A sense of humour that is like mine. Dry, sharp. We spar intellectually. Freedom. Time. A big but autonomous family who are in equal parts frighteningly competitive and successful. They demand nothing of me beyond glossy hair and straight teeth so that I fit in; other than that they come free of all obligation including love or hate. Rooftop terraces. Champagne and cocktails. Lots of phone sex. Text sex. Anticipated sex.
The memory is simultaneously urgent and yet distant. I can’t imagine desire right now. Lust. I know it was there, a force to be reckoned with or capitulated to but I can’t feel the breathless pressure of it anymore. The list. The list. What else is on his list?
A willingness to hear the plot of a novel I enjoyed but, like Mark, an unwillingness to read the damn novel. A sense that when I’m with him everything is possible.
It is not possible to leave the room. I am not beautiful, right now, bruised and foetid.
I am in hell. He is the devil.
38
Mark
Monday 23rd March
Mark gets up early and leaves Fiona sleeping. Both the boys being out of the house provides him an opportunity. Since Fiona confessed to her involvement with Daan, he has known exactly what he has to do. He needs to do it quickly. No one else can do this for him.
Mark finds himself carefully studying Fiona as she sleeps. The bridge of her nose, the crown of her head, her usually well-maintained lowlights – that subdue the copper of her hair – are growing out, there’s a smidge of hair striped through with grey. He finds it moving. Honest. He notes that sleeping Fiona looks vaguely anxious. What a shame. He wonders if that is because of what happened last night between the two of them. He shouldn’t have kissed her. Or maybe he should. He doesn’t know. Nothing is clear cut anymore. He no longer has any idea of what should or should not happen, what he should or should not do. Most likely, her look of anxiety is due to the fact she is worrying about Leigh’s whereabouts. Or maybe, she lives with some ever-present level of concern – work, money, ageing parents, the drag of unrealised ambitions. Most people have something.
Fiona has been kind and helpful. Great with the boys. She is attractive too. Not a knockout, like Leigh, who is one of those rare, lucky women who continue to get more beautiful the older they get. Mark is now a bit shamefaced to admit that when he first met Fiona, he’d noted she was a redhead and wore a sort of perma-angry face but didn’t really give her much more consideration than that. He’d secretly dubbed her ‘Ferocious Fiona’. She had softened since then. He hadn’t noticed exactly when that had happened, but she seemed to have found her style and stride.
Looking at a person sleeping is undoubtedly incredibly intimate, even if that person is just asleep next to you on the train. Mouths gape open, words are muttered under breath, undignified drool slips and glistens on the chin. Sleep is an act of trust. He can’t understand why Fiona never married; she’d make a great wife and mother, although the chance of being a mother is slim for her now, he supposes. Fiona moves in her sleep, twitches, maybe she has sensed him in the room. He doesn’t want her to find him towering over her, it would be weird, so he silently backs away. Yes, she is sweet and caring. He hopes she’ll stay in his life, even though Leigh is out of it now. Especially because of that.
But what he has to do next has nothing to do with Fiona.
He catches the tube. It’s unusually quiet, ghostly. The city is awash with a sinister sense of dread and fear. When he arrives at the apartment, he finds it is not quite as sleek and swish as he was expecting; there is a slight air of neglect and desertion, only just perceptible, better disguised than in less affluent areas but Mark can identify it. There’s no one about, he imagines the residents have all scurried away to their homes in the country or even abroad by now. If London closes and theatres, shops, restaurants are boarded up, its lure is muted. He steps over a pile of rubble and debris on the pavement outside the luxury building. His first thought is to wonder if there have been any lootings or break-ins, but glancing about he can’t see any other sign of a disturbance so assumes the mess is a result of a burst bin bag or careless fly-tipping. The smaller pieces of plasterboard catch on the wind and are lifted, scattered along the street.
Inside the building, Mark finds the concierge clearing out the drawers behind his reception desk. The man looks agitated and although Mark doesn’t ask, he confides, ‘Been sent home. Got an email from the residents’ committee. They’re saying it’s because of the pandemic. Most residents have cleared off and they are saying it’s better for my health. But—’ He stops himself, draws in his mouth as though someone has sewn up his lips. He shrugs. It is clear he wants to say more. Maybe confide something, have a bit of a grumble as though they are old friends. Mark isn’t in the mood; he is polar opposite of being in the mood. ‘The cleaners haven’t come in,’ adds the concierge with a sigh. Mark glances at the marble floor and concedes they are perhaps not as shiny as expected, the endless glass walls are a little smeared with hand and nose prints from where people outside have pushed their faces against the glass and peered in. Mark is glad. He wants Daan Janssen to feel the pinch of neglect and desertion. At least that. A pinch. Actually, he wants him to feel the knockout punch. Mark
