Excerpt of The Candidate by Daniel Pembrey

They were black, croissant-shaped and instantly recognizable
to my male brain. Still it took me a few seconds to
comprehend the pair of women’s underwear on the floor of my
dim Luxembourg apartment. Fumes of some spirit, vodka
possibly, clouded my vision.

I crouched down and picked them up, fumbling the material. A
drill pierced my skull. My fingers were shaky and I felt
sweat at the back of my neck – even though it was the depths
of winter. Jesus. Whose were they? I scanned the rest of my
bedroom for clues. The parquet floor and high ceiling swam
murkily; it was too dim to tell with the shutters closed and
my fierce hangover wasn’t helping with the recognition. Yet
all the other clothes strewn around looked to be my own.
There were my Hugo Boss black trousers, my metallic grey
work shirt, belt and leather slips-ons. Somewhere here too,
hopefully, was my old Rolex Perpetual.

I couldn’t see the bed properly. I could see that there was
no one in it, no gently heaving and subsiding form, but I
couldn’t tell whether there was a second depression on the
mattress from someone having slept there.

In my trouser pocket I found my phone, the battery almost
dead, Claire asking after midnight ‘Can we talk?’ – again.
The last text was from Phil, time- stamped 03:17: ‘Wher r
u?’

We’ll come back to Phil soon enough. For now, I needed to
know what else was in my pockets. Credit card receipts, a
woman’s phone number? There was a receipt from the Ducal
Casino for a bottle of Lanson champagne and two club
sandwiches, 02:44, weighing in at 185 euros.

Nothing else.