Woman last seen, p.23
Woman Last Seen, page 23
Having a favorite child is frowned upon. Poor parenting. The goal is to love them equally, even if it is differently.
I love Seb because when I am around him, I can soften, I can be still, peaceful, complete. He makes me laugh out loud. I’m always throwing my hand over my mouth and erupting into the sort of laughter that ultimately makes my ribs ache. He’s funny, irreverent, fast.
I love Oli because he is a challenge. He doesn’t care whether he makes me laugh or not, but I care whether I can draw a smile from his handsome full lips, whether I can ease out a grunt of approval. If I can lessen his seemingly endless mistrust of the world, his pain.
I love both my boys equally. No favorites. Any right-thinking parent would rather die than admit to having a favorite.
And my men? My husbands? It is the same with them.
Thoughts whirl in and out of my head as my eyes rest on the chaos and rubble at my feet.
I wanted to be loved exclusively. Daan loves me more than he loves anyone else. Daan loves me so much, but what did I offer him? Not the same singularity, not exclusivity. Of course, it is Daan who brought me to this, Daan is not a man who would accept sharing.
Nor is he a man who will forgive.
At least my boys are safe. If Daan is the madman, not Mark.
My instinct is to yell for help, but I doubt I’ll be heard on the street even through an open window, not from this height. I’m more likely to be heard by Daan, who is presumably close by. I pick up a piece of plasterboard and throw it toward the window. My aim is off, it hits the wall. I bend, pick up another piece and try again, this time it falls short. However, the third piece of debris sails out of the window. The relief is enormous. It isn’t a big piece, but I imagine it falling to the ground, maybe even landing on or near a passerby. They’ll look up and wonder where it has come from. Excited, I reach for another piece of plasterboard. I throw that, it flies. The next doesn’t and I’m bitten by a sense of panic. I know I have to stay calm and focus. Systematically I hurl the pieces of debris out of the window. Eight, nine, ten scraps hit the mark and find freedom. I continue to break pieces of plaster from the wall and hurl them out the window. I imagine the debris collecting in a pile on the pavement below. Surely someone will notice that. Alfonso the concierge won’t like a mess around the building, he’ll want to investigate. The hole in the wall is now sizeable—I’ve snapped off every part I can reach. I’m getting tired and more of the debris is missing the target of the window and just coming to rest somewhere in the other room. My hands are cut, scratched, bleeding.
I need water.
I slump down against the radiator again and wait.
As the day leaks away, the cold night air comes through the window and hole in the wall and chills me. I try to wrap my arms around myself to keep warm, but it’s uncomfortable because of the chain and the injuries. I carefully tuck both hands between my thighs instead. My fingers are freezing but trying to warm them leaves them smelling of my shit. I sit in silence. And wait.
But waiting is not enough. I have to do more. My progress with the wall has given me some hope. I have to keep trying. I slam my chain against the radiator. It makes a clanking sound in the room. Maybe the sound will somehow reverberate through the pipes of the building. The sort of neighbors I have will not like being disturbed—they will investigate. I slam the chain again. Crash. And again. Clatter. And again. Clang.
I will do this all night if I have to.
I will crash and clatter and clang. I will not be silenced.
32
Daan
Sunday 22nd March
Daan pulls apart from the body tangled in the sheets next to him and rolls onto his back. He stares at the ceiling. Her breathing is a touch under a snore, but heavier than he is used to. It is distracting. He could never live with it. Not that he’s thinking of living with it. Obviously. He never intended to even allow her to stay over. It isn’t like him to deviate from a plan, but he isn’t thinking clearly. When she turned up at his door it was just easier to let her in than send her away. On some level it was good to see her, she is so separate from everything else he is going through. She has no idea he is married to a woman who is married to another man. That mess, that humiliation and the subsequent consequences are light years apart from this—an uncomplicated shag, a bit of companionship.
He can smell her now, warm and alive. Here. It is some comfort. It is something. She starts to stir, rolls over to face him, her hair spilling like waves across the silk pillowcases. Kai insisted on them having silk bedding; she read somewhere that the pillowcases helped preserve a blow dry. He too liked the silk sheets and everything they did between them. They had a good sex life, excellent. He always thought it was kept hot because she was away for half the week, not quite accessible, not quite available. Unlike other women who were always throwing themselves prone at his feet. When he first met her, she was a career woman with a job she loved—that was hot. When she suggested giving up work to nurse her mother, he’d been a bit disappointed, care homes were not erotic, but he did admire her sense of duty and commitment. She still offered him space.
Of course, since he’s discovered what Kai had really been up to when she was away from him, it isn’t at all sexy. It is demeaning. Unforgivable. He is not beyond reproach when it comes to fidelity, but the other women he took were just ways to pass time. Not dissimilar to drinking a decent glass of wine or going on a challenging run. Fun diversions. Not important. She was married when he met her. There was no way to look at that fact without thinking it is important. Vital. Everything. She was never his. He was the diversion. He was not important. It was unbelievable. Insulting. How could this have happened to him? Fury burns in his stomach, like a fire. Jealousy, a desire for revenge and answers billow through his mind like smoke.
