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“I couldn’t care less.”
“That’s a good thing. Chester needed that kick to his ego. He was starting to get too cocky about his looks and charm.”
“Well, it gets even worse. It turns out, he’s my neighbour.” A surprising chuckle leaves her mouth.
“I’m happy you find that idea amusing.”
“Oh, honey, it’s not you I’m laughing at. It’s Chester. He’ll get himself an ulcer from being frustrated all the time. You really did leave an impression. The only thing he did last night was sulk and mumble your name under his breath.”
My night hadn’t been that much better. I was introduced to ten more men before my brother decided to leave, cutting my time with Topper short. So, the only thing I took home from the party was a bad mood.
“Are you any good?” I ask, watching Moreen frowning at me as if I’m an idiot. Maybe the switch from Chester to tennis was too abrupt. But honestly, I’d rather talk about bowel movements than my neighbour.
“At what?”
“Tennis.” Of course.
“Bloody hell, no. I’m just here for the fancy drinks and the company. What are you here for?”
“Tennis.”
“Oh well. Let’s play, then.” Moreen sighs loudly, pulling her bag from the ground and walking up the stairs. For a second, I don’t know what to do. Does she expect me to follow?
My question is quickly answered by her clipped command.
“Let’s go, Clairwater.”
***
Moreen is horrible at tennis.
She smashed her racket around as if it was her handbag, without any force or dedication. Her range of motion consisted only of how far her legs could reach, without having to abandon the spot she’d claimed on the court. She didn’t run, jump, or put any energy into it whatsoever. Instead, her energy went solely in complaining about the game.
As much as I’d like to get to know the feared Moreen, I'd rather play a competitive match with a strong opponent.
Next time, it’ll be Topper hitting that ball.
“Great game,” I remark while we walk up the stairs towards the terrace. It’s the polite thing to say after spending two hours together. Once again, Moreen raises one of her eyebrows and looks at me as if I’m an idiot.
“Okay, not a great game.”
“I like swimming more.” Moreen doesn’t share much about herself or her life, except for the usual Wikipedia information. She’s twenty-eight years old. Born into a wealthy London family. Her father is in real estate, and her mother was a journalist. Moreen has never left London, except for the rare holiday trips with her entire family to Switzerland to ski. Married to Sebastian Callahan for four years now. She has one daughter, Livia.
She rambled all that information off in a matter of seconds before diving into different topics.
“Where do you swim?”
“Our building has a pool. Every single time I feel like escaping, I don’t have to walk far.”
“What are you escaping from?” Her head turns my way. Her eyes grow smaller as if she’s surprised that I dared to ask her about it. But still, it’s hard to pinpoint what exactly goes through her mind at any given time.
“Life.” Life? I’m certain everyone wants to hide from it occasionally. To not face the looming problems or worries hanging above someone’s head. But Moreen makes it sound like it happens often. That it’s become unbearable and hard to manage.
Before I get to ask what’s bothering her, she says, “Are you having lunch with us?” Moreen points towards a round table, fully set, diverting the topic of our conversation.
Her husband, Sebastian, is already present with their daughter sitting next to him. Sebastian is colouring on the same paper that Livia is.
“We eat here every Saturday. It’s tradition,” Moreen adds, walking towards the table.
