‘At first everything between Daan and me was exciting and unreal. I told myself it had nothing to do with Mark, with my family. A discreet hook-up in a posh apartment once a month. Not honourable but not unprecedented. Minimal communication in between. Just sex. It was never meant to be serious, yet people can’t be contained. Feelings can’t be capped or controlled.’
‘No, they can’t,’ admits Fiona. I smile, grateful to her for trying to understand me.
‘He had this power over me. The desire I felt. The force of it was irresistible. And it never stopped. It never went away. Even in the moment I was sated, I’d want him again. I couldn’t ignore it.’ Confessing such intimacy is hard but I’m drunk and that helps. ‘It started with a drink on a trendy rooftop bar and specifically an incident in a toilet.’
‘Classy Kylie.’
I shrug. I know how it sounds. It sounds awful but it felt like something different altogether. Something brilliant. ‘I did not plan to see him ever again. After the first time. Of course not. I woke up waiting for the shame and guilt to kick in with the hangover.’
‘It didn’t?’
I shake my head. ‘I got out of bed and banged on the door of the boys’ bedrooms, made everyone’s breakfast, showered, went to work on the tube. I did everything I had done the day before as though nothing had changed. I did not feel guilty. It would be easy to say I wish I had felt guilty, because if I had I might have stopped. It’d certainly be more normal. More expected. But I don’t think that is what I wish. Even now.’
‘Even though you ended up chained to a radiator as a consequence?’
I take a gulp of wine. I don’t believe I asked for this. I don’t believe the response was justifiable or proportionate, but I almost understand it. I think I do. I shrug, ‘When I spoke, he listened. I felt more heard than I have ever been.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ comments Fiona. We both fall silent. She stands up, clears away the plates, tops up my drink again.
‘I knew it was wrong. Obviously. Moral compass rule number one. But as it didn’t feel wrong it was hard to believe it was.’ My heart is beating exceptionally fast. The confession is causing panic, or maybe the memory is churning up a familiar, formidable delight. ‘It just didn’t feel wrong. I should have felt bad, but I didn’t.’
‘I suppose you thought you were going to get away with it.’
‘I thought maybe if no one ever knew, then it wasn’t awful.’
‘That’s just something you told yourself to make things easier for you. It was convenient for you to think so. All lies are convenient.’
I feel the tender sting of my bruises under my clothes, the throb of my hand. It wasn’t as simple as that. There was more to it. Can I make Fiona understand? I blurt, ‘The thing is, in marriages, in all relationships, sometimes, we do things badly. We are in the wrong, we make mistakes. Life is full of small, undignified moments, insignificant like grains of sand but when they start to add up, to stack up, you make entire beaches of pain. I didn’t want a marriage like that full of tiny failures of character on my part – on his. I guess I chose a double life so that I could make both shinier.’
‘But neither was real.’
‘They felt real,’ I insist.
‘You can’t have it all.’
‘But I did. For a time, I did.’ We both sit in silence. I am reminded of the silence of waiting for the typewriter to clank into action behind the door and it makes me feel uncomfortable. ‘I need fresh air. I’ve been inside too much recently. Can we take a walk?’
Fiona looks outside, the wind is agitating the branches of trees in her garden, causing them to whip the air. It’s too dark to see the sea but we can hear the waves crashing. It’s inhospitable. I’ll understand if she refuses my request. She smiles and jumps up. ‘Sure.’
48
Daan
Daan is on his way to the airport when he gets the call; his passport in his jacket pocket, his smart Tumi luggage neatly packed, just carry-on size. He needs to be swift, can’t afford any potential delays. If everything goes well, he can have the rest of his belongings shipped to him. If he has to leave them behind, he can always start again. It’s just stuff. Suits, shirts, shoes, shit. It’s not real.
Not like she was.
Whoever is trying to get hold of him is being persistent. It rings out and then immediately starts up again. He doesn’t care who it is. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.
She’s gone. It’s a fucking mess. The whole lot. He wants to leave it all behind him. The pain, the humiliation. He wants to get out of this country while he can. Put it all behind him.
It is an unknown number and he never answers those. It’s always just some scammer trying to tell him he’s been in an accident and is due
