The Paris Apartment(22)
“Where were you, here?”
“A group of us went interrailing, the whole summer after our finals.”
“What, on trains?”
“Yes. All across Europe . . . it was amazing.” It really was. The best time of my life, even.
I glance at Jess. She’s gone quiet; seems lost in her own thoughts. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, sure.” She forces a smile. A little of her energy seems to have evaporated. “So . . . where was this photo taken?”
“Amsterdam, I think.”
I don’t think: I know. How could I forget?
Looking at that photo, I can feel the late July sun on my face, smell the sulphur stink of the warm canal water. So clear, that time, even though those memories are over a decade old. But then everything on that trip seemed important. Everything said, everything done.
Jess
“I’ve just realized,” Nick says, looking at his watch. “I’ve actually got to get going. Sorry, I know you wanted to use the computer.”
“Oh,” I say, a little thrown. “No worries. Maybe you could lend me your code? I’ll see if I can get on the Wifi from up there.”
“Sure.”
He suddenly looks very eager to be gone; maybe he’s late for something. “What is it,” I ask, “work?”
I’ve been wondering what he does for a living. Everything about this guy says money. But whispers it rather than shouts it. As I’ve been looking around his place I’ve noticed some very swanky-looking speakers (Bang & Olufsen, I’ll look it up later but I can just tell they’re expensive), a fancy camera (Leica), a massive screen in the corner (Apple) and that professional-looking coffee machine. But you have to really look to see the wealth. Nick’s are the possessions of someone who is loaded but doesn’t want to boast about it . . . might even be a little embarrassed by it. But they tell a story. As do the books on his shelves—the titles that I can understand, anyway: Fast Forward Investing, The Technologized Investor, Catching a Unicorn, The Science of Self-Discipline. As did the stuff in his bathroom. I spent about three seconds splashing my face with cold water and the rest of the time having a good root through his cabinets. You can learn a lot about someone from their bathroom. I learned this when I was taken to meet prospective foster families. No one’s ever going to stop you if you ask to use the toilet. I’d go in there, poke around—sometimes nick a lipstick or a bottle of perfume, sometimes explore the rooms on the way back—find out if they were concealing anything scary or weird.
In Nick’s bathroom I found all the usual: mouthwash, toothpaste, aftershaves, paracetamol, posh toiletries with names like “Aesop” and “Byredo” and then—interesting—quite a large supply of oxycodone. Everyone has their poison, I get that. I dabbled with some stuff, back in the day. When it felt like it might be easier to stop caring about anything, to just kind of slip out the back door of life. It wasn’t for me, but I get it. And I guess rich boys feel pain, too.
“I’m—well, between jobs at the moment,” Nick says.
“What were you doing before?” I ask, reluctantly moving away from the desk. I’m fairly certain his last job didn’t involve working in a dive with inflatable palm trees and flamingos dangling from the ceiling.
“I was in San Francisco for a while. Palo Alto. Tech start-ups. An Angel, you know?”
“Er . . . no?”
“An investor.”
“Ah.” It must be nice to be so casual about looking for work. Clearly “between jobs” doesn’t mean that he’s scrabbling for cash.
He squeezes past me to get to the doorway; I’ve been blocking his way and being a nice posh English boy he’s probably too polite to ask me to budge. I smell his cologne as he does: smoky and expensive and delicious, the same one I had a spray of in his bathroom.
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I’m holding you up.”
“It's OK.” But I get the impression he’s not as relaxed as he sounds: something in his posture, perhaps, a tightness about his jaw.
“Well. Thanks for your help.”
“Look,” he says. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. But I’m still keen to help. Anything I can do, any questions I can answer—I’ll try to.”
“There is one thing,” I say. “Do you know if Ben’s seeing anyone?”
He frowns. “Seeing anyone?”
“Yeah. Like a girlfriend, or something more casual.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just a hunch.” It’s not like me to be prudish, but there’s something in me that gets the ick at describing the knickers I found in Ben’s bed.
“Hmm . . .” He puts a hand up to his hair and runs his fingers through it, which only makes his curls stand out more messily. He’s beautiful. Yes, all my focus is on finding Ben but I’m also not blind. I’ve always had a stupid weakness for a polite posh boy; I’m not saying I’m proud of it. “Not that I know of,” he says, finally. “I don’t think he has a girlfriend. But I suppose I don’t know everything about his life here in Paris. I mean, we’d kind of fallen out of touch before he arrived here.”