Janssen’s upper lip curls slightly, probably objecting to the implication that her life here, his life, isn’t real. “Are you implying she was with me just for my money?” He laughs. The laugh is a little forced and goes on a little too long. It’s hard to believe it reflects any real mirth.
“I’m just saying it would have been easier for her to divorce me and then to marry you, if she had wanted you.” Mark knows Daan must have had this thought too. He must be furious. How furious?
“And if she had wanted you, why did she even notice me?” asks Janssen coolly. “You can’t point score. We are in the same boat.”
Mark sighs, nods. “Shit creek without a paddle.”
Janssen nods. “I know this expression. Exactly this. The English always have the exact phrase.” He sighs. Mark doesn’t know him well enough to understand if it’s impatience, regret, sadness. “Anyway, I guess the wealth didn’t mean all that much to her, in the end, because she was able to leave it. Walk away.”
“If she left,” Mark challenges.
“Of course she left.”
“You believe she walked away from you. From all this?”
“What other explanation?”
Mark shakes his head. “I don’t imagine her leaving the boys.”
“Face it, we weren’t enough for her. All four of us combined, not enough. She was a very greedy woman.”
It’s a sad condemnation. Janssen doesn’t trust in Kai’s love the way Mark trusts in Leigh’s. Is it easier for Mark because he knows Leigh would not have left through choice? He feels grimly smug. He loves her more. Of course he does. His actions prove that. “If you think she walked away, where do you think she went?” he challenges.
Janssen shrugs stiffly. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“You are very cold.”
“I am very hurt.”
“Did you kill her?” Mark wants to see how Janssen responds to the question, asked straight out. What might the DC see if she asks the same thing of him?
Janssen meets Mark’s eyes. “No. Did you?”
“No.” They stare at one another, both aware that either of them might be lying.
39
Fiona
Fiona didn’t want the kiss to stop. His lips were warm and soft and urgent. Yes, urgent. He wanted her. Needed her, that might be better still, more reliable, more enduring. Even so, the cool air from the window breathed onto her cheek, the nondescript pop music needled, the blanket no longer felt soft and comforting, but instead started to scratch. She pulled apart.
“God, sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Mark said immediately. He rushed the words out, like vomit. The retraction, more urgent than the kiss. Even though she was the one that stopped the kissing, she felt disappointed that he so quickly scurried into an apology. Into regret. She wished men would kiss her without regret more often. He scuttled back to the other end of the sofa.
“No, no. Don’t apologize.” She wanted to tell him it was nice. Not to be sorry for it, but to do it again, that she regretted stopping him, but she was too embarrassed. From the look on his face—panicked, nervous—he obviously was glad she’d come to her senses, brought him to his. So instead she said, “It’s just that I’m not sure it’s really what you want.” She glanced at the empty wine bottle, to indicate her reasoning. “And even if it is something you might want one day, it’s too soon.” She hadn’t been able to resist adding that. Leaving the door open just a little bit. A crack.
Mark got to his feet; he was swaying a little. He asked her to stay over again, pointed out she’d been drinking too and shouldn’t drive. She hesitated. He said she could have one of the boys’ beds if the sofa wasn’t comfortable. He would put on clean sheets; she didn’t think that was necessary, she’d only just changed them herself the day before yesterday.
“I can get an Uber back or I can walk. It’s not far.”
“It’s late, though.” His concern for her safety was probably just that, normal friendly concern, but it felt just a bit more. A little insistent. In a good way. “You’ve been really good for the boys. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.” It was a familiar chant. Fiona remembered he used to say it to Leigh when they first met.
She didn’t know what to do. It was late. He’d spoken about Leigh in the past tense and he’d seemed categorical when he said, “She’s not coming back, Fiona.” How could he be so sure? She needed to think that through. It might mean nothing. It might just mean that he was simply talking about what she did before—“Leigh made the house warmer and happier”—it didn’t necessarily mean that he thought Leigh was dead. Maybe just gone. Gone for good. He saw her in the past tense. Fiona had drunk quite a bit; he was right about that. She couldn’t reason. She was being wild, leaping to crazy conclusions. She agreed to sleep on the sofa. Was that sensible? As she fell asleep, she thought that she was living Leigh’s life a little. One night with one husband, the next with the other. The thought was disquieting. Leigh was no longer someone anyone in their right mind could aspire to be.
Though this morning, Fiona is glad she stayed. She woke up to find the house empty. Wherever Mark had gone to, he was not home to greet Oli and Seb when they returned from their aunt’s. But she was. She makes them a sausage, beans and bacon brunch, even though they both say they’ve already had breakfast. “A bowl of cereal isn’t much of a breakfast at your age,” she comments. She doesn’t point out that prepping food and eating it fills the day. They all need that. The day to be filled. After the fry-up, they debate whether to have pancakes too—that’s when they hear Mark’s key in the lock. A hush descends. The boys are nervous of their dad, unsure when his temper might flare up again, what they might do that will trigger it. Fiona is embarrassed after last night. She decides the only option is to front it out. She smiles brightly. “Oh, great timing, Mark. We’re just in the middle of a massive blow-out brunch,” she smiles. “To pancake or not to pancake? That is the question.”
He is pale, black bags gather like clouds under his eyes, but he smiles back at her. She thinks she can see the smile reach his tired eyes. The first time since Leigh went missing. She’s pretty sure she’s not kidding herself but the doorbell rings again and the moment dissolves.
It is the police.
Fiona tells the boys to go upstairs. No doubt they will listen in from the landing, but she can’t do anything about that. She sits down on an armchair in the living room, while Mark answers the door. Is this the moment? From now on will life be divided between before and after? She wonders what they know exactly. What they have come to say. That they have found Leigh? That there is a body? That they have arrested Daan? There must be something because why else would they be here? Time slows. It pulls at her skin, drags her down. The room feels too full. Oppressive.
It’s confusing. They start to question Mark about his first wife. Details around her death. It makes no sense to Fiona. Why are they talking about Frances? And then, slowly, she begins to understand. They are saying Frances didn’t die of cancer; it transpires she fell down the stairs. Fiona turns to face Mark. It’s like driving in a fog—she is disorientated, stressed. She grips tightly, peers closely but can’t recognize anything familiar.