Tony Thorpe swam the entire length of his extensive pool underwater. The retractable roof over the summer house had been drawn back and the pool was open to the glorious sunshine. It felt as if he were somewhere exotic, and not Cambridge, England. He’d got into the habit of keeping Friday afternoons free of work and when the weather was like this he couldn’t be arsed to do any at all.
He swam to the steps in the corner of the pool and got out of the water, retrieving his towel from the side. His wife’s absence allowed him to be messy and it pleased him. He threw his towel down after drying himself off and went to a sun lounger, where he’d left The Financial Times. The pink pages were warm in the sunshine and he sat back, sipping a soda. Monika didn’t allow sugary drinks, so he’d gone to Waitrose yesterday and bought a box full. She had no affection for Seventies music either, which he turned up on his Bluetooth speaker. She’d been twenty-six years old when they’d met, on the cruise ship along the Danube, and it had seemed distinctly romantic at the time. Back then, she’d been flattered and grateful for attention. Now, she acted as though she owned the place. He’d thought he’d loved her, at some time in their short relationship, which is why he’d been stupid enough to make her Mrs Thorpe. But in the cold light of day, he realised that he’d been well and truly – and spectacularly stereotypically – led by his dick.
Now he could breathe. He’d left cupboard doors open, dropped crumbs on the kitchen floor, left his bed unmade, and even put away her body creams. She’d been preparing her skin for the removal of the god-awful tattoo she’d had done on her back when she was eighteen and stupid. He hadn’t minded it at first, as it glided across her skin, towards her arse cheeks, and every time he took her from behind, he felt in some stupid way that he was getting the better of it, as it taunted him and crawled across her divinely perfect flesh, in the shape of an enchanting serpent, which she said protected her from evil spirits. But over the short years, he’d come to loathe it. Instead of charming him, the thing eventually began to unnerve him, as if she had a great slug wriggling up her back. The procedure was going to cost the earth but it would be worth it to get the damn thing off her.
He gulped another mouthful of cold fizz and placed the can on a table, spilling some, deliciously on purpose, with no intention of wiping it up. Today’s reading was positive. Investments were consistently shaken by politics, war, weather, disease, social unrest, and even harvests the other side of the globe. It was high risk and that’s exactly why it paid. At fifty-five he wasn’t old or necessarily ageing, but he had to take better care of himself than when he’d been twenty-five. Hence the swimming. It caused no impact on his body, he enjoyed it and he could do it alone, like everything in his life that meant anything to him: he needed no partners.
His skin was honey-coloured from hours of leisure time at home, in between Zoom and telephone calls, sitting in the sun, reading and watching his bank balance grow. He’d reached a time in his life when he could step back a touch from the nitty gritty of deal making, and cast a general eye upon speculative business.
Christ, he didn’t need any more money, but it was the pursuit of it that got his juices flowing.
He checked his phone and he had a WhatsApp from Carrie.
They’d caught the same train to King’s Cross for about fifteen years. They’d begun chatting, as you do, when one catches the six a.m. train and there’s no one else to talk to but yawning tradesmen and nodding revellers from the previous night’s fun. The Cambridge train into London wasn’t a bad service and it took a good hour. It was time to either work, reflect or chat, and Carrie, he’d discovered, was a chatter. But, unlike many women he’d come across in the city, and the little mouse who’d called him from the gym, Carrie was interesting, not just ballsy. They bonded over their sense of humour, their politics and their love of money. Their conversations were mostly about investments, house renovations, holidays and their property portfolios abroad.
Like him, Carrie flew solo. They needed no company, and thrived off success and achievement, never being satisfied with gains, always searching for the next pursuit, because that’s where the thrill was: the chase. He sat back, plopped his Ray-Bans over his eyes and smiled.
He read the message:
She was mostly all business. He’d managed to peep through her armour a few times and had even invited her round for BBQs, but she always made an excuse. He understood that domestic pleasantries weren’t her thing. He replied.
He referred to a mining company in Chile, which he’d managed to procure for a tenth of what it was worth because of a recent collapse of the mine wall, and huge casualties, resulting in massive debt and litigation. Buying at a low rate enabled him to strip the mine of assets, sell them on, restructure the facility and rent the space. It was a textbook manoeuvre but came with risk, especially in countries where one had no leg to stand on should the shit hit the fan. Carrie, being likeminded and shrewd with her money, kept an eye on such things.
He sent back a smiling-face emoji. A thought occurred to him and he put down his paper. It was a beautiful afternoon and he had the house to himself. That hadn’t happened for a long time and it made him feel quite giddy and frivolous.
There was no reply for eight minutes.
This time the reply came after eleven minutes.