The leave of absence from her job—that seemed to be what infuriated him the most. The money, and the fact that she’d left without any guarantee her position would be there when she got back. He’d get over it. If they weren’t extravagant, they could manage on his salary for a while. She could always find another job.
She did feel bad about leaving Stephanie to cope with their father. Their mother had been dead over a year, and he still hadn’t recovered. Not that the marriage had been happy. On the contrary, his grief reminded Nicole of the old saying about it being easier to survive the loss of your best friend than the death of your worst enemy.
Despite her feelings of guilt, she’d felt compelled to accompany Brad to London. He would be gone the whole summer, his fourth trip in a year. Each time, he came back more distant. She worried that, after all this time apart, their problems might be irreversible.
After seven reasonably happy years of marriage, the chill between them puzzled her. Granted, they were two very different people. Nicole down to earth and practical, her energies focused on her small circle of friends and family. Aside from being an accomplished techy, Brad was something of a futuristic visionary with enough charisma to attract followers, people who believed in him. She’d always thought their differences were the reason they made such a great team. What had gone wrong?
She shivered, pushing the thought away, then kissed Brad on the side of the head and got up. She found a clean T-shirt among his things and pulled it on. The sleeves came almost to her elbows, the hem to mid thigh. She rolled up the sleeves, using her fingers to rearrange her hair. Only last Saturday, she’d had it trimmed and streaked with gold highlights to brighten up her natural color, a drab sparrow brown.
She moved closer to the mirror to study her face. At thirty-two, she still had no lines, no sign of crow’s feet. Today, in this unfamiliar setting, she looked different — faded somehow, like an overexposed photograph. Perhaps it was the light.
She rubbed her cheeks to bring back some color then turned from the mirror to trot downstairs and see what there was to eat. As agreed, the Lowrys had left enough food for the first day. Nicole had done the same at home. She pulled a loaf of bread and salad makings from the refrigerator, then she located a can of tuna in the cupboard. When lunch was ready, she covered it with paper towels. (No telling what sort of creatures might be running around in an old house like this.) Then she went back up to see if Brad was awake.
Finding him already up and dressed for the office, she felt a pang of disappointment. He was installed at a desk in a corner of the bedroom, talking on the phone while typing furiously on his laptop. This was something he prided himself on—the ability to do two, even three things at the same time. “He’d better get one thing straight,” he was saying. He paused a moment, absorbed in what he’d just written. Then, fingers flying over the keyboard again, he went on,“Britcomp isn’t in charge anymore. We are.”
She came up behind him and put her arms around his neck, her cheek against his. At her touch, he recoiled. This wasn’t a conscious gesture; he simply twitched and pulled away. It was enough to let her know he was talking to Brenda, his assistant. She’d arrived in London a week early to set things up.
The thought of Brenda made Nicole’s stomach knot. As she released Brad, she could almost hear Brenda’s little-girl voice at the other end of the line. Brenda was another reason Nicole had been so determined to come along.
She began to root through her remaining suitcase, trying to assess which of her carefully packed possessions had disappeared with the missing bag. Meanwhile, Brad said goodbye and hung up. He busied himself shutting down his laptop and putting it back in its case. This done, he reached into the closet for his blue sports coat.
“But I made lunch,” she protested. “You don’t have to leave this minute, do you?”
Instead of answering, he kissed her absentmindedly on the top of the head. Then he was clumping down the steps, two at a time. “I’ll be home early, around seven. Don’t bother about dinner,” he shouted up to her. “We’ll take Brenda to that Indian place Dennis told us about.” There was a brief silence before he added, “Take a nap or something.”
The front door slammed and she was alone.
Two
Despite her exhaustion, Nicole was too keyed up for a nap. Instead, she put on shorts and a T-shirt and set off for a jog around the park she’d noticed on the ride in. The people she encountered were mainly elderly, sitting idly on benches or doddering along the paths with rickety metal shopping carts and string shopping bags.
As she began jogging, her mind drifted back over the last few months and the enormous effort this trip had required. It wasn’t just a matter of preparing the condo for the occupation of strangers and figuring out what to pack. The hardest part had been the battle over whether she should come at all.
“Look. It’s not going to be much fun for you in London,” he’d said, in one of his more conciliatory moments. “Why not wait until next summer? Then we can both take off: go to Asia, backpack our way across India, see Tibet, the Himalayas.”
She replied that she couldn’t wait a year. Besides, he’d been talking about that same trip since college, and he was never going to get around to it. Sensing her resolve, he accused her of being headstrong and impulsive. It was a familiar charge, one he seemed to drag out every time they had a fight.
And it was true that Nicole, growing up, had a reputation for being impulsive. In family lore, several favorite stories illustrated this tendency, the most famous being the time she’d stopped on the shoulder of the Santa Monica Freeway to rescue a dog. She was sixteen at the time, newly licensed to drive.
