The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley Read Free Book Online Page B

Francoise Sagan novel, wearing a big man’s
     shirt.
    She leaned forward, still watching the guy getting his cases out of the car. “Oh my God, Mimi! He has a cat. How cute . Can you see it? Look, in that carry basket. Salut minou! ”
    She did it on purpose, so he would look up and see us—see her. Which he did.
    â€œHey,” she called, standing up and waving so hard that her nénés bounced around in her bikini top like they were trying to escape. “ Bienvenue— welcome! I’m Camille. And this is Merveille. Cute pussy!”
    I was so embarrassed. She knew exactly what she was saying, it’s the same slang in French: chatte . Also, I hate that my full name is Merveille. No one calls me that. I’m Mimi. My mum gave me that name because it means “wonder”
     and she said that’s what my arrival into her life was: this unexpected but wonderful thing. But it’s also completely mortifying.
    I sank down behind my book, but not so much that I couldn’t still see him over the top of it.
    The guy shielded his eyes. “Thanks!” he called. He put up a hand, waved back. As he did I saw again that strip of skinbetween his T-shirt and jeans. “I’m Ben—friend of Nick’s? I’m moving into the third floor.”
    Camille turned to me. “Well,” she said, in an undertone. “I feel like this place has just got a lot more exciting.” She grinned. “Maybe I should introduce myself to him properly. Offer to look after the pussy if he goes away.”
    I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s fucking him in a week’s time, I thought to myself. It would hardly be a surprise. The surprising
     thing was how much I hated the thought of it.
    Â 
    Someone’s knocking on the door to my apartment.
    I creep down the hall, look through the peephole. Merde : it’s her: the woman from Ben’s apartment.
    I swallow—or try to. It feels like my tongue is stuck in my throat.
    It’s hard to think with this roaring in my ears. I know I don’t have to open the door. This is my apartment, my space. But
     the knock knock knock is incessant, beating against my skull until I feel like something in me is going to explode.
    I grit my teeth and open the door, take a step back. The shock of her face, close up: I see him in her features, straightaway.
     But she’s small and her eyes are darker and there’s something, I don’t know, hungry about her which maybe was in him too but
     he hid it better. It’s like with her all the angles are sharper. With him it was all smoothness. She’s scruffy, too: jeans
     and an old sweater with frayed cuffs, dark red hair scragged up on top of her head. That’s not like him either. Even in a
     gray T-shirt on a hot day he looked kind of . . . pulled-together, you know? Like everything fit him just right.
    â€œHi,’ she says. She smiles but it’s not a real smile. “I’m Jess. What’s your name?”
    â€œM—Mimi.” My voice comes out as a rasp.
    â€œMy brother—Ben—lives on the third floor. But he’s . . . well, he’s kind of disappeared on me. Do you know him at all?”
    For a crazy moment I think about pretending I don’t speak English. But that’s stupid.
    I shake my head. “No. I didn’t know him—don’t, I mean. My English, sorry, it’s not so good.”
    I can feel her looking past me, like she’s trying to see her way into my apartment. I move sideways, try to block her view.
     So instead she looks at me, like she’s trying to see into me : and that’s worse.
    â€œThis is your apartment?” she asks.
    â€œ Oui .”
    â€œWow.” She widens her eyes. “Nice work if you can get it. And it’s just you in here?”
    â€œMy flatmate Camille and me.”
    She’s trying to peer into the apartment again, looking over my shoulder.