The Apartment (5 page)

Our search for wi-fi ended at a Starbucks on the boulevard Haussmann. We hadn't planned to walk that far; it had been an almost unconscious decision to head away from Pigalle, taking the narrow, sloping side streets at random. It may not have been the quaint bistro I'd been imagining, but there was something comforting about its familiar, sterile interior after the disappointment of the apartment. And it was warm. There was no hair dryer in the apartment, and despite several minutes of vigorous towel drying, my hair was still damp, the chill air freezing my scalp the second I stepped outside. Mark had been distracted on the walk. He said the splinter in his foot was irritating him, but I could tell there was something else bothering him. He'd barely said a word to me while I dried my hair, and he kept staring at the shuttered window in the living room.

While Mark ordered our coffees, I ignored my emails and logged on to Skype right away, not caring that the cluster of loud American teenagers at the table next to ours would overhear my conversation. My smartphone was secondhand and I still couldn't get the hang of it. My trusty old iPhone and MacBook had disappeared into one of the burglars' backpacks and had no doubt ended up on the black market in Harare or Brazzaville.

Mom was offline, so I had no choice but to call her cell, which would eat the Skype credit. It rang for ages before she picked up. “Yes? This is Rina speaking.” She always answered the phone tentatively, as if she was expecting whoever called to unleash a torrent of abuse.

“Mom, hey.”

“Stephanie! Are you there safe?”

“Yes, thanks. How's Hayden?”

“Oh, fine. We're out at the moment, at that new petting farm in Barrydale. And don't worry, she's wearing loads of sunscreen. It's so hot today. How is the apartment?”

I told her the apartment was fabulous, better than we'd hoped. The lie made me feel like crying. “Can I talk to Hayden, Mom?”

“ 'Course you can.”

Silence for several seconds, then, “Mumma?”

“Hayden! Mumma misses you. Are you being a good girl?”

She spoke in a rush, talking about the baby animals she'd seen and jumping to what she'd had for lunch.

Mark returned with two lattes. “Hayden, Daddy's here.”

“Daddy!”

I caught a blip of dismay in his eyes as he took the cell from me, but I convinced myself that this was because he hated talking on the phone.

“You being good for Nama and Pops, Haydie?” His voice brimmed with artificial joviality. “What's that, chicken? You did what?” Pause. “That's lovely. Be good now.” He handed the phone back to me with obvious relief. Mom came back on the line. I explained about the wi-fi issues and she promised to make sure she was home the following morning so that we could use the webcams.

“Hayden seems happy,” Mark said after I'd hung up, wincing as coffee burned his tongue.

“Yeah.”

I turned to my emails so that I didn't have to look at him. There were a couple from the house swap site, one tagged
Enjoy your trip!,
the other encouraging me to upgrade my membership, and one from Carla, sent half an hour earlier, and also copied in to Mark:

Hello both,

Been texting you. I was outside your house at 9:30 as arranged, but there was no sign of your guests. Not sure what flight they were on so can't check if it was delayed. Stayed until 11. I left them a note with my phone number on it. Let me know if you hear anything.

Hope Paris is magnifique. x

“Mark, Carla's sent us an email.”

He was staring out of the window, his eyes following the progress of a slender woman in tuxedo trousers and a tailored coat. It was still raining, but she was wearing sunglasses. The effect was chic rather than pretentious, and I couldn't help but feel puffy and drab in comparison. “Mark!”

He shook himself. “Sorry. Miles away.”

“Carla says the Petits haven't shown up.”

Now I had his full attention. “What do you mean they haven't turned up?”

“She was waiting for them at our house and they haven't arrived yet. She sent the email just now. It's five hours after they should have arrived.”

“Maybe their flight was delayed.”

“For five hours?”

“Why not? Happens all the time. For all we know it could have been canceled. Or they could have missed it.”

“Without letting us know? That would be a bit thoughtless, wouldn't it?”

