Woman Last Seen(74)

Did we just meet?
She dithered. Would he think she was some sort of stalker if she admitted they had? Would he be scared off? Or would he admire her efficiency, her opportunistic nature? No one was overly syrupy about dating apps nowadays; pragmatism beat romanticism every time, so she replied:

Yes. I was in your foyer earlier. I have a client there.
She didn’t, not strictly speaking, she had a potential client, however, that level of nuance had no place in dating-app chat. She wanted to present herself as successful and purposeful, trusted. She waited a moment, but he didn’t respond. She wondered whether she had lost him. Already? It was possible. Bitter experience had shown that the first few moments of online chat could smother things before they had even spluttered into life. People were ruthless. Impatient. Quickly she tapped:

I saw you in the foyer and thought you were worth hunting down.
The use of the word hunt was a gamble. Would it excite him? Intrigue him? It was a thin line between sexy, go-getting woman and desperate weirdo.

Are you a genuine redhead?
She did not hesitate. Yes.

I suppose I have to take your word for that.
I can prove it.
He replied with two love-heart-eyes emojis. One might have shown some level of sincerity, two showed appetite.

Are you free now?
It was hard for Fiona to tell herself that their first liaison met her expectations, which while only recently formed, were crystal. On the plus side, he was polite, he offered her a drink, she accepted even though she normally avoided drinking through the day. She accepted because she needed something to calm her nerves; yes, she was game, but she was also human and this whole encounter while entirely exciting was vaguely terrifying. He made her a gin and tonic. A strong one. He was breathtakingly handsome, and the apartment was one of the most impressive she had ever seen even in her professional life, and so much more impressive than anything any of her other dates had ever lived in. She knew she was getting ahead of herself, yet she could not help imagining waking up to the view, making supper in the kitchen, drawing a bath in that onyx bathroom and sharing it with him.

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.