The Paris Apartment Read Online Free PDF Page B

She’s still on her hands and knees and I see that her eye make-up has run where she’s been crying. “Hey,” I say softly. “Are you OK?”
    In answer she holds up what looks like a silk shirt; it’s stained with dirt from the ground. Then, shakily, in heavily accented
     English: “I came to get my things. I tell him it’s over, for good. And this—this is what he does. He’s a . . . a son-of-a-bitch.
     I never should have married him.”
    Jesus, I think. This is why I know I’m better off single. Mum had exceptionally terrible taste in men. My dad was the worst
     of all of them though. Supposedly a good guy. A real fucking bastard. Would have been better if he’d disappeared off into
     the night like Ben’s dad did before he was born.
    The woman’s muttering under her breath as she shovels clothes into the suitcase. Anger seems to have taken over from fear.
     I go over and crouch down, help her pick up her things. High heels with long foreign names printed inside, a black silk, lacy
     bra, a little orange sweater made out of the softest fabric I’ve ever felt. “ Merci ,” she says, absent-mindedly. Then she frowns. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”
    â€œI’m meant to be staying with my brother, Ben.”
    â€œ Ben ,” she says, drawing out his name. She looks me up and down, taking in my jeans, my old sweater. “He’s your brother? Before him I thought all Englishmen were sunburnt, no elegance, bad teeth. I did not know they could be so . . .
     so beautiful, so charmant, so soigné .” Apparently there aren’t enough words in English for how wonderful my brother is. She continues shoveling clothes into the
     suitcase, a violence to her movements, scowling every so often at the door into the apartment building. “Is it so strange
     I got bored of being with a stupid fucking . . . loser alcoolique ? That I wanted a little flirtation? And, d’accord , maybeI wanted to make Antoine jealous. Care about something other than himself. Is it such a surprise I started to look elsewhere?”
    She tosses her hair over her shoulder in a shining curtain. It’s quite impressive, being able to do that while crouched down
     picking your lacy underwear out of a gravel path.
    She looks toward the building and raises her voice, almost as though she wants her husband to hear. “He says I only care about
     him because of his money. Of course I only care about him because of his money. It was the only thing that made it—how do you say—worthwhile? But now . . .”
     she shrugs, “it’s not worth it.”
    I pass her a silky, electric blue dress, a baby pink bucket hat with JACQUEMUS printed across the front. “Have you seen Ben
     recently?” I ask.
    â€œ Non ,” she says, raising an eyebrow at me like I might be insinuating something. “ Pour quoi ? Why do you ask?”
    â€œHe was meant to be here last night, to let me in, but he wasn’t—and he hasn’t been answering my messages.”
    Her eyes widen. And then, under her breath, she murmurs something. I make out: “ Antoine . . . non . Ce n’est pas possible . . . ”
    â€œWhat did you say?”
    â€œOh— rien , nothing.” But I catch the glance she shoots toward the apartment building—fearful, suspicious, even—and wonder what it means.
    Now she’s trying to clip shut her bulging suitcase—brown leather with some sort of logo printed all over it—but I see that
     her hands are trembling, making her fingers clumsy.
    â€œ Merde .” Finally it snaps closed.
    â€œHey,” I say. “Do you want to come inside? Call a cab?”
    â€œNo way,” she says, fiercely. “I’m never going back in there. I have an Uber coming . . .” As if on cue, her phone pings.