The Apartment (10 page)

He ignored me. “You think the Petits have done this before? Invited people to stay in their shithole of an apartment?”

“Why, though? What's the motive? We're not paying them.” Somewhat reluctantly, I explained my outlandish theory that the Petits were playing some sort of elaborate trick on us, hoping he would reject it. He didn't.

“And why would she be so surprised that we have a child?”

Mark shrugged. “Maybe it's because of our age difference.”

“You think?”

“Who cares. Come on, let's get inside.”

While Mark showered, I tried to Skype Mom, but she wasn't online, nor was she answering her cell phone. I left her a message and logged on to Facebook. I'd been avoiding it, and there were several messages from friends asking how our trip was going. Facebook was my only real link to my old crowd. Most of my college friends had drifted away shortly after I'd gotten pregnant and dropped out. I'd tried to keep in touch at first, inviting them over several times, but our get-togethers were awkward and they never stayed long. They tended to treat Mark with cautious respect, as if he was a parent rather than my husband. I thought about sharing my news about the book agent but decided against it in case I jinxed it. In the end, I logged out without posting any updates.

After his shower, Mark disappeared into the kitchen and returned brandishing a knife. “Time to see what's in the boxes.”

“You think we should?”

“Who's going to stop us? The Petits—if they even exist—have lost the right to privacy as far as I'm concerned.” He stabbed the knife into the edge of the first box and ripped through the tape sealing the flaps down. Bemused, Mark dragged out a white wedding dress that stank of mildew and had been shoved in there with little care. It didn't look expensive: an off-the-rack meringue-style dress made out of shiny polyester and acres of cheap net underskirt that looked dangerously flammable. Nothing else.

“Try the next one.”

The second contained nothing but a jumbled pile of French cookbooks from the seventies and rusty DIY tools. Mark chucked the knife on the table. “Shit.”

“We should be relieved they aren't full of more of that horrible hair. Or worse, body parts or something.”

Dejected, Mark started shoving the books and tools back in the box and wandered to the bathroom.

My computer blipped, signaling that I'd received an email. Heart leaping—was it from the book agent?—I clicked on it immediately.

It wasn't from the agent.

The bruise in the small of my back I can explain—I may have bumped into something unaware—but not this cut on the inside of my lip. I peer at my face in the bathroom mirror, fingering my mouth where she bit me. The wisps of the incident cling to me like the remnants of a dream, but it was real; I press my nail into the raw sliver and it stings in confirmation. I shouldn't dwell on it.

That girl
was not Zoë,
I repeat to myself for the umpteenth time, because that's simply not possible. For one thing, Zoë didn't speak French, an unconvincing and panicked voice wheedles in my mind. That girl was probably older than fourteen; perhaps she was drunk or high or something. That would make more sense, make me feel less branded.

She said I killed her. She'll never forgive me. My rational brain reminds me that I made that up:
I'll
never forgive
myself,
and I never should. The death of a child's not something you forgive yourself for; forgiveness is not even offered for that.

“Mark?”

“Yes?” I call.

“You'll never believe it,” Steph says from the living room.

I wash my hands and splash some water on my face, then go out to join her. “What's the matter?”

She glances up from the iPad. “Nothing's the matter. The Petits wrote back.”

“Oh, good. At last. What did they say?”

She points to the message on the screen. It's just two lines in reply to the last of Steph's urgent emails to them:
We excuser for delay. We were set aside a minute. We hoping you are enjoying our jolie appartement.

“Weird, huh?” Steph says as she stands and goes to plug the iPad charger into the socket.

“Their English isn't very good, remember? I suppose if I had to write to someone in French, I'd keep it short myself.”

“Yeah, but after all this time. Surely they can see we've been worried.”

I shrug. “Maybe it's just Gallic laissez-faire. Who knows? But it's great that they're all right. We don't have to worry anymore.”

“I don't think you were ever that worried.”

“I knew it would be okay.”

“Do you think they still intend to stay at our place? The email is so vague.”

“Good point. Maybe you should ask them.”

“On it.” She's already tapping at the screen. “I'll also let Carla know that they're okay and might turn up after all.”

I look at her as she bends over the computer, her sweater hanging low, revealing beautifully packed cleavage.
I'm married to her,
I think.
The girl with that cleavage chose to be with me.
She catches me looking, then smiles as she stands. “Let's cook something nice for supper,” I say, embarrassed to be caught ogling. “The madwoman's joining us, after all.”

“Mireille. She only invited herself for a drink.”

“But we can get some great fresh ingredients down the road for cheap. When have we ever had the chance to cook a French-market meal? We can celebrate your book news some more. It'll be like we're living on the Travel Channel.”

