The Apartment (2 page)

The dog settles down, and I don't hear anything else, the outside beams don't trip, so I finally go back up to bed. Steph's lying on her back, staring at the ceiling in a resigned way.

I remain standing on the carpet next to the bed. “I should really bypass the study, but it'd be easy for them to get in there through the leaded window.”

“Yes, better leave it armed.”

“But then I can't see outside.”

“The beams would pick up anything.”

“I suppose.” I put my phone back on the nightstand. “You've got to love our midnight conversations. Our sweet nothings.” She doesn't say anything, certainly doesn't laugh, but why should she? I glance at the red numbers on our bedside clock. “Try to get some sleep. It's too early to give up.”

“What about you?”

I don't tell her that I think one of us should always stay awake, in case they come back, that I shouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place. That wouldn't be helpful. “I'll just decompress a bit, join you in a little while.”

“I hate this place sometimes, you know.”

“I know.”

“Can't you even consider the trip? Don't you think it would be nice?”

“It just doesn't seem possible. It's a luxury we can't afford.”

Steph sits up, her pillows rubbing against the headboard, making a low groan. “I'm thinking it's not a luxury; I'm thinking that it's a necessity. I think it would help. You particularly.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Now she laughs, but it's a dry laugh. “I reckon getting away would give you some perspective, some peace. Who knows? It might even make you happy.”

I'm not comfortable getting into this discussion while I stand above her like some authority, so I sit at the foot of the bed, facing away from her, looking at a piece of her through the dresser mirror. “Even if we could pay for it, I wouldn't want it to be because you think I'm ailing. I don't want to be some hospital case, forcing you to make sacrifices, spending money we don't have just so that I feel better, so that I don't have a mental breakdown. I'm not going to. I'm fine. I'm managing.”

Steph doesn't even bother to agree or disagree with my self-diagnosis; she knows me too well. “I've been thinking a lot and I'm sure Hayden would be fine. She's been sleeping much better. Carla says you can rent pushchairs and everything. Kids in Paris all go around in prams. Imagine strolling through the parks like a French family.”

I know it would never work, but I watch her dreamy, unguarded smile in the mirror and remember this time not to burst her bubble. The trip's not going to happen—it's just a fantasy, one that's getting her to smile again—so I may as well indulge her.

I should have made more of a stink when Mark told me Carla had invited herself to dinner that night. He offered to put her off—he knew the only people I could cope with after the break-in were my parents—but I thought we might as well get it over and done with. And it was about time I faced the outside world. My friends had tried to rally round, but I was sick to death of hearing, “Well, at least Hayden slept through it and you weren't raped,” and other fucked-up platitudes. Mark begged me not to fuss, but as usual, I spent far too long preparing for that meal. Scrubbing the house like a neurotic 1950s hostess, splurging on top-quality ingredients that we couldn't afford. I did it every time Carla came over.

Carla intimidated me. There, I've said it. A published poet and academic, she was everything I'm not: confident, chic, charismatic, and whipcord thin. Privately, I thought her writing self-indulgent and unreadable, but it had garnered her several local and international awards, whereas my publishing credits back then amounted to a couple of unpaid book reviews on an insignificant literary website. Like a lot of liberals of her generation, she wore her impeccable Struggle credentials on her sleeve, dropping anecdotes about being detained by the security police into conversation whenever she had a chance (although it's hard to find a middle-aged white person these days, apart from my parents, who admits to just sitting back during apartheid). And of course she and Mark had a history together, one that preceded me; one that excluded me. He denied they'd ever had a fling, but I don't know what to believe anymore.

I'm not being fair. I might not have liked Carla, but she wasn't all bad. She'd been kind to us during Hayden's colicky infancy, when Mark and I were fragile and fractious after months of ruined sleep. She would pop in to check on us and deliver lentil moussakas once a week. We never ate them; they steadily filled the freezer, and for all I know they might still be there.

