The Apartment Page 5

  “No, I need to talk to Hayden first.”

  Not for the first time today, I’m relieved that I stuck to my guns and Hayden’s not here. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “Yes, but you don’t know that.” She starts fussing with her phone, muttering under her breath as she tries to find a free signal on the long list of routers it’s picking up. By the glaring strip of light in the kitchen, it’s easy to locate the cheap and grimy old filter coffee machine in one cluttered corner of the counter. I work out how to plug the thing in and fill it—running the water from the sink for a full minute before it clears and stops spattering—then riffle through the jumble in the cabinet above for a pack of filters and some coffee. There’s a patina of mildew on the grounds, so I skim the top layer out of the tin and flick it into the sink before spooning more into the machine. It’s going to have to do because there’s a knitting needle rammed through my brain that I know is caffeine withdrawal, even though I’ve never gone cold turkey long enough to suffer it. The hot water will kill whatever mold remains. Besides, I’m not really likely to contract any dire tropical diseases in this cold climate. When the steam starts hissing a smell of coffee into the kitchen, everything begins to feel a lot more homey. I’m actually in a little apartment in Paris. It’s seen far better days, but here we are.

  I’d be more convinced of our hereness if I could actually see Paris outside, so I raise the blind in the kitchen, but it only reveals another of those thick, slatted metal shutters, swollen with oxidation and thickly painted over. They have to open, though—people live in this apartment and they surely can’t live like moles in a cave. I trace the shutter’s frame to see where the paint and rust are worn by movement, but I can’t see any sign that this one has ever opened. I wriggle the handle, but it doesn’t budge. I’m digging at the edge with a bread knife when Steph comes in behind me.

  “There’re a dozen signals labeled FREE, but I can’t connect to any of them. We’ll have to go out somewhere for wi-fi.” Steph sniffs the air. “Can I get some of that?”

  “Of course. There’s no milk, though.”

  “That’s okay. Just a quick fix before we go.” At least our shared addiction is one way we’re sure to bond every day—I could never live with someone who drinks herbal tea. I rinse a mug from the cabinet and pour her a cup of stain. “We must remember to get hold of Carla too,” she says.

  “Why would you want to talk to Carla?”

  “Uh, to find out if the Petits have arrived at our place?”

  “Oh, yeah. That.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Sorry—my brain’s still in transit.”

  “I’d text her, but the roaming still isn’t working.”

  Steph sips her coffee, sniffs it, then puts it down.

  “Not great, huh?” I say.

  “We can buy some milk and decent coffee at the grocery.”

  It’s good to hear her say “we.” Ever since the attack, we’ve been tiptoeing around each other, our familiar rhythms disrupted. I’ve been unsure what to do for Steph, unsure what she expects of me. This morning, it feels like we’re doing things as a team again.

  “You ready to go?” I say. Even if it’s just for coffee and wi-fi, I’m excited by the prospect. I don’t want to waste any more of our first day in Paris cooped up in this dingy apartment.

  “I’m just going to take a quick shower. I feel disgusting.”

  Steph pulls off her jeans in the bedroom and heads into the bathroom. I stand by the door, watching her move, tracing the curves of her hips and her shoulders with my eyes, trying to chart the expressive flop of her hair. She labors under a twenty-four-year-old’s self-consciousness. She doesn’t believe how beautiful she is; she doesn’t realize that she’s at the height of perfection. That’s probably the reason she’s here, now, with me, instead of in a five-star hotel suite with some magnate or billionaire soccer star. She could have her pick and she doesn’t know it.

  I park myself on the couch in the living room and stare at the stain-dappled wall above the TV as I probe idly at the splinter in my foot. The tip’s broken off and there’s no protrusion to pull on, even if we had tweezers. The wound’s developing a red halo. I dig out a fresh pair of socks and tie on my shoes while I wait for Steph to finish.

