Her Every Fear

by Peter Swanson

  “Yes, but London . . .”

  Kate yawned, quickly covering her mouth.

  “My dear, you must be exhausted. I forgot all about the time change.”

  “I am tired,” Kate said. “It’s my bedtime if I were home.”

  “Well, try to stay up a little later than you usually do so you get used to it here. And as soon as you get settled in, you’ll have to come and have a drink. I’m on the other side, exactly opposite. Our place has the same layout as yours. These end apartments are the absolute best in the building. Especially yours, since you have a view toward the city and a view toward the river.” She lowered her voice, as though the other apartments might hear what she was saying.

  “It’s beautiful,” Kate said.

  “The building was modeled after a Venetian palazzo, you know.”

  “I thought it looked Italian. The courtyard.”

  “The architect was from Boston, but he visited Italy and came back here. This was years ago, of course. My husband would love to tell you all about it when you come for that drink.”

  Carol left, and Kate shut the door behind her. She stood for a moment, still rattled by what had happened in the bathroom, finding her pills in her purse after forgetting that she’d moved them there. But since then, she’d talked herself through it a little, and she’d calmed down. Or maybe the pill was simply doing its job, spreading its calming fingers over her skin.

  She retoured the apartment herself this time, taking in all the details, the built-in bookshelves, the paintings on the wall. Every room was beautifully furnished but somehow impersonal, as though all the items had been picked out by a decorator, which they probably had. In the bedroom, across from a king-sized bed with a cushioned headboard, there was a low bureau, the top of which was covered with about fifteen framed photographs. Family pictures, most in black and white, most taken on holiday. Boats and beaches. Kate studied them. She recognized Corbin’s father, her mother’s cousin, but only from other photographs she’d seen. He was in most of the pictures, usually with Corbin and Kate’s other second cousin, Philip. Kate wondered why Corbin had no pictures of his mother on the bureau, but then it occurred to her that this apartment had been owned by Corbin’s divorced father before he died, and these must be the father’s pictures, not the son’s.

  Kate wondered how much of the rest of the apartment was in the style of the father. She guessed most of it. From what she’d gathered from her mother, Richard Dell had moved to Boston sometime in the 1970s to be with his American wife. His work had something to do with finance (“moving lots and lots of money around,” Lucy Priddy told her daughter), and during the 1980s, he made a fortune. Richard and Amanda, his wife, had lived on the North Shore, in a seaside mansion in the town of New Essex. When their children were teenagers, they got divorced, Amanda keeping the seaside house and Richard buying the apartment at 101 Bury Street in Boston. The apartment had been left to Corbin after Richard died in a swimming accident while on holiday in Bermuda.

  Kate had learned all this information two months earlier, during Sunday dinner with her parents.

  “Your second cousin Corbin got in touch with me,” Lucy had said. They were in the conservatory, done with dinner, but still drinking wine. Kate’s father, Patrick, was taking Alice, their border terrier, for her walk.

  “Oh,” Kate said.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever met him. Have you met him?”

  “He’s your cousin Richard’s son, right? The one who died a few years ago?”

  “He drowned, yes. You met Richard, actually, at Charlotte’s wedding. I don’t know if you remember. I met Corbin for the first time at his father’s funeral.” Kate’s parents had traveled all the way to Massachusetts for the funeral, although they’d tied the trip in with a driving tour up the Maine coast, something they’d both always wanted to do.

  “He seemed very sweet. And so handsome. Almost looked like—who’s that actor you like from Spooks? Rupert something.”

  “Rupert Penry-Jones. Why are you telling me this? I feel like you’re on the verge of telling me you’ve arranged my marriage to a second cousin. Have we gone back in time?”

  Lucy laughed; the spontaneous version, not the contrived ringing bells that sometimes came out in social situations. “Yes, darling. It’s all arranged. No, but I’m telling you this for a reason. I haven’t slipped into full senility. Corbin Dell is moving to London—a company transfer, or something—for six months, and he sent me an e-mail because he knows you live in London.”

