Page 40 of The Stranger

“Which was not only a breach of my daughter’s privacy and confidence under British law, under which Emmy is employed. But further, under French law, the offence is punishable⁠—”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“—by up to one year in prison and a fine of up to forty-five thousand euros.”

“For sending you a photograph of your own kid?” If my voice gets any higher, I’ll be communing with dogs. Maybe I already am, I think, narrowing my eyes his way.

“For photographing or filming a person in their private place without their consent.”

“The way Sylvie is holding up her drawing, I’d say permission is more than implied.”

“And transmitting that image⁠—”

“You’re crazy!”

“—without my consent is also punishable under those same terms. Sylvie is a minor.”

“A minor who wanted to send her dad a photo!” This makes no sense.

“Emmy has that photo on her personal phone, and she should not. The image does not belong to her.”

“Fine. Whatever. I doubt it would even make it to a court of law.”

“It doesn’t need to for it to be the cause of Emmy losing her position here with us.”

“You’d really do that?” My heart sinks as Emmy’s words echo in my ear. I’m buying my parents a house. A new build. I put down the deposit last month. “I don’t believe you,” I add without waiting for his answer.

“For the sake of your friendship, I do hope your part in this won’t come to light.”

“My part—” I clamp my mouth shut against the instinct to yell some very choice words about blackmail.

“I can’t think the hospital trust would have much confidence in a doctor who frequents sex clubs.”

“You’d be surprised,” I mutter, thinking of the snippets of gossip I’ve heard as a medical student and junior doctor.

“And what of your family?”

They’d probably need to see photographic evidence of me being used like a blow-up doll before they’d believe any of this. But he’d threaten my job? The audacity! How fucking dare he. “Why are you doing this?” I demand.

“You know why,” he says as his eyes continuing to penetrate me. I mean, mine.

“Listen.” I moisten my lips and shift in my seat. “If this is about last night…” Last night when I looked at you and suffered that fork-in-the-toaster sensation. Only a whole lot more pleasurable. Last night when I kissed you, and you kissed me back, then went to town on my lady bits.

He stares at me unmoved. Or maybe bored by the suggestion. It’s really hard to tell. “Or if it’s about the way I conducted myself in your office earlier”—bingo, according to the minute change in his expression—“I apologize.”

“Apologize for what, specifically?”

This man does not deserve an apology.

“For being difficult. Difficult to deal with. For winding you up. For suggesting you’re conceited,”—even if you are—“and for threatening you.” Dammit, he’s trying not to laugh. “Because I understand better now. You were just trying to protect yourself and your children.”

Hours of discomfort seem to pass in the time it takes him to blink. “Go on,” he says, his reply cool and impassive.

“What?”

“Apologize. For the aforementioned wrongs you’ve done me.”

I’ve often wondered what an excess of lip filler must feel like, usually when I’ve passed someone in the street who has likely just left the medi spa after having it done. Or overdone. Anyway, I think it must feel a bit like this as I expose my teeth, lips puckered to force out the word that just doesn’t want to leave. I feel like a cat with a furball. “Sorry.”