“So good,” Kylie replies, a small smile playing on her lips. The memory not quashed, even after everything. Even though she’s been chained to a radiator, starved and beaten. It is unbelievable. “The moment we entered the apartment, he would throw me against the wall, his lips on mine, his hands everywhere. He’d want to hitch up my dress and pull me onto him right away, but we tried not to, we would try and make ourselves wait just a little bit longer.”
Fiona reaches for a glass of water. Her throat is so dry, she can’t swallow. “Describe it to me. Make me understand.”
“No.” Kylie laughs, embarrassed. Finally embarrassed. But not embarrassed that she has had this glut, this overabundance. Embarrassed to share it with Fiona, who she no doubt pities. Who she assumes has no clue.
But Fiona gets it. She can see it. Imagine it, even though it wasn’t the same for her. He bent Fiona over the kitchen table. She imagines it was different for Kai. He’d back Kai onto the bed, as she fell flat, he’d move swiftly, quickly rooting out her wetness, delving in with his brilliant tongue, bringing her close to climax within moments as he went deep and she pushed her hips into his face, willing him to do whatever he wanted with her, take whatever he needed. Clothes would be shed; hands, fingers, tongues everywhere: on her tits, her arse, her neck, her waist, tits again, arse again; exploring without limits. They couldn’t get enough of each other. She would find her way to his cock and flick her tongue up and down, take him in her mouth and suck, drawing him in. She’d do this until he moaned that it was the best fucking blow job of his life, that he wanted to come in her mouth. Of course, he wouldn’t. Throbbing with desire, he’d slip inside her and she’d sigh, scream and yelp with utter uninhibited pleasure. They would both be wet, hot, needy. Finally, she would quiver and tighten, he would feel her utter surrender. Then, and only then, would he come, deep inside her.
Fiona can barely breathe. Her head is spinning.
47
Kylie
My head is spinning. The kitchen is hot, clammy. I want to feel a breeze after the week of being trapped, starved not only of food but oxygen and hope. However, I feel too exhausted to even stand up, stretch up to open the window. I’m completely sapped, drained. I should eat more of this pasta. I am allowing myself to get weak and light-headed. Drinking is a mistake. Talking to Fiona like this, about this, is a mistake. Fiona is looking at me in a peculiar way. We’ve known each other forever. I can read every one of her expressions. She looks furious. That can’t be right. Just curious, maybe? Confused? She keeps urging me to carry on. I should include Fiona in this, however difficult it is for me to explain. That’s what she wants. If she is angry at all, it is because she has felt left out.
“At first everything between Daan and me was exciting and unreal. I told myself it had nothing to do with Mark, with my family. A discreet hookup in a posh apartment once a month. Not honorable but not unprecedented. Minimal communication in between. Just sex. It was never meant to be serious, yet people can’t be contained. Feelings can’t be capped or controlled.”
“No, they can’t,” admits Fiona. I smile, grateful to her for trying to understand me.
“He had this power over me. The desire I felt. The force of it was irresistible. And it never stopped. It never went away. Even in the moment I was sated, I’d want him again. I couldn’t ignore it.” Confessing such intimacy is hard but I’m drunk and that helps. “It started with a drink on a trendy rooftop bar and specifically an incident in a toilet.”
“Classy, Kylie.”
I shrug. I know how it sounds. It sounds awful but it felt like something different altogether. Something brilliant. “I did not plan to see him ever again. After the first time. Of course not. I woke up waiting for the shame and guilt to kick in with the hangover.”
“It didn’t?”
I shake my head. “I got out of bed and banged on the door of the boys’ bedrooms, made everyone’s breakfast, showered, went to work on the tube. I did everything I had done the day before as though nothing had changed. I did not feel guilty. It would be easy to say I wish I had felt guilty, because if I had I might have stopped. I’d certainly be more normal. More expected. But I don’t think that is what I wish. Even now.”
“Even though you ended up chained to a radiator as a consequence?”
I take a gulp of wine. I don’t believe I asked for this. I don’t believe the response was justifiable or proportionate, but I almost understand it. I think I do. I shrug. “When I spoke, he listened. I felt more heard than I have ever been.”
“I don’t know what to say,” comments Fiona. We both fall silent. She stands up, clears away the plates, tops up my drink again.
“I knew it was wrong. Obviously. Moral compass rule number one. But as it didn’t feel wrong it was hard to believe it was.” My heart is beating exceptionally fast. The confession is causing panic, or maybe the memory is churning up a familiar, formidable delight. “It just didn’t feel wrong. I should have felt bad, but I didn’t.”
“I suppose you thought you were going to get away with it.”
“I thought maybe if no one ever knew, then it wasn’t awful.”
“That’s just something you told yourself to make things easier for you. It was convenient for you to think so. All lies are convenient.”
I feel the tender sting of my bruises under my clothes, the throb of my hand. It wasn’t as simple as that. There was more to it. Can I make Fiona understand? I blurt, “The thing is, in marriages, in all relationships, sometimes, we do things badly. We are in the wrong, we make mistakes. Life is full of small, undignified moments, insignificant like grains of sand but when they start to add up, to stack up, you make entire beaches of pain. I didn’t want a marriage like that, full of tiny failures of character on my part—on his. I guess I chose a double life so that I could make both shinier.”
“But neither was real.”
“They felt real,” I insist.
“You can’t have it all.”
“But I did. For a time, I did.” We both sit in silence. I am reminded of the silence of waiting for the typewriter to clank into action behind the door and it makes me feel uncomfortable. “I need fresh air. I’ve been inside too much recently. Can we take a walk?”
Fiona looks outside, the wind is agitating the branches of trees in her garden, causing them to whip the air. It’s too dark to see the sea but we can hear the waves crashing. It’s inhospitable. I’ll understand if she refuses my request. She smiles and jumps up. “Sure.”
48
Daan
Daan is on his way to the airport when he gets the call; his passport in his jacket pocket, his smart Tumi luggage neatly packed, just carry-on size. He needs to be swift, can’t afford any potential delays. If everything goes well, he can have the rest of his belongings shipped to him. If he has to leave them behind, he can always start again. It’s just stuff. Suits, shirts, shoes, shit. It’s not real.
Not like she was.
Whoever is trying to get hold of him is being persistent. It rings out and then immediately starts up again. He doesn’t care who it is. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.