Your Perfect Year(3)

And that was despite twenty hours with a life coach who had assured him that the problem could be rooted out after just two or three sessions. Another incompetent for Jonathan to let off steam thinking about. The fellow had even had the nerve to accuse him of failing to cooperate when Jonathan pointed out shortcomings in his coaching methods.

It was amazing, Jonathan thought as he jogged past “Bodo’s Boat’s” (could no one get apostrophes right?), how Tina hadn’t asked for anything when they’d split up. No settlement, no alimony, no share of the house, nothing.

According to Jonathan’s lawyers, she could have demanded all those and a whole lot more. But she had simply left just as she had arrived almost eight years before then—with nothing to her name and an underpaying job as a graphic designer. Despite his protests, she’d even left behind the Mini and all the jewelry he had given her.

Jonathan’s life coach had been of the opinion that Tina had shown manners and a sense of decency, since she’d been the one who wanted the divorce. He had consulted the coach in order to put the whole sorry business behind him as quickly as possible, not to listen to an unsolicited opinion on his ex’s behavior—and besides, Jonathan saw things a little differently: Tina’s refusal to accept everything she was legally entitled to was not some dignified farewell, but merely a small-minded, insidious dig to let him know that she didn’t need him. Him or his money. Especially not that.

Twenty minutes later, Jonathan reached the fitness court by the lakeside, sweating and panting uncharacteristically hard. He finished his circuit here every morning with a thirty-minute workout on the small course, which at this hour was rarely occupied. Especially not on New Year’s morning, when he seemed to be the only person left on earth.

First he did fifty push-ups, then fifty sit-ups, followed by fifty chin-ups. He repeated the whole procedure three times. Now he felt ready to face the day. As usual, when he surveyed his body after the final cooldown, he was happy to note that his daily exercise program was truly paying off.

He was in outstanding shape for his forty-two years. He could easily compete with any man in his midtwenties when it came to fitness—and, weighing in at 175 pounds at a height of just under six foot three, he was slimmer than most men his age. Not like Thomas, who even back in their school days had suffered a definite tendency toward love handles.

Also unlike the love of Tina’s life, Jonathan had thick black hair, with just a few gray strands at the temples. An interesting contrast with his blue eyes, as Tina had always said. A contrast that no longer seemed to interest her, since Thomas, poor guy, had in his twenties developed a shiny, greasy bald pate which only the most loving gaze could see as a receding hairline. And his eyes were some color between muddy brown and glassy green.

Jonathan allowed himself a brief smile as he thought of the many times he had buoyed his former best friend’s confidence when Thomas complained of his failures with women.

It made the present situation all the more unfair. He thought of Thomas’s words of wisdom at the time: “Don’t take it so badly, buddy—you have to let the best man win!” The best man—ha! Since handing in his notice, Thomas had gone into business as a “freelance marketing consultant,” a polite way of saying unemployed; he could hardly be called successful.

Enough! Before Jonathan could yet again lose himself in the mire of wondering why on earth Tina had left him for this guy, whom any objective observer would call worse, he set his shoulders and marched over to his mountain bike, locked in its usual place at the fitness-court entrance.

He stopped short when he saw a black bag dangling from the handlebar of his bike. How did that get there? Had someone forgotten it? Why was it on his mountain bike? Weird. Or was this another of Tina’s little “attentions”? Had she decided to start lying in wait for him during his morning training sessions?

He unhitched the bag from his handlebar. It was relatively light and, when he looked closer, was little more than a zipped nylon shopping bag, the kind that could be bought packed down into a tiny bundle at any supermarket checkout.

Jonathan wondered whether to open it. It didn’t belong to him. But he didn’t pause for long. Someone had hung it on his bicycle, so he tugged the zipper open and looked inside.

He saw a thick book bound in dark-blue leather. Jonathan took it into his hand and turned it one way, then the other. The book was new, and the leather looked high quality, with white stitching at the seams and a tab with a snap fastener to hold it closed.

It was a Filofax, something very few people—at least, few people under the age of fifty—used in this age of iPhones, smart watches, and the rest.

Why would someone hang a bag containing an old-fashioned organizer on the handlebar of his bike?





2

Hannah

Two months before:

Sunday, October 29, 8:21 a.m.

Hannah Marx woke and knew she was in love.

But she had no idea with whom.

One thing she did know, which confused her even more, was that it definitely was not her boyfriend, Simon Klamm, whose longed-for marriage proposal had not yet materialized. Granted, her longing remained secret; she had not so much as hinted. But since they’d been a couple for more than four years now, Hannah thought it was high time he asked.

She pushed the duvet back, sat up, and rubbed her eyes in bewilderment. What a strange dream! She could still feel the pleasant tingling running through her whole body, and a quick look in her bedside mirror showed that her cheeks were flushed. Her red hair was sticking out wildly as though she had spent the whole night tossing her head from side to side on the pillow, and even her lips glowed red and full, as though she’d been smooching for hours.