by S. L. Grey
“She was squatting?”
“Oui.”
“Will we have to return for an inquest?”
“If the procureur want a full investigation, it can take many months to complete. We will be in contact with the embassy in your country and inform you if it is nécessaire. We have all your details. For now, we are satisfy that you have no part in this situation.”
“We can go?”
“Oui. We are trying to contact the owners of your apartment to inform them of what has occurred.”
“Good luck with that,” Mark murmured.
“Pardon?”
“They’re not the most communicative of people.” Mark briefly filled her in about our dealings with the Petits: their no-show at our house; the cryptic email they’d eventually sent us.
“Ah. I see. But for now, my boss, he say it is fine for you to return there.”
I started. “Wait—what? Isn’t it a crime scene?”
“We have what we need from there. Of course, if you prefer to stay at an hôtel, that is your choice.”
“We…that’s not an option,” Mark said.
“Do you need help to return to your apartment?”
“Non, merci.”
She handed us our passports and accompanied us to the door. With a brisk handshake, she strode away.
“I can’t go back there, Mark,” I said the second she was out of earshot.
“I know. Of course not.”
“We can’t stay there,” I said again. “I won’t stay there. I want to go home, Mark. I want to go home today.”
He put his arm around me and kissed my hair. “I know. Come on. Let’s get out of here and we’ll make a plan.”
—
It was sunny when we stepped outside. We’d been at the station for more than ten hours, but I’d assumed it would still be dark and rainy when we left, as if time had stopped for us. My body was beginning to ache as if I had the flu, ravaged by lack of sleep and the aftereffects of the anxiety and adrenaline. And I was cold. Freezing. Carla’s coat was draped over the couch back in the apartment. I hadn’t thought to collect it before we were ferried to the police station. I tugged my cardigan around my body, feeling naked compared to the tourists and commuters swathed in their wool and fleece, and let Mark steer me toward a Métro station. I clung to him, not caring what anyone thought, as he shepherded us onto a train, through a bewildering warren of Métro tunnels, and then out onto the familiar boulevard and along to our Starbucks. Again I was grateful for its bland warmth.
Mark bought us cappuccinos and a couple of croissants (which neither of us touched), and we discussed our options. First prize was changing our tickets. I sipped at my coffee, barely tasting it, as Mark dialed the Air France helpline and was passed from consultant to consultant.
He hung up and sighed. “Unless we buy a new ticket, which is out of the question, the best they can do is put us on standby tomorrow night.”
“I don’t want to leave tomorrow. I want to leave now.”
“I know.” He sighed again. “I tried my best, Steph.”
“Sorry. I know you did. Okay. Clearly we don’t have enough cash for a hotel. Shouldn’t we go to the South African embassy, tell them we’re in trouble and need help?”
Mark gave me a half smile. “We’ve got somewhere to stay, Steph. Our embassy of all embassies is unlikely to shell out for a hotel room. Do you think your parents could wire us some money or book us a room for the duration?”
A lurch—I hadn’t thought about Hayden for hours. “I don’t want to worry them. And besides, they bought our air tickets; they must be strapped.”
Mark nodded in agreement. “Okay. I’m going to ask Carla. She can book us something online. We can pay her back when we get home.”
Great, Carla to the rescue. She’d love that. But he was right. There was no one else.
While he called Carla, I headed into the ladies’. I was reluctant to glance in the mirror, but in fact I didn’t look too bad. My mascara was still intact, and the skin around my eyes was only slightly puffy. I didn’t look like I’d had a terrible shock at all.
Mark was smiling when I returned to the table. “She’s booking us a place in Pigalle. I caught her just in time. She was about to leave for the countryside—she’s headlining a poetry festival there.” As usual, talking to Carla had pepped him up like nothing else seemed to do.
“Did you tell her what happened?”
“Yes. She sends her love.”
“Great.” I smiled tightly.
“We should get our stuff from the apartment. Do you want to stay here while I go?”
