Page 26 of The Expat Affair

My skin goes hot, my body practically sizzling in the frigid wind as I pedal by in the sea of bikes, and I can’t stop staring. Leaning back in my seat so I don’t lose him in the crowd, craning my neck to scan the rest of the faces on the sidewalk. Is hewithsomeone?

“Kijkuit!” someone yells—watch out!

I slam the brakes just in time, screeching to a stop behind a cluster of bikes waiting at the light. Sem’s body strains against the belt, but Ollie tumbles and rolls, yelping as his body hits the front of the carrier. He scrambles upright and shakes it off with what looks suspiciously like a side-eye.

I lean forward to run a shaking hand over Sem’s head. “You okay?”

As usual, he bats my hand away.

By the time I turn back, Thomas is gone, almost like he was a mirage.

Except I saw him. Isawhim. At a hotel in Amsterdam when he’s supposed to be in Antwerp.

All those late-night “meetings” and “business dinners,” all the mysterious phone calls in his study, the door tightly closed. All those times he’s come to bed late and left early, so he doesn’t haveto make excuses for why he hasn’t touched me in ages, when I ask him what’s wrong and he can’t quite look me in the eye when he assures me that it’s nothing.

And the Conservatorium is not just any hotel. It’s one of the busiest in this part of town, located on one of the busiest corners. Where hundreds of possible witnesses could be biking or driving or tramming by at any given moment. What if someone besides me saw him? What ifSemhad seen?

The light flips to green and the mass of bikes take off. I lean into the wind and pedal like a fiend, a new sense of urgency beating in my chest. All this time, I thoughtmybetrayal would be the end of me and Thomas. I thought it would bemysins that unraveled the bonds between us, not his. It never occurred to me that I should be watching out for his. But I was wrong.

My eyes are open now.

November 17th, 10:39 p.m.

I step into Xander’s foyer, a muted expanse of sand-colored marble that smells of lemons and something darker, something spicier. Patchouli and cloves, maybe. The speakers above my head flip on, too, Amy Winehouse crooning about love being a losing game. Appropriate, considering tonight is my fifth anniversary and I’m here, staring down the hallway of Xander’s penthouse at almost eleven at night, while Thomas is at work.

“Swanky,” I say, peeling off my coat.

Xander takes it from me and drapes it over a corner chair. “Come. I’ll give you a tour.”

He leads me from room to fabulous room, and I nod and hum as he points out all the amenities. Oversized Italian furniture sitting atop shaggy wool carpets. Solar shades that filter light and offer privacy without obscuring the spectacular views. Floor cooling—areal luxury here in Holland—for those three weeks in the summer when the sun heats up his penthouse like one of the many greenhouses jutting up from Dutch fields. Pads on the wall of every room that control every tiny thing, from the electronics to the lighting to the music and temperature, all of which can also be controlled from his phone. The blackout shades in his bedroom that work on the same timer as a sleek contraption high upon a wall, a white noise machine and air conditioner in one.

“I sleep like a baby with that thing,” he says. “From midnight until 8:00 a.m. on the dot. I don’t hear or see a thing.”

“Must be nice. Last night I was up four times checking on Sem. Bronchitis.”

I leave off theagain, or the fact that Sem’s viruses are often coupled with a scary fever that spikes in the middle of the night. Xander is not the fatherly type, though he once told me it’s not the physical well-being of a potential child he’s so worried about, but the mental. He doesn’t want to mess up his kid like his own father did with him.

“Wait’ll you see the master bath,” he says, motioning for me to follow.

My heels tangle in the terry loops of his bath mat as he points out the Italian marble, the porcelain tub big enough for two, the floating double vanities, the tower of towel warmers, and the giant glass-enclosed shower. It feels intimate to be standing here, in the place where a naked Xander showers and shaves, alone with him this late at night. It feels illicit.

“Do you do this with all your female guests?” I say, interrupting him mid sales spiel on the health benefits of a steam shower.

“Do what?”

“Brag. Tick off your home’s luxuries like you’re trying to sell them the place. Girls don’t like that, you know.”

“Some girls do.”

“Yeah, well, stay away from those ones. They’re here for all the wrong reasons.”

He gives me a smile that tells me that as far as he’s concerned, they’re here for all therightreasons.

I laugh and slap him on the chest. “Come on, fuckboy. Let’s get this over with. I want to get home before Thomas does.”

Rayna

I’ve just turned up my street when a text hits my new phone, a message from the detective asking how I’m doing and if I’ve found any more trackers. When two days ago I told him I’d left the first one on the tram, he made me promise to bring any others I might find straight tothe police station. He says it’s the only way to trace them to the owner.

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