The Other Woman (38 page)

I step out of the room, my heart breaking for these little girls. Ritchie is doing a great job as a single father, and I applaud him for it, but kids need their mother. No amount of pink bicycles, glamorous Barbie dolls, or friendly neighbors can ever replace a mother in a child’s life.

It makes me sad to think my two girls may be feeling this way. Scarlett is black on the inside, so there is no way she can be genuinely warm and nurturing toward someone else’s kids. I really need to find a way to spend more time with them.

Ritchie steps out of the room and jerks his head toward his bedroom. I follow him in.

“How’s your book going?” he asks.

“Dunno. With all that’s going on, I haven’t looked at it.”

He jerks his chin toward the iPad on his bedside table. “You should check it out.”

I reach out for it, but he grabs my hand. “Later,” he says, his eyebrows wriggling. He pushes me onto the bed. “It’s what I’ve been looking forward to all day,” he says as he pulls off his t-shirt and throws it behind him.

“Why do you throw your clothes like that?”

He stops, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he shrugs. “Guess I should have been a stripper?” He spins an imaginary shirt in the air, then throws it. “Now…” he rubs his hands together, “what’s your pleasure?”

“Well, sing ‘Ice Ice Baby’ to me first.”

“Aw c’mon!”

“Just one line. With the action.”

“Noooo!”

“C’mon! It’ll really turn me on.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’ll make me do
stuff
to you.” My eyebrows dance.

He hops out of bed with great gusto and strikes a dramatic pose.
“Stop, collaborate and listen!”
He busts a second move that has me laughing.

“Right, that’s enough!” he says as he dives into bed and tears off my clothes. “Get freaky with me, baby.”

I find Ritchie’s playfulness and goofiness endearing, and I hope he never really grows up.

I do get freaky with him, after which, instead of rolling over and sleeping like I usually do, I pull out the iPad and check out my book.

“Lookatthis!” I say, “I am number ten in four categories.”

“Really? That’s great. Right?”

“Yep, and I have made…” I click onto my royalties, “three hundred and twenty-two dollars. Yay! People actually bought the book!”

“Wow!” Ritchie says, looking over my shoulder at the screen. “Imagine, you write something and people actually
buy
it. That’s something. I’m proud of—” Ritchie suddenly clams up and peers at the screen. “Hold on a sec.” He pulls the iPad out of my hands and reads, and as he does, his eyes bulge. “Baby…that is not…baby, that is
not
three hundred and twenty-two dollars. That is three
hundred
and twenty two THOUSAND dollars, Rival!”

“What? That can’t be right.”

“It is, it is! You’ve sold more than—” another scan of the figures in front of me – “baby, you’ve sold more than five hundred thousand copies. Jesus God!”

“What are you saying, Ritchie?”

“Honey, your book is selling like crazy!”

“You sure?”

“Trust me. You are going to be
rich
, Rival. Wow!”

“Seriously?”

“Honey, you’re gonna be one rich broad. Just remember, if you ever get married to Bradley again, you’re gonna need a prenup. Don’t want anyone staking claim to your…what’s wrong?”

I shake my head, feeling a little overwhelmed by all he’s saying, by the staggering amount of money I have just made. Chasing money or even
managing
it isn’t something I care to do. Hell, just a few months ago, I couldn’t afford a new laptop. Ritchie was kind enough to buy me one, remember?

As if reading my mind, Ritchie says, “It’s okay, honey. Don’t let it spook you. You’ll be okay.”

I love it when he calls me honey. It makes me feel incredibly loved. “Will I?”

“Of course. I’ll be here if you need any advice. Just don’t trust Bradley like you did the last time. When you gave him power of attorney and he robbed you? Keep that in mind, okay?” He wraps his arms around me. “I’m here for you.”

I slip my arms around his waist and bury my head in his chest. “For…how long, Ritchie?”

“For however long you want me around, baby,” he says in a soft, caressing voice. “Forever, if you want.” He has a vulnerable look on his face, the kind that honesty and the baring of your soul brings. I know he means every word he says because Ritchie seldom lies.

I smile. “You are very precious to me, baby,” I whisper.

We kiss.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates, shattering our warm and fuzzy vibe.

With a frown, I untangle myself from Ritchie to look at my phone.

“Bradley,” I say, my eyes wide. “He wants to know if…if…ohmygod! He wants to know if I want to have lunch with him and the kids on Saturday at
Giant Fiddler
!”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I reply and hit send.

“What did you say?”

I look at him. “I said, ‘Yes please, that would be fantastic.’”

“Okay.”

My phone vibrates again. I read Bradley’s text out loud. "‘I have a suspended license so u can drive us there in my Porsche.’ Ohmygod!” I look at Ritchie. “Can you believe it?”

