by Adele Parks
The list. The list. What is it like being married to Daan? What does it mean? Upgraded body consciousness, so intense and regular workouts. Trying to turn back time, or at least the effects of it on my body and face. Not because he asks me to or because he is younger than me, but because he thinks I am beautiful and he tells me so all the time. I like basking in his praise. I want that to last as long as possible. Expensive restaurants. Well-cut, beautiful clothes. A feeling that there will never be anything that he can’t tackle, that he can’t win. Cleaners, a concierge, a personal coach, staff to cater for dinner parties. Dinner parties! Jo Malone candles. It strikes me that the list seems to be mostly about the things he can buy, but he is not that at all. I focus.
A sense of humour that is like mine. Dry, sharp. We spar intellectually. Freedom. Time. A big but autonomous family who are in equal parts frighteningly competitive and successful. They demand nothing of me beyond glossy hair and straight teeth so that I fit in; other than that they come free of all obligation including love or hate. Rooftop terraces. Champagne and cocktails. Lots of phone sex. Text sex. Anticipated sex.
The memory is simultaneously urgent and yet distant. I can’t imagine desire right now. Lust. I know it was there, a force to be reckoned with or capitulated to but I can’t feel the breathless pressure of it anymore. The list. The list. What else is on his list?
A willingness to hear the plot of a novel I enjoyed but, like Mark, an unwillingness to read the damn novel. A sense that when I’m with him everything is possible.
It is not possible to leave the room. I am not beautiful, right now, bruised and foetid.
I am in hell. He is the devil.
38
Mark
Monday 23rd March
Mark gets up early and leaves Fiona sleeping. Both the boys being out of the house provides him an opportunity. Since Fiona confessed to her involvement with Daan, he has known exactly what he has to do. He needs to do it quickly. No one else can do this for him.
Mark finds himself carefully studying Fiona as she sleeps. The bridge of her nose, the crown of her head, her usually well-maintained lowlights – that subdue the copper of her hair – are growing out, there’s a smidge of hair striped through with grey. He finds it moving. Honest. He notes that sleeping Fiona looks vaguely anxious. What a shame. He wonders if that is because of what happened last night between the two of them. He shouldn’t have kissed her. Or maybe he should. He doesn’t know. Nothing is clear cut anymore. He no longer has any idea of what should or should not happen, what he should or should not do. Most likely, her look of anxiety is due to the fact she is worrying about Leigh’s whereabouts. Or maybe, she lives with some ever-present level of concern – work, money, ageing parents, the drag of unrealised ambitions. Most people have something.
Fiona has been kind and helpful. Great with the boys. She is attractive too. Not a knockout, like Leigh, who is one of those rare, lucky women who continue to get more beautiful the older they get. Mark is now a bit shamefaced to admit that when he first met Fiona, he’d noted she was a redhead and wore a sort of perma-angry face but didn’t really give her much more consideration than that. He’d secretly dubbed her ‘Ferocious Fiona’. She had softened since then. He hadn’t noticed exactly when that had happened, but she seemed to have found her style and stride.
Looking at a person sleeping is undoubtedly incredibly intimate, even if that person is just asleep next to you on the train. Mouths gape open, words are muttered under breath, undignified drool slips and glistens on the chin. Sleep is an act of trust. He can’t understand why Fiona never married; she’d make a great wife and mother, although the chance of being a mother is slim for her now, he supposes. Fiona moves in her sleep, twitches, maybe she has sensed him in the room. He doesn’t want her to find him towering over her, it would be weird, so he silently backs away. Yes, she is sweet and caring. He hopes she’ll stay in his life, even though Leigh is out of it now. Especially because of that.
But what he has to do next has nothing to do with Fiona.
He catches the tube. It’s unusually quiet, ghostly. The city is awash with a sinister sense of dread and fear. When he arrives at the apartment, he finds it is not quite as sleek and swish as he was expecting; there is a slight air of neglect and desertion, only just perceptible, better disguised than in less affluent areas but Mark can identify it. There’s no one about, he imagines the residents have all scurried away to their homes in the country or even abroad by now. If London closes and theatres, shops, restaurants are boarded up, its lure is muted. He steps over a pile of rubble and debris on the pavement outside the luxury building. His first thought is to wonder if there have been any lootings or break-ins, but glancing about he can’t see any other sign of a disturbance so assumes the mess is a result of a burst bin bag or careless fly-tipping. The smaller pieces of plasterboard catch on the wind and are lifted, scattered along the street.
