Hindsight Page 8

  “Well, it’s not too late. There’s a nifty little invention called a divorce. Nearly half the married population are using it. He could too.”

  Another groan of pleasure, “Chris is…a man I could wake up to every morning for the rest of my life and still want to jump him. But it’s more than just sexual attraction; it’s like we are meant to be together. We have so much in common, our values and beliefs are the same. We want the same things, you know, family, love, happiness.”

  “So, have you had sex yet?” the friend asks.

  “Libby!”

  “Well, have you?”

  “Not exactly. We’ve fooled around, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  “How exciting, I bet you can’t wait!”

  “It is going to be so…incredible…”

  They both giggle until interrupted by Anita to take their order.

  Unable to move or speak, I want to launch and crash through the partition and shred her face, my hands tearing at her mouth like razors, removing the lips that have supposedly kissed my husband, smashing into her French cheekbones, gouging those Barbie doll eyes from their sockets. A human volcano, I want to explode and take her with me.

  “Cheers, here’s to your new family. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you, not that you need it.”

  “Cheers,” Anya replies as they clink glasses.

  I shy away from a full-on confrontation with Anya and the back door provides a convenient escape route. There’s no point in making a scene; just because she said Chris kissed her doesn’t mean it’s true. Unfortunately, the only person who can verify her version of events is Chris, but it would be stupid to just launch in and accuse him.

  Without being aware of it, my mobile is in my hand. I bypass the fifteen messages and missed calls and ring Dash. She doesn’t answer, leaving me ready to kick the next object in close proximity, scream like a banshee and hurl my phone the entire two-block distance back to my office. The build-up of physical energy is electrifying, literally, my fingers are zinging as though they could shoot lightning.

  The best thing to do is to calm down and think this through rationally, breathe, count to ten. Freaking out won’t help. It will just send my hair into instant frizz and cause me to talk in a voice two octaves higher than normal. Control the situation, don’t let it control you.

  Chris didn’t kiss her. She’s lying. Chris would never, ever cheat on me. Why would he? He’s the most principled person on the planet. He gives the money back straight away if a shop assistant gives him too much change. He wouldn’t, would he? That night was over three weeks ago and he hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t acted any differently to normal, hasn’t been out late to attend fictional meetings or made excuses to spend time with her. Then again, they are working together now. He wouldn’t need to sneak around behind my back because he can do it right in front of me and call it work. There was the award dinner though. Oh my God!

  Before long my journey back to the office has ended and my car is in front of me. I jump in and speed around to Dash’s, even though she didn’t answer her phone. It’s worth a try. Where else am I going to go? Who else is there to talk to? Her car parked in the driveway is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. I belt on the door as though the hounds of hell are after me, open the door and run down the hall to the kitchen, calling out her name.

  “Hey chickster,” she says. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

  “I think Chris is having an affair with Anya.” The words sting. It’s unbelievable that they are actually being spoken.

  “Whaaaaaat? No way! Uh-uh, no way in the world. Not Chris,” she says.

  “I just heard it from her own mouth.”

  “Onion told you that she’s having an affair with your husband?” She’s outraged, which makes me feel a tiny bit better that someone is on my side. “Where is she? I’ll sort her out.”

  “No, she told her friend. I just happened to overhear their conversation. She said they kissed the night they all went out and that he is on the brink of leaving me. She wants to make a family — my family — with him. With MY HUSBAND!”

  “Oh Jules, that’s awful. You poor darling. But it’s not true, is it?” Dash knows Chris almost as well as me.

  “Of course she’s lying, just wishful thinking. He wouldn’t, would he? Everything’s been so wonderful. We’ve worked through so much in the last three weeks. We’re happy again.”

  “No. There is no way that Chris would cheat on you. But…” She looks off into the distance as though some great philosophical thought is coming forth.

  “But what?”

  “Is kissing defined as cheating?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “Of course it’s cheating!” I say. “If Joe pashed someone else, wouldn’t you consider that to be cheating?”

  Dash looks lost in thought and confused all at once.

  “Besides, are you saying that it’s OK for him to pash that trollop?” I ask.

  “No, of course I’m not, Jules. But it’s subjective, isn’t it? For some people kissing is alright. You know, some men think it’s OK to get a blowjob because it’s not intercourse. Do you think that Chris would define kissing as cheating?”

  “Well, yes, definitely.”

  “You hesitated there. Are you positive that Chris would class pashing as cheating?”

  I slump backwards into a chair and look at Dash’s face, which is remarkably similar to mine, except without all the enhancements. The weight of my own heart seems unbearably heavy, dragging me off the chair and through the floor.

  “I don’t know. He was very snappy with me when we talked about it the next day. It was so unlike him, he’s never spoken crossly to me before. But there’s been absolutely no sign since, nothing to suggest anything’s going on.”

  “Did he say anything else about it?” she asks.

  “No, just that he would be offended if I was hinting that something happened between them…”

  My eyes close as the connection is made. Snappy, accusing me of accusing him.

  Dash looks at me as though…well, as though my husband has cheated on me.

  Then come the tears.

