Lie after lie stacked up but the lies stopped tugging on my conscience. They became easier. They became part of me. I never thought of telling the truth. Leaving one or the other of them wasn’t an option for me. And it went smoothly. I was able to glide through weeks and months, into the first year. Beyond.
I realise that I’ve stayed in my head, confessed very little to my captor when I hear the typewriter keys being bashed again. It’s as though he has kept track of my internal monologue and drawn the same conclusion.
You’re a fucking liar.
The anger and impatience bleed from every word. ‘Yes, I told lies, but I didn’t break hearts! I didn’t abandon my children. I didn’t hurt anyone!’ I yell back. It sounds selfish, maybe even unhinged, but the ease of the situation allowed me to believe it was OK. What I was doing was OK. And wasn’t it? For four years? Wasn’t it? Mark thought I was working harder than ever, heading towards a promotion and a larger salary, which we needed as a family, but he could never provide and Daan respected my commitment to my sick mother. My absences stopped him from getting bored of me, made him hungry for me. I gave them the marriages they wanted. I reach for the cold tea on the tray, but I am weak and shaky. As I unscrew the cap the bottle slips from my grasp. It spills over me and the floor. ‘No, no, no,’ I moan. Fleetingly, I consider licking the floor, like a beast. I just stop myself in time because the smell of my own faeces hits. Frustrated, unthinking, I fling the bottle at the door. It’s plastic so doesn’t smash. ‘What harm was I doing?’ I demand. ‘What fucking harm? The old adage is true. Right? What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’
I hear the keys of the typewriter once more.
But I do know now.
And I am hurt.
So I am going to hurt you.
28
Fiona
Saturday 21st March
Fiona doesn’t know how, or even if, she should tell Mark that she recognises Daan’s address. His name. She could explain that she once pitched for a client who lived in the spectacularly impressive block. The exclusive apartments in that development are worth millions. The place is serviced and pet-friendly on the fashionable border of the financial district. It is dreamy. Telling Mark about Daan’s extreme wealth can’t help. It would just add fuel to the fire that was so obviously raging inside him.
The apartment that she pitched to transform was on the fourteenth floor. It was big but not quite the star of the show. Within just half an hour of being in the potential client’s company, it became clear that Mrs Federova was obsessed with the penthouse apartment and Daan Janssen, the ‘very handsome’ man who lived in it. She spoke about ‘the masterful design and modern luxury uniquely embodied in the three-bedroom, four-bathroom duplex penthouse’. She repeated the facts as though she was reading them from a brochure, her accent thickening as she practically salivated when sharing details about the wraparound terrace that offered ‘truly unparalleled’ views. What Mrs Federova seemed to covet most was the outside space that the penthouse boasted. ‘There is a wood-burning fireplace, a fully equipped outdoor stainless steel kitchen, a sun deck, hot tub, private outdoor shower, a jacuzzi and a sauna,’ she informed Fiona, with ill-disguised jealousy.
To think that had all been Leigh’s. It was mind-blowing.
Fiona pitched for the job although she doubted she would ever be able to completely satisfy the client. Fiona couldn’t gift Mrs Federova the biggest pad, which is what she really hankered after. Fiona had noticed that about rich people, they were rarely content with their own wealth however much that was but often obsessed with the greater wealth of others. Why couldn’t people be more grateful? she wondered. If she had a fraction of what others had, she would be gratified, gladdened.
Fiona takes the tube to Daan Janssen’s apartment. It’s not an especially pleasant journey. People are becoming increasingly nervous about the media attention on the virus. She doesn’t know what to believe. Is there a real threat? It sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie. The reporting of the origin of the disease seems smeared with prejudice and designed to create fear. The Asian passengers on the tube are wearing facemasks, other passengers stare at them with a mix of envy and resentment. Anyone who coughs is glared at. Fiona stands for the journey. She spreads her legs and bends her knees to find balance as the tube judders, she doesn’t want to touch a railing.
Fiona recalls the apartment she had pitched to transform. The floors were a decent-quality hardwood but pocked by small rugs that, whilst charming in a cottage, looked provincial and out of place in the spacious, urban dwelling. It never failed to surprise her how many people with a lot of money had no taste at all. She’d noted with some pleasure that the furniture was quality but dated, knowing she’d be able to make inroads and improvements easily. Quick wins tended to lure in clients.
Fiona remembered Mrs Federova proudly showing her the communal areas. ‘To help set tone.’ In fact, to show off. The swimming pool, covered with silver mosaic tiles, and the communal gym with all the best equipment on hand to help bodies stay toned, were impressive. Desirable. Every detail was easy to recall. Exquisite opulence abounded. She couldn’t tell Mark that. Or, if she was going to tell him, she should have said something straight away.
The
