Prologue
“Shit!” Daniel craned over her armful of roses, trying awkwardly to suck the fresh cut on her index finger. As always the pain sent a sizzle of excitement down her spine, she ignored the feeling as she swallowed her own coppery blood.
Fucking roses. There was something mean about the way they tempered their beauty with thorns, as though being plucked and handed to significant others wasn’t the life they wanted, and they took their complaints out on your flesh.
She’d considered buying daffodils, a happy inoffensive flower if ever there was one but tea roses were Cynthia’s favorites and she needed to get back in her good books. For no other reason would she have risked tetanus carrying roses up the six flights of stairs that led to their Parisian apartment. They were renting the top floor of a building in Montmartre and while having no elevator seemed delightfully whimsical when they moved in, it was a lot less so when you had an armful of prickly flowers and a lance-sized baguette slung over your shoulder. The sweet smelling blossoms weighed a lot more than she thought they would when she pictured herself waltzing through the streets of Paris with flowers.
That was another gift for Cynthia. They’d once laughed about how the baguettes in Auckland were often called ‘French sticks.’ Now they were in Paris where men wore scarves and baguettes were baguettes she’d decided to treat them to one. A baguette that is, Cynthia wasn’t in the mood for men. Although that could change with a timely delivery of roses, comedy, and bread. Daniel had her entrance all planned out; she’d burst into the room like John Cleese and shout “Un French Stick, Mademoiselle!”
Admittedly, it wasn’t the world’s best gag but Cynthia’s sense of humor was experiencing severe economic hardship these days and something subtle might piss her off.
Cynth had perked right up when they first came to France but Paris’ therapeutic qualities were steadily waning. These days her friend hardly got out of bed unless it was to get more wine or another book on Buddhism. Daniel didn’t know what to do. There was no ‘How To’ guide for taking the apocalypse on the chin, but she was pretty sure boozing and wrecking religious texts with your tears wasn’t a good sign.
Their wrinkly old landlord turned sharply as she barreled past his landing. His name was, believe it or fucking not, Jacques. He had inconveniently sharp eyes and an unhealthy interest in her comings and goings. And her boobs. “Bonsoir Daniel!” he said, eyeing her up and down.
Daniel paused on the step. “Bonsoir Jacques.”
She desperately wanted to fob the man off but knew if she did Notes Would Be Made. She and Cynth weren’t quite fugitives but they didn’t need Notes Being Made. Their last minute booking aroused Jacques’ suspicions and their matching Grassroots tattoos didn’t improve matters. Neither did Cynth panicking and telling him they were commitment tattoos.
“You are lovers?” Jacques asked with an aroused suspicion that reminded Daniel of the cops grilling Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.
“Yes,” Cynthia said firmly, taking Daniels arm and folding it under her own. “We are.”
“Better lesbian than eco-terrorist,” she said once they were safely hidden in their apartment.
“No complaints here my love,” Daniel told her. “Although our new landlord is one hundred percent bashing one out right now, picturing us fucking.”
That was the last time she remembered Cynthia actually laughing. The thought stuck in her chest like a lump of undigested bread.
“Mademoiselle, I asked how your day was going?”
“Ah yeah, sorry zoned out a bit.” Daniel, shifting her arms, so the roses lay flat against her chest. “I’m good, how are you?”
“Fine, fine.” Jacques gave her oversized rugby jumper and leggings a funny look. Usually she tried to blend with the natives in leather and linen but today a last minute booty call meant she didn’t have the time. Besides, wearing decent clothes to a shag meant crumpling them into a baggy mess so when you walked home the whole world knew you gotten drilled.
“Are you feeling unwell, mademoiselle?” Jacques asked. “I like you better in your regular clothes.”
Daniel laughed politely. You mean you like me better when you can visually weight my tits you old perv. “Duly noted.”
“And your lover, where is she? Why don’t I see her anymore?”
“She’s er, not feeling well.”
It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t precisely a lie either. Daniel’s formerly hilarious friend was bedridden and miserable, sick in the heart as well as the head. “Don’t go,” she begged every time Daniel put on shoes. “Stay and we’ll watch TV or something. Please don’t go.”
At first Daniel agreed but after days of confinement she had to point out they weren’t actually lesbians and she had needs only artists named Théo could deal with. Cynthia conceded to let her leave for dates but whenever Daniel returned she found her friend crying hard enough to bring up chunks of lung. She’d gotten into the habit of lying to her, telling her she was stepping out for milk before having a furious encounter and returning in under eighty minutes. Today however she was running late. Théo, sick of her fuck and run treatment, had refused to let her get out of bed. Although ‘refused’ was kind of a strong word, ‘made it difficult with his tongue and penis’ was apter.
Considering Paris was a place where heroin chic never went out of fashion Daniel was finding herself surprisingly well received. She’d expected her bubble butt and dark Hebrew looks to turn her into a niche item but lots of Parisian men were into it. She’d never been called ‘voluptuous’ so much in her life.
“You’re luscious,” Théo said the night they met. “I just want to drown in you.”
Then he put his face between her boobs and attempted to do just that. He was the perfect casual lover; talented, generous, enough of a narcissist that she never had to worry about his feelings. Wallowing in his touch had been worth whatever punishment Daniel had waiting when she got back to Cynthia. Or so she’d thought at the time.