  “He didn’t ask to stay with me, did he?”

  “No, no. Of course not. But he did say he wanted to check and see if you were potentially interested in a home swap. He said he’d love to have someone staying at his place in Boston, and then he could stay at your place, and that way he’d save some money, and you’d have the opportunity to spend half a year in America.”

  Kate took a sip of her wine. It was white, and far too sweet. “What would I do in Boston?”

  “I thought that maybe you could take classes, like you’ve been talking about. They must have graphic design schools. And you’d keep drawing, of course.”

  “What about my job?” Kate had just gone from part-time to full-time at an art-supply store in Hampstead.

  “Well, that’s not a career, exactly, is it?”

  Kate, who agreed with her mother on that point, was annoyed nonetheless and said nothing. A part of her knew that this was the type of situation she’d be foolish to turn down. Six months in another country. She’d never been to America, and Boston was supposed to be nice. A manageable city, she’d heard, not like New York or Chicago, or London, for that matter. She’d have a place to live. Probably a beautiful place to live. And the more that these reasons popped into her head, the more anxious she got, realizing that she would probably turn it down. It was too soon. She was better, but she wasn’t completely well yet.

  “I feel like I’m just getting settled in London, and everything is going smoothly, and I just don’t know if I should rock the boat.”

  “Absolutely, Kate. He asked, so I thought I’d ask. I totally understand.” As her mother spoke, Kate realized that her mother had never believed that Kate would actually take the opportunity to move to Boston for half a year. It was this thought that pestered Kate for the remainder of the afternoon. Her father returned from walking Alice, and the three decided to go to the White Swan in Braintree center for one more before Kate had to catch a train back to London. Kate was tipsy on the ride home, her mind picturing all the things that could go right in Boston, then all the things that could go wrong. And she kept thinking about the tone of her mother’s voice, the way she’d clearly known that Kate was going to say no. It was that, more than anything, that caused Kate to ring up her parents when she got back to her flat in London and tell them that she’d changed her mind.

  “Oh,” her mother said.

  “I think I’d be foolish to not do it. There’s nothing keeping me here, right now. Except you and Dad, of course.”

  “We’d come visit.”

  “Tell Corbin I’d like to do it. Or better yet, send me his e-mail and I’ll tell him myself.”

  She’d written Corbin that night, before she lost her nerve. He’d been thrilled. They arranged the swap from late April to early October. Kate had given notice at her job, then had found a graphic design school were she could take courses in InDesign and Illustrator. And now she was here, her first class scheduled for Monday afternoon. Kate walked back down the hallway that led to the living room, where Bob the doorman had deposited her bags. She knew she should unpack, but a wave of tiredness spread through her. Also, hunger. She went to the kitchen, with its limestone counters and stainless steel appliances. It looked like it had never been used. She opened the fridge. All alone on the middle shelf was a bottle of champagne, a yellow sticky note attached to it. Welcome, Kate—Enjoy! was written in cramped handwriting. A pang of guilt went through Kate that she hadn’t left anything for C
orbin in her flat, although she’d left him a much longer note, welcoming him and describing the neighborhood.

  Except for the champagne and an assortment of condiments, the refrigerator was practically bare. She opened the freezer and found a stack of frozen dinners from someplace called Trader Joe’s. She read the directions on the back of a frozen boeuf bourguignon and decided she could handle it. The box was familiar and yet different, the nutritional information using ounces instead of grams and calories instead of energy. She figured out the microwave and began to heat up the dinner, then filled and emptied a water glass from the tap before wondering if the water was okay to drink. It tasted okay, but different than the water she was used to drinking. More minerals. After pouring herself a glass of champagne, she walked to the front door and pressed her eye to the peephole, wondering what had happened with the missing girl down the hall. Would Bob have let the friend in? Probably not, she thought, and wondered what the friend would do next. The police would probably not be helpful. Kate had watched enough American police procedurals to know that you couldn’t file a missing persons report if the person had been missing for less than a day. The hallway was empty. Maybe Kate had overreacted and nothing was really wrong. Maybe the girl had grown tired of her pushy, chinless friend.