The woman next to him wakes up, rolls toward him, smiles. He can’t think what to say to her, so kisses her to buy some time. As he pulls away from her hot lips, and the slightly anxious, needy glint in her eyes, he comments, “Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“But you were hoping for it.” She plasters a grin on her face. He has seen this sort of rictus grin before; it is entirely fake. The women he dated pre-Kai all wore it. A pseudo-brazen I’m tougher than I look grin. An expression that is supposed to convince their lovers that they are not insecure, clingy, desperate, or even, good, old-fashioned hopeful.
It was a lie, of course; those women were all those things. As he fears this woman is.
Sex makes people vulnerable. It might be fashionable to pretend women can hop into bed and keep the sex there, as just that—a human instinct, a need like thirst, or hunger, something to be satiated, but he hadn’t yet met one woman that could really do that. They always allow it to leach into their heads, their hearts.
Except perhaps for Kai as it has turned out. Apparently, she was capable of compartmentalizing. World champion, he thinks bitterly.
He had not been hoping for sex with this woman specifically. He never thought of her in between their hookups, which were irregular, not coveted but pleasant enough. He would never have reached out to her—he never had, she made it easy for him. Last night she literally brought it to his door. What was he to do? Of course, he always had a vague hope to have sex. He was a normal man. He thought it might take his mind off everything. And it had for a time. But now he wants her to leave. He doesn’t need this complication.
“I guess,” Daan replies, throwing out a wolfish grin. He can make any woman think she is the only woman in the world for him, that he has been thinking about them, maybe even longing for them, when he hasn’t. The only woman he ever thought about in her absence was Kai.
Now, more than ever.
Ironic that he’d spent so much time and effort on Kai, making her feel she was the only woman in the world for him, when she didn’t really value fidelity anyhow. Well, lesson learned. Everyone has lessons to learn, he thinks bitterly.
Daan will give this woman breakfast because he likes to think of himself as a gentleman, and throwing her out without breakfast after he’s come in her mouth is not a very gentlemanlike thing to do, but he has things to do today, and what if the police come back? It wouldn’t look good if he were found entertaining like this. Of course, technically, he has every right to do as he pleases, but it is about the optics. He bounces out of bed, picks up his jeans that lie discarded on the floor, pulls them on, without looking for boxers. “I’ll make you a coffee. You like cappuccino, right?”
“No, black.”
“Right.” He nods, clicks his fingers, as though that is what he said in the first place. “And eggs, how do you like them?”
“I shall resist the pun of saying I like them unfertilized,” she replies. He grins, pretending to appreciate her joke but he’s heard it before, many times. She holds his gaze. “Poached. Softly poached.”
“Coming right up.” He marches into the kitchen with the sort of determination that encourages her to follow him. He won’t be serving breakfast in bed. He doesn’t want to do that. He wants to be as efficient about this as possible. Obligingly, she does follow him. As usual, as expected, she keeps swiveling her head from left to right, taking in the impressive apartment. Doesn’t she do something connected with design or interiors? That rings a bell. Or maybe art or film. He can’t recall. Whether she does or doesn’t, she must appreciate place. Be impressed by it. Who wouldn’t be?
Kai. Apparently. Fucking bitch.
“This is such an exquisite apartment,” she says. “But you really need to get your concierge guy onto sorting out those water pipes.”
“Water pipes?”
“Didn’t you hear them clanking all last night? I mean, I’m no plumber, but it sounded like hot water going through pipes or something. It kept me awake. Haven’t you noticed it?”
“No, can’t say I have.” He wants to move the conversation on. He wants to move her on. As the egg is poaching, he says, “Look, it is great to see you again but I have to tell you, I’m going through some heavy stuff right now, so it is not really a good time for me to start something up.”
He expects her to look hurt, or perhaps she’ll rush to assure him that she isn’t looking for anything heavy either—most women would rather lose anything than face. She surprises him when she asks, “What sort of heavy stuff?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” he replies.
“Try me.”
Daan shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to tell this woman that he has a wife. Let’s face it, that is something they haven’t discussed so far. And now he would have to confess to a missing wife. A wife with two husbands, so not really his wife at all. He doesn’t know how to get into that. He walks around the breakfast bar to where she is standing, and kisses her lips, cups her breast. He finds that usually gets women to stop talking. As he gently squeezes her nipple, he feels it start to stiffen. He also starts to stiffen, then he remembers that he has a lot to accomplish today; he doesn’t have time for this; he breaks away. “So yes, really heavy stuff and I haven’t the space to start this up.”
“Start this up again, Daan.” He hears the accusation in her voice.
“Well, yes.” He shrugs and hands her the plate of eggs and toast. He hasn’t made one for himself. He hasn’t got any appetite at the moment. He watches her eat, which she does unhurriedly and deliberately. He thinks she is drawing out the process on purpose, which annoys him. He glances at his watch.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“What?”
“I saw your case in the bedroom. I wondered if you are going on holiday.”
“No, well. Probably. I was thinking of it. Maybe I’ll take off next week. I need a break.”
