"I'm not really sure."
"The most talked-about player in Ligue 1 in the last decade, bar none," Jason said. "A Chinese guy, eighteen years old, twelve goals in four matches. An average of three a game.
"Real Madrid, Barcelona, AC Milan, and Manchester United all have their eyes on him. And-" He paused. "He handled four women all by himself in one night, then still managed to produce four goals on the pitch the next day."
Mark whistled.
"The story alone is explosive enough." Jason closed his notebook. "But what I want to dig into isn't 'how much of a beast is he.' What I want to know is-what exactly does he have?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why would four highly educated women in the arts willingly go home with him? Just because of his face? Just because of his body?" Jason shook his head. "There has to be something else here. I'm going to find those four women and dig out everything they have to say."
The plane took off.
Outside the window, London's lights gradually shrank, finally disappearing beneath the clouds.
Jason leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Through an informant, he had already obtained basic information on the four women-a photographer, a dancer, a painter, and an art history student, each more cultured and from a more distinguished family than the last.
These four women weren't nightclub regulars or party girls. They were leading lights in Paris's arts scene.
And on the same night, the same Chinese footballer had taken them all away.
In twenty years as a paparazzo, Jason had never encountered such a baffling story.
He had to dig out the story behind it.
By the time Jason Wilson and his partner, Mark Thompson, arrived in Paris, it was already eleven at night.
Dragging their suitcases out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, the two took a taxi straight to a hotel in the 6th arrondissement.
Outside the car window, the Paris nightscape blurred in the rain, halos of lamplight rippling outward in rings like some hypnotic signal.
Jason wasn't sleepy.
In his hotel room, he opened his laptop and carefully went over the information his informant had sent him once more.
Camille Dupont, twenty-four, freelance photographer.
Her father was Philippe Dupont, a presenter on France 2. Her most recent exhibition had been the previous autumn, featuring a series of photographs titled "Paris at Night."
According to the information the informant provided, she had posted a status on social media the day after the party: "Last night was the happiest night I've had in a while." The accompanying picture showed a glass of red wine and a blurry nightscape.
Héloïse Martin, twenty-three, contemporary dancer.
She had danced at the Paris Opera for two years and now ran her own dance studio.
Her social media was full of dance videos filmed in rehearsal studios, showing exceptional flexibility. The day after the party, she had posted: "Today's class is canceled. I need to rest." The accompanying image was solid black.
Clara Lefèvre, twenty-two, painter.
She came from a winemaking family in southern France, wealthy but very low-key. She almost never updated her social media, and the informant had gone to considerable trouble to find her contact details.
Manon Romain, twenty-one, art history student at the Paris École Normale Supérieure.
Her father was a professor at Sorbonne University, and her mother was a lawyer. She was the youngest of the four women, and also the most highly educated.
Jason stared at the four profiles. The more he read, the more unbelievable it seemed.
A photographer, a dancer, a painter, and an art history student.
These weren't women picked up at random off the street. They had been precisely selected.
He didn't rush to contact them.
After so many years in the business, he had learned one thing-the best interviews weren't the ones where you went looking for people, but the ones where you made people come looking for you.
Early the next morning, he contacted Camille's father, Philippe Dupont, through his informant.
Once the call connected, Jason introduced himself and got straight to the point. "Mr. Dupont, I'm Jason Wilson, a reporter with The Sun.
"I'd like to interview your daughter about her... experiences with Zhang Kuang. We can pay a generous interview fee."
There were a few seconds of silence on the other end.
"The Sun?" Philippe Dupont sounded puzzled. "From the United Kingdom?"
"Yes."
"My daughter and who? Zhang what? What happened? How did you find out about this?"
"We have our sources." Jason's tone was very polite. "Mr. Dupont, I won't beat around the bush. Your daughter's relationship with Zhang Kuang is already an open secret.
"Rather than let gossip sites and social media spread things out of context, why not let us conduct a formal, comprehensive interview? We'll respect your daughter, and we'll respect the facts."
Another stretch of silence.
"How much?" Philippe Dupont asked.
"Fifty thousand euros."
Silence.