  We’ve come straight from a Cape Town summer’s hot wind to the damp, bracing cold of a Parisian winter. Despite eleven uncomfortable hours on a plane and standing around queuing and waiting for several more, the transition still feels miraculous, like teleporting. After too many lost years of traveling the same suburban route to and from work, this morning I’ve already been bombarded with a glut of new sights and sounds and smells. Yesterday we were at home; today we’re anywhere but.

  If only I could work out how to open those bloody shutters. I make for the tall window in the living room, yanking and rattling at the handle, until finally I realize it’s a counterweighted sash that opens up and down, not outward. The locking hook at the top of the lower frame is jammed as if it hasn’t been opened for years, but I get the bread knife from the kitchen and start bashing at it with the end of the handle, harder as the hook begins to budge.

  At last the window’s free; a few well-placed thumps seem to loosen some grit in the frame, and it starts to grate upward. I heave, each tug lifting the sash one more grinding inch, bracing myself against the wall so that I won’t flip out of the window when it finally opens. Worried about the noise, I take a break, but oddly the keening, shearing noise continues. I jiggle the frame of the closed shutter—it’s not the window making the noise anymore. The sound is coming from outside, not far away. It resolves itself into something I was hoping not to hear—the desolate crying of a child.

  Chapter 6

  Steph

  Our search for wi-fi ended at a Starbucks on the boulevard Haussmann. We hadn’t planned to walk that far; it had been an almost unconscious decision to head away from Pigalle, taking the narrow, sloping side streets at random. It may not have been the quaint bistro I’d been imagining, but there was something comforting about its familiar, sterile interior after the disappointment of the apartment. And it was warm. There was no hair dryer in the apartment, and despite several minutes of vigorous towel drying, my hair was still damp, the chill air freezing my scalp the second I stepped outside. Mark had been distracted on the walk. He said the splinter in his foot was irritating him, but I could tell there was something else bothering him. He’d barely said a word to me while I dried my hair, and he kept staring at the shuttered window in the living room.

  While Mark ordered our coffees, I ignored my emails and logged on to Skype right away, not caring that the cluster of loud American teenagers at the table next to ours would overhear my conversation. My smartphone was secondhand and I still couldn’t get the hang of it. My trusty old iPhone and MacBook had disappeared into one of the burglars’ backpacks and had no doubt ended up on the black market in Harare or Brazzaville.

  Mom was offline, so I had no choice but to call her cell, which would eat the Skype credit. It rang for ages before she picked up. “Yes? This is Rina speaking.” She always answered the phone tentatively, as if she was expecting whoever called to unleash a torrent of abuse.

  “Mom, hey.”

  “Stephanie! Are you there safe?”

  “Yes, thanks. How’s Hayden?”

  “Oh, fine. We’re out at the moment, at that new petting farm in Barrydale. And don’t worry, she’s wearing loads of sunscreen. It’s so hot today. How is the apartment?”

  I told her the apartment was fabulous, better than we’d hoped. The lie made me feel like crying. “Can I talk to Hayden, Mom?”

  “ ’Course you can.”

  Silence for several seconds, then, “Mumma?”

  “Hayden! Mumma misses you. Are you being a good girl?”

  She spoke in a rush, talking about the baby animals she’d seen and jumping to what she’d had for lunch.

  Mark returned with two lattes. “Hayden, Daddy�
��s here.”

  “Daddy!”

  I caught a blip of dismay in his eyes as he took the cell from me, but I convinced myself that this was because he hated talking on the phone.

  “You being good for Nama and Pops, Haydie?” His voice brimmed with artificial joviality. “What’s that, chicken? You did what?” Pause. “That’s lovely. Be good now.” He handed the phone back to me with obvious relief. Mom came back on the line. I explained about the wi-fi issues and she promised to make sure she was home the following morning so that we could use the webcams.

  “Hayden seems happy,” Mark said after I’d hung up, wincing as coffee burned his tongue.

  “Yeah.”

  I turned to my emails so that I didn’t have to look at him. There were a couple from the house swap site, one tagged Enjoy your trip!, the other encouraging me to upgrade my membership, and one from Carla, sent half an hour earlier, and also copied in to Mark:

  Hello both,

  Been texting you. I was outside your house at 9:30 as arranged, but there was no sign of your guests. Not sure what flight they were on so can’t check if it was delayed. Stayed until 11. I left them a note with my phone number on it. Let me know if you hear anything.

