The Paris Apartment
Lucy Foley
Prologue
Ben
Friday
His fingers hover over the keyboard. Got to get it all down. This: this is the story that’s going to make his name. Ben lights another cigarette, a Gitane. Bit of a cliché to smoke them here but he does actually like the taste. And fine, yeah, likes the way he looks smoking them too.
He’s sitting in front of the apartment’s long windows, which look onto the central courtyard. Everything out there is steeped in darkness, save for the weak greenish glow thrown by a single lamp. It’s a beautiful building, but there’s something rotten at its heart. Now he’s discovered it he can smell the stench of it everywhere.
He should be clearing out of here soon. He’s outstayed his welcome in this place. Jess could hardly have chosen a worse time to decide to come and stay. She barely gave him any notice. And she didn’t give much detail on the phone but clearly something’s up; something wrong with whatever crappy bar job she’s working now. His half sister has a knack for turning up when she’s not wanted. She’s like a homing beacon for trouble: it seems to follow her around. She’s never been good at just playing the game. Never understood how much easier it makes life if you just give people what they want, tell them what they want to hear. Admittedly, he did tell her to come and stay “whenever you like,” but he didn’t really mean it. Trust Jess to take him at his word.
When was the last time he saw her? Thinking about her always makes him feel guilty. Should he have been there for her more, looked out for her . . . ? She’s fragile, Jess. Or—not fragile exactly, but vulnerable in a way people probably don’t see at first. An “armadillo”: softness beneath that tough exterior.
Anyway. He should call her, give her some directions. When her phone rings out he leaves a voicenote: “Hey Jess, so it’s number twelve, Rue des Amants. Got that? Third floor.”
His eye’s drawn to a flash of movement in the courtyard beneath the windows. Someone’s passing through it quickly. Almost running. He can only make out a shadowy figure, can’t see who it is. But something about the speed seems odd. He’s hit with a little animal spike of adrenaline.
He remembers he’s still recording the voicenote, drags his gaze from the window. “Just ring the buzzer. I’ll be up waiting for you—”
He stops speaking. Hesitates, listens.
A noise.
The sound of footsteps out on the landing . . . approaching the apartment door.
The footsteps stop. Someone is there, just outside. He waits for a knock. None comes. Silence. But a weighted silence, like a held breath.
Odd.
And then another sound. He stands still, ears pricked, listening intently. There it is again. It’s metal on metal, the scrape of a key. Then the clunk of it entering the mechanism. He watches the lock turn. Someone is unlocking his door from the outside. Someone who has a key, but no business coming in here uninvited.
The handle begins to move downward. The door begins to open, with that familiar drawn-out groan.
He puts his phone down on the kitchen counter, voicenote forgotten. Waits and watches dumbly as the door swings forward. As the figure steps into the room.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. Calm, reasonable. Nothing to hide. Not afraid. Or not yet. “And why—”
Then he sees what his intruder holds.
Now. Now the fear comes.
Three Hours Later
Jess
For Christ’s sake, Ben. Answer your phone. I’m freezing my tits off out here. My Eurostar was two hours late leaving London; I should have arrived at ten-thirty but it’s just gone midnight. And it’s cold tonight, even colder here in Paris than it was in London. It’s only the end of October but my breath smokes in the air and my toes are numb in my boots. Crazy to think there was a heatwave only a few weeks ago. I need a proper coat. But there’s always been a lot of things I need that I’m never going to get.
I’ve probably called Ben ten times now: as my Eurostar pulled in, on the half hour walk here from Gare du Nord. No answer. And he hasn't replied to any of my texts. Thanks for nothing, big bro.
He said he’d be here to let me in. “Just ring the buzzer. I’ll be up waiting for you—”
Well, I’m here. Here being a dimly lit, cobblestoned cul-de-sac in what appears to be a seriously posh neighborhood. The apartment building in front of me closes off this end, standing all on its own.
I glance back down the empty street. Beside a parked car, about twenty feet away, I think I see the shadows shift. I step to the side, to try and get a better look. There’s . . . I squint, trying to make out the shape. I could swear there’s someone there, crouched behind the car.
I jump as a siren blares a few streets away, loud in the silence. Listen as the sound fades away into the night. It’s different from the ones at home—“nee-naw, nee-naw,” like a child’s impression—but it still makes my heart beat a little faster.
I glance back at the shadowy area behind the parked car. Now I can’t make out any movement, can’t even see the shape I thought I glimpsed before. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, after all.
I look back up at the building. The others on this street are beautiful, but this one knocks spots off them all. It’s set back from the road behind a big gate with a high wall on either side, concealing what must be some sort of garden or courtyard. Five or six stories, huge windows, all with wrought-iron balconies. A big sprawl of ivy growing all over the front of it which looks like a creeping dark stain. If I crane my neck I can see what might be a roof garden on the top, the spiky shapes of the trees and shrubs black cut-outs against the night sky.
I double-check the address. Number twelve, Rue des Amants. I’ve definitely got it right. I still can’t quite believe this swanky apartment building is where Ben’s been living. He said a mate helped sort him out with it, someone he knew from his student days. But then Ben’s always managed to fall on his feet. I suppose it only makes sense that he’s charmed his way into a place like this. And charm must have done it. I know journalists probably earn more than bartenders, but not by this much.