He shrugged. “They might have been trying. Your roaming isn't working, is it? And we know they're not exactly reliable. The apartment is nothing like they described. No wi-fi, for a start.”

I nodded, but other, darker explanations for their absence were beginning to form: a crash on the way to the airport, or en route to our house in their rental car. A hijacking. “It was today, right? We didn't get the date wrong?”

“It was definitely today.” He took another scalding sip of his coffee. “You know, I bet they don't even live in that apartment.”

“You mean it could be a second property or an investment apartment?”

“Yes. It doesn't feel lived in. Not like our house.”

“They didn't imply anything like that when you spoke to them, did they?”

“Nah. Although with all the Google translating, there probably were some misunderstandings.”

“Did they give you a cell number?”

“No, but they've got ours.”

“Send them an email. And ask them where the modem is while you're at it.”

I did as he suggested, writing something along the lines of,
Hey, just checking you're okay. We're in the apartment, could you let us know where the modem is, please. Please email me back when you get this. Thanx.

I kept the tone light, thinking that as pissed off as I was at the Petits for misrepresenting their place, I didn't want to cause any real friction.

“Another coffee?” Mark asked.

“Sure,” I said, aware that both of us were postponing leaving the warmth and anonymity of the Starbucks.
What did you do on your trip to Paris? Oh, you know, checked out the global franchises.

I replied to Carla, apologizing for the hassle. This time Mark returned from the counter with a
pain au chocolat
and a large croissant. We lapsed into silence once more. The rain was petering off, and a teasing sliver of blue sky had appeared in the far distance. I sipped at my latte, immediately regretting ordering it. If I wasn't careful, the caffeine jitters would tip over into a full-on panic attack. I dug my nails into my palms. As usual, the absence of my engagement ring on my left hand gave me a jolt. I've never been a jewelry person—always loathed the bullshit commercialization of the wedding industry—but I loved that ring: an emerald surrounded by a twinkle of delicate diamonds, set on a slender platinum band. I'd even refused to remove it when I was in the hospital giving birth to Hayden, and the nurse had eventually wrapped a piece of sterile tape around it. Mark's mother had given it to him just before she died—it had been her mother's. Was I so attached to it because Mark's first wife never possessed it—as if the heirloom somehow legitimized me; as if it symbolized that I wasn't the despised, weak second wife? It was an embarrassing rationalization that probably stemmed from reading too much Daphne du Maurier.

I forced myself to swallow a piece of croissant, hoping that it would distract my mind, now fixated on the ring, from wandering to places where it shouldn't go.

It didn't.

It's late. Mark and I are on the couch in the living room, an episode of
Homeland
on the TV. I'm drifting in and out of consciousness, trying to convince myself to get up and head to bed. Occasionally the baby monitor blips as Hayden giggles to herself in her sleep.

A bang. A scrape. “You hear that, Mark?”

“No.” He's also dropping off.

“We should probably think about—”

The door slams open, and three men, their faces hidden by balaclavas, burst into the room. Metal glints in their hands: knives—carving knives, like the kind neatly stored in the rack in the kitchen.

Neither of us screams, but we both leap to our feet. An instant of disbelief—this isn't happening—followed by a powerful surge of terror. “They're in the house, Mark,” I hear myself say, too late. Later I will think,
Pure fear really is ice cold.
Then,
Hayden, Hayden, I have to get to Hayden.

I manage a pathetic “Please—”

The shortest man barks, “Don't talk. Where is the safe?”

“There's no safe.”

“Where is the safe?”

“We don't have a safe.”

Mark doesn't speak. He feels so far away from me now he could be in another room.