  Hope Paris is magnifique. x

  “Mark, Carla’s sent us an email.”

  He was staring out of the window, his eyes following the progress of a slender woman in tuxedo trousers and a tailored coat. It was still raining, but she was wearing sunglasses. The effect was chic rather than pretentious, and I couldn’t help but feel puffy and drab in comparison. “Mark!”

  He shook himself. “Sorry. Miles away.”

  “Carla says the Petits haven’t shown up.”

  Now I had his full attention. “What do you mean they haven’t turned up?”

  “She was waiting for them at our house and they haven’t arrived yet. She sent the email just now. It’s five hours after they should have arrived.”

  “Maybe their flight was delayed.”

  “For five hours?”

  “Why not? Happens all the time. For all we know it could have been canceled. Or they could have missed it.”

  “Without letting us know? That would be a bit thoughtless, wouldn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “They might have been trying. Your roaming isn’t working, is it? And we know they’re not exactly reliable. The apartment is nothing like they described. No wi-fi, for a start.”

  I nodded, but other, darker explanations for their absence were beginning to form: a crash on the way to the airport, or en route to our house in their rental car. A hijacking. “It was today, right? We didn’t get the date wrong?”

  “It was definitely today.” He took another scalding sip of his coffee. “You know, I bet they don’t even live in that apartment.”

  “You mean it could be a second property or an investment apartment?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t feel lived in. Not like our house.”

  “They didn’t imply anything like that when you spoke to them, did they?”

  “Nah. Although with all the Google translating, there probably were some misunderstandings.”

  “Did they give you a cell number?”

  “No, but they’ve got ours.”

  “Send them an email. And ask them where the modem is while you’re at it.”

  I did as he suggested, writing something along the lines of, Hey, just checking you’re okay. We’re in the apartment, could you let us know where the modem is, please. Please email me back when you get this. Thanx.

  I kept the tone light, thinking that as pissed off as I was at the Petits for misrepresenting their place, I didn’t want to cause any real friction.

  “Another coffee?” Mark asked.

  “Sure,” I said, aware that both of us were postponing leaving the warmth and anonymity of the Starbucks. What did you do on your trip to Paris? Oh, you know, checked out the global franchises.

  I replied to Carla, apologizing for the hassle. This time Mark returned from the counter with a pain au chocolat and a large croissant. We lapsed into silence once more. The rain was petering off, and a teasing sliver of blue sky had appeared in the far distance. I sipped at my latte, immediately regretting ordering it. If I wasn’t careful, the caffeine jitters would tip over into a full-on panic attack. I dug my nails into my palms. As usual, the absence of my engagement ring on my left hand gave me a jolt. I’ve never been a jewelry person—always loathed the bullshit commercialization of the wedding industry—but I loved that ring: an emerald surrounded by a twinkle of delicate diamonds, set on a slender platinum band. I’d even refused to remove it when I was in the hospital giving birth to Hayden, and the nurse had eventually wrapped a piece of sterile tape around it. Mark’s mother had given it to him just before she died—it had been her mother’s. Was I so attached to it because Mark’s first wife never possessed it—as if the heirloom somehow legitimized me; as if it symbolized that I wasn’t the despised, weak second wife? It was an embarrassing rationalization that probably stemmed from reading too much Daphne du Maurier.

  I forced myself to swallow a piece of croissant, hoping that it would distract my mind, now fixated on the ring, from wandering to places where it shouldn’t go.

  It didn’t.

  —

  It’s late. Mark and I are on the couch in the living room, an episode of Homeland on the TV. I’m drifting in and out of consciousness, trying to convince myself to get up and head to bed. Occasionally the baby monitor blips as Hayden giggles to herself in her sleep.

  A bang. A scrape. “You hear that, Mark?”

  “No.” He’s also dropping off.

