There. Finally I spot the little orange glow of another light switch. I press it, the lights hum back on.
I turn to find the door. That’s odd, I thought I left it open. It must have swung shut behind me. I turn the handle. But nothing happens when I pull. The door won’t budge. What the hell? That can’t be right. I try it again: nothing. And then again, putting everything into it, throwing all my weight against it.
Someone’s locked me in. It’s the only explanation.
Concierge
Afternoon and already the light seems to be fading, the shadows growing deeper. A rap on the door of my cabin. My first thought is that it’s him, Benjamin Daniels. The only one who would deign to call on me here. I think of the first time he knocked on my door, taking me by surprise:
“Bonjour Madame. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m moving in on the third floor. I suppose that makes us neighbors!” I assumed, at first, that he was mocking me, but his polite smile said otherwise. Surely he had to know there was no world in which we were neighbors? Still, it made an impression.
The knock comes again. This time I hear the authority in it. I realize my mistake. Of course it isn’t him . . . that would be impossible.
When I open the door, there she stands on the other side: Sophie Meunier. Madame to me. In all her finery: the elegant beige coat, the shining black handbag, the gleaming black helmet of her hair, the silk knot of her scarf. She’s part of the tribe of women you see walking the smarter streets of this city, with shopping bags over their arms made from stiff card with gilded writing, full of designer clothes and expensive objets. A little pedigree dog at the end of a lead. The wealthy husbands with their cinq-à-sept affairs, the grand apartments and white, shuttered holiday homes on the Île de Ré. Born here, bred here, from old French money—or at least so they would like you to believe. Nothing gaudy. Nothing nouveau. All elegant simplicity and quality and heritage.
“Oui Madame?” I ask.
She takes a step back from the doorway, as though she cannot bear to be too close to my home, as though the poverty of it might somehow infect her.
“The girl,” she says simply. She does not use my name, she has never used my name, I am not even sure she knows it. “The one who arrived last night—the one staying in the third-floor apartment.”
“Oui Madame?”
“I want you to watch her. I want you to tell me when she leaves, when she comes back. I want to know if she has any visitors. It is extremely important. Comprenez-vous?” Understand?
“Oui Madame.”
“Good.” She is not much taller than I am but somehow she manages to look down at me, as though from a great height. Then she turns and walks away as quickly as possible, the little silver dog trotting at her heels.
I watch her go. Then I go to my tiny bureau and open the drawer. Look inside, check the contents.
She may look down upon me but the knowledge I have gives me power. And I think she knows this. I suspect, even though she would never think to admit it, that Madame Meunier is a little afraid of me.
Funny thing: we share more than meets the eye. Both of us have lived in this building for a long time. Both of us, in our own way, have become invisible. Part of the scenery.
But I know just what sort of woman Madame Sophie Meunier really is. And exactly what she is capable of.
Jess
“Hello?” I shout. “Can anyone hear me?”
I can feel the walls swallowing the sound, feel how useless it is. I shove at the door with all my strength, hoping the weight of my body might break the lock. Nothing: I might as well be ramming myself against a concrete wall. Panicking now, I pummel the wood.
Shit. Shit.
“Hey!” I shout, desperately now. “HEY! HELP ME!”
The last two words. A sudden flashback to another room. Shouting at the top of my lungs, shouting until my voice went hoarse, but it never felt loud enough . . . there was no one coming. Help me help me help me someone help she’s not . . .
My whole body is trembling.
And then suddenly the door is opening and a light flashes on. A man stands there. I take a step back. It’s Antoine, the guy I just watched casually smashing a bottle against a side table—
No . . . I can see now that I’m wrong. It was the height, maybe, and the breadth of the shoulders. But this guy is younger and in the weak light I can see that his hair is lighter, a dark golden color.
“Ça va?” he asks. Then, in English: “Are you OK? I came down to get my laundry and I heard—”
“You’re British!” I blurt. As British as the Queen, in fact: a proper, plummy, posh-boy accent. A little like the one Ben adopted after he went to live with his new parents.
He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for some kind of explanation. “Someone locked me in here,” I say. I feel shivery now that the adrenaline’s wearing off. “Someone did this on purpose.”
He pushes a hand through his hair, frowns. “I don’t think so. The door was jammed when I opened it. The handle definitely seems a bit sticky.”
I think of how hard I threw myself against it. Could it really just have been stuck? “Well, thanks,” I say weakly.
“No worries.” He steps back and looks at me. “What are you doing here? Not in the cave, I mean: in the apartment?”
“You know Ben, on the third floor? I’m meant to be staying with him—”
He frowns. “Ben didn’t tell me he had anyone coming to stay.”
“Well it was kind of last minute,” I say. “So . . . you know Ben?”
“Yeah. He’s an old friend. And you are?”
“I’m Jess,” I say. “Jess Hadley, his sister.”
“I’m Nick.” A shrug. “I—well, I’m the one who suggested he come and live here.”
Nick
I suggested Jess come up to my place, rather than us chatting in the chilly darkness of the cave. I’m slightly regretting it now: I’ve offered her a seat but she’s pacing the room, looking at my Peloton bike, my bookcases. The knees of her jeans are worn, the cuffs of her sweater frayed, her fingernails bitten down to fragments like tiny pieces of broken shell. She gives off this jittery, restless energy: nothing like Ben’s languor, his easy manner. Her voice is different too; no private school for her, I’m guessing. But then Ben’s accent often changed depending on who he was speaking to. It took me a while to realize that.
“Hey,” she says, suddenly. “Can I go splash some water on my face? I’m really sweaty.”
“Be my guest.” What else can I say?
She wanders back in a couple of minutes later. I catch a gust of Annick Goutal Eau de Monsieur; either she wears it too (which seems unlikely) or she helped herself when she was in there.
“Better?” I ask.
“Yeah, much, thanks. Hey, I like your rain shower. That’s what you call it, right?”
I continue to watch her as she looks around the room. There’s a resemblance there. From certain angles it’s almost uncanny. . . . But her coloring’s different from Ben’s, her hair a dark auburn to his brown, her frame small and wiry. That, and the curious way she’s prowling around, sizing the place up, makes me think of a little fox.