yourself than you need to be and there’s no harm in finding out your options.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ She patted her skin dry, starting with her face and moving down her body in the reverse order to which she had cleansed herself. ‘What if it’s not possible or I’ve left it too late?’
‘You won’t know if you don’t go.’ Christophe’s phone beeped and he slid his thumb over the screen, frowning as he read the message.
Christophe’s eyes flicked up to meet Veronique’s. ‘They’ve found a necklace.’
‘Mathilde’s necklace?’
‘You know I can’t tell you.’
‘Where?’
Christophe paused before turning the screen towards her. ‘This didn’t come from me, okay? I’m still in trouble with Guillaume over last time.’
***
Veronique waited for a taxi to pass before crossing the street, snippets of conversation filtering through the air as she walked towards Café Charbon. The tables on the pavement outside were busy with people, several couples huddling over tables, their hands curled around wine glasses and feet entwined.
She planted a kiss on the bouncer’s cheek, slipping a €20 note into his hand and stepping inside the bar. It was stickier inside than out, despite the air-conditioning unit working at full capacity. Her eyes worked the room as she weaved through the crowd, oblivious to the lingering gazes as she passed.
She made her way further into the café, past groups squashed into worn banquettes and others bumping into each other as they danced around the tables. At the very back of the room was a pool table. A girl leaned against the wall, skirt hitched high and chest thrust forward as fingers twirled around a lock of golden hair. A man stood at one end of the table, swigging his beer directly from the bottle as he stared at the girl. But her courting display was not aimed at him.
Even without the photograph found on Mathilde’s Facebook page, Veronique would have recognised Frederic. Dark hair falling over deep-set eyes, two-day-old stubble framing a square jaw. With a cigarette hanging from his lips he leant over the table, gripping the cue with thick, tanned fingers. Striking the cue ball he watched as it clipped the edge of the number 8, sending it into the corner pocket. He grinned as he stood, pointing the cue at his friend.
‘Et encore une fois?’ he asked, drawing on his cigarette.
‘Do you play women?’
Frederic turned, eyes caressing her from head to toe. His mouth pulled up at one corner as he blew smoke towards the ceiling.
‘I thought he was lying.’ He perched on the table, resting the cue between his legs. ‘My flatmate told me a beautiful Phantom had come looking for me this morning, but I did not believe it to be true.’
‘As you can see, I do not wear a mask.’ Veronique plucked the cigarette from his lips and dropped it on the floor next to the toe of her leopard-skin ankle boots.
‘What is it that you want?’ he asked, grinding out the cigarette butt.
Veronique leaned closer, resting her hand on his knee. ‘What is it that you sell?’
Frederic cupped her face with his hand, turning it one way then the next. ‘How did you find me?’
Veronique batted his hand away and inserted a coin in the side of the table. She pushed against the mechanism, releasing the balls into the den. Taking two in each hand she positioned them within the plastic triangle on the green felt of the table and walked over to the wall to retrieve a cue from the rack. Frederic watched as she rubbed at its tip with blue chalk.
‘If you stop asking questions then perhaps we can play.’ She gestured for him to take first shot.
‘Please, ladies first,’ he replied, taking a sip of beer.
‘Frederic?’ The blonde sidled over, rubbing up against him like a cat. ‘You promised that would be the last game. Let’s go back to my place.’
Frederic stood up, shrugging her away. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said, handing her his empty bottle. The girl stood for a moment, the half-light in the bar doing little to disguise the blush spreading across her face. She followed his eyes to Veronique, saw the clench of his jaw as she bent forward, exposing her décolletage. The girl slammed the bottle down onto the table, cursing at him as she left.
‘I don’t think your girlfriend is best pleased with me.’ Veronique slid the cue through the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, sending the balls scattering across the table.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ Frederic said, walking round behind Veronique, brushing against her bare shoulder. He looked over at his friend, who shook his head and made his way back towards the bar.
‘But Mathilde was.’ She felt the pause of his hand before he moved it away. She turned to face him, finding mistrust in his eyes as he took another cigarette from its packet and looked around in search of a lighter. ‘Here,’ she said, easing her hand into his front pocket and retrieving a Zippo. She opened it with a flick of her wrist, running her thumb against the metal wheel to release a spark.
Frederic bent his head to the flame, sucking poison into his lungs before snatching the lighter back.
‘So you’re police?’
‘Non.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘To find Mathilde. I understand the two of you were close.’
Frederic sneered. ‘She was never my girlfriend. It only happened the once and I told her it was a mistake, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Followed me everywhere, turning up at my apartment, saying we were meant to be together and all kinds of shit.’
Veronique leant on the table. ‘Then what gave her the impression you two were together?’
‘I don’t know; it was a mistake.’
‘Yes, you said that already. Was Agnes a mistake as well?’
‘What’s she got to do with this?’
Veronique sighed. ‘Her best friend. Surely even you appreciated the cruelty?’
‘Best friend?’ Frederic laughed. ‘Lady, I don’t know who’s been giving you your information but Agnes and Mathilde weren’t friends. Agnes couldn’t stand her, said she was a social climber, a leech.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Mathilde? The night before she went missing.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
Frederic shook his head. ‘Non. She came to my apartment, standing outside and banging on the door. No doubt off her face…’
‘She was high?’ Perhaps marijuana wasn’t the only release Mathilde had been dabbling with. She would ask Christophe to check at the clinic, pass Mathilde’s photograph around and see if anyone recognised her.
‘Not always, but towards the end, more and more. That girl is seriously messed up, but it’s not my fault she ran off.’
‘That well may be, but I’m sure the police would be interested to find out who was supplying her.’