Nicole’s parents were furious at the way she’d imperiled herself “for a stupid mutt.” They’d suspended her driving privileges for the entire summer, an eternity in her young life. Even so, the family kept the dog, a short-legged, red-haired creature who looked like a cross between an Irish Setter and a dachshund. For many years, Franny was their much beloved pet, a fact that gave Nicole great satisfaction. She’d never seen the decision to rescue the dog as rash—quite the contrary. She’d been certain, when she pulled onto the shoulder of the freeway, opened the car door, and called, “Here, doggy,” that the story would have a happy ending.
As her feet pounded along the path, she wondered once again why Brad so opposed her coming. “I have enough on my plate,” he’d said, “without having to worry about you.” This argument didn’t make sense when, on several previous assignments, he’d seemed genuinely disappointed that she couldn’t get time off work to come along. Now she wondered if his earlier protestations had been entirely sincere.
As she started around the park for the third time, sweat began dripping in her eyes, and she slowed to a walk. Pulling off the red kerchief she was wearing as a headband, she wiped her face. Only then did she notice she was the park’s only jogger, the only woman in shorts and (as far as she could see) the sole person under sixty. People were staring in a way that implied joggers weren’t an everyday sight on Turnham Green. Suddenly self-conscious, she strolled out of the park, still heading away from the house.
After another few minutes, she came to a large brick supermarket called Sainsbury’s. Inside, the smell of food was intoxicating: bread baking, chickens roasting. Cruising the fresh produce, she noticed tomatoes, melons, strawberries, peaches, and cellophane packs of lettuce bearing labels from countries like Spain, Portugal, Israel.
She had a sudden inspiration. They could go to that Indian restaurant any time. Tonight she’d make a nice dinner.
She’d brought along her credit card. The prices here seemed reasonable—that is, until she got to the checkstand and realized she was spending pounds, not dollars. But what difference did it make? Eating at home was bound to be less expensive than going to a restaurant.
As hostess, she reasoned, she’d be in charge. She could refuse to let Brad and Brenda dominate the evening with shop talk. They were always doing that, sh
utting her out of the conversation.
When she turned the corner and the Lowrys’ house came into view, she spotted a stranger emerge from the backyard. He headed purposefully up the front steps and appeared to be trying to look in the windows.
The man and his behavior alarmed her. Was this even the right street? She made a hasty detour into Mr. McGiever’s flowerbed, pretending to examine a scruffy outcropping of plants while she took another look. Yes, she decided, that was the Lowrys’ house. If this man was a door-to-door salesman, he was certainly aggressive about it. She considered the wisdom of waiting behind the hedge until he left.
Just then, a curtain parted in the window nearby, and Mr. McGiever peered out. She felt exposed, caught in the act of trampling his garden. But she wasn’t about to walk up to his door and ask for help. That would be more trouble than it was worth. She could handle this herself. After readjusting her load of groceries, she walked on.
As she reached the Lowrys’ gate, the man hurried forward to open it, and she noticed he looked a little like Brad. The two had the same general coloring, only this man was taller, more muscular. And, while Brad had a tendency to slouch, there was something about the way this man stood, the set of his shoulders. He was, in fact, much better looking than Brad, with almond-shaped eyes that reminded her of the actor who starred in the old movie, American Gigolo, a particular favorite of hers.
His gaze was admiring and, at the same time, unsettling. It made her aware of the wind whipping her T-shirt around and of her bare legs, the inappropriateness of her skimpy white shorts in this sedate London neighborhood. On her outing, the only other female she’d seen with legs on display had been a girl in a leather miniskirt. She’d been no more than eighteen, skinny as a stick.
He was holding the gate open. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped into the yard. Then, as the gate clanged behind her, she remembered the way he’d been snooping around. She noticed that the street looked empty, the windows of the houses dark and unyielding. Next door, where Mr. McGiever had been peeking out only a minute ago, the place appeared deserted.
She thought of the self defense class she’d taken and its cardinal rule: “When approached by a stranger, no matter how respectable he looks, prepare to defend yourself.” The stance came back to her—hands ready to push against an assailant’s chest, knee poised for a quick jab to the groin.
But that was ridiculous. She never doubted her ability to take care of herself, even in a place like L.A. And this was London, the most civilized city in the world. No one would attempt robbery, rape, or mayhem on a quiet, residential street, certainly not in broad daylight. Besides, this man appeared to be as solid as the Bank of England. Her memory flickered. Was there really a Bank of England; if so, was it still in business?
Meeting his glance, she felt her cheeks flush. Get a grip, she told herself. Then, aloud, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Frederick Lowry,” the man said in clear, BBC English. “I need to get in touch with him rather urgently.”
“I’m afraid he’s away. Out of the country.” The words were out before she had time to consider whether this was something she should be telling a stranger.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Again, she hesitated. But what harm would it do to tell him? “After Labor Day,” she said. Then, remembering this was England, she added, “The third or fourth of September.”
“That’s a bit inconvenient,” he said. “Isn’t there any way to get in touch with him? A telephone number?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really don’t know where he is right now.” This was a lie. On their way to L.A., Muriel had said they were stopping off in Dallas for two days to visit family. In the interim, Nicole’s sister was watching the condo, watering the plants, and feeding the dog.
As his smile dimmed, it occurred to her that he might be a policeman. But no, she decided, his jacket was too expensive, and that gold watch he was wearing was a Rolex. Brad had a fondness for designer knock-offs, and she knew such things could be faked. This one looked real enough.