"Seventy thousand," Philippe Dupont said.
"Deal."
The interview took place in a hotel suite in the 16th arrondissement of Paris.
Jason arrived an hour early and checked the lighting, the recording equipment, and the camera angle. Mark set up the tripod, took a few test shots, and adjusted the aperture and shutter speed.
Camille came through the door ten minutes later than the agreed time.
She wore a black turtleneck sweater and leather trousers, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders, her features so exquisite they held a touch of cool beauty. Holding an unlit cigarette between her fingers, she swept an indifferent gaze around the room before letting it settle on Jason.
"You're the reporter from The Sun?"
"Jason Wilson. This is my partner, Mark Thompson." Jason held out his hand.
Camille didn't shake it. She sat straight down on the sofa and crossed her legs.
"What do you want to know?" Her French had a languid lilt, her enunciation as clear as though she were reciting a poem.
Jason switched on his voice recorder and sat opposite her.
"What happened that night," he said. "Tell me as much as you can."
Camille rested the cigarette on the ashtray and tilted her head slightly, recalling it.
"The party that day was at a private art gallery in the 6th arrondissement," she said. "I went because a friend invited me. They said a few gallery owners would be there and might be able to help arrange my next exhibition. I'd planned to leave after half an hour."
"And then?"
"Then Chinese Zhang, the one you want to know about, appeared."
The corners of Camille's mouth lifted slightly.
"When he walked in, the whole room went quiet for a moment. Not because anyone recognized him-hardly anyone there knew who he was-but because his looks and his bearing stood out so much.
"Do you know that feeling? Everyone was looking at him, but he seemed completely unaware."
Jason took notes rapidly while Mark adjusted the camera angle beside him, capturing every expression on Camille's face.
"He came over and struck up a conversation with me." Camille slowed her speech, seemingly savoring that moment. "What was the first thing he said? I think it was-
"'I've seen your work. That "Paris at Night" series reminded me of Wong Kar-wai's films.' I froze on the spot. A Chinese guy, in Paris, telling me my work reminded him of Wong Kar-wai's films?"
"And then?"
"Then we started talking. About photography, films, Wong Kar-wai, Christopher Doyle's visual language. He genuinely knew his stuff. He wasn't someone who'd hastily searched for a few things online to pretend he knew what he was talking about just to chat me up.
"He had his own understanding, his own opinions, and what he said always made my eyes light up."
"How long did you talk?"
"About an hour, I think." Camille thought for a moment. "Héloïse and Clara joined us partway through. Manon had been listening to us from a corner the whole time, and later she came over too.
"The four of us girls talked about so much with him-art, philosophy, literature, music. That night, I felt as though I was attending a fascinating seminar rather than flirting at a party."
"A seminar?" Jason was a little surprised by the word.
"Yes. It's that feeling-you meet someone on the same wavelength, and your conversation keeps striking sparks of something new. It's wonderful, more exciting than any physical contact."
"So afterward, you went to his place?"
Camille glanced at Jason and smiled.
"What you want to ask is-why did we leave with him?"
Jason didn't deny it.
"Because we suggested finding somewhere to keep talking," Camille said. "It was that simple. After talking for so long, none of us wanted to just call it a night.
"He said he was leaving, so I suggested finding somewhere to have another drink and talk a little longer. The decision came naturally. No one hesitated."
"What happened after that?"
"After that? He said his cat could do backflips and asked if we wanted to go see. Then we went to his place. We didn't see a cat, but we drank a lot of wine." Camille tilted her head and smiled. "And after that, it was what you're imagining. We'd all been drinking, and there was someone of the opposite sex we connected with so well. Naturally, we started kissing. Then the other three girls joined in. That was it."
"Huh? He said his cat could do backflips? You actually believed a line like that?"
"You don't believe it?"
"Was he really that good? Taking on all four of you alone, and you all submitted?"
"Yes. It had never been that wonderful before. Unforgettable for the rest of my life." Reminiscence showed in Camille's eyes, along with considerable infatuation.
"Whew, what exactly made you so infatuated that you couldn't forget it? Could you share the details..."