That night I dutifully served up the spatchcock chicken and baked potatoes, dolloped vastly expensive chocolate mousse into bowls, and smiled like a geisha, occasionally slipping off for some peace on the pretext of checking on Hayden. I went through the motions, tuning out while pretending to listen to the conversation, which was dominated by Carla and that man she'd brought along (it's funny, I can remember that night in detail, but I can't recall his name). But my attention was caught by the mention of a trip overseas: Carla's blithe suggestion that we get away for a while. Mark usually went along with what Carla said, mostly just to humor her, so when he shot her down I was pleased at first, but then…Paris.
Paris.

Into my mind flashed an image of Mark and me strolling down the Champs-Élysées, Hayden sleeping in Mark's arms, chic French people smiling at us fondly as we passed. I imagined us pausing for coffee and croissants, sitting under an umbrella at a charming corner café; I pictured us eating French onion soup and crêpes for supper in a quaint bistro. My mind filled with one cliché after another, but it wasn't just the lure of the destination. I was drawn to the idea of a house swap. Since the break-in, the atmosphere of our house had shifted somehow. It had become darker, as if sunlight could no longer find its way in. The hastily installed new security measures didn't help: the burglar bars cast fingerish shadows on the floor, and the alarm pipped every time someone opened a door, putting us permanently on edge. I suppose I thought that if someone else stayed in the house—someone who wasn't us—perhaps the bad vibes would be vanquished.

While Mark batted opinions about Jacob Zuma back and forth with Carla's boy toy, I slipped out to make coffee, surprised and dismayed when Carla followed me into the kitchen. I suspected she had an agenda. I was right. “Mark needs help,” she said the second we were out of earshot. “He must go and see someone. A therapist.” There was a note of accusation in her voice, as if I was the one stopping him. As if the whole thing was my fault. As if I'd got off lighter than he had that night, when objectively the opposite was true. I moved to the sink so that she couldn't see my face, and needlessly rinsed the French press. “You're strong, Steph,” Carla continued. “You're obviously coping well. Mark's vulnerable to PTSD. It hasn't been that long since Zoë…well, you know. A thing like this could spark off all kinds of latent trauma…” Yadda yadda yadda. I didn't reply, just spooned the coffee and concentrated on not letting her see my hands shaking.

After Carla left, it took me hours to fall asleep, only to be woken by Mark leaping out of bed at two thirty. This wasn't unusual. Since the invasion, the slightest sound—a moth batting against the bathroom light, the distant bark of a neighborhood dog—would jolt us awake. I waited numbly in the bedroom while he finished his patrol, my mouth dry as I imagined the worst—a gunshot, a blow to the head, the slam of footsteps heading for the bedroom door…I knew from experience that I wouldn't drop off again until it began to get light, so I waited until Mark was dozing, then picked up the cheap replacement laptop and headed for Hayden's room, the only place in the house I felt truly safe. As usual, the groans and creaks of the house cooling after a hot day sounded too much like the scratch of a screwdriver in a lock, or footsteps creeping along the corridor. No amount of convincing myself that Mark had double- and triple-checked the locks and alarm helped: the men who'd invaded our home had stained the house with their shadows. As I passed the bathroom, the towel draped over the open door formed itself into a figure with a cruel knife; the carelessly forgotten laundry basket at the top of the stairs was a hunchback waiting to spring. By the time I made it into the safety of Hayden's room my heart was jitterbugging.

She always slept askew—legs twisted across the bed, duvet kicked around her feet—and I carefully tucked her in before squeezing in next to her and balancing the laptop on my knees. Mark might be reluctant to get away, but I wasn't willing to let it go. He was right, we could never pay for it, but I couldn't see the harm in dreaming about it. There were scores of house swap sites—Carla's companion had been right about that at least. I chose one with a photo of an Alpine chalet on its home page and signed up for the thirty-day free trial. I had to put in three desired destinations in order of priority—“Be flexible!” the site's FAQs encouraged. I put in Paris, then Ireland (no need for a visa), and then the United States. We'd need a tourist visa for most of Europe, but it was Paris I was set on. The seed had been planted. As I uploaded the most flattering pics of our house from the ones we'd taken when we'd almost put it on the market the year before, I felt as if I was doing something illicit—like emailing a lover.

