I suppose I could have gone and stopped her. Should have done. But confrontation is not my style. I have learned that watching is the more powerful weapon. And it had a feeling of inevitability, her being here. I could see her determination. She would somehow have found her way in, no matter what I did to try and prevent her.
Stupid girl. It would have been far, far better if she’d turned and left this place and never returned. But it’s too late now. So be it.
Jess
My heart is beating double-time, my muscles tensed.
I look down at the cat as it weaves its way between my legs, purring, a blur of movement. Slinky, black, a white ruff. I put a hand down the back of my top. My fingers come away with a sheen of blood. Ouch.
The cat must have jumped onto my back from the counter next to the door, digging its claws in for grip when I fell forward. It looks up at me now through narrowed green eyes and gives a squawk, as though asking me what the hell I think I’m doing here.
A cat! Jesus Christ. I start laughing and then stop, quickly, because of the strange way the sound echoes around the high space.
I didn’t know Ben had a cat. Does he even like cats? It suddenly seems crazy that I don’t know this. But I suppose there’s not all that much I do know about his life here.
“Ben?” I call out. Again the sound of my voice bounces back at me. No answer. I don’t think I expected one: it feels too silent, too empty. There’s a strange smell, too. Something chemical.
I suddenly really need a drink. I wander into the little kitchen area to my right and start raiding the cupboards. First things first. I come up with half a bottle of red wine. I’d prefer something with more of a kick, but beggars can’t be choosers and that might as well be the motto for my whole bloody life. I slosh some into a glass. There’s a pack of cigarettes on the side too, a bright blue box: Gitanes. I didn’t know Ben still smoked. Typical of him to favor some fancy French brand. I fish one out, light up, inhale, and cough like I did the first time a fellow foster kid gave me a drag: it’s strong, spicy, unfiltered. I’m not sure I like it. Still, I push the rest of the pack into the back pocket of my jeans—he owes me—and take my first proper look around the place.
I’m . . . surprised, to say the least. I’m not sure what I imagined, but this isn’t it. Ben’s a bit creative, a bit cool （not that I’d ever describe him that way to his face）， and in contrast this whole apartment is covered in antique-looking old-lady wallpaper, silvery with a floral pattern. When I put out a hand and touch the nearest wall I realize it’s not paper after all: it’s a very faded silk. I see brighter spots where there were clearly once pictures hanging, small rusty age spots on the fabric. From the high ceiling hangs a chandelier, curls of metal holding the bulbs. A long strand of cobweb swings lazily back and forth—there must be a breeze coming from somewhere. And maybe there were once curtains behind those window shutters: I see an empty curtain rail up above, the brass rings still in place. A desk plumb in front of the windows. A shelf holding a few ivory-colored books, a big navy French dictionary.
In the near corner there’s a coat stand with an old khaki jacket on it; I’m sure I’ve seen Ben wearing it before. Maybe even the last time I saw him, about a year ago, when he came down to Brighton and bought me lunch before disappearing back out of my life again without a backward glance. I reach into the pockets and draw out a set of keys and a brown leather wallet.
Is it a bit strange that Ben’s gone but left these behind?
I open the wallet: the back pocket’s stuffed with a few euro notes. I take a twenty and then, for good measure, a couple of tens. I’d have asked to borrow some money if he was here anyway. I’ll pay it back . . . sometime.
A business card is stuffed into the front of the section that holds credit cards. It reads: Theo Mendelson. Paris editor, Guardian. And scribbled on it, in what looks like Ben’s handwriting （sometimes he remembers to send me a birthday card）： PITCH STORY TO HIM!
I look at the keys next. One of them’s for a Vespa, which is odd as last time I saw him he was driving an old eighties Mercedes soft top. The other’s a large antique-looking thing that looks like it might be for this place. I go to the door and try it: the lock clicks.
The uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach grows. But he might have another set of keys. These could be spares, the set he’s going to lend me. He probably has another key for the Vespa, too: he might even have gone off on it somewhere. As for the wallet, he’s probably just carrying cash.