The Mistress(66)
The apartment was a third-floor walkup, with no elevator, that looked out on a back courtyard, and was dark and seriously depressing. And they both knew that it was too awful, even at a decent price. The bedroom was barely big enough for a bed, and the living room was small too, and the kitchen and bathroom were grim.
“I don’t think so,” Natasha said politely, and the realtor agreed. They walked to the next one on the rue St. Dominique. There was a string of restaurants up and down the street, and they both thought it would be noisy, and it was more expensive than the others. It was nice enough, although the elevator was rickety and the size of a phone booth, and it was on the fifth floor and lighter than the previous one, but Natasha said she would prefer something cheaper. So they went on to the last one on the rue du Bac around the corner from a gallery and a small bistro, and there were a pharmacy and a small grocery store nearby, which seemed practical. It was the least expensive of the three options, so neither of them expected much, and Natasha was shocked by how small it was, but it was on the second floor with no elevator in a pretty little building that seemed well kept and clean.
“The woman who owns the apartment owns the building, and her daughter lived in the apartment but is married and just had a baby, so they moved upstairs to a bigger apartment. And I think the owner may live in the building herself.”
Natasha didn’t see how a couple could have lived there, let alone with a baby, but it was immaculate and sunny. It had a tiny bedroom like the last one, but there were flower boxes outside the windows, which gave it a cheerful look, and high ceilings since it was an old building, and the living room was a decent size with a fireplace. The closet space wasn’t great, but she wasn’t keeping many clothes. And they had put in new kitchen appliances when her daughter got married, and there was a funny old-fashioned bathroom. It was a far cry from Avenue Montaigne, but Natasha could see herself living there, and the area was safe, and the building well tended. There was a door code and an intercom, so no one could get in who didn’t belong there. And the price seemed about right for what she guessed her budget might be eventually. She was being very cautious, to make whatever money she got last longer. And she had enough money to pay rent now from what was left in her bank account, which wasn’t a lot. And she wouldn’t need a lot of furniture, just the basics—a couch, chairs, table, a bed and a dresser, some lamps, a carpet.
“I’ll take it,” she said gratefully. It was available on the last day of July. It seemed meant to be. She felt lucky that she had an apartment and would have some money left to furnish it and live until she found a job. The money from the clothes and jewelry would be her nest egg to use over time as she needed it.
“I hope you’ll be happy here,” the realtor said with a sympathetic look. Natasha had been quiet and polite, and the woman felt sorry for her. It was obvious she was leaving a grand lifestyle and was obliged to live simply now. She had already guessed what had occurred, and she liked Natasha and wanted to help. She normally never did rentals and referred them to someone else, but she had sensed that something bad had happened, and felt concerned for her. The realtor wrote down the name IKEA on a piece of paper and handed it to her.
“You’ll find everything you need there, furniture, linens, plates, rugs, lamps.” Natasha hadn’t thought of all that, but she had only her clothes. She didn’t want to ask Vladimir for anything from the apartment, and she was sure he wouldn’t give it to her. She was lucky he was letting her have her clothes to sell, since he thought she had betrayed him. She wondered how he knew, or if he had sensed it. She knew he could have thrown her into the street with nothing, so she didn’t want to ask for more, and was just grateful for what he was allowing her to take. What shocked her was how willingly and suddenly he had given her up, like an object he no longer wanted, with no emotion. It was still hard to understand. She had wanted to believe they loved each other, which was clearly not the case. And she wasn’t heartbroken either. Just scared and sad, which was normal after eight years with him, and having everything change overnight. “Someone will have to help you put the furniture together,” the real estate agent explained about IKEA, and Natasha looked puzzled. “It all comes taken apart, in pieces, but I’m sure you can find someone to put it together for you. My son and I have bought a lot of it for his apartment, and he’s a whiz at assembling. It’s a nuisance, but it’s not hard. I have a great Russian handyman, if you want his name.” Natasha’s face lit up when she said it.
“That would be wonderful. I’m not so good at putting things together,” she admitted, and they both laughed.
“Neither am I, but I’ve learned.” Natasha knew from their earlier conversations that she was divorced and had two grown children.
The realtor promised to get her the lease in the next few days. It was a standard French lease, for three years, with two three-year renewals at a minimal increase each time, and she could leave anytime with sixty days’ notice. The realtor explained that French rentals favored the tenant more than the owner. And if Natasha wanted to, she could stay in the tiny apartment for nine years. She’d be thirty-six then, and had just turned twenty-seven, so if her situation never improved, she would have a home for a long time. It was comforting to know that now, and she felt sure she could manage the rent with a decent gallery job. She didn’t want anyone else helping to pay her rent ever again. She wanted something she could afford on her own.