  Kate ate the dinner, surprisingly good, sitting on one of the stools around the L-shaped granite island in the kitchen. She poured a second glass of champagne, took one sip, and was overcome again with exhaustion. Her head was heavy on her neck, her stomach slightly queasy. She had planned on unpacking and setting up her laptop so that she could send e-mails, and she’d hoped to watch some American television, but instead she rolled her suitcase into the bedroom, dug around in it to find her toiletry kit, plus the boxers and T-shirt she liked to sleep in, then managed to brush her teeth and wash her face before climbing between the cool, crisp sheets. Despite being exhausted, she lay awake for a time, listening to the barely discernible sounds of the apartment: the far-off rumble of traffic, the muffled click of a heating system, something else—a soft hissing—she couldn’t identify. The bed, she thought, before falling asleep, was the most comfortable bed she had ever lain on. She sank into its grip.

  Kate woke once. Intermittent blue lights were flashing along a diagonal stretch of the high ceilings. Where are the sirens? Kate thought. Then: Where am I? And, finally, after a confused two seconds, she remembered. Her mouth was dry and she was desperately thirsty. She heard what sounded like a distant train. She rolled to either side, looking for the illuminated numbers of a clock to tell her what time it was, but, except for the police lights streaking through the curtained windows, the room was black.

  Kate sat up, then lay back down. She was far too tired to even find the bathroom and get a drink of water. What was the name of that neighbor again? The girl who was missing? Audrey Marshall, Kate remembered. She was good with names. It was her superpower, George had said. He’d dubbed her Never-Forgets-a-Name-Girl. Kate closed her eyes, heard someone whispering to her in a dream, and jolted awake again. The voices disappeared, and the room was dark again. Had she dreamed the police lights? I’ll find out about it tomorrow, she thought, and let herself fall back into a black pool of sleep.

  Chapter 3

  She did find out about it, but not until late the following day.

  She woke early, the room still dark. She knew she should try to sleep in a little later, to adjust herself to Boston time, but she was wide awake and desperate for coffee.

  It took a while, but she found the coffeemaker and some coffee and figured out how it all worked. While the coffee brewed, she walked around the enormous apartment again. The thin light of morning was beginning to suffuse the windows. The largest room of the apartment, the central living room, had the view of the Charles River, quiet in the gray dawn, traces of mist above its unruffled surface. There was a footbridge that spanned both the river and the road next to it.

  The living room looked ready for a cocktail party. There were scattered chairs, plus two large couches facing one another, and in between them a glass-topped coffee table. Kate hated glass tables. Putting anything on one made her think it would instantly shatter, or at least crack. She always lived in the next moment, the tragic moment. For this reason, she’d always loathed low railings, crossing busy streets, waiters carrying multiple plates. These had always been prickly, annoying phobias, but then, five years earlier, the incident with George had happened and her life had changed forever. She couldn’t leave her house for over a year. No, worse than that. She couldn’t even imagine leaving her house; fear and grief had immobilized her. Her parents and her therapist had slowly pulled her out of that hole, and life had gotten better. It was inconceivable to her that she had made it all the way to the States, to this enormous apartment with its glass table. She didn’t like the glass table, but she could live with it.

  There was no television in the living room, and she wondered, with a sense of horror, if the apartment was television free. Then she remembered what Carol Valentine had called “the den,” a dark-wood-paneled room with a soft leather couch. For a brief moment, she couldn’t remember where the den was located, but it was off the hallway that led toward the two guest bedrooms. She was right; the television was there—a monstrous screen hidden behind wooden doors built into a bookshelf. On the table (thankfully not glass) in front of the couch, there was a universal remote on top of a laminated card listing at least a hundred channels.

  There was also a large wooden desk in the den, and Kate noticed a sticky note on its surface. It listed the name of a wireless account (“Angel Face”) and a password. It made her realize that she ought to check in with her parents, and also with Corbin, to make sure he’d made it safely to her own flat.