Next I typed in the kind of description I hoped would hook a potential Parisian house swapper.
Comfortable, historic house in sunny Cape Town!
“Historic” was an exaggeration, although our house was nestled on a street of mostly Victorian terraces. I added “secure” but then felt guilty and deleted it. To be fair, it wasn't really a lie. Dad had driven down from Montagu the morning after the break-in, armed with his welding torch and a pickup truck full of rebar, and our sash windows now sported heavy steel burglar bars. Mark had mumbled something about aesthetics, but he hadn't stopped Dad from turning the house into Alcatraz. He wouldn't have dared. He'd stayed out of Dad's way that day, avoiding the silent accusation hanging in the air:
You should have protected your family better, asshole.

Next, I googled flights. Air France was having a special in February as long as we booked within the next three days—all the pieces were slotting into place. I decided not to contact anyone on the house swap site right away. I'd leave it up to fate, wait to hear from them first. I slept for a blissfully deep hour until Hayden woke me at six.

Not wanting to risk a fight, I didn't tell Mark that morning that I'd signed up on the site. Another rough night had made him tetchy, and he left for work without saying much more than “Lock the gate behind me.” I gave Hayden her cereal, then sat her in front of Nickelodeon. I wasn't hungry, but I found myself retrieving the half-empty bowl of chocolate mousse from the fridge and spooning it into my mouth while I checked my emails. Two from the bank, advising us that we'd hit our credit limit again; nothing from the house swap site apart from a thank-you message for signing up.

Mom called, checking up on us as she did every morning, and after listening to her usual pleas to bring Hayden to stay with her for a few days, I told her about the house swap idea. She was immediately enthusiastic, mainly because she was desperate for us to get out of Cape Town, which she now thought of as a hostile, dangerous city. “And what does Mark think?”

“He's not keen. And we can't really afford it.” I tried not to dwell on the fact that if I'd bothered to find a job, then we probably
would
have the money.

“You must make him go. We can lend you the money for the flights, can't we, Jan?”

Dad mumbled gutturally in the background.

“I can't let you do that, Mom.” Their B and B was struggling—had been since they'd bought it two years before.

“We can find the money. It's about time Mark put you first, my girl.”

“It's been hard for all of us, Mom. He's doing his best.”

She murmured something I couldn't make out, but then she dropped the subject. She hated confrontation.

“How's business, Mom? Any bookings?”

“We have two Dutch people with us for a week. Gays.”

“Does Dad know they're gay?”

“
Ag,
Steffie. He's not completely stuck in the Dark Ages. And then we're empty until March.” She paused. “If you did go away, we could look after Hayden.”

“I'd take Hayden with us, Mom.”

“We'd love to have her. You know that.”

I let her continue to try to convince me while I googled “top ten things to do in Paris in February,” occasionally checking my Gmail. And that's when I saw the email from the house swap site:
Hey, Stef198, Petit08 has sent you a message! Click here to see more…
I wrapped up the call and opened the email:
Bonjour Stephanie et Mark! You are place looks nice! See ours we can come anytime you choose it
;)
à bientôt!!!! From Mal et Junie Petit.

I clicked on the link provided, which opened to the Petits' property page and a thumbnail portrait of a thirtyish couple crowded into the shot, selfie-style, sunglasses on their heads, a double dose of white teeth. They were an advertiser's dream: blond and happy. There were six photos of their apartment, taken mostly from the outside—the only interior shot showed a freestanding Victorian bath, a burgundy towel draped over its lip—along with a succinct description: “Stylish luxurious place in fantastic location for City of Love!!! Sleeps 2 or three personnes.” The building looked weathered and elegant and typically French, with a large solid wooden door and narrow windows fringed with curlicued metal balustrades. There were no reviews, but so what? We didn't have any reviews either. Perhaps they were first-time house swappers like us.

I didn't hesitate.
Bonjour!
I typed in.
It's lovely to meet you!