The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  She still hadn’t heard from the Lowrys but she’d remembered something that might explain this. In her last message, Mrs. L. had mentioned the possibility of doing some sightseeing while they were in Texas. She said they might go deep-sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico and maybe drive to New Orleans or even Disney World in Florida.

  On Nicole’s last call, there was a beep and the phone cut off before she could leave a message. She took this to mean their voicemail was full. At that moment, the idea that the Lowrys might not be trustworthy was not as worrisome as the possibility they might not show up at all. What would happen to the condo? Her dog? The plants? Her sister could look after things for a few weeks, but it wasn’t fair to expect her to spend the summer driving back and forth between Hollywood and West L.A, maintaining two households.

  Nicole shook her head, trying to untangle her thoughts. Maybe Brad was right about her jet lag; it was making her crazy. After all the work the Lowrys had put into this house swap, why wouldn’t they stay in the condo? Where else would they go?

  While the phone was still in her hand, it struck her that she hadn’t heard from the airline about her missing bag. She located the number and placed the call, asking for lost luggage.

  “Ah, yes,” the man said, after putting her on hold for several minutes while he located her in the database. “We have your claim form on file, but I’m afraid there’s no sign of your suitcase yet. Don’t be too concerned. Ninety-five percent of all lost luggage turns up in the first twenty-four hours.”

  “It’s already been longer than that,” she pointed out.

  “Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “As soon as it turns up, we’ll give you a call.”

  After she hung up, she took another look at the envelope Brad had left on the counter. Despite the airline clerk’s confidence, she doubted she’d ever see her suitcase again. Why not use the money Brad had left to buy a few things to replace what she’d lost? It would be better than languishing around the house, obsessing about Brenda. Even if her suitcase eventually turned up, she could use another all-purpose outfit—something wrinkle resistant for sightseeing as well as for dinner and the theater.

  She located her guidebook to London and flipped through the pages. “A good bet for the traveler on a budget,” the book said, “Selfridges of Oxford Street carries quality merchandise that isn’t as pricey as Harrods.” This settled, she called a cab and spent several hours scouring Selfridges and the shops packed into the narrow streets behind the huge store.

  She tried on dozens of combinations but couldn’t seem to make a decision. It was hard to concentrate when her thoughts were constantly interrupted by flashbacks of yesterday’s events—the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the realization that someone was in the house, her feelings of terror when she smelled smoke. And, even worse, this business about Brad and Brenda.

  She tried telling herself that she had no evidence, no real reason to think anything had happened between them. Yet she knew something had, and this knowledge was eating at her

  She took the tube to Harrods. By the time she got there it was almost 3:30 p.m., and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She sought out the escalator and headed up to the enormous dining room. The sign read “Afternoon Tea: £29.” Why not?

  She was presented with a multi-tiered tray of cream-filled pastries, scones, and petit fours. She heaped her plate, then sat and stared at the food, unable to bring herself to take a single bite.

  She got up, tossed her napkin on the plate and hurried out of the dining room, determined to finish shopping before the store closed. She settled on a slightly-flared skirt in a lovely shade of dark magenta, a white blouse, boots, patterned leggings, and a black linen jacket. She did allow herself a single extravagance: a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with roses in a lovely, delicate pink. In the mirror, she decided that the outfit (except for the short skirt, which ended well above her knees) made her look as if she’d stepped out of a painting by Renoir.

  Later, getting dressed to go out with Brad, she did her best to put aside her bad feelings. Without proof, she knew, it would be a mistake to confront him. He’d repeat his mantra that she was being irrational. They’d have a fight, and her accusations would only strengthen his determination to send her home.

  An intimate dinner offered the perfect opportunity to patch things up. She’d fought so hard to come to London for this very purpose. Now, she had to be strong and exert some self-control.

  But when he came in bearing a corsage of white violets—a gesture quite unlike him—her suspicions came flooding back. Then, as he was pinning the flowers to her lapel, she noticed the way he kept glancing at her hat.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nice hat,” he said, with a sardonic glance that communicated anything but approval.

  “Great, isn’t it?” she said with a tight-lipped smile. Well, she thought, she’d wanted him to notice her, and he’d noticed all right. She turned toward the mirror, flipping the hat brim into a straight line over her eyes. Until that moment, she hadn’t been sure if she’d have much use for the hat. But now, in a wave of fresh indignation, she decided it would be the mainstay of her summer wardrobe.

  The Indian restaurant that had come so highly recommended was more like the Taj Majal than the intimate bistro Nicole had pictured. It was housed in an enormous glass conservatory where the tables and chairs were overshadowed by gigantic ferns. All around them, green fronds seemed to slowly unfurl as dish after dish arrived at the table. The chairs were high-backed cane thrones, and a waiter stood on either side of the table, anticipating every need.

  Conversation lagged between exclamations over the mulligatawny soup and chapattis, chicken tikka and puris, lamb vindaloo and saffron rice, the bowls of condiments, both cool and spicy. It had been so long since they’d shared an evening—just the two of them—that they no longer seemed to know what to say to each other.