Steph nods. “Sure, okay.” Then she kisses me on the cheek and leans into me, and then we're hugging each other, tight and warm. I don't know when last we've held each other like this, and, God, it feels good.

Within an hour, we've managed to point our fingers and smile through the language barrier and collect a chorizo, some fat black olives, a pack of pasta, some of those amazing giant ribbed tomatoes they call oxheart, a head of garlic, a bunch of parsley that smells sandy, like it came off the farm this morning, a baguette and some Comté cheese, some fresh pears and mandarins, and, of course, four bottles of wine, all for not much more than we'd pay for the same selection at home.

We push through the street-side door into the building's courtyard, Steph chatting about the leather jacket she saw a pug dog wearing, and I want the mood to last. Passing the ragged door of the ground-floor storeroom, I willfully push away any dark residue from my mind—of ghosts, of victims, of death. This, right now, having a happy time with my wife, is more important than any gloomy fancy, and they're not going to mess it up.

Who're “they,” Mark?

All of them, all of the dead.

We stump up the inky stairwell in the shallow wash of my phone's light, familiar now, and unlock and push through the heavy door. I work open the small kitchen window while Steph sets up some music—happy lounge grooves that conjure up images of hip, carefree young girls dancing on some dawn-lit beach; that's who Steph was to me when I met her, so exotic in her youth and lightness. I would never have imagined I stood a chance, that I deserved a chance, that I could walk the same dream-beach as her, that with all my scars and regrets and sadness I could inhabit the same planet as she did. But here she is, in a Parisian kitchen with me, swaying her hips as she unpacks the shopping bag.

Steph gasps. “Oh shit.”

A stab of ice. “What's wrong, Steph?”

“We didn't get olive oil.”

“Christ, you gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry. Should I go back down?”

“Nah. We'll just slice up some of this sausage and we can rub it on the hot pan. That'll lube it up enough.”

“Ooh, good idea. I like it when you get all
MasterChef.
”

I uncork a bottle of wine—an Argentinean Malbec was more affordable in the capital of France—and pour a glass for each of us. Steph takes a swig and hums along to the tune as she rinses a dinner plate and starts chopping the tomatoes. I cozy in next to her and start mincing the massive, fresh cloves of garlic.

“Listen, Steph. I want to say sorry.”

She doesn't say anything, just slows her knife.

“You know, just being here these last few days has really made me see some things. About myself. I've really struggled after the burglary. I haven't known how to react, how to provide what you and Hayden need. I don't think I've been behaving like the person I was when you met me. Like the person you…” I trail off.

She stops and turns to face me. “Like the man I fell in love with,” she says. “You can say it.” “Love” and “man”—two words I've had difficulty applying to myself since the home invasion. “I do love you, Mark. And I know you've had a hard time lately.”

I nod and smile, because it takes a while to find my voice. “Thank you. Well, I'm sorry. You and Carla were right that we needed this.”

She flinches minutely at Carla's name and I wish I could stuff it back in my mouth. But she surprises me by flashing me a cheeky smile. “Now that we're on that subject, what is it between you and Carla? I've tried to get to the bottom of it ever since I've known you. That first time we went out together to that concert at Kirstenbosch, I honestly thought you two were going out. I was so interested in you and I felt like you were flirting with me, but Carla was always there, mirroring you so blatantly. I went home and told my roommate you were swingers.”

“Swingers?” I blurt. “Jesus. If I had known that, I would never have brought her. She's always just been part of the group.” Not strictly true. There was the one-night stand just after Odette left. A mistake; I was drunk and in pain and Carla was there. Afterward, we agreed to pretend it never happened, and I've left it too late to come clean with Steph. She won't understand.

“So what is it? Is she in love with you? Is she jealous of us?”

“No!” I've never been asked these exact questions so directly. I've never had to consider them. They just haven't been relevant. “No. She knows how much I love you. You rescued me. You're the second chance I never thought I'd have. I've had some…” I stop speaking. She knows enough about Zoë, my heaviest baggage, and Zoë doesn't belong here, tonight.

“That's good to hear. I always feel like I'm— like Hayden and I are competing with everyone else in your life, that we're never as real, never as important.”

“Well, then, I'm glad that you know how I feel. I love Hayden. She gives me a reason to, you know, do everything I do. To keep trying. And you're the most important person in my life.”

I kiss her on the cheek and she leans into it, a sign that everything is good, so I work my hand up the back of her shirt. Again, she presses into me and murmurs, “Hold that thought,” into my ear before turning back to the tomatoes. Trying to repress my excitement—I feel like a teenage boy—I top up our wine and move on to the parsley, and Steph scrapes out tomato seeds beside me.