  Chapter 8

  Friday night is one of my ‘working late’ nights, when my presence is not expected at the dinner table, because there is no way on Earth I could sit down and eat a meal with Chris right now. Not with everything that’s going on in my head.

  Is it true? Did they kiss? Is he on the verge of an affair? It kind of makes sense, given his behaviour the next morning, but it goes against everything Chris believes in. Then again, he is only human and there aren’t too many men who could resist a woman like Anya throwing herself at them, especially after a couple of drinks, and he was hurt after our date night was cancelled, again. Was it a revenge pash? Maybe that’s it. Just a once-off, angry-with-my-wife kind of kiss. The kind that he regretted immediately and wished he could take back. I could forgive him if that’s the case.

  Oh God! Stop it! This useless, circular argument could go on forever and still not achieve anything other than a mother of a headache, a red puffy face with engraved tear tracks and an extra kilo of body fat from eating three tubs of gourmet ice-cream.

  After my conversation with Dash, where she advised me to ask him, combined with my gut reaction, which advised me to wait and see — pay special attention to his behaviour, his work habits, phone calls — I have decided to do what any other confused woman would do; get a facial and arrive home so late that he will be asleep, thereby avoiding him for another night.

  Tomorrow is another early start due to a campaign launch for a fitness centre, followed by a couple of meetings that will keep me busy until Ethan’s concert tomorrow night. That way, my mind can settle on things a bit — they always say it’s best to sleep on a decision. After the concert I will confront him and clear it up once and for all.

  It’s Saturday afternoon, the day of Ethan’s big concert and the day after Anya told her friend she’s havin
g an affair with my husband. Sleep never came to me last night, and lying next to Chris felt like an endless torture. The soap opera inside my head was full of long, passionate kisses between Chris and the she-devil, with me skulking somewhere in the background, the heartbroken victim laying like a blob on a couch scoffing ice-cream while they rode off into the sunset.

  The launch of a new health club has kept me busy all day, as well as a couple of meetings, and a phone call from Al, which is the reason why I’m late. It’s now time for Ethan’s concert, but the sight of the school carpark causes me to break out in hives. It’s filled with Beamers and Mercedes four-wheel drives, parked in neat little rows perfectly distanced from one another, but there’s not one space left for me. Not even enough of a gap to squeeze onto the grassy median strip. The street is also full and there aren’t any carparks for a couple of blocks and then it’s permit parking only. The clock is ticking. The show is due to start any minute and my lateness is bound to be the cause of further marital arguments, so I mount a curb and leave my car illegally parked. A parking ticket isn’t too much of a nuisance if it means an on-time arrival.

  My four-inch stilettos carry me fast as possible in the right direction but the world stops as the sound of applause wafts out of the auditorium. I kick off my shoes and sprint towards the large building. My lungs are on fire and are about to explode with a ‘poooof’ and disintegrate into ash. Worst still is the sound of singing. It can’t have started already, it’s only…shit, five past five! Why is it starting on time? Nothing ever starts on time. Chris will know that I’m not there because my seat is the one next to his.

  I open the door and am hit in the face by some kid singing in what she obviously thinks is a well-tuned voice. It’s so bad that my ears have retreated back into the ear canal in an attempt to shelter themselves from the auditory assault. The place is packed full of Mums, Dads, siblings, grandparents and extended family. There are only a couple of seats left way up the back.

  The crowd doesn’t part for me, so I push my way through as far as possible, people glaring at me as I try to nudge through to my seat. Forging on, treading on toes, apologising profusely, getting squashed and even losing hard-won ground; my effort is almost superhuman. But it is not enough to get me to that golden seat next to Chris. It’s not even possible to get his attention from here, because he is so far down the front.

  Ethan will soon be on stage, looking out to the audience to see the proud faces of his parents sitting side by side, watching, smiling and waving as he takes on his role in front of hundreds of strangers. And what will he see? His mother’s empty seat. I want to yell and scream to get Chris’ attention, but restrain myself for fear of interrupting the performance and being ushered out by security.

  The back of Chris’ head is visible and the seat next to him is empty; he’s checking his watch as he looks around. He doesn’t have a hope of seeing me over here. Brainwave! I’ll send him a text. At least there will be some Brownie points for being here; albeit a bit late and not in my allocated seat. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t t it? His reaction is non-existent. He must have turned his phone off. Damn it. I send him a photo of the back of his head in the hope that it will provide evidence of my attendance.

  Then he turns his head and talks to the person next to him. It’s the she-devil! Why are they sitting next to each other? She-devil should be next to her friend, Lauren, not my husband. On the other side of my vacant seat are Dash, Sylvia, Rob and Lauren. That’s wonderful, they’re all here. Everyone has a front-row seat to my flaking out, again.

  A surge of adrenaline propels me forward again, so driven to reach that seat that I could sprout wings and fly over to it, hovering above the audience Peter Pan-style. It’s not possible to tell if this renewed energy and determination stems from the desire to get close enough to Anya to stab her with my nail file, or to show Ethan that my promises are kept, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is reaching that seat. Nudging, pushing, squeezing, I am making good ground, until a tap on the shoulder stops me in my tracks.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” a masculine voice says. “But you will need to take a seat in the back row. The show’s already started and we don’t want to interrupt the childrens’ performance, do we?”

