She was giddy with nerves. Not because she was breaking all the online dating rules by going to an unknown man’s home without alerting anyone to her whereabouts—which was dangerous, stupid—instead, her nerves came from an almost debilitating fear that she might put a foot wrong. That she would blow this opportunity. Fiona never came across good-looking, affluent, single men. It was a stunning opportunity. She had to get it right. Her loneliness had been all-pervasive for some time. Maybe years. A constant. White noise. A low drone, irritating and overwhelming. She tried to shake it at work, at book clubs, by talking to Leigh, her hairdresser or strangers in the shops. The more she tried to shake it off, the tighter it clung. It seeped into her, into the marrow of her bones. It became part of her. She was her loneliness.
But less so when she was with Daan.
She didn’t normally have sex with men the first time she met them. She had rules about meeting for coffee first, then for lunch or an alcoholic drink. Sex, if it happened at all, only ever came after the third date, which had to be dinner. But where had the rules got her? She was single at forty-three years old. Her rules were outdated, they were holding her back. The rules were obsolete when applied to how adult relationships worked nowadays. People wanted to know if they were sexually compatible before they wasted too much time on dating. Indeed, last year, she’d dated one lovely guy several times before they finally fell into bed, only to discover they didn’t really do it for each other, everything was a bit tepid. It was a shame. She had no more time to waste. Besides, she had said she would prove she was a natural redhead. Everyone knew what that meant.
The sex was not tepid. It was technically perfect. Ideally, Fiona would have liked more kissing, a little foreplay, perhaps, and she’d have liked to have been lying down. Clothes off. But she couldn’t complain because her screaming orgasm was real. She’d faked hundreds in her lifetime, even when there had been kissing, foreplay, a bed. So it was crazy to feel disappointed when she came bent over the kitchen table. Besides, the important thing was that there would be follow-up, an actual date, with conversation and a chance. He said, “See you again,” as she left. She hung on to that.
There have been three more encounters since then. Four including last night. It doesn’t sound many, Fiona concedes, not over five months, but there was messaging too, phone calls, pictures. He likes her to send pictures. She can’t say they’ve dated exactly, not in a traditional sense. They haven’t ever visited a restaurant, or the theatre, or even the cinema. But on two occasions, afterward, Daan ordered food to be delivered （Thai）， and last night, afterward, they went to a local bar （and then back to his apartment for a second round of sex）。 Things have been progressing.
But he has been married all along. She has been used. Daan is married to her best friend. It is such an enormously overwhelming fact to try to take in. Shocking. It has left her reeling.
Her missing best friend. The thought sends chills through Fiona’s body, flashes of panic seize her and almost paralyze her limbs. She feels heavy and stupid one moment, energetic—almost raging—the next. She is not being rational. Staying over at Daan’s last night was a stupid risk. She hadn’t planned on staying but she had needed to see for herself how he was reacting to Leigh’s disappearance. Suspicion always fell on the husband. It was just a fact. Statistics. He looked terrible. Broken, splintered. Then he’d smiled at her in a way he’d never smiled at her before. As though she was the person he most wanted to see in the world. Although she couldn’t be, could she? Surely the person he most wanted to see in the world was Kai. He asked her in—it all seemed simple, normal; she didn’t feel frightened at all, even though anyone looking on might think she ought to be. Before she’d clapped eyes on him, she had been stretched with anxiety, aching with concern, apprehension, fear, but then he kissed her—she could taste the whisky he’d been drinking on his lips and all that melted away. He kissed over and over again, and she felt better. Quite simply that. Soothed. So she stayed.
This morning he looks completely different. There is no point in kidding herself. She couldn’t if she tried. It’s as though the scales have fallen from her eyes about everything; now she knows what deception her best friend is capable of. His eyes search her face, but not in a lust-dazed way; his eyes have a sadly all-too-familiar morning-after hardness. He wants to know when she will leave. Whether she will leave without a fuss. That look used to make Fiona feel ashamed, then it made her despair. Now, her despair has stiffened to something closer to resentment. She shouldn’t have slept with him. He doesn’t care about her. He does not see her as a girlfriend, a lover. Not even a mistress or a temptation. She means nothing to him. She leaves.
Without a fuss.
Like he wants.
Fiona doesn’t know how to tell Mark about her involvement with Daan. It is too weird, too much. She hadn’t asked to be in this position—she just found herself in it. Honestly, she had started to suspect Daan might be involved with someone else around Christmastime, their second hookup. The suspicion hung about in the shadows of her mind. The infrequency of their dates, the way he never let her move around the flat; they fucked in the kitchen and then she’d leave. His casual, dismissive way with her was hard to ignore completely and especially during the season when everyone was supposed to be merry and bright. She hadn’t wanted to confront him. Like a child, she thought if she ignored her problem, it might go away. How could she have imagined who his wife was? She could never have imagined her best friend was married to two men. Who did that?
Fiona should have confessed to Mark that she already knows Daan. Now she has complicated things by promising she will find out more about him and report back. She is getting herself into hot water. If Leigh has taught her anything, it is that lying is not the answer. Fiona should try to avoid that as much as possible; she should tell the truth when she can. Obviously, there was no real need for Fiona to go to Daan’s to find out more about him. She was already able to tell Mark that Daan is affluent, charming, accomplished, that when he speaks to you it is as though a spotlight is being shone on you and you are standing on the stage at Carnegie Hall. Established, important, spectacular. Had Leigh felt that? Of course, she must have. She had been his leading lady for years. And Fiona? Well, Fiona had been nothing more than a chorus girl, no matter what she might have once believed or hoped.
Daan has been a delicious secret that she has nursed for five months now. A secret that she brings out whenever she is alone, to be examined gently, carefully. Furtively. She’s never spoken to Leigh about him. She has wanted to, on about a hundred occasions. She wonders now what would have happened if she had. Imagine if she had mentioned that she was dating a rich Dutch man, would Leigh have blanched? If Fiona had photos of Daan, and had shared them with her best friend, would Leigh have broken down? Confessed? Fiona doesn’t have photos of Daan, though; the photos went only one way between them and there were no occasions when it would have seemed reasonable to take a couple shot.
Fiona had not mentioned Daan to Leigh when they first hooked up because she knew Leigh would have been dismissive, even supercilious. If Fiona had confided the details of her relationship with her friend, Leigh would have insisted on saying that Fiona was nothing more than a booty call and heading for trouble. Fiona knew Leigh would have concluded that her rich mystery man was probably involved with someone else because, in truth, all the indicators were there. Leigh had done that before. She believed in tough love and never had any problem with telling Fiona if her lovers were losers or likeable. She didn’t hold back.