I loved him for that. He was as exhausted as I was. “No.” I reached inside myself, searching for the calm, controlled Stephanie who had appeared last night. I couldn’t let him do it alone. “Let’s get it over with.”
—
I tried not to look too closely at the spot where she’d died, but my gaze went there of its own accord. Thankfully, the rain in the night had washed away the blood.
I didn’t look up at the window, and neither did Mark.
I kept as close to him as I could get as we thumped up the stairs. The air was too still, as if the building was holding its breath. “Talk to me, Mark.”
“What about?”
“Anything. It’s too quiet.”
“Okay. Do you think the police have managed to contact the Petits yet?”
“I doubt it. They seemed efficient but I don’t think they have superpowers.”
Mark chuckled, and the tense atmosphere eased.
“You ready?” Mark asked when we reached the third-floor landing.
I nodded but hung back while Mark fiddled with the keys. The sharp odor of spoiled tomato sauce greeted us as we walked in. I was reluctant to breathe in too deeply, as if the air was poisonous. Je suis désolée, Mireille’s voice ghosted into my head. What was she sorry for? That she’d killed herself in front of us? Or was there something else?
Stop it, I told myself, don’t go there.
Someone—presumably one of the cops—had stood in the spilled pasta and sauce, and I could make out the tread of his boot in forensic clarity. The window was still wide-open. The rain in the night had slanted in, spattering the wooden floors. I caught Mark glancing at it, but I couldn’t read his expression. I knew we’d have to talk about the window at some stage. It wasn’t your fault, I wanted to say, but I didn’t.
“Can you pack?” he asked. “I need to check to see if Carla has forwarded the booking.”
I ran into the bathroom to gather up my makeup and shampoo, then threw our clothes in the suitcases, mixing dirty and clean, not bothering to fold Mark’s shirts. I couldn’t smother the sensation that if we didn’t leave the apartment right that second, then we’d never get out of there. I slammed the lids closed and dragged the cases into the living room.
“Got it!” Mark grinned. “She’s forwarded the reservation.”
“Is it far?”
“No. I’ve downloaded the directions. You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on.” He took his wheelie bag from me and made for the door.
We were halfway down the stairs when I realized I’d left Carla’s coat behind. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“Carla’s coat. I left it on the couch.”
“You take my suitcase; I’ll get it for you.”
“No. I’ll go.”
I needed to go. Before we left for good I needed to assure myself that there was nothing to fear in the apartment. A crazy woman had selfishly decided to kill herself in front of us. That was all. I was strong. I didn’t need Mark to baby me.
But still, I held my breath as I unlocked the door and grabbed the coat, not daring to look at the window. Because I knew in my heart that if I looked over at it I’d see her standing there, opening and closing her blood-filled mouth, cracking her broken teeth together, and telling me she was sorry in a tone that sounded like a threat. Terror snaked up
through my legs and into my gut and I ran, slamming the door behind me. The fear ebbed only when I caught sight of the sunlight filtering into the hallway below.
“Everything okay?” Mark asked when I joined him in the courtyard.
I couldn’t find my voice. I nodded and took my time buttoning up the coat. Stupid. I was just letting my imagination play tricks on me—I’d barely slept; my mind was ragged from shock and exhaustion. That was all it was. I palmed a couple of Urbanols and popped them into my mouth. The woolliness kicked in just as we arrived outside the hotel—a tiny boutiquey place with a grubby burgundy awning over its door. The reception area was clad in fake marble; the desk’s veneer was bubbled and cracked.
“Looks okay,” Mark said.
I managed a smile.
The concierge, a middle-aged Arabic man, greeted us warmly and Mark explained that we had a booking.
“D’accord. You cannot to check in until two, but you can leave your luggage here.”
We shared a glance. Three and a half hours to kill. We could do that. We’d been through far worse. “That’s fine.” Mark gave his name and the concierge turned to the computer. “Non. I am sorry. There is nothing in that name.”