  Brad popped a bite of lamb into his mouth. Nicole watched the muscles in his cheek swell and bob as he chewed and felt a stirring of dislike. It occurred to her that this was merely a reflection of her own hurt and anger. She had an almost irresistible urge to blurt it all out—her suspicion, her feelings about the way he’d been acting toward her, and all the hostility she was feeling. But she managed to hold it in. Perhaps it was the rapt attention of the waiter hovering by the ice bucket that held their bottle of wine.

  Brad was equally subdued. As the minutes ticked by, she began to resent the way his eyes kept wandering to her hat and then darting away, or maybe it was the fact that, all evening, he’d never once looked her in the eye.

  The meal seemed to drag on forever. Yet even after dessert and coffee, Brad made no move to get the check. Instead, he ordered brandy. Then he pulled some folded sheets out of his jacket pocket and set them down in front of her.

  She scanned the first page. It was a computer printout of an old news article, datelined Israel. She’d read it before, a story of international tourists who imagined encounters with Biblical heroes. Occasionally a case involved someone who thought he himself was Moses or Jesus, depending on religious orientation. According to the article, these were often people with no history of mental illness.

  When she finished reading, she looked up at him. “What are you telling me, Brad—that I’m crazy?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I thought it would reassure you to know how common this sort of thing is. Travel is incredibly tough on the body. Jet lag can bring on all kinds of—um—reactions.”

  Nicole rattled the papers at him. “It’s clear you haven’t read this stupid article yourself. It’s about tourists in Israel. And they didn’t have jet lag; they were crazy. We’re talking major breaks with reality. I’ll bet Brenda searched the web to dig this up. Then she printed it out for you to bring home.”

  “For God’s sake,” he said. “That is a total crock of shit. Nick—what’s gotten into you? I wonder if you should see a doctor or something.”

  �
��You mean a shrink.”

  “I mean, like, a psychologist. What’s wrong with that? In fact, a guy I know is seeing a great therapist in Santa Monica. I’ll get you his name.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You think you can use this as an excuse to send me home so you can do what you want.”

  “What I want? All I want to do is concentrate on…”

  “You’re having an affair with Brenda, aren’t you?” The words were out before she could stop them. “That’s why you’re so bent on sending me home. But your little plan isn’t going to work…”

  “Are you completely out of your mind?” Brad said. Looking around, he went on in an angry whisper. “People are staring. Can we talk about this later?”

  Nicole glanced around. Conversation at the tables nearby had ceased, and people did seem to be looking at them. She didn’t care.

  “I don’t need a shrink.” She didn’t bother to lower her voice. “And I’m not going back to L.A.” Instead of answering, Brad caught the waiter’s eye and snapped his fingers for the check.

  On the silent cab ride back to the house, Nicole wondered if their marriage was even worth saving.

  Six

  The next morning, when Nicole held the glass carafe up to the light, the coffee looked slightly less muddy than the day before. As she poured the steaming brew into a mug, she felt an inexplicable surge of happiness. Sunlight streamed into the little dining room, suffusing it with the promise of a new day—a fresh world of possibilities.

  Thirty-six hours had passed since the nightmare of that first afternoon, and it seemed a lifetime ago. She’d even gained a fresh perspective on last night’s fight with Brad. Now, after a sound night’s sleep, she could see that he had been trying. He had, after all, planned an intimate evening for them. What was that but an attempt to make amends? Of course, that bit about travelers’ hallucinations had been less than tactful. But she was at fault, too, for letting her sour mood get the better of her.

  She understood clearly what had to happen next if she was to save the marriage. She’d have to swallow her pride, get him to admit whatever was going on, and forgive him. She wondered, in a momentary return of last night’s anger, just how much forgiveness would be required. With this thought came a sudden vision of Brenda as she’d appeared two nights before, wearing her expression of feigned innocence. Nicole blinked and shook her head, but she couldn’t seem to dispel the image. Was that night the beginning or had it been going on for months?

  These thoughts were interrupted by a low rumble at the back of the house. For a brief, panicky moment, Nicole mistook it for an earthquake. She half rose from her chair and looked around for something to dive under if the shaking began in earnest.

  Then she heard a door slam and realized the noise was someone entering the house. Heels clicked along the hall; a moment later Alice was standing in the doorway, beaming at her.

  “My God — you’re back!” Nicole said, “I was sure you’d taken another assignment.”

  “Oh, I’ve been ‘round and about.” Alice’s smile grew wider as she waved her hand vaguely. “Visiting friends, attending to my chores.” She looked happy, and her cheeks were aglow. “Oh, it’s such a be-you-ti-fool day,” she chirped. “Why don’t we go for a dander ‘round London?”

  “I’d love that,” Nicole said, before she had a chance to wonder what a “dander” might be. Then she remembered Keaton’s request and went over to the message board on the kitchen wall to retrieve her card. “A detective investigating the break-in wants you to call her,” she said, handing the card to Alice.

  “I’ll attend to that later,” Alice said, dropping the card into her pocket. “It would be a crime to waste such a gorgeous morning. Come on. We’ll take the bus and get in some sightseeing.”

