Woman Last Seen(29)

I cry when the text comes. Awash with relief, again. A total flip-flop of thought. Which makes no sense. I had deleted his number but not blocked him. It reads, Come to me.

I can’t not. I text back within seconds. Where? When?

When I arrive at Sushisamba, a Japanese–South American fusion restaurant with stellar views and dreamy interior (because Daan never sacrifices style, not even during times of emotional turmoil), he seems different, changed. Dipped in pain and self-knowledge. Has he missed me too? He must have. Why else get in touch?

“I’m sorry,” we blurt, simultaneously.

“You don’t need to be more committed. I’m rushing things,” I add, because I’ve had time to think about what I can cope with, what I can manage. What he might throw my way. If it is just once a month and there is no contact in between, maybe I won’t drive myself wild with jealousy. Maybe it will be enough. I don’t want to be that woman, but I don’t think I have a choice anymore. I could be her.

We talk. We smooth it out as best we can. I try to explain my insecurities but can’t explain everything to him. I probably should. This moment of clarity and honesty would be the time to tell him everything about myself, to shine a light on what we actually have going on here. But I don’t. I hold part of myself back, it’s habit and now necessity. What if he walked away from me once he knew all about me? I know now I can’t lose him. The early lunch stretches into the afternoon. But I should be at work, I’ve taken so much time off recently—though what harm can one more afternoon do? I’ll give some excuse about needing a blood test, I’ll imply that they are investigating a potentially serious health issue, then people won’t pry. I might not be asked for a doctor’s note. I’m shocked at how fearlessly I lie to secure time with Daan. I had thought we were meeting for more sex. I imagined him dropping to his knees, pulling my knickers aside and licking me out. Maybe not in the restaurant but back at his apartment. Or I would drop to my knees. Take him in my mouth. Tongues and fingers. Sucking, flicking and fucking.

He does drop to his knees. In the restaurant. “Marry me.”

“What?” I feel the proposal roar through my body—it doesn’t reach my head.

“You are right, once a month is not a relationship. I’ve requested a transfer. It’s all been agreed. I’m moving here to London. There is something about you, Kai, that’s different from any other woman I’ve ever met. You ooze independence, self-containment. I love it. I love you. Marry me?”

I try to process what he’s saying. He wants me because he thinks I don’t want him as much as other women have done, or do. Just six months, six or seven encounters, his gesture is rash, vain, attractive.

He is holding out a ring box, which he opens, quite clumsily, his hands are shaking and in that moment I feel something so powerful, so tender, it has to be love. I want to stop his hand shaking. I want to make him happy. He’s irresistible to me. The pause between us, the expectation, is painfully potent. “I’m thirty-nine years old, Daan.”

“I know that.”

“Children. There might be—Well, it’s most likely to be harder, if at all.”

“I don’t want children. They have never been part of my plan.”

“You say that now, but you’re young enough to change your mind.”

“I want you.” His green eyes, framed with long, thick lashes, bore into me. Insistent, almost impatient. “Will you marry me, Kai, my beautiful darling?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” I nod and hear people around us ooh and aah. There’s a slight pattering of applause—people too British to commit—as he slips the ring onto my finger. A heavy ring, three enormous diamonds on a platinum band.

I love it.



12


Kai


It would be sensible if the engagement was at least a year because, obviously, we need to get to know one another, work out each other’s habits, needs, routines and lifestyle. To find a way to fit together. Or I could leave. By anyone’s standards we are being impetuous. Foolhardy. Agreeing to marry him makes no sense at all. Part of my brain knows this. The other part thinks I have won the lottery. When we spend the night together and I can feel his breathing against my back, I sometimes think that is all I’ve ever wanted. It’s enough. It’s everything. But of course, it isn’t.

It is not as easy to push our two lives together as Daan assumed it would be. Now that he lives in London, he expects me to move in with him straightaway. He is delighted when I tell him I only rent and don’t have a flat to sell. He wants to see me every day. That’s quite a leap after seeing one another just once a month. I’m overwhelmed by the expectation. The reality. I have to explain that my work takes me away a lot, and my mother is ill. I have responsibilities. Daan, to his credit, accepts my obligations, relishes my independence. I discover he is very easygoing. Not possessive or controlling like some men can be. He is straightforward, direct. He respects the boundaries that I put in place acknowledging that my life is more complex than that of other women he’s dated. From what I can gather those women did not have careers, just trust funds. They did not have family responsibilities, just frivolous friends. They spent their days in hair salons and spas preparing themselves for him. They were always available. I don’t know if he realizes I’m more complex than he is. I’m more complex than most people are. He’s too lazy to bother trying to work me out, to understand me. He just wants a quiet life. I have to try not to take it personally and remind myself this is a good thing; I don’t want him getting too close.