Max lay on his side, watching the alarm clock as it ticked its way closer and closer to seven a.m. The sun was coming in strong and sharp through the crack between the curtains and he could hear birds chirping away in the hedge outside. It was funny, but every time he saw Eva, she reminded him of a bird. Maybe it was the way she walked, that edgy grace, the upbeat attentiveness.

He sighed loudly, and felt foolish because nobody was there to hear him. He was feeling foolish more and more these days. He shouldn’t have done it. That was the point. He shouldn’t have been so arrogant, so sure of himself. She wasn’t going to show up. Why would she? Eva wasn’t the kind of girl who took orders from anyone. Well, aside from her father, perhaps.

He could imagine her now, getting out of that single-bed and stepping onto the expensive Persian rug in her bedroom. He wasn’t meant to know what her bedroom looked like. But when her parents threw a party, it was quite easy to pretend you were looking for the bathroom, and then sneak a peek. He’d stuck his head around the door, seen what he’d expected; a plain, tidy room. No boy band posters on the wall (thank God!) but then again, she was past that age. Going on twenty-one now and so determined to be treated like an adult.

She dressed very nicely; some mix between the 1930’s and the 1960’s with her knee-length dresses and chignon hairstyles. He imagined her now, slipping on a thin summer dress over her underwear, and he assumed the material would feel light against her skin. She’d walk down the stairs and into the kitchen where her dad would be unfolding the Financial Times over wholemeal toast and black coffee. Mr George Shaw, always up early, always taking business calls, even on Sundays.

Max knew him well. He probably knew him better than George’s own wife did. They’d been friends since school, regrouping after university to launch their business together, a business which had grown fast after a shaky start and now turned a healthy profit. A very healthy profit. Everything worked like clockwork and on the odd occasion it didn’t, it got fixed, swiftly and efficiently, like changing a battery.

The only problem was Eva. Max knew he shouldn’t have gone there. He shouldn’t have gone anywhere near her. He’d seen her more in these past two months than he had in his entire life. Before now, it has just been annual Christmas parties, where he’d pretend he cared about her school and grades while Mrs Shaw proudly boasted about the little prodigy. But now, Eva was a woman.

She had a pretty little face, a soft, slender body, and a smile that made Max’s stomach tighten. And even though she’d been spoiled throughout her childhood like a regular millionaire’s daughter, she wasn’t pretentious in the slightest. You wouldn’t know she’d come from a rich background. She could go the local pub on a football afternoon and wouldn’t be out of place. She had this warmth that radiated from her, making her instantly likeable. Everybody loved her.

Her father loved her the most. He would talk about her like she was his prized possession. Eva did this, Eva did that; apparently Eva was the fucking bee’s knees. It was even more sickening because it was so true.

The point was that George adored his daughter. He and Max had a friendship that hadn’t tasted betrayal for the best part of thirty years. But that was all over now, at least in Max’s mind. George didn’t know what had happened. George didn’t have a fucking clue. And it was Max’s fault; he couldn’t blame anybody else. He was the one who’d gone to that godforsaken party at the Shaw’s, pretending like he was there to socialise, but really wanting to cop a glance at Eva. It was him who’d cornered her at the bottom of the garden, him who’d kissed her like she wasn’t his best friend’s daughter, it was him who’d shoved his tongue down her throat and his cock in her… Fuck!

Max screwed his eyes shut, wanting to feel bad, but unable to willingly forget the memory of her tight, wilful grip. The urgency. Her shallow breathing. And then, the awkward fumbling. ‘Don’t tell dad. He’d kill me. Please don’t tell him.’ Max had caught her hand. ‘Of course I won’t. He’d kill me too, right?’ An attempt at a joke. Guilty apologies, as if they both hadn’t enjoyed it, watching her rush away into the house.

He’d felt ashamed but not ashamed enough. Not ashamed enough to not want to go back there. One time wasn’t so bad. It could be written off as an accident, a poor judgement call, a drunken fucking mistake, but to do it again! To wait until George had gone off to bloody Hong Kong on a business trip, to swing by the coffee shop where he knew Eva met up with friends, to act like he was there to apologise before sneaking a quickie in the Men’s room was unforgiveable.

It was bad. It was really bad. It was like he was a teenager. He felt that way when he’d dropped by the Shaw’s a couple of days later, like the unsociable kid at school, asking the bashful, pretty girl to prom. He was meant to be past all that. He was getting on to forty years old. He’d been through it all.

