Woman Last Seen(82)
Fiona nods, embarrassed. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” She pulls her eyes to meet his. “You needed me. You’ve been hurt so badly by Leigh. I thought I would be twisting a knife.”
“By admitting that not only my wife, but my friend too had been seduced by this Daan Janssen?”
Fiona nods again, contrite. “I am so sorry.”
Mark’s face softens. He realizes that she was simply trying to protect him, trying to be a friend to him. He’s grateful to have someone on his team. “You have to go to the police with this. It will help them understand what sort of man they are dealing with.”
“I’ve already spoken to them.”
This at least pleases him. He nods, allows a smile to slide to parts of his mouth, not a full commitment but some level of grim satisfaction. “Good. Good.”
Fiona can’t see any good in this.
It is an unreasonable hope—because Mark is naturally focused on Leigh and on his own trauma—but she is disheartened that he hasn’t noticed or recognized her disappointment, her disillusionment. She was in a relationship with Daan—okay, not a decade-long marriage admittedly, but there had been something. Even if it was only on her side. Even if it was illusory. She’d like her loss to be acknowledged. She knows Mark has been reeling since Leigh’s disappearance, but she too has lost Leigh. Her longest, most meaningful relationship.
Fiona gives him the information he craves. She talks about the penthouse apartment, the Jacuzzi and swimming pool. She imagines hearing details about the other man’s extreme wealth is concurrently irritating and a relief. If Mark can square this away by reasoning Leigh was attracted to Daan’s wealth—a wealth Mark could never attain—then maybe that is easier than admitting to any nuance about why else she might have needed both men. However, as Fiona describes the expansive rooms, the hardwood floors, she notes Mark hasn’t asked any questions, he’s barely nodding along. He doesn’t seem interested.
He cuts her description short and asks, “How could I have lived with her for all that time and not known what was going on behind her eyes, behind her smile? I thought we were an exceptionally close couple. We used to laugh and mock couples who were not as close as we were. Or as close as I thought we were. I was the one she was laughing at really.”
Fiona is out of her depth. She knows Mark feels humiliated, idiotic. She wants to comfort him, she’d like to be the one to do that, but she doesn’t know what to say because in all honesty how can she defend her friend? She treads carefully. “I guess it’s possible to be close, you know, to see each other all the time, and yet not be aware. I mean, she was taking pains to hide stuff from you. You’re not a mind reader. It’s not your fault.”
“I thought what we had was not only meaningful, but everything.” The confession hangs raw and exposing in the air. “It turns out we were just a couple of strangers exchanging views of school timetables, what we should eat for dinner,” he adds bitterly. He grips his wineglass so tightly his knuckles turn white. Fiona clocks his angry hands and is just about to ease the glass out of his grip when the stem snaps. “Fuck.” He is cut. Scarlet blood bubbles on his hand, and red wine spills on the carpet. Mark stares at his wound and the mess but doesn’t react. Fiona jumps up, dashes to the kitchen, comes back with salt, kitchen roll and a tea towel.
“Let me look at your hand.” Mark remains inert as she checks there is no glass embedded in the gash. “Press tightly,” she instructs. She clears away the broken glass, mops up as much of the mess as she can and then pours salt on the stain. She roots out a bandage from the first aid tin and binds his injury. The cut isn’t big, but it must be quite deep as his blood quickly blooms through the dressing. Finally, she doesn’t ask but just goes into the kitchen, opens another bottle, brings it back to the living room with a fresh glass for Mark.
They fall silent, each deep in their own thoughts of how they have been fooled, deceived, betrayed. They drink in a morose fog. There’s music coming from somewhere, a neighbor’s house. It’s a poppy, nondescript tune. It should cheer but it doesn’t; it jars. It seems meaningless, taunting. It seems peculiar that ordinary things like music playing from a radio station can be happening, considering everything. The windows are open because it’s been an unseasonably hot day but it’s still March and the night air hasn’t held any warmth. Fiona shivers, stands, pulls the window closed. As she sits back down on the couch she reaches for a throw. She recognizes it as one that Leigh bought when they were on an IKEA shopping trip together, about two years ago. Fiona had picked it out. Leigh always wanted her interior design advice but would cheerfully say, “Just remember I don’t have your clients’ budgets.” But she did have, didn’t she? She had access to enormous wealth, just not in this life. Leigh lied about everything, even which throw she could afford.
The throw is grubby, a bit frayed, but it is warm, comforting. Fiona stretches it over her legs and reaches to pull some of it over Mark’s too. He doesn’t seem to notice. She wonders what he is thinking about exactly. If not a shopping trip to IKEA, then what other small domestic detail—that formed the bricks and mortar of their relationship—might he be looking at from a different perspective? Fiona finds she does that a lot, on dates and things: wonders what men are thinking. She is never sure; they always seem so inaccessible. So far away. She breaks the hush when she comments, “You know, I always thought she was the most honest person I’d ever known.”