Woman Last Seen(87)
This bathroom is incomparable. Of course it gleams, that is to be expected considering the rest of the apartment, but there is more than that to appreciate. This bathroom is a sanctuary; it is sensual, classy. No one grabs a rushed shower here. The mosaic tiles shimmer. The copper bath is enormous, two can easily bathe until they wrinkle in there. There are no bottles or packets lying around, just fat candles, perfectly stacked piles of towels and beautiful decanters full of what Mark can only presume to be bubble bath—no not here, not bubble bath—oils. The room smells of something woody and dark. Ginger or citrus. He can’t see a loo brush or a bottle of bleach. He tries to imagine her weeing in here, shaving her legs, taking off her eye makeup. He can’t, because it lacks her trail of mess. And maybe not being able to imagine her is a boon after all.
He goes back into the bedroom and opens another door. He was expecting a wardrobe. It is a wardrobe, if an entire room of shelves and rails can be described as something so humble. This walk-in wardrobe is the same size as Oli’s bedroom, a little bigger than Sebastian’s. He stares at the racks of shoes neatly lined up behind the glass sliding doors. He’s seen something similar in very posh restaurants, for storing expensive wines, but row after row of shoes being displayed like art? This blows his mind. At home Leigh has a normal-size wardrobe. It is heaving—or at least it was before he set to with the scissors and the bin bags. That wardrobe had been full of high street clothes that were often creased when retrieved, sometimes a button was missing. The clothes and shoes in this room are ordered by color. Two soothing rainbows of style and luxury fan out in front of him.
He counts eight navy bodycon dresses. Eight, more than one for every day of the week. They are not identical, he can see that, but they are similar. He recalls the number of times when thrifty Leigh gazed admiringly at say, a blue-striped shirt and then decided against it because “I’ve got something similar in gray—who needs two striped shirts?” He can’t believe she has so much, such access, such choice. That thought stings. Inflames. Of course she has choice, he remembers bitterly. That is the problem. He can’t get his head around it. He stretches out his hand and tentatively strokes one of the dresses. It’s a dark red color, and silky, undoubtedly sexy. He can’t think that there was an equivalent in her wardrobe at home. Not even a cheaper, synthetic, high street version. Leigh dresses practically, not sexily. The fabric of this dress feels like moisturized skin. He imagines her in it. He imagines he is touching her. His hand trembles.
A green long-sleeved wool dress catches his eye. Green is her favorite color. At least it is Leigh’s. Who knows whether Kai had her own favorite color. He moves closer to the green dress, instinctually buries his head in it and inhales. He expects it will smell of dry-cleaning fluid, or maybe an expensive unfamiliar perfume. But no. There she is. In every fiber. Leigh. The smell of her deodorant, perfume, body, so faint it is just a breath but so familiar that it’s a typhoon. She was here. She is Kai. Of course, he knows it, but now he feels it. He has been ravaged by such anger this past week, fury, uncontrollable, unstoppable. He hasn’t been able to think clearly, plan properly. His actions have been irrational. The boys have been neglected, barely spoken to. Thank God for Fiona. For a moment he considers ripping every garment from its hanger, clawing at them, tearing at them, destroying her, or at least this embodiment of her—just as he did with Leigh’s clothes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the green wool dress off the hanger, holds it close to his body and drapes the sleeves over his shoulders as though she is embracing him. He starts to sway from side to side, dancing with her. Like she had wanted him to.
His heart breaks.
He thinks he can hear it crumble; the destruction rolls through him like an avalanche. The last time he cried was at Frances’s funeral; then as now, overwhelmed by regret and sadness, a yearning for things to have turned out differently. Fat tears slide down his face now for the same reasons.
“Your coffee is ready.” The firm, foreign voice startles Mark back into himself. He is glad he has his back to the door and while Janssen must have seen him swaying, and quite possibly saw the dress too, he could not have seen the tears. Mark wipes his face on the dress and then drops it on the floor. He follows Janssen back into the kitchen and never wonders what is behind the third door.
They sit at the breakfast bar, staring at the cups of coffee. Mark wishes now he had said yes to the vodka. Fuck it, what does he have to lose? What more does he have to lose? He reaches for the bottle and splashes a generous measure into his coffee. He’s glad Janssen doesn’t comment but just reaches for the bottle and mirrors the action. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Janssen asks.
“I don’t know what I was looking for. I found something.” Mark isn’t normally cryptic. He considers himself an easygoing, straightforward bloke but he doesn’t know how to explain what he’s thinking. The anger is no longer pulsing in his throat, an emotional hairball threatening to suffocate him. He hasn’t swallowed it down, or spat it out exactly, but he’s no longer choked with fury. It is some improvement.
“Can I see your home?” Janssen asks. He then tries to clarify or be more tactful, perhaps. “Her home. The home she has with you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” replies Mark gruffly. “You know, the boys. It wouldn’t be fair on them.”
Mark knows he’s not playing ball. It ought to be quid pro quo, but he can’t do it. He can’t be that generous. He can’t let this man into his home. This man who has been inside his wife. This man who is married to his wife. He doesn’t want to see his eyes flicker with judgment, curiosity or superiority and surely there would be at least one of these things. The cork pin board, with curling scribbled notes pinned to it, muddy shoes tumbling out of the understairs cupboard as though they can walk on their own. The gleaming cleanliness of this place had been enlightening, all the mess and chaos of his would be exposing.