He’s a poetic man. Confident that revealing his innermost thoughts to me is not only safe but desirable.
I understand. Things can get lonely in our beautiful, huge apartment. The strange thing is it can get stifling there too, despite the size. I don’t have a day job. It’s just not possible with my commitments here that are unpredictable but vital and non-negotiable. I constantly battle with feeling torn as it is, putting a third element in the mix – work – is too much. We don’t need the money, so it doesn’t make sense. However, not being gainfully employed does mean when I am not here, I am often alone in our penthouse. I spend my days going to the apartment gym or pool, but I find the joy of the convenience is negated by the feeling I am trapped. That I have trapped myself. I eat up time thinking about what food I should cook him, what underwear I should buy and parade around in. If you fill your head with enough little things there is no room for the big things. I’ve managed not to think about anything important at all for four years. I wonder if Daan feels similarly trapped when I’m not there? Most likely not. Not usually. He works in the city and has boisterous companionship all day long. What he feels when I have to be away is most likely less complicated, simply a bit lonely, possibly a bit sulky. I am suddenly swamped and exhausted by my ever-present concern that I am not being fair to him. This situation is untenable and unkind. But I don’t have a choice. I have responsibilities.
‘I’ll be home tomorrow night. Shall we go out or stay in?’
‘Let’s stay in.’ I can hear the growl in his voice and my body responds with another pulse.
‘And on Tuesday we have people coming around, right?’
‘Yes. Everyone has confirmed.’
We like throwing supper parties. Not dinner parties. Inviting people for dinner is a little passé, a little-try-too-hard for our friendship circle. In a similar way, we regularly eat out at the very best restaurants in London, but we rarely talk about going out for dinner. There must be no suggestion that it is an occasion. The whole thing must appear more spontaneous and be undervalued, even if we are visiting the sorts of places where you have to book weeks in advance, sometimes join a waiting list or promise to give up the table after ninety minutes. Paradoxically, casual is the most valued vibe amongst our attractive friends who try so intensely at everything: staying slim, staying on top, staying fit, staying informed, being brilliant, beautiful, the best. The people Daan and I invite to supper are bankers, broadsheet journalists, CFOs who nurtured internet start-ups twenty years ago and have watched them thrive, the occasional actor who has a film breaking in Hollywood. They are the top 1 per cent.
I like them though.
I wasn’t expecting to. I’m far more ordinary in just about every way than anyone Daan knew before he met me. That is to say, my education and social background is very ordinary. I was however lucky that my parents’ genes collided successfully and – there is no modest way to say this – I’ve always been considered pretty. Some would say quite exceptionally so. Although not my father, and since my father never said it, I never really believed it or saw the value in it. Until, that is, I met Daan. Then I realised beauty is something I can bring to the table. When he first talked to me about the friends he made at his elite private school and at Harvard University, or the glossy, impressive colleagues and clients he wanted me to meet, I felt intimidated, sure I wasn’t going to like them – worse that they weren’t going to like me. But I was pleasantly surprised. Yes, some of them are arrogant and boring, others are superficial and vain but many of them are interesting, driven, ambitious. I found listening to their stories about their various roles in diverse industries exciting. I’m not stupid, I can easily hold my own and my obvious interest and reasonable knowledge about the world, combined with my slim frame and high cheekbones, means I fit right in on most occasions.
It’s not as though I could tire of Daan’s friends, or feel threatened or jealous of any one of them in particular, because while we throw a supper party about once a week, our guests are in constant rotation. I’m not expected to become bosom buddies with any of the chiselled and toned businesswomen or any of the beautiful clotheshorse wives who visit our home. The men remember me as charming but usually politely ask Daan about ‘that lovely wife of yours’ not bothering to commit my name to memory. Busy sorts, like these people, don’t expect intimacy, just stimulation.
While I only expect to see most people every six months or so, often less frequently, I keep a logbook detailing who visits when, what I served (or what the caterers served), who sat next to whom, to avoid the catastrophe of serving anyone the same thing twice. The level of organisation clearly belying the casual ‘oh you must pop over for supper’.
On Tuesday we are expecting six guests. A female MP and her obliging, smiley, balding husband, and two clients of Daan’s who are both still with their first wives, conveniently. It will make for an easy group, which is good management, rather than good luck. Daan thinks about such things. No obvious faux pas on the horizon. I can guess the way they all voted at the last election. The clients’ wives will no doubt discover they have people in common, something to do with their children’s prep schools, most likely. I find I am looking forward to