“I'm sorry too,” she says after a while. “I wasn't happy to leave Hayden, you know that. But she's totally fine at Mom's—having a ball, in fact—and I'm not sure she would've enjoyed it here. It's been a bit of a disaster, hasn't it?”

“Not entirely. Sure, this apartment is a shithole. But the city is as wonderful as we expected, isn't it?” Steph nods. “And I've had real insights that years of therapy couldn't buy. It's amazing how a change of scene can give you instant perspective. It's such a cliché, but it's true—a holiday is as good as a…” That's not right.

“Isn't the cliché that a change is as good as a holiday?”

“Yeah, well, that one's bullshit. I'd take the holiday anytime.” She laughs. “I'm glad we're here.”

She thinks about it, then says, “Me too.”

Those three men with their knives are still shadowing my thoughts, but we're far away from that house; Hayden's far away from it. We're all safe. For the first time since the attack, those men are cocooned away so deeply that I can't smell their stink, that I can't hear their barking, unintelligible voices, that I can't hear Steph's stifled whimpering. So faraway that I'm able to bury the emasculating sense of helplessness and shame I'd felt as Steph was dragged away from me and I was forced to remain behind in the living room, too incapacitated by fear to even plead for my family's lives. For the first time since that dreadful night, I think we're going to be okay.

Close to eight, Mireille announces her presence with a sustained rattle on the door handle. She seems to have neatened up for the occasion, wearing a smart red coat over a floral-print dress that's utterly at odds with the grubby knits and shawls and shapeless trousers I've seen her in before. She's carrying an almost-full bottle of Armagnac in her right hand.

“Come in. Welcome,” Steph says, ramping up the genteel hostess act. “Let me take your coat.”

Mireille dumps the brandy on the coffee table, shucks her coat off into Steph's hands, and paces around the living room. “It smells nice in here,” she says. “It's long since we have good food cooking here.” She wanders over to the window, where I've finally worked the shutters open with some implements from the kitchen, then peers down to the courtyard below, her face so close to the window that her breath mists the glass. “It's open now.”

“Yes.” Steph says, glancing at me. That “now” confirms that Mireille has been in here before. The air through the gap in the sash is cold and fresh and mingles nicely with the cooking aroma to dispel the mustiness and stagnant atmosphere from the apartment. I wonder if Mireille approves—somehow that seems to matter—but she doesn't say anything more, just flaps the heavy brown curtain, pulling it closed a little, then gathering it again.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I take the bottle of brandy from the coffee table. “Would you like some of this? With water? Ice?”

She grimaces in something I take to be a smile. “That you have later maybe.”

“Some wine?” Steph asks, holding up a bottle in the kitchen doorway.

“Wine. Yes.”

I didn't know what to expect from her, but if this stiff, peculiar formality carries on, it's going to be a long evening; I hope she loosens up soon. She sits at the small, square dining table and I join her. When Steph brings her glass she takes a sip and silently looks out the window at the dark outlines of the buildings and the shaded night sky beyond them. She's almost demure and totally isolated, like some lonely woman in a Hopper painting or a Bresson photo. There's none of that angry defensiveness or rudeness she's shown us so far. Some fire in her seems to have gone out.

I'm about to stand and go check on the pasta water, beg Steph to trade places with me and try to forge some conversation, when Mireille turns back to me and talks. “I'm not always nice, I know. It's because I am afraid, and I am the only person who can look after myself, yes? It is good you are cooking family food, like there used to be here, long time ago.”

Tell me about your family,
I want to say.
Who lived here with you? Why does nobody live here now, and what the hell is the story behind all the stuff in the storeroom?
But somehow, now, I don't want to know. Now that we know the Petits are alive at least, we can just get through this week and go home. Everyone's being pleasant to one another—Mireille, Steph, and me—and I want to protect that fine balance.

But Steph's leaning in the kitchen doorway, dishcloth in her hand. “Where's your family from?”

“I always live in Paris.”

“Did you stay here with a family? You said you had no children?”

I glance at Steph. “Nobody expects an inquisition, honey.”

“Why don't you put the pasta in?” she chirps through a fake smile, tossing the cloth at me and taking my place opposite Mireille. With some relief, I duck into the kitchen and listen as they talk.

“You have only one child, yes?” Mireille asks.

“Yes, one daughter. She's two.”

“I think you have two girls,” Mireille says.

Steph doesn't stop to consider before she speaks. “Mark also had a—” she starts.
Jesus, Steph.
I cough loudly and she veers off. “Can I top up your wine?”