“Mr. Lowry and I have a small business venture together,” he said. “I can assure you he’ll be most anxious to hear what I have to tell him.”
If that’s so, she thought, why didn’t he tell you he was leaving the country? Then, aloud, “All right. If he happens to call, I’ll tell him you want to speak to him.”
“I wonder if I could persuade you to contact him.”
She felt weary and out of patience. “Listen,” she said, “I already told you…” She stopped and made an effort to be polite. “I haven’t any idea where he is. His wife said they wouldn’t be using a mobile on this trip, so I can’t reach them by phone. Why don’t you give me your number? If they happen to call, I’ll pass it on.”
He studied her a moment, his expression doubtful. “Just tell him Reinhardt said to get in touch,” he said. “He has the number.” For the first time, he seemed to notice the load of groceries in her arms. “I say, that shopping looks heavy, and I’ve kept you standing there. Please allow me…” He moved forward, as if to take them.
At that moment, an alarm went off in her head. She thought of the appalling incident in the condo down the hall from theirs, the brutal rape of a young woman. The assailant had been wearing a business suit, a respectable-looking stranger who’d offered to help carry the woman’s groceries. The crime had inspired the residents association to offer the self-defense class. Until then, Nicole had felt invulnerable, removed from the city’s violent nature, immune to the car jackings, ATM robberies, muggings and parking-structure stabbings, the drive-by shootings and freeway snipers. For the first time, a self-defense class had seemed like a good idea.
“No thanks,” she said, gripping the bags tighter and taking a step back to let him pass. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of help.”
For a moment, he didn’t move; as he stared at her, she could see he wasn’t used to being dismissed. His expression darkened, and she noticed a feral cast to his eyes, the look of a predator. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he said stiffly. He started for the gate, then turned back to add, “Good day.”
She watched him walk across the street toward a small black sports car and waited for him to get in. Then she set her bags down and unlocked the front door.
She was in the kitchen, unloading her groceries when she suddenly remembered seeing him come out of the backyard. She went to the back door and inspected it. Her knees went weak when she saw that it wasn’t locked. She told herself that she must have forgotten to relock it earlier, when she was exploring the garden.
After securing the lock, she walked back to the front door and peered through the small, eye-level window. He was still out there, sitting in his car. She couldn’t tell what he was doing, but he didn’t seem to be looking at the house.
She wondered, suddenly, why this man was so desperate to find Lowry when he’d only just left the country. This troubled her, raising questions about the family she’d trusted with their condo. When Brad first told her about Lowry, he said he’d run into him in his company’s London office.
Pressed for details, he said, “I don’t think he actually works there. He’s a consultant or something. Tell you what. I’ll call over there and ask about him.”
“Never mind,” she said. At the time, a good two months before their departure, it hadn’t mattered that much. Now, after her little talk with Reinhardt, she began to wonder. Was Lowry a deadbeat a step ahead of his creditors?
For a moment, she was tempted to call Brad. Yet she knew this was a bad idea. He’d say he had enough on his mind without having to worry about his wife at loose ends in Chiswick, having hysterics.
And really, what was there to be so rattled about? The man had been nothing less than polite. When she wanted him to leave, he’d left, without making trouble. So what if he was out there, sitting in his parked car? It wasn’t against the law.
Still, she couldn’t shake the
thought of him, the way he’d looked at her. She stepped over to the hall mirror to inspect herself, running her fingers through the mess the wind had made of her hair. She grimaced a smile and two dimples appeared. Those dimples were the problem, she thought—the reason people were always assuming she was a sweet little thing when she had no intention of being sweet at all.
Perhaps that was what had happened out there. The sinister look on his face had been nothing more than astonishment at being dismissed by this “sweet little thing.”
Perhaps he really was Lowry’s business partner and the two had a falling out. Or, more likely, Lowry owed him money. Reinhardt might even be a process server or a repo man—even if he didn’t look the part.
As she began to put away the groceries, she remembered that she did have a way to reach the Lowrys. In her last message, Mrs. Lowry had mentioned they wouldn’t be using their mobile phone because it wouldn’t work in the States. Instead, she’d given Nicole the number of the relatives in Dallas. Nicole had printed out the message and put it in a folder with their trip information. On her way upstairs, she peeked out again. The black car was gone.
The folder was in a zippered side compartment of her one remaining suitcase. After locating the number and figuring out the codes for an international call, she heard it ring at the other end of the line.
A woman’s voice, heavy with a Texas drawl, came on. “Hello. This is Jeannie Bennett. We aren’t around right now. Please leave a message, and we’ll give you a ring when we get home. You all have a good day, now.” At the end of each sentence, her voice went up, as if she were asking a question.
Nicole explained that someone named Reinhardt had dropped by and wanted Mr. Lowry to call him. She said he seemed to think it was important. (Somehow she hesitated to use the word urgent. After all, these people were on vacation.) As soon as she hung up, it struck her that the woman had said her name was Bennett, not Lowry. She began to wonder if she’d reached the right number.
The Swap Page 2