Mark explained that a friend of ours had booked the room for us and asked him to see if it was under Carla’s name.
“Non. I am sorry.”
“This is the Hôtel Trois Oiseaux, right?”
“Oui.”
I could tell that Mark was fighting to keep his composure. The pills I’d taken were gently dampening my own anxiety.
“Hang on.” Mark took out his phone and scrolled through to Carla’s email containing the forwarded confirmation. He handed it to the concierge. “Look.”
The man sighed and shot me a sympathetic glance. “Ah. Now I see what has happened. You see, your friend, she has made the booking for March. It is February now. A mistake, I think.”
“Can you change it?”
The man shrugged apologetically. “Mais, non. It was booked through a discount site. Your friend, she must change it.”
“Is there nothing you can do from your side?”
“I am very sorry, monsieur, mais, non. What can happen is that you can pay now and book a room if you have a credit card. We have a vacancy.”
Mark slapped the counter in frustration, but the concierge didn’t lose his sympathetic demeanor. “Not possible. Can I use your wi-fi?”
“Of course.”
I sat on a chair next to a dusty plastic hibiscus, the Starbucks coffee churning in my gut, while Mark tried to get hold of Carla.
“No answer. She must have left for the festival already.”
“Keep trying.”
“I’ve left three voice mails, Steph. Fuck.” He scrabbled a hand through his hair. He badly needed a shave.
“So, what now?” I asked. But I knew what the answer was.
Chapter 13
Mark
We’re huddled together in the Tuileries, on a wet bench so cold that the patina of dew is turning to frost on the metal as we watch. It’s late, as dark as central Paris can ever be; there are lights everywhere—shining from the ornate lampposts and the headlights of the luxury black sedans growling along rue de Rivoli; there is a rich, warm glow coming from the stately buildings lining the gravel park; the fountains are lit up, the glass pyramids too; and then there is the constant bursts of tourists’ camera flashes and phone glows.
It would be beautiful, it would be romantic, but I’m freezing and tired and my feet are aching, the splinter wound in my sole throbbing more than ever, and Steph is crying into my collar, not because she’s taking comfort from me, but because she’s so bloody cold and tired too. The icy drizzle has become heavier and is starting to turn into sleet blown about by a rising wind off the river.
“We have to go back,” I tell her. “We can’t stay here anymore.”
“I know,” she mutters into my jacket with numb lips.
I push myself up, my muscles and bones protesting. When I promised the man at the Hôtel Trois Oiseaux that we’d sort out the booking and come back, he let us store our luggage in their lobby and we set out. As we walked, I figured we’re in Paris, there’s enough to see and do all night—perhaps we’d make it until tomorrow, have a final, redemptive evening in the City of Love. I didn’t share this thought with Steph because she was still stressing about Mireille’s death and I knew she’d think it insensitive if I hoped that we could still enjoy ourselves. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about Mireille, but to my shame I was angry with her too. Things had just started to be good between Steph and me—the trip was working the way it was meant to: it was bringing us closer for the first time since the attack; it was making us smile. And then…that.
Petulantly, I resisted wasting any more time thinking about Mireille, but I couldn’t convince Steph to forget about her. I hoped that our final walk through the city might gradually make her feel better. Perhaps we’d walk all night and be transformed by the experience like those young lovers in Before Sunrise.
