The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Nicole went to the front window and stared out. Then she limped into the dining room. As she stood in front of the painting, she realized she’d been avoiding it since that first day. Sure enough, there they were: the same nude, androgynous creatures engaged in their eternal struggle.

  Since she’d last seen it, the picture seemed to have acquired a message — something to do with the trouble between her and Brad. Even beyond that, it symbolized the war between men and women that she witnessed daily in her office’s legal practice; the huge gap between their needs and desires; the hopelessness of either side achieving any satisfaction.

  The idea was too complex, or perhaps too muddled, to sort out. But as she pondered it, she felt the most enormous lump of anger growing inside. It grew until she was trembling almost uncontrollably. Finally she shook her fists at the picture and screamed at the top of her lungs, as if it were to blame for everything.

  Despite the protests of her ankle, she hobbled upstairs. In the bedroom, she systematically tore Brad’s things out of the closet and went through his pockets. Then she started going through his dresser. In the top drawer, at the very back, she noticed a red velvet drawstring bag. The sight of it made goosebumps rise on the back of her neck.

  She pulled it from the drawer, untied the cord and dumped out the contents. Half a dozen watches clattered onto the dresser top. They were crafted of soft glowing gold with black faces. Each had a ring of diamonds around the dial. If they were fakes, they were masterfully done.

  As she stared at them, it struck her that this might be even worse than she’d imagined. He wasn’t just involved with Brenda, but in some crooked deal. Who knew what trouble he might be in?

  After a moment, she scooped the watches back into the drawer and began looking through the rest of his things. She reached in every pocket, shook out each garment, scanned notebooks and bits of paper until his possessions lay in a great disordered heap in the middle of the room.

  On her second run through the pile, she wore her glasses and went more slowly. This time, she recognized some notebook-sized pages that were stapled together. It was a printout of the address book he kept on his computer.

  She found Brenda’s number and called it. A recorded message came on. “This is Brenda Ferraro. I’ll be out of town on business until Friday. If this is an emergency, please call my office and ask them to get in touch.” She gave the number. “Otherwise, leave a message, and I’ll call you the moment I’m back.” There was the sound of her high, tinkling laughter. “Can’t wait!” Then: “Ciao!”

  Nicole hung up and took a few deep gulps of air. She knew what she was going to do.

  She threw a few things into an overnight bag and called a cab. Then she went to the desk and took out a brand new credit card, one of two that Brad had brought along. It was impressive-looking—shiny and black­—and it had her name on it. He’d ordered the cards for the trip, in case of an emergency.

  Well, this certainly was an emergency.

  Eight

  At the last minute, Nicole decided against the hotel Alice had recommended. Instead, she directed the cab driver to take her to the Dorchester, one of London’s most expensive hotels. She would install herself in a top floor suite and charge it to their brand-new credit card.

  Anger and the busy work of packing kept despair at a distance, at least until she climbed in the cab and told the driver her destination. Grief and misery caught up with her as the cab pulled up in front of the Dorchester. Then, as she stepped into the plush gilt and burgundy of the lobby, the enormity of Brad’s betrayal hit her full force.

  It occurred to her that the notion of a broken heart was invented by someone who’d never had one. It wasn’t her heart that hurt but her stomach, with a continuing visceral ache that made it impossible to think of anything but Brad and Brenda, the two of them together.

  While she was busy signing the registration form, tipping the bellboy, unpacking her overnight bag, the ache in her stomach was a constant reminder. If anything kept her from breaking down completely, it was the thought that once she started to cry she’d never stop.

  She tried to focus on her surroundings, for the suite was truly lovely. The bedroom featured a four-poster bed bedecked with a yellow organza canopy. The mattress sat perhaps three-and-a-half feet from the floor. A stepstool had been placed beside the bed, an invitation to climb up and try it out. At any other time, Nicole would have hoisted herself up for a few bounces. If she were in a better frame of mind, if she were here with Brad. The thought sank to the bottom of her stomach where it combined with anger and sorrow into a great molten mass.

  She wandered back into the living room. It, too, was done in shades of yellow with silk textured wallpaper and matching swag drapes. The cherry wood furniture, with its ornately-carved panels, belonged to a period she thought was Jacobean, although she wasn’t quite sure.

  She went over and stood at the bank of windows looking out over London. At 8:30 p.m., it was not yet dark. Mile upon mile of rooftops stretched out to the east: peaked Victorians with chimney pots, along with more modern structures dotted with squat, louvered cooling ducts. To her far right, a huge expanse of rolling green treetops marked the location of an enormous park.

  As she settled on the love seat facing the window, she thought of the men who’d threatened her. In the face of Brad’s betrayal, the two hoodlums seemed irrelevant and almost laughable. Yet she knew they were still out there, a threat she’d eventually have to deal with.

  If these men continued stalking her and the police still did nothing, she’d have to take steps to protect herself. Returning to L.A. was one option.

  But she knew she wasn’t going back. That was exactly what Brad wanted: the summer alone with Brenda. Well, he wasn’t going to get it.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized that the two of them would have checked into their hotel by now. They’d register separately so each would have a room for expense account purposes, but that would be purely for show. At this very moment, they were probably in bed together.

