The Paris Apartment(23)
“Yeah.” I know how that is.
But that’s just like Ben, isn’t it? Nick had said, just before. He’s always been like that, since we were students. And all I could think was: is he? Has he? And if he was always rushing off at the drop of a hat when he was at Cambridge, how did he not find more time to come and see me? He was always saying he was “so busy with essays” or “I can’t miss any of my tutorials. You know how it is.” But I didn’t, of course. He knew I didn’t. One of the only times he came to see me—I was fostering in Milton Keynes at the time—was when I suggested a trip to Cambridge. I had an inkling that the threat of his scuzzy foster-kid sister turning up and damaging his image might work. Thinking about it, I feel a little spike of something that I hope is anger, not hurt. Hurt is the worst.
“Sorry not to be more use,” Nick says, “but if you need me, I’m right here. Just one floor down.”
Our eyes meet. His are a very dark blue, not the brown I’d taken them for. I try to see past the little tug of attraction. Can I trust this guy? He’s Ben’s mate. He says he’s keen to help. The problem is I’m not good at trusting people. I’ve been used to fending for myself for too long. But Nick could be useful. He knows Ben—apparently better than I do, in some ways. He clearly speaks French. He seems like a decent guy. I think of weird, jumpy Mimi and frosty Sophie Meunier: it’s nice to think someone in this building might be a useful ally.
I watch as he pulls on a smart navy wool coat, wraps a soft-looking gray scarf around his neck.
He goes to the door and opens it for me. “It’s nice to meet you, Jess,” he says, with a small smile. He looks like a painting of an angel. I don’t know where the thought comes from—maybe it’s because he used the word himself just now—but I know that it’s right; perfect even. A fallen angel. It’s the dark gold curls, those purple shadows under his navy eyes. Mum had a thing about angels, too, she was always telling me and Ben we all have one looking out for us. Shame hers didn’t seem up to the job. “And, look,” Nick says. “I’m sure Ben will turn up.”
“Thanks. I think so too.” I try to believe it.
“Here, let me give you my number.”
“That would be great.” I give him my phone: he puts his details in.
As I take it from him our fingers brush, and he quickly drops his hand.
Back up in Ben’s apartment I’m relieved to find I can get onto Nick’s Wifi using the password he gave me. I head to Ben’s Instagram and look for “Nick Miller”—the name he’s put in my phone—but I can’t see him among Ben’s followers. I try a more general search and get Nick Millers from all over the place: the States, Canada, Australia. I look through them until my eyes sting. But they’re too young, too old, too bald, from the wrong country. Google is useless, too: there’s some fictional guy called Nick Miller from a TV show which fills all the Google results. I give up. Just as I’m about to put it back in my pocket my phone vibrates with a text. And for a moment I think: Ben. It’s from Ben! How amazing would that be, after all this—
It’s from an unknown number:
Got your message about Ben. Haven’t heard from the guy. But he’d promised me a couple of pieces of work and a pitch. I’m working at the Belle Epoque café next to the Jardin du Luxembourg all day. You can meet me here. T.
I’m confused for a moment, then I scroll up to my message above and I realize it’s the guy I texted earlier. I take Ben’s wallet out of my back pocket to remind me of his full name. Theo Mendelson, Paris editor, Guardian.
I’m coming now, I text back.
Just before I slide the card back into the wallet, I notice another one sitting behind it. It catches my eye because it’s so simple, so unusual. Made from metal, it’s a dark midnight blue with an image like an exploding firework, picked out in gold. No text or numbers or anything. Not a credit card. Not a business card either, surely. Then what? I hesitate, feel the surprising weight of it in my palm, then pocket it.
When I open the door that leads onto the courtyard I realize it’s already starting to get dark, the sky the color of an old bruise. When did that happen? I haven’t noticed the hours passing. This place has swallowed time, like something from a fairytale.
As I walk through the courtyard I hear a sound close by, a rasping: scritch, scritch, scritch. I turn and start as I see a small, stooped figure standing only a couple of meters away to my right. It’s the old woman, the one I saw last night. She wears a scarf tied about her gray hair, and some sort of long shapeless cardigan over an apron. Her face is all nose and chin, hollow eye-sockets. She could be anything from seventy to ninety. She’s holding a broom, which she’s using to sweep dead leaves into a heap. Her eyes are fixed on me.
“Bonsoir,” I say to her. “Um. Have you seen Ben? From the third floor?” I point up to the windows of the apartment. But she just keeps on sweeping: scritch, scritch, scriiiitch, all the while watching me.
Then she steps even closer. Her eyes on me the whole time, barely even blinking. But just once, quickly, she looks up at the apartment building, as though checking for something. Then she opens her mouth and speaks in a low hiss, a sound not unlike the rasping of those dead leaves: “There is nothing for you here.”