I don’t tell them about the other husband.
“So eyes across a crowded art gallery?” they ask.
“Gallery steps to be accurate,” I reply with a smile.
“How romantic.”
And it was romantic.
His friends were delighted that he had found someone he was prepared to change his ways for, and that he’d chosen someone who appeared down-to-earth, normal. His female friends placed soft, manicured hands on my arm, squeezed conspiratorially and whispered that his exes had all been high-maintenance or shallow. They thought he had grown up. Picked wisely.
They had no idea.
Thinking about it now, all this time later, I suppose Daan sensed in me something not quite reachable and he found that fascinating. Some men always want what is just out of their grasp. I offered him a perfect blend of intimacy and detachment that most clever people find intriguing. He likes my tight bodycon dresses that say I want his attention, combined with my laissez-faire attitude and general abstraction that suggest I don’t—or at least if I do want it, I don’t need it. I am a challenge. Or I was. I wonder what I am now? A disappointment. A regret. A failure. Daan doesn’t like failing at anything.
You can meet a lot of people, spend a lot of time with them but still not know them. They do not know you. Sometimes that is the aim. Daan is a talker. He tells stories constantly. His whole life is divided like a book into chapters. His sporty school days, his idyllic family life, his interesting time at Harvard, the wild party years. The anecdotes all ooze a sense of accomplishment and happiness. They are well rehearsed, often recited but still chime with sincerity. His life has been blessed, fortuitous. Until meeting me, I suppose. I know one hundred times more about him than he will ever know about me. I wonder how this chapter of his life will be served up in the future. The period when his darling wife went missing, was torn from him, or perhaps the time when he imprisoned his bigamist whore of a wife. Although, who would he tell that story to?
26
Daan
Friday 20th March
“Oh, Mr. Janssen, it’s you.”
Daan freezes. He is not in the mood to chat to anyone and certainly not Alfonso, the officious concierge. Daan would prefer to keep all interactions with Alfonso brief and at the main reception desk. How can he explain being on the back stairs of the building?
“You’re still here, Alfonso—it’s late. I thought you’d have clocked off,” Daan says with a tone he hopes is full of bonhomie and ease, and does not betray the levels of stress he is under. Both men glance about. The back stairs are not dirty; they are befitting of the luxurious apartments, so the walls are painted and there is decent-quality coir carpeting, but neither man expected to see the other and can’t help being a little taken aback. Feeling vaguely wrong-footed.
“Heading that way,” Alfonso replies.
He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Daan always rushed home from work Monday to Wednesday when he knew Kai would be waiting for him. He tends to linger longer in the office on a Thursday and Friday, clearing admin until someone suggests a drink or something. Daan has never considered Alfonso’s home life. Now he finds he is curious about how other people live, manage. How they negotiate their way through intimacy. Until very recently Daan thought he had everything on lock, that he knew more than the average person about being a successful man. Now he just feels like a bloody fool; the humiliation burns inside him. Who does Alfonso return to of an evening? How does he spend his weekends? Daan thinks back to the rare occasions that he and Kai spent the weekend together. He would book exquisite restaurants, get great seats at the theatre, sometimes arrange for them to go backstage and meet the stars, because often he knew someone who knew someone, and those sorts of things were within his grasp. He would tenderly make love to her. Kissing her body over and over again, almost worshipping it. He thinks about how excited he always was about those precious weekends, how hard he worked to make them perfect from start to finish, certain that he was treating his wife, indulging her, rewarding her for all the time she devoted to her ailing mother.
It makes him sick.
Alfonso looks up at Daan with a quick hopefulness. He’d like to chat.
Daan wonders, is Alfonso married? Does he have children? Grandchildren? Is he divorced? Lonely. Is that why he keeps such odd and long hours? Does he like being here in this building more than he likes being at home? Daan is surprised these questions have occurred to him now. He has known Alfonso for years, cheerfully greeted him morning and evening, discussing the weather, a parcel, the delivery of appliances. Alfonso is a fixture in Daan’s life and yet he has never felt curious about him until this moment. Daan doesn’t get too involved in people’s private lives. As he was brought up with staff, he knows the dangers of becoming overly familiar with them and blurring the lines; it is tricky to pull back when necessary. And at some point, it is always necessary. Of course, he is friendly, polite. He tips well at Christmas, most likely the best tipper in the entire building by some way. He wants Alfonso to look out for him, take care when receiving deliveries, making hotel bookings, monitoring the external security cameras, but he doesn’t want Alfonso to be his friend. His home has to be a sanctuary; he doesn’t need those boundaries flexing. He doesn’t need Alfonso popping up to his floor just to make conversation. He doesn’t need his inquisitiveness, keenness, nosiness.
“Haven’t seen much of Mrs. Janssen this week,” says Alfonso.
“No,” says Daan, revealing nothing.
“Everything all right?” Alfonso’s gaze slips down the length of Daan’s body. Does he notice the dirty tracksuit? Are there telltale dark patches of sweat on his T-shirt? Daan thinks he can feel sweat on his top lip, his hair is greasy, his eyes are probably bloodshot, he can’t remember when he was last entirely sober. Daan thinks Alfonso’s question is impertinent, or his gaze. Both. His face turns icy to allow Alfonso to know this is what he is thinking and therefore to close him down, swiftly. Alfonso does clock Daan’s irritation and colors slightly. “Oh, sorry, don’t mean to pry. It’s just with the police being here, I started worrying about her. She’s such a nice lady, your wife. Always asks about mine.”
Daan doesn’t want Alfonso to be his friend, but nor does he want him to be an enemy either. Typical that Kai knew Alfonso was married, that she took an interest. She always did appear to be interested in everything and everyone. Bitch.
Daan doesn’t want to answer the question and he learned long ago that you don’t always have to, so instead he comments, “I’m just getting a bit of exercise, taking the stairs rather than the lift. Trying to hit twenty thousand steps a day.”
Alfonso whistles. “Twenty thousand? I’m lucky if I hit five thousand. Very sedentary job, mine.”
“Yes, mine too, but I try.”
“You wouldn’t find it easier just working out in the gym?” Alfonso asks.
Daan tries not to look startled at being challenged. “Of course—that’s where I’ve just come from.” It would at least explain why he is sweating, breathless.
“Oh, I must have missed you. Normally I notice who is working out or swimming.” Alfonso meets Daan’s gaze. “You know, the cameras.”