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, shutting 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.
Her shoulders and legs had started to ache. She decided that this, like her anxiety, was a symptom of jet lag. Even so, she was determined to start dinner.
She trudged back downstairs and seasoned the free-range chicken with garlic and fresh herbs. Then she cut up vegetables—onions, potatoes, carrots, and some miniature ears of corn she’d found at Sainsbury’s. They were the sort that only came canned and packed in brine at home. But these were fresh, imported from Thailand.
She put the chicken and vegetables in a bright-orange enameled casserole and slid it into the oven then studied the temperature control. Whatever numbers had once surrounded the dial were now too faded to read. After a moment’s consternation, she twisted it to the left and waited for the burner to ignite. Then she turned the temperature down about a third of the way, to a point she guessed should be about 350 degrees. She set the table and made a salad. When she was done straightening the kitchen, she decided to do the sensible thing and take a nap.
Her travel alarm went off with a rasping buzz, and she sat up with a start. For a long, panicky moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Outside it was daylight, and her travel alarm—gold, with BABY BEN painted on its face in curly letters—said 6:00. Then she remembered. She was in London. She’d set the alarm to go off in an hour so she could check on dinner and get dressed.
She took another look at the clock. Brad would probably arrive around 7:00 with Brenda in tow. She perched at the edge of the bed, stretching, trying to shake the thick fog that filled her head. It felt like 3:00 in the morning. She did a quick calculation. Since L.A. was eight hours earlier, that meant it was 10:00 a.m. Except for her hour-long nap, she’d been up all night. No wonder she felt so groggy.
Forcing herself up, she pulled a green knit dress from the suitcase and put it on a hanger. In the bathroom, she hung her dress on the shower curtain rod and turned on the hot water to steam out the wrinkles.
She ran downstairs for a peek at the chicken. It hadn’t begun to brown. The oven was barely warm. She turned the dial to what appeared to be the highest temperature.
When she got back to the bathroom, she discovered that a shower was out of the question. The “shower bath” Mrs. Lowry had mentioned consisted of a hand-held rubber hose with a nozzle. Even turned up full blast, it leaked rather than sprayed.
She settled for a bath, which turned out to be exactly what she needed. As she relaxed into it, she let go of her anxieties and considered the three months ahead, the opportunity to live in London. One of the things that had drawn her to the swap had been the chance to see how people lived in a foreign country. She imagined herself rethinking all her old assumptions from the ground up. The visit to Sainsbury’s had confirmed this—the array of unfamiliar household products, bins of bulk candy in dazzling variety, exotic fruits and vegetables, some prepackaged like cuts of meat.
The nitty gritty of daily life was just one aspect of the discoveries to be made. Above all, London was famous for its cultural life—theaters, museums, bookstores. As she considered all of this, she found herself wondering if three months would be enough.
She must have dozed off for a moment, for she was startled awake by the creaking of floorboards, the sound of someone creeping up the stairs.
“Brad?” she called. “Is that you?” The creaking stopped but there was no response. Then she remembered the tenant and called out, “Is someone there?’ As the words left her mouth, she recalled Mrs. Lowry mentioning that the tenant always used the back stairs, which led directly to the rented room. The sounds she’d just heard had come from the front of the house.
As she raised herself out of the bath water and reached for the towel, she heard several clicks, as if someone was trying to open the bathroom door. She froze, heart pounding wildly and cursed herself for not locking the door. Only then did she notice that there was no key in the lock.
The noise stopped. She waited, holding her breath, listening intently, but the house remained still. After what seemed like a long time, several minutes perhaps, she got out of the tub, wrapped herself in the towel, and slowly crept to the door. As quietly as she could, she turned the knob. It was locked.
Then she heard sounds down the hall. Someone was walking around in the bedroom. She tiptoed to the window and looked down at the yard. It was too far to jump.
She thought of Reinhardt, the man on the porch, and felt chilled. But if he was going to rape and murder her, why would he lock her in the bathroom while he rummaged through the house? One by one, possibilities occurred to her, none of them reassuring.
Looking around for something to protect herself, she spotted a metal towel bar next to the sink. She tugged and pulled, struggling to wrench it from its brackets, but it was solidly attached. Finally, she reached under the sink and pulled out an ancient blow dryer that felt pathetically light in her hand.
She flattened herself against the wall by the door so she’d be behind it when it opened. After an interminable wait, the footsteps started toward the bathroom again. She stood, gripping the hair dryer, not daring to breathe. As the sounds got louder, it was hard to separate them from the pounding of her heart.
Then the noise grew fainter. The intruder had passed the bathroom and was now running lightly down the stairs. In the distance, she heard a door close, then silence.
She tried the door again, then rattled the knob and yanked it hard. She’d just begun to beat on it when she could hear the distinctive chime of her cell phone. She knew immediately who it was. Brad was calling to say he’d be late. Damn it, he was out there somewhere with Brenda. She counted while the phone chimed a dozen times, then stopped.
That was when she smelled it—smoke. Her heart began to thump in her throat. Stepping back from the door, she could see a wispy veil of smoke leaking under the door.
She hurried to the window and tried to open it, but it was stuck. As she struggled with it, she saw that it was painted shut. Looking around for something to pry the window open, she noticed something else. The smoke smelled a lot less like a house on fire than barbecued chicken. Only then did she realize it wasn’t the house that was burning. It was the casserole she’d left in the oven, the chicken and the tiny ears of corn.
As the phone started up again, Nicole put every ounce of her strength into beating on the door. Once in a while, she made a run at it, slamming into it with her shoulder. But the only damage she managed to inflict was to herself.
She pounded on the door until her fists ached and tears of frustration ran down her face. But it was useless. There was no one to hear.