  “We should probably think about—”

  The door slams open, and three men, their faces hidden by balaclavas, burst into the room. Metal glints in their hands: knives—carving knives, like the kind neatly stored in the rack in the kitchen.

  Neither of us screams, but we both leap to our feet. An instant of disbelief—this isn’t happening—followed by a powerful surge of terror. “They’re in the house, Mark,” I hear myself say, too late. Later I will think, Pure fear really is ice cold. Then, Hayden, Hayden, I have to get to Hayden.

  I manage a pathetic “Please—”

  The shortest man barks, “Don’t talk. Where is the safe?”

  “There’s no safe.”

  “Where is the safe?”

  “We don’t have a safe.”

  Mark doesn’t speak. He feels so far away from me now he could be in another room.

  Do what they say, I think, don’t cause any trouble. Another man leans in so close to me that I can smell the soap on his skin, the cigarettes on his breath. He roughly checks my ears for earrings, and then tugs at my left hand. What’s he doing? Then I get it—he’s trying to pull the ring off my finger. The knife in his other hand is serrated; I’ve heard stories of fingers being hacked off. I snatch my hand away, babble, “I’ll do it.” I yank it off, bruising the knuckle, and hand it to him. I’m pathetically eager to please. Don’t rape me, don’t hurt my daughter. Don’t rape me, don’t hurt my daughter. I will do whatever you want.

  “Safe? Where is the safe?” the short one says again. He has the most confidence, is less jumpy than the others, and I decide he must be the leader. I can’t look at his eyes.

  “There is no safe,” I hear myself say. Still Mark doesn’t speak.

  “Safe? Where is the safe?” His voice is softer now, and I’m aware that his accent isn’t South African.

  “There is no safe.”

  Silent communication passes between the three men.

  “Sit.” The leader gestures at Mark. He does as he’s told, abruptly, his face slack with shock.

  “Come.” One of the men grabs my wrist, the rough scratch of his woolen glove setting my teeth on edge. He starts pulling me toward the door, a second man close behind him.

  “No,” I whisper. I try to signal to Mark to do something—to stop them taking me away from him—but he doesn’t move or e
ven look in my direction.

  The man in the front—he’s skinny and seems young and nervous—tugs me forward like a dog, the one behind never more than a pace from my back. We’re heading for the stairs, for Hayden, for the bedroom. Another flush of ice-cold panic, followed by a stark decision: if rape looks like it’s on the agenda, or they try to hurt Hayden, then I will fight. I will fight to the death. Up the stairs we go, and I steel myself to twist away and lash out as Skinny opens Hayden’s door. “Please,” I whine. He looks in, hesitates, then mercifully closes the door softly.

  The worst is over. The relief is immense, even as they yank me toward my bedroom. Are they going to rape me now? Is this where it’s going to happen? Please don’t wake up, Hayden. Please don’t wake up, sweetheart. One stays glued to my wrist while the other roots through the bedroom drawers, tossing underwear and socks onto the floor. I don’t look at their eyes. Not once. Not ever. I study the chipped blue nail polish on my toes. Skinny murmurs something at his companion and he picks up my iPhone, expertly removes the SIM card, and slides the phone into his backpack. My MacBook follows, as does Mark’s watch. I don’t care. I just want this to be over.

  We shuffle back down the stairs, one step at a time. I stumble and the man behind steadies me. I almost thank him. Stupid. Then follows a tedious twenty minutes as they dig through every drawer in the kitchen. I don’t think about Mark or what the leader might be doing to him; my senses are all strained for any sign that Hayden is waking up. We dance back along the corridor past the dining room, and here’s something curious: I realize I’m bored with it all. Get it over with, I want to scream. The rape, the stabbing, whatever is next.

  My pair drag me into the living room, where Mark is still sitting on the couch in the same position, his face ashen.

  “You okay?” he croaks.

  I nod.

  “Hayden?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Up,” the leader says to Mark, who is so wobbly and uncoordinated by fear he has to push himself to his feet with his hands. We’re shuffled back into the kitchen and into the pantry. There’s a quick exchange among the three intruders in a language I don’t understand.