  Nicole suggested taking the Lowrys’ Renault instead, if Alice would do the driving. “I need some practice before I tackle traffic on the wrong side of the street.”

  Alice said, “You can’t drive in central London these days. They have a congestion charge, and there’s no parking.” Instead, the two of them took the tube into central London. They hopped a series of double-decker buses that took them past Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, and the Houses of Parliament, then along the Thames to the Tower of London and back toward Trafalgar Square. At each site, great hordes of tourists waited in long lines, just as Nicole and Brad had done on their first trip to the city, several years before. At the time, Nicole had enjoyed the endless round of historic sites. Yet she’d been struck, even then, by the idea that there was more to this city than palaces, museums, and monuments. That had been another argument in favor of the house swap. It would give them a chance to see what it was like to live here.

  The day’s final destination was the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square. Alice guided Nicole into the pleasant coolness of the museum. Upstairs, the dining room was only half full. “It’s only 11:30,” Alice pointed out. “We beat the crowds.”

  The hostess seated them at a table next to the window. Below, throngs of people swirled through Trafalgar Square, disrupting the resident pigeons who fluttered out of the way. There were tourists being herded on and off buses and wholesome-looking couples with small children in tow. Hanging around the square’s north edge were a number of tough-looking young men.

  The restaurant was spacious, handsome, and sunny. Its focal point was a mirrored bar, surrounded by dozens of small round tables set with crisp pink cloths, sparkling crystal, and vases of summer flowers. In the background, the festive clink of cutlery was accompanied by a Chopin sonata, piped in by the sound system.

  She gazed around the restaurant. Unlike the tourists outside, most of their fellow diners were well dressed. Alice had removed her lightweight raincoat, revealing a plaid sun dress in greens that made a nice contrast to her red hair.

  Nicole felt a little drab in her skirt and white blouse. But the rose-trimmed hat was a nice touch, and she was glad she’d worn it. Looking around the dining room, she saw several other women wearing hats, although none as colorful as hers.

  The hostess was leading two men into the dining room. They were in their early thirties and offered a perfect illustration of what would become of the young toughs in Trafalgar Square if they didn’t pull up their socks. Despite the heat, they were wearing black leather jackets, black T-shirts, and black chinos. They had matching hairstyles, greased-up pompadours, and dark circles under their eyes, as if they were badly hung over. As they passed, Nicole caught a whiff of ripe body odor.

  They made a very strange pair. One was tall and almost skeletal, while the other was short and hugely fat. The skinny one had no chin at all while the other had a lavish set of double jowls. As Nicole studied them, they reminded her of the men she’d seen at the house two nights before. It was their body types, the contrast between them. She told herself not to be crazy. It had been too dark for her to get a look at their faces.

  The men were seated at the next table. They ordered beer, then sat in silence while the white-coated waiter trotted off to get it.

  “You haven’t told me much about yourself, Nicole,” Alice was saying. “What sort of work do you do?”

  Nicole hesitated. Since she’d left home, she’d barely thought about work. “I’m the office manager for a big law firm,” she began. “When Brad found out he had to spend the summer in London, I decided to come along. So I took a leave and arranged the house swap with the Lowrys.”

  “That was crafty,” Alice said.

  “Oh, Brad didn’t think so, and my boss was pretty upset. He said he’d try to hold the job for me, but he couldn’t promise. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know if I want it. I’ve never considered it permanent. I was looking for work, and my friend Norma—who had the job before me—needed back surgery. She asked me to cover for a few days until they found a long-term sub.”

  Alice listened intently, giving an occasional nod of encouragement. Despite the differences between them or the fact that they’
d grown up on opposite sides of the world, Nicole had the feeling Alice knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “They never did find a substitute,” Nicole went on. “Once she was better, Norma decided that wild horses couldn’t drag her back to Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo. The atmosphere there is pretty frantic—constant pressure, a crisis a minute, very stressful. But I liked it. I mean, at first I did. I’m good at managing people, and I never knew that before. It was sort of an ego trip, having the paralegals and secretaries do what I told them and asking my advice.”

  Outside of work, she and Brad were busy getting married and nesting — buying the condo and fixing it up. Then all of a sudden, they were settled, both working ten, twelve hours a day, sometimes straight through the weekends. On Nicole’s last birthday, she’d woken to a full-blown life crisis that made her job — her whole life— seem pointless and empty. There had to be more than getting up each day to the same routine— jogging, dashing off to work, coming home, eating take-out, going to bed.

  Several of her friends had recently become mothers, and Nicole could see how fulfilled they were. For the first time, she began to think seriously about having a baby.

  Brad had balked at the idea. “How can we start a family when we need two incomes just to make the payments on this place?” he argued. “Besides, we don’t have room for a kid here. We don’t even have a yard.”

  She brought it up more than once, prepared to argue that all these material things didn’t matter to an infant. But Brad was especially adept at dodging the topic. Before Nicole could marshal her thoughts, he’d be starting up his computer, answering his phone, or on his way out the door.