I levered myself up with my arms and stared in disbelief and horror at the point where our bodies were conjoined. Her lower abdomen was contracting as if she wanted to eject me, she gave a deep groan, a kind of lowing I had never heard before, and then came the next wave. The water poured out of her, spurted out between our hips and ran down into the mattress that still had not succeeded in absorbing the first wave. My God, I thought. I have poked a hole in her. Panicking, my brain searched for causal connections. She’s pregnant, I thought. And I have just poked a hole in that bag containing the foetus, and now all of the crap is soaking into the bed. My God, we’re swimming in life and death, it’s a water child, another water child! Well, I might have read about women’s so-called wet orgasms, OK, I may have seen it in the odd porn film too, but I had considered it a trick, a sham, a male fantasy about having a partner with equal ejaculation rights. All I could think as I lay there was that this was the retribution, the gods’ punishment for my persuading Diana to have an abortion: for my killing another innocent child with my reckless prick.
I struggled onto the floor, pulling the duvet off the bed with me. Lotte gave a start, but I didn’t notice her huddled-up naked body, I just stared at the dark circle still spreading outwards on the sheet. Slowly I realised what had happened. Or, even more important, what by a happy chance had not happened. But the damage was done, it was too late, there was no way back.
‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘This cannot go on.’
‘What are you doing?’ Lotte, barely audible, whispered from her foetal position.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said. ‘But I have to go home and beg Diana for forgiveness.’
‘You won’t get it though,’ Lotte whispered.
I didn’t hear a sound from the bedroom while rinsing the smell of her off my hands and mouth in the bathroom, and I left, closing the front door carefully behind me.
And now – three months later – I was standing in her hall again, and I knew that it was not Lotte but me who had puppy eyes this time.
‘Can you forgive me?’ I asked.
‘Couldn’t she?’ Lotte asked in a monotone. But perhaps it was just Danish intonation.
‘I never told her what happened.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s very likely that I have a heart condition.’
She sent me a long searching look. And I caught the suggestion of a smile at the back of those brown and much too melancholic eyes of hers.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because I can’t forget you.’
‘Why are you here?’ she repeated with a firmness I had not heard before.
‘I just think we should-’
‘Why, Roger?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t owe her anything any more. She has a lover.’
A long silence ensued.
She jutted out her bottom lip a fraction. ‘Has she broken your heart?’
I nodded.
‘And now you want me to put it together for you again?’
I hadn’t heard this woman of few words express herself in such a light, effortless fashion before.
‘You can’t, Lotte.’
‘No, I suppose not. Do you know who her lover is?’
‘Just a guy who’s applied for a job with us he won’t get, let me put it like that. Can we talk about something else?’
‘Just talk?’
‘You decide.’
‘Yes, I will. Just talk. And that’s your department.’
‘Yep. I brought a bottle of wine.’
She gave an imperceptible nod of the head. Then she turned, and I followed.
I talked us through the wine and fell asleep on the sofa. When I awoke, I was lying with my head in her lap and she was stroking my hair.
‘Do you know what the first thing I noticed about you was?’ she asked when she spotted that I was awake again.
‘My hair,’ I said.
‘Have I told you before?’
‘No,’ I said, looking at my watch. Half past nine. It was time to go home. Well, the ruins of a home. I dreaded it.
‘May I come back?’ I asked.
I saw her hesitate.
‘I need you,’ I said.
I knew this argument didn’t carry much weight. It was borrowed from a woman who chose QPR because the club had made her feel wanted. But it was the only argument I had.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
Diana was sitting in the living room reading a large book when I went in. Van Morrison was singing ‘…
‘
She gave a start, but brightened up and hurriedly put the book back on the shelf behind her.
‘You’re late, darling. Have you been doing something nice or just working?’
‘Both,’ I said, walking over to the living-room window. The garage was bathed in white moonlight, but Ove wasn’t due to collect the painting for several hours. ‘I’ve been answering a few phone calls and thinking a bit about which candidate to nominate for Pathfinder.’
She clapped her hands with enthusiasm. ‘So exciting. It’s going to be the one I helped you with, that… oh, what’s his name again?’
‘Greve.’
‘Clas Greve! I’m becoming so forgetful. I hope he buys a really expensive painting from me when he finds out. I deserve that, don’t I?’
She gave a bright laugh, stretched out her slim legs which had been tucked beneath her and yawned. It was like a claw tightening round my heart and squeezing it like a water balloon, and I had to turn quickly back to the window so that she wouldn’t see the pain in my face. The woman I had believed devoid of all deception was not only successfully maintaining the mask, she was playing the role like a professional. I swallowed and waited until I was sure I had my voice under control.
‘Greve is not the right person,’ I said, scrutinising her reflection in the window. ‘I’m going to select someone else.’
Semi-professional. She didn’t tackle this one quite so well. I saw her chin drop.
‘You’re joking, darling. He’s perfect! You said so yourself…’
‘I was mistaken.’
‘Mistaken?’ To my great satisfaction I could hear a low screech in her voice. ‘What in the name of God do you mean?’
‘Greve is a foreigner. He’s under one eighty. And he suffers from serious personality disorders.’
‘Under one eighty! My God, Roger, you’re under one seventy. You’re the one with the personality disorder!’
That hurt. Not the bit about the personality disorders, she might have been right about that, of course. I strained to keep my voice calm.
‘Why the passion, Diana? I had hopes for Clas Greve too, but people disappointing us and not living up to expectations is something that goes on all the time.’
‘But… but you’re wrong. Can’t you see that? He’s a real man!’
I turned to her with an attempt at a condescending smile. ‘Listen, Diana, I’m one of the best at what I do. And