“Well I’d best be off, Jacques,” she said brightly hoisting her bread and roses higher.
“Very well, Mademoiselle Daniel.” Jacques shot another glance at her well-concealed tits. “You know you’ve never told me why you spell your name like a boy…” he trailed off as though hoping it would compel her to spill the beans.
It wouldn’t.
“Maybe one day,” she said with a chuckle that grated her own ears. “Anyhow, I should get upstairs to Cynthia. Have a good night.”
“I will. Say bonsoir to your lover for me.”
“I will also!” Daniel lied and resumed climbing the stairs; Jacques’ gaze pushing her upward by the arse. As she reached the landing of their small flat, Daniel paused enjoying her last seconds of freedom. As soon as she stepped into their shared space she knew she’d feel like a failure. She’d failed to make Cynthia happy, and now she was failing to fix it. “What can I do?” she asked her friend a dozen times. “How can I help you?”
“You can’t,” Cynthia said. “You don’t have real feelings. You don’t know what I’m going through.”
She had a point. Daniel woke up every morning full of champagne bubbles, just wanting to float, burst and tingle. It wasn’t by choice, her brain through some quirky birth defect produced superhuman levels of endorphins. She waded through life on the kind of blissful high millennials chased in nightclub toilets. When you were that full of happy juice you were also an optimist. A Pollyanna. A pain in the arse to people who wanted to be miserable in peace. Daniel had grown up irritating the fuck out of her half-sister Melody and now she was doing the same to Cynthia. To be fair Cynthia was mourning life as she knew it, not just sulking because Garratt Newham wouldn’t finger her, but Daniel couldn’t help being blasé about the apocalypse. She was blasé about everything. She couldn’t get upset about the worst news in the world, which was ironically exactly what she and Cynthia had uncovered.
Apocalypse humor. Love it. Now can you go inside and give Cynthia the flowers already?
“In a minute,” Daniel mumbled, her forehead pressed to the door.
Now.
She tended to listen to her sensible voice whenever it made a cameo but today it wasn’t working. The thought of spending another evening trying not to smile was just unbearable. If her bread trick didn’t cheer her friend up, and chances were pretty fucking good it wouldn’t, she really didn’t know what to do. Writing to Cynthia’s parents wasn’t an option. Running to Grassroots wasn’t an option. They were alone, she and Cynth and they had no one else to turn to. She pressed her face harder against the doorframe and inhaled deeply.
Well on the bright side, her sensible voice piped up. You’ll only be dealing with it for the next six years, max.
The thought was oddly cheering. Daniel straightened her shoulders, released a loud dizzying burst of oxygen and opened their rented front door. “Hey buddy, how’s it going?”
There was no response aside from Carla Bruni singing throatily about failed love from the radio in their tiny kitchen.
“Cynth?” Daniel juggled the bread and roses and secured the latch behind her. She hardly ever remembered to do it, no one in her tiny kiwi hometown locked their doors.
She checked her watch. It was almost six, maybe Cynthia was too pissed to even talk to her. Stupid Théo and his fourth dimension tongue. For the dozenth time, Daniel considered trying to get Cynthia laid.
The problem was she didn’t want to go out and meet people, and while there were men you could hire to address this Daniel couldn’t afford to pay them. She was damn near broke, the last thing she needed was to catch heat counting cards at a casino. Maybe she could convince Théo to visit? She’d ponder the idea later, for now bread and bad jokes would have to suffice.
She walked up the hallway, careful not to sideswipe any of the old-timey photographs hanging on the walls and saw Cynthia’s bedroom door was ajar. She kicked it open with her foot and held the flowers aloft. “Hey roomie, guess what I brou—”
The roses tumbled out of her arms. A stray thorn sliced through her shin on the way down, opening her like butter. Daniel barely noticed. The room that used to smell like rosewater and woman now smelled like vomit and bleach. The curtains were drawn, the bed perfectly made and lying the middle of it was a dead thing. A five-foot-ten, ash blonde, dead thing.
“Cynthia?” Daniel said in a pacifying voice. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
The body didn’t respond. Obviously.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “Cynth, why would you do this?”
But she might as well have been bitching to Cynthia’s sky blue overcoat as to her corpse, her friend wasn’t inside either of them. She spotted an envelope with her name on it by the dresser. She picked it up with light jittery fingers and began to read.
Dear Dani,
I’m so sorry for doing this to you but I just couldn’t anymore. I’ve transferred all my money into your account and emailed my parents, so you don’t have to contact them. I’m sorry I’ve weighed you down lately, without me you can enjoy the time you have left.
I used to be jealous of how you are but I’m not anymore. You’re strong enough to go on without me and I’m strong enough to end it before the real trouble starts. One isn’t better than the other it’s just different. I’m glad for the life that I had and I’m happy we were friends. Good luck and be careful. Don’t try and dissolve my body in acid or anything batshit. Go to Jacques, tell him I committed suicide, then call the police and for the love of Christ try not to smile while you’re doing it. I love you,
Cynth
The letter fluttered to the floor to lie next to the broken baguette.
“Well,” Daniel told the quiet room. “Shit.”