That was thirteen hours ago, and now I’m broken. We’ve tramped around in the freezing rain, with no sense of where we were going. We first stumbled back to the Pompidou Centre, where we sheltered in their vast, warm lobby and even managed to hook up to their free wi-fi. I tried Carla again to satisfy Steph, but as expected there was still no answer—when she’s out of town, she never even switches her phone on. We wandered through the obscenely wealthy Place Vendôme, all the luxury brands arrayed in shops scaled to massive height to make normal people who are not driving double-size Rollses and Bentleys feel utterly insignificant. Steph and I felt like hobos under the gaze of the Armani-suited doormen. From there we wandered over the river and along the boulevard Saint-Germain and then down to the Luxembourg Garden; it would have all been dreamlike on another day, but we were just shambling along, getting more and more exhausted and hungry. I began to feel genuine sympathy for refugees on a death march. I even made the mistake of saying so to Steph, thinking she’d understand what I meant and how I meant it, that I wasn’t being flippant, but she immediately stepped away from me and grunted, “Jesus, Mark. Nice and sensitive as always.” It took several more long blocks and a dip in the temperature to get her back to my side. When my bladder started to ache—inexplicably, since we’d had nothing but a mouthful of water from a public fountain to drink since the morning—I followed the signs to the Louvre, knowing we’d find a bathroom in the lobby. And here we are now in this monumental park, and we’ve been sitting on this bench, freezing solid, for the last half hour.
We’d walk all night and be transformed by the experience. Yeah, right. The lovers in Before Sunrise were both young and their all-nighter was in summer. In the end, Steph and I couldn’t outrun the Petits’ apartment.
“Before Sunrise was in Vienna,” Steph states.
I stare at her. I didn’t even realize I was talking aloud. And why would she say something contrarian like that? “Uh, I’m quite sure it was Paris. It even starts with a reading at Shakespeare and Company. I’ve watched those films several times, so…” But as I’m talking, I realize she’s right.
“Paris is the second one, when they’re tireder and sadder and older.”
“Shit, you’re right. Sorry.” I was so sure I was right, until I realized I was wrong: my life in a fucking nutshell.
Steph uses my arm to pull herself up and I brace myself and feel useful. “That’s what went wrong, then. We should have gone to Vienna.” I hold my coat open and she snuggles into it and we stagger a few paces that way until we realize it’s not really working. My coat’s not big enough for both of us and our bumping thighs make it awkward to walk. We disengage, but I’m glad when she hooks her arm around mine and pulls me close to her. Probably just for warmth, I remind myself, but perhaps not.
Though it’s late, the concourse is still busy with tourists and pedestrians, and I eye the steam rising off the carts selling pancakes and hot chocolate.
; “I’m starving,” I say. “Let’s get some of those.”
“How much money have we got?”
I know we don’t have enough to eat properly until tomorrow and still buy our train tickets to the airport. “We’re still doing fine,” I lie, stubbornly ignoring the facts and leaving tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow. If I can enjoy a Nutella pancake and a cup of hot chocolate with my warm wife in Paris right now, it will go a long way toward erasing the awfulness of this week.
So when the snack is twice as expensive as the same thing up in the ninth arrondissement, I have to swallow down a burst of panic and guilt and hand over the money because we’re already committed and the man’s already spread batter on his griddle and I don’t have the French to say, Oh, actually, cancel that, or Make it just one instead. There are people behind us in the queue.
The crêpe and hot chocolate are delicious and all regret vanishes—right now I’d sell my house for this, and for the look on Steph’s face. She’s smiling for the first time today. I take the risk of touching her cheek and wiping off a smear of Nutella. I’m wondering what to do with my chocolatey fingertip, thinking I should lick it off, but Steph surprises me by nudging forward and taking my finger in her mouth, and next thing we’re holding each other tight and kissing. I concentrate on enjoying the moment, but I also can’t help looking at us from a distance—we’re lovers in Paris, indistinguishable from every other flawed and fractious couple here who are all suffering their trials and have managed to put them aside for one moment because they love each other. This is what I wanted this week to bring us. It makes me feel like the weight of my life is lifted, like I’m saved.
“I’m so sorry,” Steph’s saying into my cheek. “I’ve been all over the place today. It’s just…it’s been…”
“I know. And there’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry too.” She curls her mouth in that pragmatic way, and I know I’d better not say too much more, not cram her ears with my romantic nonsense. I do want to mark the moment somehow, though. “We’re halfway there, Steph. We’ll be okay.”