Free Dead Horsemeat by Dominique Manotti

end.
    ‘Michel, is that you?’
    Michel, who does everything, the shopping, the cleaning, who looks after her when she’s ill and is her constant support. Michel, her entire family.
    ‘I need you, right away. Can we have lunch together?’

    Annick parks her little red Austin Mini outside her apartment building, Boulevard Maillot, in Neuilly, on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. Michel is waiting for her. Tall, slim, fair-haired, around thirty-five, beige linen trousers and leather jacket. He leans over and opens her door, helps her out.
    I hadn’t planned anything for lunch at home, so I booked a table at Sébillon’s.’
    ‘That’s perfect by me.’ She takes his arm. ‘Let’s go.’
    A few paces in silence, in the opulent deserted streets of this little corner of Neuilly. Then:
    ‘Nicolas was murdered on Sunday morning.’
    Michel stares at her speechless. He’s shocked.
    At Sébillon’s, a quiet table at the back. The head waiter comes over, and Michel orders a whisky for Madame.
    ‘Which does Madame prefer, Chivas, Glenlivet…?’
    Annick gives her most charming smile and, in a slightly slurred voice, says:
    ‘Anything, as long as it’s more than forty per cent proof.’ The head waiter looks disapproving. Michel continues:
    ‘And I’ll have a glass of champagne. Then we’ll both have the leg of lamb, pink.’
    The head waiter moves away. ‘Now, what’s going on?’
    Annick tells him about the visit from the two cops, the booby-trapped car at the horse show yesterday. Her voice is slightly off key, as if she is surprised to hear what she is saying.
    ‘Nicolas, a childhood friend. And up there,’ she gestures in the direction of La Défense, ‘entertaining, considerate… I scare myself sometimes. I should be in tears. Well I’m not. After the initial shock, nothing. I’m an emotional cripple.’
    ‘No, it’s not even that. You’re no good at lying to yourself, that’s all. You’ve always found Nicolas sweet but of no interest.’
    ‘The cops think he was involved in cocaine trafficking.’
    Michel’s ears suddenly prick up.
    ‘Was he?’
    ‘How should I know? In any case, he supplied me. And the cops already know.’
    ‘Shit.’ A silence. ‘Have you talked to Jubelin about it?’
    ‘No. I don’t like talking cocaine with Jubelin. My position’s complicated enough as it is. He’s the CEO, remember. And besides, this time, I can tell he’s worried.’ She hesitates, and then: ‘I’m going to have to find a new dealer. At the moment, I can’t cope without it. And with the cops on our backs, Jubelin cornered…’
    ‘I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.’
    She checks her watch.
    ‘No time for dessert, I’ve got to get back. Can I leave you to pay?’
    ‘No problem, I’ve got your cheque book.’
    ‘I’ll be back late this evening, and I’ll be dining alone.’
    ‘That’s convenient. I’ve got a meeting with a publisher, a new comic strip album. It might go on into the evening. I’ll leave you a cold dinner in the kitchen.’

    I’m allowed a quick line now
, and Annick works frenziedly all afternoon. Got to go through the proposal from the ad agency for the autumn promotional campaign which is based entirely on a sports metaphor. The Pama team, united, fights to win, to ensure its policyholders win. At Pama, as in sport, ready, steady, go and let the best player win, a democratic, egalitarian company. Flashback: Michel smiles at her,
you’re no good at lying to yourself
… Even… But people keep disturbing her, no time to stop for breath. Phone calls. A departmental head wants to know… You have an appointment… A journalist on the line…
    Annick isn’t able to get back to work on her campaign until 7 p.m.

    When she looks up, much later, it’s dark outside. On her floor, there’s total silence. Everyone must have left without her noticing. She walks over to the window. A luminous evening, the Arche illuminated and the lights of Paris in the distance, beyond