Inside the building, Mark finds the concierge clearing out the drawers behind his reception desk. The man looks agitated and although Mark doesn’t ask, he confides, ‘Been sent home. Got an email from the residents’ committee. They’re saying it’s because of the pandemic. Most residents have cleared off and they are saying it’s better for my health. But—’ He stops himself, draws in his mouth as though someone has sewn up his lips. He shrugs. It is clear he wants to say more. Maybe confide something, have a bit of a grumble as though they are old friends. Mark isn’t in the mood; he is polar opposite of being in the mood. ‘The cleaners haven’t come in,’ adds the concierge with a sigh. Mark glances at the marble floor and concedes they are perhaps not as shiny as expected, the endless glass walls are a little smeared with hand and nose prints from where people outside have pushed their faces against the glass and peered in. Mark is glad. He wants Daan Janssen to feel the pinch of neglect and desertion. At least that. A pinch. Actually, he wants him to feel the knockout punch. Mark concentrates on his breathing, not allowing it to become shallow and panicked, not allowing it to appear too deep and menacing. He has to seem normal. Calm. Although what the fuck is that anymore? Normal. His normal is insanity.
He isn’t sure if Janssen will agree to see him. But he has to be curious, doesn’t he? The concierge makes a call, announces him; Mark is relieved when he receives a nod and is pointed towards the lifts. ‘I know where I’m going,’ says Mark, gruffly.
The lift doors glide open with a whisper. The air conditioning is brutal. Mark shivers which he regrets as he finds himself toe to toe with Daan Janssen, and he doesn’t want to look as though he is quaking in his shoes. To meet Janssen’s eye, Mark needs to look up and he hates that this man is looking down on him. Hates it. He wants to thump him. Feel the force of his fist smash into that chiselled jaw that she must have caressed, must have kissed. One swift punch wouldn’t satisfy him. Mark wants to bash away the handsomeness of his face. Ruin him. Punish him. Vent his fury and frustration. His instinct is to drop blow after blow on Janssen’s stomach, chest, head. He wants the man to drop to his knees and even that wouldn’t be enough; he wants him to collapse, crawl into a ball. Then Mark would stand over him and kick the shit out of him. Kick him in the shins, the back, the balls. Blood, spittle, cries to stop, stop would sputter all over the dark wooden floor. The violence creeps through his veins like a pervasive weed. Poisoning him. He clenches his fist. Janssen’s eyes flicker for less than a fraction of a second to the readied hand and then back to Mark’s face. Mark can see the dare in Janssen’s eyes, the desire for a punch to be thrown. Mark breathes out. Slowly. He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath.
He has to fight the fury. Keep it under lock and key. He’s not here to beat up Janssen.
Neither man offers a hand to shake. It would be ludicrous. Janssen does offer, ‘Drink?’
‘No.’
‘Sure? Water? Coffee? Vodka?’ Mark shakes his head. He could do with a water, his throat is dry and swollen, he could do with a stiff drink but he’s not going to accept a thi
ng off this man, considering everything he’s already taken. Janssen shrugs.
‘Well, I want one.’
Mark follows Janssen through to the kitchen, where Janssen pours himself a vodka and drinks it back, a fast shot. That’s when Mark notices Janssen’s eyes are bloodshot, his skin has a filmy grey sheen to it, symptomatic of a lack of sleep. He’s not a well-looking man. How could he be? It’s only 10 a.m. and he’s drinking vodka. Mark doesn’t care if the man drinks himself to death, he just wishes he’d done so five years ago, before he met Leigh.
Disappointingly, inside the apartment there is none of the neglect Mark identified in the communal areas; obviously the cleaners are still letting themselves in here. It is so tidy and neat that Mark struggles to find something to rest his eyes on. He needs a photo – although that might break his heart – bookshelves, a print hung on the wall, something to distract. He forces himself to focus and notes that there are these things, not crammed, higgledy-piggledy in every nook and cranny like in their home, but artfully displayed on spacious shelves and walls. Restful, deliberate. He concentrates on a print of a black woman wearing enormous glasses and a green coat. It’s a hip, powerful picture, he is glad of it. He latches on to it and counts the model’s eyelashes.
‘So, you want to look around?’ asks Janssen. Mark nods. Ashamed that he wants anything at all from Janssen; he doesn’t want to be in his debt, but he craves to look around, see where they lived. How they lived. He can’t pretend otherwise. He needs it. ‘Go ahead.’ Janssen waves his hand that is holding his glass, expansively. A man with nothing to hide.