“Because of the stuff you are going through?” she asks, smiling.
“Right. Do you want to take a shower?” He’s struggling to be polite now. He needs her to take the hint.
It appears she finally has when she replies, “I think I’ll shower back at my place.”
He watches her start to slowly gather up her clothes, her bag, get dressed. He counts the seconds. He’s never good with women who want to outstay their welcome, but he’s finding it particularly trying today. It takes all his self-control not to shove her down the lift shaft.
“Daan, tell me something, and be honest about it. Are you married?” She throws out the question when she is at the door. She has clearly sensed his impatience, his indifference. He sighs; what does he have to lose now.
“I was,” he replies. “Yes, Fiona, I was but I’m not anymore.”
33
Fiona
Fiona had wanted to die the moment she realized she had been having an affair with her best friend’s husband. Literally, she wanted to curl up in a ball and stop breathing. Stop being. It was too much. It was so unfair. So cruel. She didn’t know what to do with the information. Who should she tell? Who could she tell? Under the circumstances, who could she trust?
She first met Daan when she went to pitch for Mrs. Federova’s interiors project. It was in the foyer, just as she was leaving, he was arriving. “Met” is probably a generous description of the interaction. She clapped eyes on him as he swept past her; he gave her a polite nod of acknowledgment that she was sharing his space. It took everything she had not to openly gape. It was as though he cast a spell.
The moment she left the building she’d started searching through her dating apps that made suggestions based on geographical vicinity. She didn’t really hold out much hope that he would appear on any of the listings. Not a man like that. Too rich, too handsome. He wouldn’t have to try to find women online—they would be queuing up to date him in real life. Yet she searched because she felt compelled. Even a minuscule chance was some sort of chance. She swiped past face after face; ruthlessly her finger moved left, left, left behind. Then, when she was searching her third app, she found him. She could hardly believe her eyes, but it was definitely him. She might have seen him for only a moment, but he was hard to forget.
He had posted three pictures. One of him on a boat, all tanned and vibrant; another in a suit, serious but no tie, open-neck shirt, the suggestion of rebel; the third a close-up. She zoomed in. Examining his perfection in every pixel. She didn’t use this particular app that often. It was known to be one where people looking for uncomplicated hookups tended to post. Fiona wanted more than uncomplicated, despite what she told Leigh and all her other friends, despite her insistence that she was married to her job and was way past “all that romance nonsense.” The truth was, Fiona remained hopeful that she would find a proper boyfriend, a soul mate, a partner. Yeah, it was a case of optimism over experience, but she had never quite been able to crush the dream. Fiona ached for what Leigh had. A devoted husband, a cheerful home, maybe even kids. Not biological ones, not anymore, that was unlikely as she was in her forties but there was adoption, fostering, stepchildren. She was open. So, Fiona didn’t often use this app because while it wasn’t advertised as such, her own experience and anecdotal evidence from her other single friends suggested the men on this site didn’t want commitment. Worse, some already had it, elsewhere. Fiona chose to ignore the red flag, and she swept right.
She waited outside the luxury apartment for over an hour hoping against hope that he might respond. She stared up at the building shimmering in the sunlight and marveled at the fact he was inside, so close, but felt thwarted that he was still so far. Unless he responded, he would remain forever out of reach. Would he respond? If so, when? Should she wait here or go about her business? A watched kettle never boiled and yet wasn’t this fate? What were the chances of seeing someone as delicious and then being able to track him down so swiftly? Slim. Negligible. But she had; she felt it was meant to be. That is what people said, didn’t they? In their wedding speeches and things. In the end. It was meant to be. The feeling was bolstered by the fact that particular day she happened to be wearing a very flattering dress from Reiss and high shoes. She rarely bothered with heels in London nowadays, but her legs were her best feature and she’d been waxed yesterday. That all seemed a lot like fate. Or at the very least luck. She would take either. Her profile picture was flattering. Her hair fell in waves across half her face, which was at once slimming and provocative; she peeped out from the curtain of hair, like a burlesque dancer might peek out from behind heavy scarlet velvet drapes.
She really needed to get back to her desk, start thinking about tackling Mrs. Federova’s pitch proposal, but she held her faith, screwed up her courage and stayed put. She waited patiently for a further twenty minutes, telling herself she would give up at half past. There had to be a cut-off point. She almost exploded with delight when she saw the tick and the icon asking if she was available to chat.
Did we just meet?
She dithered. Would he think she was some sort of stalker if she admitted they had? Would he be scared off? Or would he admire her efficiency, her opportunistic nature? No one was overly syrupy about dating apps nowadays; pragmatism beat romanticism every time, so she replied:
Yes. I was in your foyer earlier. I have a client there.
She didn’t, not strictly speaking, she had a potential client, however, that level of nuance had no place in dating-app chat. She wanted to present herself as successful and purposeful, trusted. She waited a moment, but he didn’t respond. She wondered whether she had lost him. Already? It was possible. Bitter experience had shown that the first few moments of online chat could smother things before they had even spluttered into life. People were ruthless. Impatient. Quickly she tapped:
