Woman Last Seen(22)
“I miss us.” His tone is forlorn. I shouldn’t have rung him on a Sunday night. Normally I don’t, I encourage him to go to the gym and I just send a WhatsApp message. Tonight, I needed him a little bit more than usual. I listen and hear him walk to the kitchen. I know he is going to pour himself a whisky nightcap. I listen as he opens a cupboard, retrieves a glass, the ice clatters into the glass and then cracks beneath the alcohol. We sometimes do this, just be on the line to one another, in comfortable silence. Especially after phone sex. It makes it seem more normal. If I was with him now, we’d both be having a drink. The preparation of a drink is supposed to be a celebratory sound. If you are drinking with your spouse, friends or family, I guess it is. Alone, the ice sounds like chains clinking. I think of Jacob Marley, dragging around his sins. A wave of sadness swooshes over me. Something telepathic as I sense his loneliness. “When you are here with me, I feel full, purposeful, vibrant. When you are not, I am a balloon well after the party is over, shriveled. Used,” he says.
He’s a poetic man. Confident that revealing his innermost thoughts to me is not only safe but desirable.
I understand. Things can get lonely in our beautiful, huge apartment. The strange thing is it can get stifling there too, despite the size. I don’t have a day job. It’s just not possible with my commitments here that are unpredictable but vital and nonnegotiable. I constantly battle with feeling torn as it is, putting a third element in the mix—work—is too much. We don’t need the money, so it doesn’t make sense. However, not being gainfully employed does mean when I am not here, I am often alone in our penthouse. I spend my days going to the apartment gym or pool, but I find the joy of the convenience is negated by the feeling I am trapped. That I have trapped myself. I eat up time thinking about what food I should cook him, what underwear I should buy and parade around in. If you fill your head with enough little things, there is no room for the big things. I’ve managed not to think about anything important at all for four years. I wonder if Daan feels similarly trapped when I’m not there? Most likely not. Not usually. He works in the city and has boisterous companionship all day long. What he feels when I have to be away is most likely less complicated, simply a bit lonely, possibly a bit sulky. I am suddenly swamped and exhausted by my ever-present concern that I am not being fair to him. This situation is untenable and unkind. But I don’t have a choice. I have responsibilities.
“I’ll be home tomorrow night. Shall we go out or stay in?”
“Let’s stay in.” I can hear the growl in his voice and my body responds with another pulse.
“And on Tuesday we have people coming around, right?”
“Yes. Everyone has confirmed.”
We like throwing supper parties. Not dinner parties. Inviting people for dinner is a little passé, a little try-too-hard for our friendship circle. In a similar way, we regularly eat out at the very best restaurants in London, but we rarely talk about going out for dinner. There must be no suggestion that it is an occasion. The whole thing must appear more spontaneous and be undervalued, even if we are visiting the sorts of places where you have to book weeks in advance, sometimes join a waiting list or promise to give up the table after ninety minutes. Paradoxically, casual is the most valued vibe among our beautiful friends who try so intensely at everything: staying slim, staying on top, staying fit, staying informed, being brilliant, beautiful, the best. The people Daan and I invite to supper are bankers, broadsheet journalists, CFOs who nurtured internet start-ups twenty years ago and have watched them thrive, the occasional actor who has a film breaking in Hollywood. They are the top 1 percent.
I like them, though.
I wasn’t expecting to. I’m far more ordinary in just about every way than anyone Daan knew before he met me. That is to say, my education and social background is very ordinary. I was, however, lucky that my parents’ genes collided successfully and—there is no modest way to say this—I’ve always been considered pretty. Some would say quite exceptionally so. Although not my father, and since my father never said it, I never really believed it or saw the value in it. Until, that is, I met Daan. Then I realized beauty is something I can bring to the table. When he first talked to me about the friends he made at his elite private school and at Harvard University, or the glossy, impressive colleagues and clients he wanted me to meet, I felt intimidated, sure I wasn’t going to like them—worse that they weren’t going to like me. But I was pleasantly surprised. Yes, some of them are arrogant and boring, others are superficial and vain, but many of them are interesting, driven, ambitious. I found listening to their stories about their various roles in diverse industries exciting. I’m not stupid, I can easily hold my own and my obvious interest and reasonable knowledge about the world, combined with my slim frame and high cheekbones, means I fit right in on most occasions. It’s not as though I could tire of Daan’s friends, or feel threatened or jealous of any one of them in particular, because while we throw a supper party about once a week, our guests are in constant rotation. I’m not expected to become bosom buddies with any of the chiseled and toned businesswomen or any of the beautiful clotheshorse wives who visit our home. The men remember me as charming but usually politely ask Daan about “that lovely wife of yours,” not bothering to commit my name to memory. Busy sorts, like these people, don’t expect intimacy, just stimulation.