“No. I mean…”

I read out loud as I reply. “'That would be more than fantastic looking forward to it.'
Cool, huh?”

Ritchie doesn’t answer.

“Ohmygod, he sent me a smile with love hearts in the eyes.” I look at Ritchie with my hands clamped over my mouth.

Ritchie gets up and walks into the bathroom. Confusion reigns over me. Is Ritchie having a problem with me talking to Bradley? Can’t be.

When he returns, he turns off the light, takes me in his arms, and in a flat voice says, “Prenup, okay?”

“Sure.” I’m so excited, it’s a while before I fall asleep.

****

SCARLETT

I arrive home from shopping on Saturday morning to find the house empty. Bradley and the kids have gone off without me. Bradley doesn’t drive anymore, which is not exactly a bad thing. Now he has to rely on me to pick him up and cart him around. Sure, it’s a schlep to do that much driving, but the upside is, we get to spend more time together, and he is forced to spend more time at home. Finally we can work on our upcoming court case, something he’s avoiding for some reason.

But where can he be? He ignores my five texts and three phone calls. He’s with Rival. I just feel it in my bones. God, I am going to have an aneurysm if he is.

Two more hours pass with no word from Bradley. Not even the courtesy of a text to let me know where they are, yet I was out shopping for
his
children. Just leaves me in this big house like I am a nothing.

It’s Saturday, so I have a picnic planned. What do I do with all the delectable eats I purchased? The cute little crusty bread rolls, the ninety-dollar a kilo caviar I splurged on? The chilled bottle of Moet? And the cheeses – dusty ripe Brie, savory Camembert with cranberries, Swiss Emmental with crushed peppercorn, Persian Gouda with apricot and sesame seeds, and the chili-garlic Capri? All the kinds of cheese people go for first when presented with a cheese board.

All this effort, to be treated like I am invisible? Pacing in my Manolo Blahniks is excruciating, yet I am forced to. Furious, I call my husband again. No response. All my calls go straight to his voicemail.

Steaming, I get into my car and drive around the neighborhood, cruise past the whore’s house. No sign of them. The park – they have to be there with condoms. Or balloons, whatever the fuck the slut uses. Quickly, I shift my Porsche in gear and race over to our local park. No sign of them, not even at the local restaurants or the string of over-priced coffee shops.

For about thirty minutes I sit in my car on the side of the road, trying to figure out where they may be. It has to be somewhere child friendly.
Think! Think! Think!

The Giant Fiddler
. That must be the place. It’s a huge establishment that comprises several bars, three bistros, and a few mini-play areas for brats to amuse themselves while adults drink like fish and forget all about their children. Problem is,
The Giant Fiddler
is a fifty minute drive from where we live, and if there is traffic, it could mean more than an hour of driving. If I am wrong about where they are – that means two hours in traffic for fuck all.

For a few moments, I debate with myself – go find them or return to my empty house? Guess I am far too pissed off to be logical – off I go in search of them.

By the time I reach
The Giant Fiddler
, it’s just after noon and the parking lot is packed. I cruise around for more than fifteen minutes in search of a parking space. Nothing. What a wasted Saturday. Fucking arseholes – Look what I have to go through because of them.

But, while circling the parking lot, I spot Bradley’s Porsche. Bingo! I was right about them being here. I smile to myself. I am so smart, I sometimes amaze myself. Mental note to self – stop second-guessing yourself.

Eventually, I find a parking spot and sneak into the place. It isn’t long before I spot them, and my jaw drops at what I see. The whore, the bitch, the skank, is staring into my husband’s eyes, hanging onto his every word. My blood boils as I watch them canoodle in a corner booth with my children mere meters away from them. (Yes they are my children. I take care of them. Good care, too. Just ask them, and they will confirm what I say.)

In spite of being married to someone as amazing as I am, my husband chooses to spend his Saturday locking eyes with a former Dunhill
inmate
? Imagine that. They sit so close, their thighs have to be touching, rubbing against each other. Whore!

He’s laughing. What the hell could she be saying that makes him roar with laughter?
Roar
!

When did the fruitcake get to be so funny?

I watch her get up to go to the children. My husband follows like a puppy with his tail wagging. They stand close to each other, his hand on her shoulder as they talk to the children. He’s
touching
her. My husband is touching another woman in public.
Bastard!

Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, he suddenly hugs her. In full view of everyone, my husband hugs another woman. Their bodies are touching, her breasts are pressed against his chest – surely he must have a hard-on? How the fuck can he do this to me? I lied for him, I took care of his wife, made the problem go away, I took care of his children. Yet he leaves me alone at home and is whoring it up with this skanky bitch? How dare he? How dare
she
disrespect me like this?

Scarlett calm down. You can do this. You have the gift of being calm and always composed. Nothing rattles you. Calm…calm…. Calm!