Mark wants to stride purposefully, show he is not daunted or uncomfortable, but he finds himself mooching, creeping because he is both. He moves from room to room, opening cupboards, looking behind doors. There are a lot of cupboards, Mark assumes it is the only way to keep the place looking so minimalist. Hide everything away. Janssen doesn’t ask him what he’s searching for, nor does he stop him opening cupboards, looking behind doors. It’s a big place. Mark tries to imagine Leigh sitting on the large cream leather corner sofa, no doubt it’s a designer brand that would mean something to people who care about brands. Mark doesn’t; he cares about herbaceous plants and soil drainage. He tries to imagine her in the industrial-looking kitchen, at the sleek dining-room table, perched on one of the bar stools. He can’t. He can only see her tied up in an empty room. That is the only way he sees her now.
Mark longs to see an overflowing basket of dirty washing, fridge magnets that clasp desperately to pizza delivery fliers and money-off coupons, stray debris such as hairbands, Sellotape, newspapers, Bic pens, junk mail, mugs of half-drunk tea. Something familiar. Anything. This place is sparsely furnished, impeccably clean. Nothing is out of place. They must have an army of cleaners, he thinks. There’s no way Leigh would have a house this gleaming. Then, momentarily, he feels hopeful; a random thought occurs to him. This place is neat to the point of absurdity. This is not Leigh’s place. She would never live in a place like this. There has been a mistake. His Leigh is not Kai after all, his wife is not a bigamist. It has all been a horrible, disturbing, disgusting, sickening mix-up. But he can fix it, it is not too late.
He blurts out his thought, hopeful and pathetic. ‘Leigh would never live here.’ His tone is scornful. He is no longer jealous of the wealth Janssen has, he’s contemptuous of it. All the edgy, well-thought-through objects, all the rich fabrics and clean lines mean nothing. This is not her life. This is not Leigh’s world. He is no longer angry with her, he is sorry. Sorry that he thought she could ever betray him. She is a woman who happily sits amongst cat hairs and stray sneakers to eat spag bol off a tray in front of the TV. ‘Leigh would never live here,’ he says again with more certainty and excitement.
‘Leigh didn’t though, Kai did.’ Janssen’s tone is iron. Mark’s certainty and excitement evaporates instantly. Janssen has thrown the first punch after all – intentionally or otherwise. Mark feels a slackness in his gut, a bearing down on his sphincter. He wants to ask where the bathroom is but won’t give Janssen the satisfaction of seeing his frailty. He clenches, straightens his shoulders, draws himself up to his full height, ignores the spasms in his stomach.
‘So, you are saying what? She was only ever half a person with me?’
‘Half a person with either of us.’ Janssen shrugs and reaches for the vodka bottle again. Something like pity snags Mark’s conscience. He’s been drinking too much himself as well but only in the evenings, and usually with Fiona for company. He has the boys to think about; he’s had to retain a semblance of keeping it together.
‘I will have a coffee with you,’ he says. Janssen takes the hint, puts down the vodka and reaches for two pods, two cups.
Whilst Janssen prepares the coffee Mark continues to roam around the vast apartment. This time, instead of denying her occupancy, he looks for her tastes and influence. He looks for her. He examines the bookshelves to see what she read here and the art on the walls to know what she looked at. In their home they have a few framed mass-market posters. Ones with inspirational or funny messages. Leigh chose them all. Mark tries to recall what each of them says. In the hallway there is one that reads Don’t grow up, it’s a trap. One in the bedroom, I’ll be ready in five minutes! In the kitchen a poster declares Cook, dance, laugh, live. In the downstairs loo, there is one that has just a single word. Breathe. He has never given that one much thought before. Now he wonders whether that was the most pertinent. The one she looked at every day as she checked her make-up before she dashed out the door, the one she saw on her return when she dashed in the house desperate for a quick pee as she transitioned from Kai back to Leigh. Janssen’s walls are covered in numbered prints that suggest exclusive, limited runs. There are oil paintings, modern ones, huge and undoubtedly expensive, possibly privately commissioned. Did Leigh choose these works? Is this what she would have liked to hang on their walls if they could have afforded it?
