by Adele Parks
As the day leaks away, the cold night air comes through the window and the 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 neighbours 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 towards 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 compartmentalising. World champion, he thinks bitterly.
He had not been hoping for sex with this woman specifically, he never thought of her in between their hook-ups 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 learnt. 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 gentleman-like 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 unfertilised,’ 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 swivelling 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 the 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 waterpipes.’
‘Waterpipes?’
‘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 hu
sbands, 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
Sunday 22nd March
Fiona had wanted to die the moment she realised 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 acknowledgement 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 only seen him for 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 hook-ups 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 soulmate, 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 whilst 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 marvelled 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:
I saw you in the foyer and thought you were worth hunting down.
The use of the word ‘hunt’ was a gamble. Would it excite him? Intrigue him? It was a thin line between sexy, go-getting woman and desperate weirdo.
Are you a genuine redhead?
She did not hesitate. Yes.
I suppose I have to take your word for that.
I can prove it.
He replied with two love-heart-eyes emojis. One might have shown some level of sincerity, two showed appetite.
Are you free now?
It was hard for Fiona to tell herself that their first liaison met her expectations, which whilst only recently formed, were crystal. On the plus side, he was polite, he offered her a drink, she accepted even though she normally avoided drinking through the day. She accepted because she needed something to calm her nerves; yes, she was game, but she was also human and this whole encounter whilst entirely exciting was vaguely terrifying. He made her a gin and tonic. A strong one. He was breathtakingly handsome, and the apartment wa
s one of the most impressive she had ever seen even in her professional life, and so much more impressive than anything any of her other dates had ever lived in. She knew she was getting ahead of herself, yet she could not help imagining waking up to the view, making supper in the kitchen, drawing a bath in that onyx bathroom and sharing it with him.
She was giddy with nerves. Not because she was breaking all the online dating rules by going to an unknown man’s home without alerting anyone to her whereabouts – which was dangerous, stupid – instead, her nerves came from an almost debilitating fear that she might put a foot wrong. That she would blow this opportunity. Fiona never came across good-looking, affluent, single men. It was a stunning opportunity. She had to get it right. Her loneliness had been all-pervasive for some time. Maybe years. A constant. White noise. A low drone, irritating and overwhelming. She tried to shake it at work, at book clubs, by talking to Leigh, her hairdresser or strangers in the shops. The more she tried to shake it off, the tighter it clung. It seeped into her, into the marrow of her bones. It became part of her. She was her loneliness.
But less so when she was with Daan.
She didn’t normally have sex with men the first time she met them. She had rules about meeting for coffee first, then for lunch or an alcoholic drink. Sex, if it happened at all, only ever came after the third date, which had to be dinner. But where had the rules got her? She was single at forty-three years old. Her rules were outdated, they were holding her back. The rules were obsolete when applied to how adult relationships worked nowadays. People wanted to know if they were sexually compatible before they wasted too much time on dating. Indeed, last year, she’d dated one lovely guy several times before they finally fell into bed, only to discover they didn’t really do it for each other, everything was a bit tepid. It was a shame. She had no more time to waste. Besides, she had said she would prove she was a natural redhead. Everyone knew what that meant.