Girlfriends, mistakes, he’d even been married, which was definitely the biggest mistake. He was at that age where he was meant to have kids, who he’d drive down to the beach and go camping with, who he’d teach to climb trees and play football in a big suburban garden. Max didn’t have any of that. All the guys he’d been to school with were at that stage, talking about how proud they were of their children, what was happening with the PTA and the school syllabus. He was the odd one out. He didn’t want to end up as one of those old, lonely guys with nothing to live for.

The alarm clock began to beep, loudly and insistently and he automatically reached over to switch it off. It was a Sunday. He wondered again if Eva would show up. She wouldn’t. He set himself up for a fall, like he did every time he checked how his shares had performed. Don’t get excited, don’t get excited. But being ready for disappointment only made victory even sweeter.

He let himself imagine that she really was going to do as he said. She’d be wearing the spotless white summer dress, the sleeveless one with lace around the shoulders. It was shorter than her regular dresses, falling to mid-thigh, the skirt thin and light. She’d walk out of the house in her heels. It was a hot morning. The start of summer, humid and hot; like a mild rainforest. She’d walk into the heat and smile, and head all the way over to his place and then? The day would be theirs.

Max scoffed, got out of bed and threw open the curtains, pushing out the window. He looked out at rows and rows of houses. The sky was blue. Maybe too blue. Maybe it was going to rain. He smiled a small, secretive smile to himself. He could see people out already, jogging along the streets, plugged into music players, focused resolutely on keeping fit. He never quite understood the idea of getting exercise along the polluted sidewalks. Surely, inhaling car fumes would be harmful. But then again, maybe not. Maybe people were immune to all the chemicals by now.

The air coming in through the window was warm and vaguely smoky. He thought of Eva again, wondered if she was coming. Maybe. Maybe she had his instructions in her hand and was following them to the letter. Or maybe she already knew them off by heart. He liked to flatter himself by believing the latter. He’d been mean. She didn’t know where he lived; after all Marie got the house. Max ended up on the fourth floor of a relatively modest apartment block. It wasn’t bad but it didn’t feel like home. It felt like a temporary station, like a stopover at a hotel room on the way to someplace much better.

If Eva were coming, maybe she’d have got a taxi. Trains didn’t run very often on Sundays and the buses were cramped and sporadic. Or she might have walked, like he told her to. The thought sent a tightening thrill through his stomach. It wasn’t a long distance. It’d actually make a nice walk for a Sunday morning. Perhaps she was enjoying it, sauntering along the paths in her little heels, looking radiant and beautiful under the sun.

Take the top path through the park , he’d written. It wasn’t the ideal route and maybe she’d realise that. Maybe she’d walk all the way around the park instead. She was a smart girl, she would have definitely realised there was an easier way than manoeuvring through the overgrown hedges and weeds. It all depended on whether she’d obey him. He’d said quite clearly, ‘Do what I’ve written down.’

He wouldn’t mind very much if she hadn’t but the thought of her doing something crazy only because he wanted her to, made his heart beat a little faster. She’s not going to come, he reminded himself. She won’t. Even if she wants to. On Sundays they play tennis. George will ask her why she’s not going with them and she can’t say, “I’m meeting Max,” because that’d be suicidal. It wouldn’t make sense for her to come. It simply wouldn’t. And yet, the sliver of hope still remained.

Max made his bed quickly and efficiently, then showered, threw on shorts and a t-shirt and headed for the kitchen. He splashed milk into a bowl and mechanically ate three portions of cornflakes. His day lay ahead of him, full of possibilities. He could join Alfie at the golf course. He could head to the gym. He could call up his sister and take her kids out for the day. He could call his lawyer, find out if Marie had finally signed the divorce papers. None of it really excited him.

He felt restless . She’s not coming. She’s not coming. She’s way too classy for this kind of thing. Coming here would mean commitment. It would mean we were accepting that something had happened between us. This wouldn’t just be a mistake. This would be premeditated fucking. Premeditated betrayal. Not a spur of the moment fuck, not something you make excuses about. She won’t come. She can’t come. I don’t blame her.

He remembered the stunned shock on her face when he’d gone by her house earlier that week. It was as if seeing him reminded her of the wrongness of what they’d done. Her mother had been out, and Eva had stood there, twisting her hands behind her back whilst watching him guardedly.