Josh’s eyes narrow. He realizes that I caught him speaking in fluent French, even though he implied upstairs that he can’t. “Au moins quatre-vingt-dix minutes,” he admits grudgingly. At least ninety minutes. It only took this long for me to learn the truth.
I stare at him. I stare harder.
Finally, he shakes his head and laughs. I smile – sweetly, this time – to let him know that his secret is safe. Josh rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose you’d still want to show me that other place? That less pretentious, date-continuing place?”
“I don’t know,” I tease. “It’s a secret place. Can I trust you?”
“I’m great at keeping secrets.”
I nudge him gently. “I know you are.”
The air outside is gusty and crisp, and it adds to my feeling of recklessness. I don’t know if I’ll be able to tell Kurt what I’m about to do, if this is breaking some sort of friendship code. It might be. But I don’t care.
We’re radiant, the thrill of the evening having been returned, as we hurry up the next four blocks. I take a left on rue Chapon and lead him to a building with white peeling paint and red wooden shutters. I stop at the keypad. Josh look surprised, maybe even shocked. “Don’t tell me you have an apartment.”
I punch in the code, and the door buzzes. I give him a mischievous smile. “Come in.”
“I figured we were going to a bar or club or something. Colour me intrigued, Martin.”
I wrinkle my nose.
Josh cringes. “Yeah. That doesn’t work with a male surname, does it?”
I head upstairs, smiling to myself, and he follows quietly. After we’ve passed several floors, he shoots me a curious look. “All the way up,” I say. We spiral and spiral until we reach the top landing. Josh glances at the purple door with the leopard-print mat, expectantly. Nervously. “Not that one.” I steer him around a hidden corner towards a second, smaller door. “This one.”
He tugs on the knob and discovers that it’s locked. I fish out the skeleton key from the bottom of my bag. It’s heavy and iron. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t tiny, cute, and remarkably innocent looking, I’d be running away right now. This feels like the set-up to some torture porn.”
“Never trust a girl because she looks innocent.” I wag the key at him, but my heart pounds faster. He said I’m cute. I turn the key, the lock thunks, and the door creaks open.
Josh squints into the darkness. “Ah. More stairs. Of course.”
“Last set, I promise.”
He follows me inside, and I gesture for him to shut the door. We’re enveloped in pitch black. “Wait here,” I whisper.
“Are you getting your axe?”
“Handcuffs.”
“Kinky. But, okay, I’ll try it.”
I laugh as I climb the final set of stairs. They’re narrow, rough, and steep, so I ascend with caution. I raise an arm above my head until my fingers hit the trapdoor. One more turn of the key, a powerful shove with the heel of my hand, and it pops open. The stairwell illuminates. I look down. Josh looks up at me, bathed in starlight and wonder.
He steps onto the rooftop balcony with silent reverence. I close the trapdoor, and we’re surrounded by a sparkling, winking cityscape.
“You can see everything from here,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak with awe. The serpentine river and crumbling cathedrals and sprawling palaces and everything, yes, everything is visible from here. The view is even better than the Pompidou’s. The City of Light pulses with life, Nuit Blanche celebrations in full swing.
“Welcome to the Treehouse.” I shine with a buoyant pride. “I’ve never had a real one, but it makes for a good substitute. The only part that requires an imagination is the tree itself.”
“I can’t believe it. This is yours?”
“My aunt’s. Tante Juliette lives in the apartment with the purple door. I used to play up here when I was a little girl, but then she gave me the key during my sophomore year. Kurt and I need somewhere…to escape.”
Josh is taking in the space, lingering on and processing each item. The balcony is square, snug, and crammed with a variety of worn objects: a wooden ladder, two mismatched cane chairs, a mossy terracotta pot holding a miniature rosebush, stacked piles of round stones, a cracked mirror with a gilt frame, a collection of pale green soda bottles, a steamer trunk with a broken lock, and the head of a white carousel horse. A low concrete wall holds everything in.
“They’re all found objects,” I explain. “We pick them up off the street. We have a rule that none of our décor” – I say this word somewhat jokingly, somewhat seriously – “can be purchased.”