‘Coming right up.’ He marches into the kitchen with the sort of determination that encourages her to follow him. He won’t be serving breakfast in bed. He doesn’t want to do that. He wants to be as efficient about this as possible. Obligingly, she does follow him. As usual, as expected, she keeps swivelling her head from left to right, taking in the impressive apartment. Doesn’t she do something connected with design or interiors? That rings a bell. Or maybe art or film. He can’t recall. Whether she does or doesn’t, she must appreciate the place. Be impressed by it. Who wouldn’t be?
Kai. Apparently. Fucking bitch.
‘This is such an exquisite apartment,’ she says. ‘But you really need to get your concierge guy onto sorting out those waterpipes.’
‘Waterpipes?’
‘Didn’t you hear them clanking all last night? I mean, I’m no plumber, but it sounded like hot water going through pipes or something. It kept me awake. Haven’t you noticed it?’
‘No, can’t say I have.’ He wants to move the conversation on. He wants to move her on. As the egg is poaching, he says, ‘Look, it is great to see you again but I have to tell you, I’m going through some heavy stuff right now, so it is not really a good time for me to start something up.’
He expects her to look hurt, or perhaps she’ll rush to assure him that she isn’t looking for anything heavy either, most women would rather lose anything than face. She surprises him when she asks, ‘What sort of heavy stuff?’
‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,’ he replies.
‘Try me.’
Daan shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to tell this woman that he has a wife. Let’s face it, that is something they haven’t discussed so far. And now he would have to confess to a missing wife. A wife with two husbands, so not really his wife at all. He doesn’t know how to get into that. He walks around the breakfast bar to where she is standing, and kisses her lips, cups her breast. He finds that usually gets women to stop talking. As he gently squeezes her nipple, he feels it start to stiffen. He also starts to stiffen then he remembers that he has a lot to accomplish today; he doesn’t have time for this, he breaks away. ‘So yes, really heavy stuff and I haven’t the space to start this up.’
‘Start this up again, Daan.’ He hears the accusation in her voice.
‘Well, yes,’ he shrugs and hands her the plate of eggs and toast. He hasn’t made one for himself. He hasn’t got any appetite at the moment. He watches her eat which she does unhurriedly and deliberately. He thinks she is drawing out the process on purpose, which annoys him. He glances at his watch.
‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘What?’
‘I saw your case in the bedroom, I wondered if you are going on holiday.’
‘No, well. Probably. I was thinking of it. Maybe I’ll take off next week. I need a break.’
‘Because of the stuff you are going through?’ she asks, smiling.
‘Right. Do you want to take a shower?’ He’s struggling to be polite now. He needs her to take the hint.
It appears she finally has when she replies, ‘I think I’ll shower back at my place.’
He watches her start to slowly gather up her clothes, her bag, get dressed. He counts the seconds. He’s never good with women who want to outstay their welcome, but he’s finding it particularly trying today. It takes all his self-control not to shove her down the lift shaft.
‘Daan, tell me something, and be honest about it. Are you married?’ She throws out the question when she is at the door. She has clearly sensed his impatience, his indifference. He sighs, what does he have to lose now.
‘I was,’ he replies. ‘Yes, Fiona, I was but I’m not anymore.’
33
Fiona
Sunday 22nd March
Fiona had wanted to die the moment she realised she had been having an affair with her best friend’s husband. Literally, she wanted to curl up in a ball and stop breathing. Stop being. It was too much. It was so unfair. So cruel. She didn’t know what to do with the information. Who should she tell? Who could she tell? Under the circumstances, who could she trust?
She first met Daan when she went to pitch for Mrs Federova’s interiors project. It was in the foyer, just as she was leaving, he was arriving. ‘Met’ is probably a generous description of the interaction. She clapped eyes on him as he swept past her, he gave her a polite nod of acknowledgement that she was sharing his space. It took everything she had not to openly gape. It was as though he cast a spell.
The moment she left the building she’d started searching through her dating apps that made suggestions based on geographical vicinity. She didn’t really hold out much hope that he would appear on any of the listings. Not a man like that. Too rich, too handsome. He wouldn’t have to try to find women online, they would be queuing up to date him in real life. Yet she searched because she felt compelled. Even a minuscule chance was some sort of chance. She swiped past face after face; ruthlessly her finger moved left, left, left behind. Then, when she was searching her third app, she found him. She could hardly believe her eyes, but it was definitely him. She might have only seen him for a moment, but he was hard to forget.
He had posted three pictures. One of him on a boat, all tanned and vibrant; another in a suit, serious but no tie, open-neck shirt, the suggestion of rebel; the third a close-up. She zoomed in. Examining his perfection in every pixel. She didn’t use this particular app that
