He counts eight navy bodycon dresses. Eight, more than one for every day of the week. They are not identical, he can see that, but they are similar. He recalls the number of times when thrifty Leigh gazed admiringly at say, a blue striped shirt and then decided against it because ‘I’ve got something similar in grey, who needs two striped shirts?’ He can’t believe she has so much, such excess, such choice. That thought stings. Inflames. Of course she has choice, he remembers bitterly. That is the problem. He can’t get his head around it. He stretches out his hand and tentatively strokes one of the dresses. It’s a dark red colour, and silky, undoubtedly sexy. He can’t think that there was an equivalent in her wardrobe at home. Not even a cheaper, synthetic, high street version. Leigh dresses practically, not sexily. The fabric of this dress feels like moisturised skin. He imagines her in it. He imagines he is touching her. His hand trembles.
A green long-sleeved wool dress catches his eye. Green is her favourite colour. At least it is Leigh’s. Who knows whether Kai had her own favourite colour. He moves closer to the green dress, instinctually buries his head in it and inhales. He expects it will smell of dry-cleaning fluid, or maybe an expensive unfamiliar perfume. But no. There she is. In every fibre. Leigh. The smell of her deodorant, perfume, body, so faint it is just a breath but so familiar that it’s a typhoon. She was here. She is Kai. Of course, he knows it, but now he feels it. He has been ravaged by such anger this past week, fury, uncontrollable, unstoppable. He hasn’t been able to think clearly, plan properly. His actions have been irrational. The boys have been neglected, barely spoken to. Thank god for Fiona. For a moment he considers ripping every garment from its hanger, clawing at them, tearing at them, destroying her, or at least this embodiment of her – just as he did with Leigh’s clothes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the green wool dress off the hanger, holds it close to his body and drapes the sleeves over his shoulders as though she is embracing him. He starts to sway from side to side, dancing with her. Like she had wanted him to.
His heart breaks.
He thinks he can hear it crumble, the destruction rolls through him like an avalanche. The last time he cried was at Frances’s funeral; then as now, overwhelmed by regret and sadness, a yearning for things to have turned out differently. Fat tears slide down his face now for the same reasons.
‘Your coffee is ready.’ The firm, foreign voice startles Mark back into himself. He is glad he has his back to the door and whilst Janssen must have seen him swaying, and quite possibly saw the dress too, he could not have seen the tears. Mark wipes his face on the dress and then drops it on the floor. He follows Janssen back into the kitchen and never wonders what is behind the third door.
They sit at the breakfast bar, staring at the cups of coffee. Mark wishes now he had said yes to the vodka. Fuck it, what does he have to lose? What more does he have to lose? He reaches for the bottle and splashes a generous measure into his coffee. He’s glad Janssen doesn’t comment but just reaches for the bottle and mirrors the action. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Janssen asks.
‘I don’t know what I was looking for. I found something.’ Mark isn’t normally cryptic. He considers himself an easy-going, straightforward bloke but he doesn’t know how to explain what he’s thinking. The anger is no longer pulsing in his throat, an emotional hairball threatening to suffocate him. He hasn’t swallowed it down, or spat it out exactly, but he’s no longer choked with fury. It is some improvement.
‘Can I see your home?’ Janssen asks. He then tries to clarify or be more tactful perhaps. ‘Her home. The home she has with you?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ replies Mark gruffly. ‘You know, the boys. It wouldn’t be fair on them.’
Mark knows he’s not playing ball. It ought to be quid pro quo, but he can’t do it. He can’t be that generous. He can’t let this man into his home. This man who has been inside his wife. This man who is married to his wife. He doesn’t want to see his eyes flicker with judgement, curiosity or superiority and surely there would be at least one of these things. The cork pinboard, with curling scribbled notes pinned to it, muddy shoes tumbling out of the understairs cupboard as though they can walk on their own. The gleaming cleanliness of this place had been enlightening, all the mess and chaos of his would be exposing.
‘Well, will you tell me about it at least?’ Janssen pursues.
Mark is momentarily irritated that this man hasn’t googled him and looked up their address, turned Google Maps on to photo mode to scope out the streets she spent half her time in, as Mark had done for the section of her life that was a mystery. The lack of interest is somehow a snub, a sign of superiority or laziness. What else has Janssen had to do with his time this past week? Mark considers, maybe he has searched but as Mark Fletchers are more abundant than Daan Janssens possibly the search wasn’t fruitful.
He