Do what they say,
I think,
don't cause any trouble.
Another man leans in so close to me that I can smell the soap on his skin, the cigarettes on his breath. He roughly checks my ears for earrings, and then tugs at my left hand. What's he doing? Then I get it—he's trying to pull the ring off my finger. The knife in his other hand is serrated; I've heard stories of fingers being hacked off. I snatch my hand away, babble, “I'll do it.” I yank it off, bruising the knuckle, and hand it to him. I'm pathetically eager to please.
Don't rape me, don't hurt my daughter. Don't rape me, don't hurt my daughter. I will do whatever you want.

“Safe? Where is the safe?” the short one says again. He has the most confidence, is less jumpy than the others, and I decide he must be the leader. I can't look at his eyes.

“There is no safe,” I hear myself say. Still Mark doesn't speak.

“Safe? Where is the safe?” His voice is softer now, and I'm aware that his accent isn't South African.

“There is no safe.”

Silent communication passes between the three men.

“Sit.” The leader gestures at Mark. He does as he's told, abruptly, his face slack with shock.

“Come.” One of the men grabs my wrist, the rough scratch of his woolen glove setting my teeth on edge. He starts pulling me toward the door, a second man close behind him.

“No,” I whisper. I try to signal to Mark to do something—to stop them taking me away from him—but he doesn't move or even look in my direction.

The man in the front—he's skinny and seems young and nervous—tugs me forward like a dog, the one behind never more than a pace from my back. We're heading for the stairs, for Hayden, for the bedroom. Another flush of ice-cold panic, followed by a stark decision: if rape looks like it's on the agenda, or they try to hurt Hayden, then I will fight. I will fight to the death. Up the stairs we go, and I steel myself to twist away and lash out as Skinny opens Hayden's door. “Please,” I whine. He looks in, hesitates, then mercifully closes the door softly.

The worst is over. The relief is immense, even as they yank me toward my bedroom. Are they going to rape me now? Is this where it's going to happen?
Please don't wake up, Hayden. Please don't wake up, sweetheart.
One stays glued to my wrist while the other roots through the bedroom drawers, tossing underwear and socks onto the floor. I don't look at their eyes. Not once. Not ever. I study the chipped blue nail polish on my toes. Skinny murmurs something at his companion and he picks up my iPhone, expertly removes the SIM card, and slides the phone into his backpack. My MacBook follows, as does Mark's watch. I don't care. I just want this to be over.

We shuffle back down the stairs, one step at a time. I stumble and the man behind steadies me. I almost thank him. Stupid. Then follows a tedious twenty minutes as they dig through every drawer in the kitchen. I don't think about Mark or what the leader might be doing to him; my senses are all strained for any sign that Hayden is waking up. We dance back along the corridor past the dining room, and here's something curious: I realize I'm bored with it all.
Get it over with,
I want to scream. The rape, the stabbing, whatever is next.

My pair drag me into the living room, where Mark is still sitting on the couch in the same position, his face ashen.

“You okay?” he croaks.

I nod.

“Hayden?”

“Sleeping.”

“Up,” the leader says to Mark, who is so wobbly and uncoordinated by fear he has to push himself to his feet with his hands. We're shuffled back into the kitchen and into the pantry. There's a quick exchange among the three intruders in a language I don't understand.

“You stay here until the morning,” the leader says softly. He leaves, shutting the pantry door, and we're in darkness. Seconds later, the door flies open. He's testing us.

The door closes once more. There's no lock on it.

I'm shaking now; my mouth tastes like I've been drinking blood. We've got off lightly; we're not tied up, we haven't been blinded, tortured, raped. By South African standards, we're lucky.

Time passes. I can't bear it any longer. I press my ear against the door—have they gone?

“Should we—”

“Shh,” Mark says. “They'll hear you.”

“But we have to get to Hayden.”

“Shh,” he says again.

When I leave the pantry to run to my daughter, he stays behind.

“Steph?” Mark's voice snapped me out of reliving that night—the kind of thinking the police counselor had encouraged me to avoid. I was still fingering the empty space on my ring finger. He reached over to touch me, but I snatched my hand back. “We have to get you another one, Steph. Another ring.”