He opens the door on to their bedroom. He holds his breath, takes in oxygen through his mouth because he doesn’t want to smell her, not here. He looks at the bed. It’s enormous. Mark wants to ask Daan what she was like in bed, this woman Daan was married to, this woman Mark was married to. He doesn’t yet believe they are the same person. Well, he believes it, but he can’t process it, not quite. Not entirely. He swallows the question, pushes it back down his throat. The answer might kill him.
There are three doors off the bedroom. The first is the bathroom. Their bathroom at home was refurbished last year. They picked new grey-and-cream tiles and did away with the bath so they could fit in a larger shower. The result is quite smart. Admittedly there are nearly always hardwater marks on the shower glass and taps. Open tubes and bottles of shampoos, body washes, toothpaste, Leigh’s various lotions and potions are scattered about like confetti. Hidden intimacies – like verruca cream, iodine tablets and sweat block wipes – are rarely returned to the cabinet that was installed to store such things but instead expose them as a couple – as a family – that are less than perfect but totally human. Still, it is fine. A decent place to grab a hurried shower in the morning, although it is best if you leave the window open because despite the refit there is always a faint lingering smell of mildew.
This bathroom is incomparable. Of course it gleams, that is to be expected considering the rest of the apartment, but there is more than that to appreciate. This bathroom is a sanctuary; it is sensual, classy. No one grabs a rushed shower here. The mosaic tiles shimmer. The copper bath is enormous, two can easily bathe until they wrinkle in there. There are no bottles or packets lying around, just fat candles, perfectly stacked piles of towels and beautiful decanters full of what Mark can only presume to be bubble bath – no not here, not bubble bath – oils. The room smells of something woody and dark. Ginger or citrus. He can’t see a loo brush or a bottle of bleach. He tries to imagine her weeing in here, shaving her legs, taking off her eye make-up. He can’t, because it lacks her trail of mess. And maybe no
t being able to imagine her is a boon after all.
He goes back into the bedroom and opens another door. He was expecting a wardrobe. It is a wardrobe, if an entire room of shelves and rails can be described as something so humble. This walk-in wardrobe is the same size as Oli’s bedroom, a little bigger than Sebastian’s. He stares at the racks of shoes neatly lined up behind the glass sliding doors. He’s seen something similar in very posh restaurants, for storing expensive wines, but row after row of shoes being displayed like art? This blows his mind. At home Leigh has a normal-size wardrobe, it is heaving – or at least it was before he set to with the scissors and the bin bags. That wardrobe had been full of high street clothes that were often creased when retrieved, sometimes a button was missing. The clothes and shoes in this room are ordered by colour. Two soothing rainbows of style and luxury fan out in front of him.
He counts eight navy bodycon dresses. Eight, more than one for every day of the week. They are not identical, he can see that, but they are similar. He recalls the number of times when thrifty Leigh gazed admiringly at say, a blue striped shirt and then decided against it because ‘I’ve got something similar in grey, who needs two striped shirts?’ He can’t believe she has so much, such excess, such choice. That thought stings. Inflames. Of course she has choice, he remembers bitterly. That is the problem. He can’t get his head around it. He stretches out his hand and tentatively strokes one of the dresses. It’s a dark red colour, and silky, undoubtedly sexy. He can’t think that there was an equivalent in her wardrobe at home. Not even a cheaper, synthetic, high street version. Leigh dresses practically, not sexily. The fabric of this dress feels like moisturised skin. He imagines her in it. He imagines he is touching her. His hand trembles.
A green long-sleeved wool dress catches his eye. Green is her favourite colour. At least it is Leigh’s. Who knows whether Kai had her own favourite colour. He moves closer to the green dress, instinctually buries his head in it and inhales. He expects it will smell of dry-cleaning fluid, or maybe an expensive unfamiliar perfume. But no. There she is. In every fibre. Leigh. The smell of her deodorant, perfume, body, so faint it is just a breath but so familiar that it’s a typhoon. She was here. She is Kai. Of course, he knows it, but now he feels it. He has been ravaged by such anger this past week, fury, uncontrollable, unstoppable. He hasn’t been able to think clearly, plan properly. His actions have been irrational. The boys have been neglected, barely spoken to. Thank god for Fiona. For a moment he considers ripping every garment from its hanger, clawing at them, tearing at them, destroying her, or at least this embodiment of her – just as he did with Leigh’s clothes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the green wool dress off the hanger, holds it close to his body and drapes the sleeves over his shoulders as though she is embracing him. He starts to sway from side to side, dancing with her. Like she had wanted him to.
