The Paris Apartment Not Fully Furnished

 

THE PARIS APARTMENT (2002)

By Lucy Foley

Harper Collins, 368 pages 

★★★

 

 

 

In the world of fiction these days it’s as if those in their late 20s or early 30s have collectively decided not to bother growing up until they hit 40. The mother of Ben and Jess has passed away, but Jess in particular uses that as an excuse to remain running in place. When she finally takes action, she moves sideways rather than forward. Older brother Ben lives in Paris, so what would anyone do? Probably not what Jess does: steal money from the cafe where she works, skip out of London, and cross the English Channel to find Ben. He’s a reviewer who wishes to be an investigative journalist, yet he lives in an impressive apartment on Rue des Amants. The only thing that's missing is Ben himself, a problem because Jess has very little money and is counting on Ben to help her. 

 

Jess makes inquiries in the neighborhood and the apartment complex–though she can't speak French­–but most have either never heard of Ben or have no idea where he is. The other major characters in this book are a watchful concierge; Sophie Meunier and her teenage daughter Mimi; her stepsons Nicholas and the thuggish Antoine; Antoine’s prickly wife Dominique; and Sophie's largely absentee husband, Jacques. 

 

Ben is a charmer, but Jess infers from the people in the apartment that something is off. It's as if there is some deep secret that nobody wants to talk about. Where is Ben? As the days go by and Jess becomes more desperate, she gains a reputation for being annoying. Or is she being stonewalled? 

 

The novel is told in the voices of several characters, each of which gives us clues about Ben without revealing where he is until the end. Ben is more than just personable; he has been an object of sexual attention for Sophie and Nicholas, and young Mimi would also love to have it off with him despite being rebuffed. Also mysterious is how Jacques, ostensibly a wine merchant, can afford such a piece of prime Parisian real estate or an elegant wife like Sophie who is a good thirty years his junior? Where does Jacques go for days at a time?

 

Jess's meanderings lead her to one of Ben's journalism contacts. She begins to think that his disappearance is linked to an investigation he hoped would be his big break as an investigative reporter. She fears that Ben is dead, perhaps murdered, though the club she visits, Le Petit Mort, is a different kind of expiration; in French its name means little death, an orgasm. Is there a link between this sex club and Ben's disappearance?

 

The Paris Apartment seeks to be a thriller, but is only partially successful. Foley relies upon too many obvious devices: being observed going into private areas of the apartment building, asking questions guaranteed to arouse distrust, mistaken identities, and insisting that her adult brother simply wouldn't vanish because he knew she was coming. Actually, she has qualities that suggest maybe he would split; she's a mess! Is it any wonder police officials dismiss her concerns? That, and a complete lack of any credible evidence.

 

To her credit, Foley resolves the police issue, but other aspects of the novel work against her. The mystery is eventually revealed, but after contrivances such as hysteria, ducking into a closet, a deus ex machina appearance, and an out of nowhere venture into family values. The warped ones make sense; the wholesome ones do not.

 

Too often The Paris Apartment reads like a nice treatment for a novel that didn't come to full realization. This being the second Lucy Foley novel I've read, I have come to believe that she, at age 36, simply hasn’t yet hit her stride as a writer. It's hard at times to separate Foley from Jess; we want more maturity from each and are disappointed when they don't deliver. In the case of the Jess, most of her actions are impulsive. That's fine if those qualities remain consistent, but are we to believe that her newly found life compass resulted from the shock she received? If so, add that to the contrivances list.

 

I would not categorize The Paris Apartment as a bad novel, but I would call it inconsequential. It moves along at a fast clip. It’s the sort of book you can polish off in a few sittings on cold winter nights, toss aside, and reach for something meatier.

 

Rob Weir