  God, if she could only stop thinking about it. She got up and paced the length of the room a few times. Then she noticed the remote control for a TV on the coffee table and began looking around for the set itself. Eventually, she found it, concealed in a cabinet on the far wall.

  When she turned on the set, a newsman with a long face and bushy, worried-looking eyebrows was talking about the latest terrorist threat. It had closed the London rail and underground stations. “Police suspect it may be a hoax, but they are looking for possible explosive devices. This is the third such alarm since a bomb at Victoria Station killed twelve people on the fifth of May.” The man’s voice deepened as he recounted that incident. “No organization has come forward to take credit for that attack, but police believe it was the work of ISIS, al Qaeda, or one of the other groups that have stirred up violence throughout Europe and the Middle East.”

  Gloomily, the man described the likelihood of railway stations instituting new security measures. He suggested they might even put in baggage scanning devices and metal detectors, like those used in airports. “If you’re planning a train journey,” he said, “pack along an extra measure of patience and be prepared for possible delays.”

  She turned the set off and closed the cabinet. Outside, daylight was beginning to fade. She couldn’t stay in the room another moment, alone with her terrible thoughts. She’d noticed a restaurant on the main floor of the hotel. Maybe she’d head down for a glass of wine. Yes, that was exactly what she needed. Later, if she felt hungry, she could have something to eat.

  A few minutes later, she paused outside the suite, trying to get her bearings. She decided the elevator must be hidden beyond the large columned archway at the other end of the hall. As she strolled toward it, she thought she heard something creak, and her body gave a quiver of alarm. She picked up her step and looked around. No one was there.

  Only as she reached the columned alcove did she realize that it wasn�
�t the elevator lobby but the entrance to a posh suite. The elevators were at the other end.

  There was another creak, this one louder than the first. At the sound, her heart began to thump, her scalp to tingle. Again she looked around, but the corridor appeared as deserted as before. She told herself she was being silly. Old buildings always made strange noises.

  On the wall next to the door was a tapestry. She paused a moment to gaze at it, trying to work up the courage to head back to her room. The hanging was lit by soft spotlights that brought out the colors: radiant teals, chartreuses, roses, and pinks. She recognized it as a rendering of Hieronymus Bosch’s hellish Garden of Delights. Across the crowded landscape, nude, tormented-looking figures struggled with one another while flocks of giant birds dashed hither and yon. In these images, she found the same message she’d seen in the painting in the Lowrys’ dining room: It was something she understood but couldn’t articulate. It involved the shattering of her dreams; the charade of her marriage; the impossibility of love.

  For a short while she stood staring at the hanging, lost in thought. At last, she pulled herself away and turned to face the silent corridor. Taking a deep breath, she began to walk back.

  She was halfway back to her room before she spotted him, standing in the shadow of a small alcove at the corridor’s midpoint. It was someone she’d never seen before — a conservatively dressed, stern looking man in his late thirties. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing there.

  For the briefest moment, their gazes locked. Then he averted his eyes, focusing on a point somewhere beyond her. He made no move in her direction, nor did he retreat toward the door behind him. Instead, his body took on a statue-like stillness, like a guard at Buckingham Palace.

  She came to a stop, then stumbled past him, ignoring the renewed pain of her ankle as she rushed to her room. She was determined not to run. She knew from experience what a bad idea that was.

  My God, was this man following her, too? Watching her room and waiting for her to come out? The odd thing was that her appearance seemed to have startled him almost as much as his had startled her.

  Fumbling with her key, she let herself back in her room. Once inside, she slammed the door, slipped the chain lock into place and picked up the house phone. “There’s a strange man loitering on the tenth floor,” she told the operator. She was switched to security.

  “The tenth floor?” the man repeated calmly. A paper rattled, as if he were looking something up. Then: “Yes, well, one of our guests is a person of some celebrity. He brings his own security staff with him. Not that there’s any need here, of course. I hope this person hasn’t disturbed you in any way.”

  She assured him he hadn’t and hung up feeling foolish. She wasn’t a coward, and yet the idea of that man outside her door was so unsettling that she no longer had any desire to leave her room.

  Instead, she called room service and ordered a small bottle of wine, along with—why not?—baked salmon en croute and a small green salad. When it arrived, she took only a bite before the now-familiar sick feeling took over, making it impossible to eat. She put the silver dome back on the tray and stared out the window again, sipping from her wine. The bottle only held a glass and a half. When it was gone she put on her nightgown, swallowed two of the painkillers Alice had given her, and got into bed.

  The pills made her groggy but refused to grant the release of sleep. Instead, she lay there for hours, tormented by her thoughts. At her lowest point, life without Brad didn’t seem worth living. She fantasized about giving up her job and joining the Peace Corps so she could devote whatever miserable years she had left to good works in West Africa, perhaps, or the Middle East.

  At other moments, she was ready to do whatever it would take to get him back. She visualized herself getting dressed and catching the next train to Liverpool. She’d burst in on them and break up their little love nest with a scene so ugly that neither Brad, nor Brenda, nor anyone else staying at that hotel tonight would ever forget it.