  Kate retrieved her laptop and adapter from her suitcase, stopped back in the kitchen for a mug of black coffee, and returned to the den. She marveled once again at the expanse of the apartment. She sat at the desk, the leather chair creaking authentically. She had many e-mails, mostly junk, but one from her mother and one from Corbin. She opened Corbin’s first:

  Kate,

  It only took the driver a few false turns but we finally found your beautiful flat, and I read your incredibly thoughtful note. I’m ashamed I didn’t write a similar thing for you, and I have no excuse, but once I’m used to the jet lag I will send you an exhaustive list of good bars and restaurants near my apartment. I promise.

  Quick question: I see you have a washer but don’t see a dryer. Am I missing something?

  More later. I’m looking forward to the next six months.

  Corbin

  Kate wrote back:

  I am too. When I walked into your place, I thought that I must have come to the wrong apartment. How gorgeous. I’m truly ashamed of my measly flat with a washing machine that also thinks it’s a dryer. It is a dryer, as well, that’s why you’re so confused. There are instructions in the drawer on the left of the sink, I think. My advice, however, is that if you start a clothes wash don’t expect dry clothes for at least a day. Please don’t hesitate to write with any more questions. I really am in love with your apartment. Best, Kate

  P.S. Thanks for the lovely champagne, which is gone, of course.

  Next, Kate read her mother’s e-mail—“so proud of you, darling”—and responded to that as well. She sipped at her coffee, so much better than the instant coffee she was used to drinking. She could hear a police siren in the distance and suddenly remembered the night before, falling asleep, and how she could see police lights on her ceiling. Had that been real, or part of a dream? For a moment she didn’t know, and she was filled with a sense of dread again, the same feeling she’d had when she found her pills in her purse after being sure they weren’t there. Am I losing my mind? she thought. Then told herself: No, it wasn’t a dream. It had definitely been real. Maybe something actually had happened with the girl from down the hall.

  Kate unpacked her toiletries, then showered in the en suite bathroom. The shower
was enormous, the head coming straight out of the ceiling, dumping a deluge of water. Again, Kate thought of her own flat in London, the bathtub that had been converted to a shower with its rubber tube that was always flopping out of its holder. After showering, Kate dressed in dark tights and her favorite Boden dress, and decided that she would brave the outside world. Before coming to Boston, she’d studied Google Maps images of her neighborhood and located the nearest pharmacy and the nearest market. Her plan was to go out and get the basic essentials to get her through the next few days. On Monday, she was starting at the Graphics Institute in Cambridge, about five subway stops away. She was not looking forward to that particular ride, but she knew she could do it—her therapist in London had had her take the tube several times as practice.

  “The tube’s a choice,” Kate had said to Theodora. “I can take taxis everywhere.”

  “It’s all a choice, isn’t it,” her therapist had said back to her. That placid northern accent had irritated Kate to no end when she had first met Theodora, but she had grown used to it, just as she’d grown used to the halo of curly hair and the purple jumpers.

  “Well, I don’t choose to skydive, either. You’re not going to make me do that, are you?”

  “No, I won’t make you skydive, but riding the Underground, and taking elevators, and flying I will make you do. That’s all part of a life you want, isn’t it, Kate?”

  She’d been right, of course. Life was full of tight places and sealed exits. She’d learn to deal with them.

  Kate left the apartment, locking the door behind her. She slowed as she passed the missing girl’s door, listening for any sounds, but there weren’t any. She took the stairs down to the lobby, passed the doorman, and walked straight out into the courtyard. The sky was gray and scalloped, the light so much like dusk that Kate had an alarmed moment when she wondered if she’d slept through the entire day. A waft of cigarette smoke reached her nostrils. Kate had quit smoking after university, but she still loved the smell. She looked for the source and saw a man perched on the edge of the courtyard’s central fountain. He was rubbing the cigarette out on a flagstone. Kate was walking past him as he began to stand.