  I turn around, hoping that all of my enhancements and swishy blond hair will stun him into allowing me to pass.

  “Sir, please,” I say. “My son has a main role. I need to be in my seat. Please, can I just squeeze through?”

  He cocks an eyebrow, a plucked eyebrow, and shakes his head at me. His nametag reads ‘Patricia’. Oh, crap.

  “I’ll ask you one more time to please take a seat in the back row, or you can leave,” she says, raising the other eyebrow.

  “But, it’s my little boy…”

  “Then perhaps you should have arrived on time, like all the other parents,” she smirks.

  Fuckety, fuck, fuck.

  She assists me to the back row, like a criminal, and then stands in the corner, within spitting distance, putting to rest my plans of trying to make it to my seat again. I just want to scream out of frustration.

  Perhaps intermission will work in my favour? It will be much easier to slip into my seat after that, and there is always the photo sitting in Chris’ inbox to back me up. But the thought of her sitting next to Chris, watching the show with him, looking like a couple, burns inside me so hot that there is a real danger of self-combustion.

  The phone vibrates because it’s on silent for the concert; the phone Al gave me. The Al Hotline as it’s been christened. He programmed it to ring only six times until it goes to message bank, as extra motivation for me to pick up the call quickly. That’s one ring. He hates to have to leave a message, says it’s not what he’s paying me the big dollars for and that Sonya will answer his calls immediately. That’s two rings. Answer it? Let it ring? What’s the right thing to do here? My instinct tells me that taking his call is the wisest decision. That’s three rings. My heart is pounding against my ribs as though it’s trying to get out. It’s Ethan’s concert and a promise is a promise. That’s four rings. I argue with myself about taking the call but my brain is overtaken by chaos. I’m in trouble for being late anyway…oh God! What should I do? That’s five rings. One to go. A hasty decision is made.

  “Hi Al, how are you?”

  Shit! Why did I answer it?

  “Juliette, we have another issue that needs your attention.”

  Now? Can’t it wait for forty minutes or so? My heart sinks a bit lower, remembering that this is exactly what I wished for — Al’s contract and all the glory that goes with it.

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  Perhaps it’s something that can be actioned during intermission.

  “John Jonas, one of our guys.” Our guys. “Photos of him emerging from a hotel room with a woman other than his wife. She’s threatening to go public; looking for her fifteen minutes of fame. We need this to go away. Jonas and his wife have just done an interview with a women’s mag revealing their tips for a successful marriage.”

  “Good timing.”

  Chris’s and my problems look miniscule in comparison.

  “Shhhhh,” spits a nearby parent. “I came here to watch my kid.” As he points to the stage my eyes follow his finger to see Ethan standing up there, ready to start. His face is radiant, glowing with excitement, nerves and the thrill of finally commencing the role he has practiced so hard for. Lost for a moment, my mind drifts from Al’s call and is filled with the image of my beautiful boy. It’s as though time has stopped and the only other person in the world is Ethan, smiling, taking in all the faces in the crowd. All except mine… my body ejects itself out of the seat and waves a shaky arm as tears blur my vision but he can’t see me back here.

  “Juliette, are you there…Juliette!”

  As though Al has reached through the phone and pinched me, I tear my eyes off Ethan, to look at the rest of the family. Everyone is leaning forward in their seats in antici
pation of him commencing his big role.

  “JULIETTE!” he roars down the earpiece.

  This is the choice to be made; break a promise to Chris and Ethan, for a relative stranger, who will make many such demands in the future, but who will deliver my ultimate goal of success, prestige and achievement. Or, to say no to Big Al and lose the dream instantly but fulfill a promise to my family. This is the future of my business, my baby. Would Chris understand? Would he forgive me? Would Ethan? Because it is certain that Big Al wouldn’t. Nor will the industry. This would end my career. Why couldn’t this phone call have come either forty minutes ago, or forty minutes in the future? Then there would be no need to make a choice. But it must be made, and fast.

  “Sorry Al, you were breaking up.”

  “Ring Delia at Morgan’s models. She’s in my debt. Make this go away.”

  All the while my eyes have been glued to Ethan. He looks like an old hand up there on stage. There are some mothers shedding tears of pride and the Dad’s faces are filled with smiles so wide they look like village idiots. They are holding hands with each other in parental pride and unity to support their kids. But not me, out here in the back row where Ethan can’t see my teary eyes or the smile on my face.

  A flicker of hope ignites in me. What if I can get this task finished in record time and be back in here for the second act? Who would know? What difference will it make? There’s already trouble with Chris for not being here on time. But I’m still here. Ethan has probably already noticed the empty seat, if he can see out past the stage lights. The photo sent to Chris’ phone is proof of my attendance; all that is required is a gushing about how great Ethan was in the first act and no one would know.

  “Juliette!”

  The choice has to be made, business or family. Lifelong dream of success or being chastised for turning up late anyway?

  “Al, I’m going to…” To what? Have to wait until my son’s play his over to get onto this for you? Have to pass on this opportunity you have given me and hand it over to Sonya? Have to give up my dream here and now?