  Fresh doubts would assail her, and she’d wonder once again if their marriage was already doomed. Looking back over the last few months, she could see that she and Brad had become more like business partners than husband and wife, always discussing arrangements, the direction of their investments, the structure of vacation plans. Between his business trips, they’d sit down at the dining room table with the entertainment section of the paper and their calendars. Then they’d negotiate which movies, plays and other events they’d attend. Sex was scheduled, too—subject to cancellation when preempted by another obligation.

  Yet she could remember when things were good between them. When they were first together, Brad had found her a source of endless fascination. He’d been charmed by everything about her, from her crooked baby toe to the tiny birthmark just below her left breast that he swore was shaped like a perfect heart. He’d respected her then, listening solemnly to her opinions and laughing at her jokes.

  She wondered if that was simply a phase men went through when they were first in love. Her sister swore that once the glow of novelty wore off, men (like hunting hounds) began sniffing around for fresh prey. As Stephanie put it, “They’re led around by their little divining rods. Can’t even help it, poor things. It’s programmed into them.”

  Nicole had laughed, but it worried her that Stephanie was so cynical. She feared that her sister, at the age of twenty-eight, was becoming a man hater. Now, as a steady procession of tears slid down her face and onto the pillow, Nicole decided that Stephanie was right.

  The pain in her stomach was still there when morning came. Even before she awoke, she recognized it as grief and understood its source. She told herself that this, too, was a sign of progress.

  She picked up the phone and ordered a breakfast of croissants and strawberries. She still couldn’t eat, but the coffee was good. As she sipped it, she decided the best thing would be to get away from London for a while. Why not take some time to see the English countryside? She wouldn’t even leave a note. When Brad came back to the house and didn’t find her there — well, that would give him something to think about.

  She decided against taking a train. With the bomb scare, it would be too much of a hassle. Instead, she’d go back to the house and get the Lowrys’ car. She hadn’t forgotten the fat man and his ultimatum, but she’d pick up the car in the afternoon, well before 6:00 p.m.

  She took a hot bath, soaking the remaining soreness out of her ankle in water laced with jasmine bath oil provided by the hotel. When she was finally dressed, she went downstairs, asked for directions from the liveried concierge, and headed for the tourist information center at Victoria Station, a half dozen blocks away. It was already almost 1:00 p.m., cool and threatening rain.

  By the time she was talking to the clerk at the tourist center, she was feeling considerably stronger, more resolute. On the way back to the hotel, she stopped at a coffee bar and browsed through the travel brochures she’d picked up. She returned to her room and finished packing a little past 3:00 p.m. At checkout, the bill came to a staggering £620. There was a snag with the new credit card because she hadn’t called to activate it. She had to talk to the credit card company then wait nearly an hour for the charge to clear. She was starting to feel uneasy about the time.

  As she got in the cab and gave the driver the address, she wondered if it would be better to avoid the place altogether —to forget the Lowrys’ car and simply rent one.

  No, she thought. Maybe she couldn’t do anything about Brad, but she wasn’t going to let that pair of clowns frighten her away from the house. Auto rentals here were expensive, and she had every right to use the Lowrys’ car.

  She’d stay out of London five days, maybe even a week. Then she’d show up at Brad’s office and have it out with him.

  Another worry flickered at the edge of her thoughts. What if Brad really is in danger? But no — he wouldn’t be returning to the house until the day after tomorrow. By then, those men would have given u
p and moved on. Besides, even if she stuck around to warn him, he’d refuse to believe her.

  The minute she walked into the house, she knew she’d made a mistake. The place felt spooky and haunted, as if there were someone hiding in the shadows, waiting to jump out at her.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs, staring up at the dim hallway. On second thought, she decided, there wasn’t any need to pack a bag. The new credit card had a $50,000 limit. If she felt like it, she could spend a couple of weeks being more extravagant than she’d ever been in her life and not exhaust the line of credit. She deserved it. Besides, what was the point of worrying about their credit cards when their marriage was falling apart? She knew only too well what a divorce would do to their savings.

  She didn’t have much cash left, though, and she remembered the £20 notes in the bureau upstairs. She stood with one foot on the bottom step, debating whether to run up and get them.

  The chime of the cell in her purse went through her like an electric shock. She pulled it out and answered.

  “Hello, hello? Is anyone there?” The voice on the line was familiar.

  “Stephanie?” Nicole said.

  “Nicole, is that you? You sound weird.”

  “I’m fine,” Nicole said. “What’s going on?”

  “Those people still haven’t showed. They were supposed to get here yesterday, right? I tried phoning this morning. No answer, so I drove over to feed Arnold. And there’s still no sign of them. I mean, no suitcases, nothing. Do you think something might have happened?”

  “They probably were delayed for some reason and didn’t bother to call us.” As Nicole was saying this, she remembered the stories she’d read about carjackers who preyed on foreign tourists. She wondered if the Lowrys might be dead, lying in a ditch somewhere.

  “Nicole?” Stephanie was saying. “Are you there?”

  “I’m sure they’ll turn up,” Nicole said. “Could you just look after Arnold another day or two? Then we’ll figure something out.”