My inner monologue works – I manage to stay calm. I will not make a scene. I will not let her ever think she is important enough to…

“Miss!” I turn to look at the young waiter in black and white. His eyes are the size of the tray he’s holding. “You got your period or something?"

“What?”

“You’re bleeding all over the floor.”

I look at the floor. There are drops of blood on the floor, and on my white Apple Bottom skinny jeans. Slowly, I open my hand and look at it. My car keys are covered in blood.
Damn
!

“Back in a sec!” He runs off, and when he returns, it’s with a batch of paper towels, and his manager.

“Should we call for an ambulance or something?” the manager asks.

I accept the paper towels and shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks,” I mutter, and attempt to flash him a smile. “Just an old wound playing up.” Carefully stepping around the blood droplets on the floor, and with my head held high, I head back to my Porsche. As I pass Bradley’s Porsche, I stop and peer inside. The driver’s seat has been moved forward. The thought of Rival driving our lovely Porsche makes me so furious, I want to smash a brick through its window.

Bradley is slipping away, yes, but I need to stay focused on Kirribilli House. He will come around, and we will pick up from where we left before our arrests.

Again I have to wonder if Rival was behind it. If she was, what havoc she has created in our lives. Once I have confirmed it was her behind the fiasco, I will rip her to shreds.

****

RIVAL

It’s a sunny Sunday, I’m on a natural high after my lunch with Bradley and my kids yesterday, and I gush about it to Arena over the phone. “He was apologetic and guilty and…and nice and—”

“Wow, you have to come over and tell me more, Rival.”

I accept her invitation for a barbeque and a swim and drive over to her place. As I do, I text Ritchie.

Hey wat u up 2

No answer.

As I pull into Arena’s driveway, I text him again.
Goin to arenas for a swim u comin

No answer.

Ah well, he’s probably busy with the kids.

I push open the gates to the entertainment area and enter. Arena, Bear, their kids, and Ritchie’s two girls are in their pool.

“Here she is!” Arena says in a sing-song voice. “We want to hear
everything
about
Giant Fiddler
. Details, girl.”

I chuckle and shoot a sideways glance at Ritchie, who’s lounging on a chair, morosely studying the label of the beer in his hand, his phone perched precariously on his thigh. Obviously he’s received my texts, yet he hasn’t responded?

“Sure, thing,” I say, then look at Richie. “Hey, Ritchie, how you doing?”

“Hey, Rival,” he mumbles, barely looking at me. That’s it?

“You went to
The Giant Fiddler
with Brad?” Bear asks. “
Without
Scarlett?”

My head bobs. “Just him, me, and my kids.”

“And he kissed her,” Arena says, wriggling her eyebrows.

Bear jerks back. “He kissed you?”

Even though I’m not looking at Ritchie, I feel his head shoot up to look at me. I wince before I say, “My cheek.”

“Let’s not forget the hug,” Arena adds, laughing. “A looong one. With
both
arms.”

“Ah!” Bear said. “Both arms? Now that…that has to mean something.”

“Tell us more,” Arena says. “Details, honey. Spill.”

When I see the massive scowl on Ritchie’s face, I find myself regretting all that I have told Arena.

“How do you leave your wife at home on a
Saturday,
and have lunch and dinner with your ex-wife?” Bear asks. “I gotta get some pointers from Brad.”

Arena elbows him, while I laugh.

“
Turning
on her,” Arena says. “That’s what I think. I mean, he’s mad at her because he’s probably discovered something. Mad at all the negative publicity. Probably blames her.” She looks at Richie. “
Boet
, get Rival a drink, will you?”

“Probably,” I say. Imagine if they knew the extent of my involvement in the negative publicity she's talking about.

“Sure, why not,” Ritchie mutters, getting to his feet and walking toward the kitchen. “Anything for Mrs. Murdoch,” he flings over his shoulder.

“Come on in!” Arena says. “The water’s lovely.”

“Okay, I’ll just go change,” I say, raising my bag to them. Quickly, I make my way into the house and corner Ritchie at the refrigerator.

“Hey. Did you get my texts?”

“I sure did, Rival.” Ritchie’s voice is taut and unfamiliar.

“What’s wrong, Ritchie?”

“Nothing,” he says thrusting a beer at me.

I don’t take the beer.

“What? Beer not good enough for—”

“Please don’t be jealous.”

“Me, jealous? How can I be jealous of you having an
intimate
dinner with your ex-husband? I have no right to be jealous, remember? No strings, Mrs. Murdoch.”

I don’t know how to react to his scathing tone of voice, his
seemingly
innocuous yet loaded words.

“Mrs. …Murdoch,” he says again. His look is challenging.

With a weary sigh I move closer and place my hands on his waist.

He doesn’t fight me, so I move closer until our hips are touching. He shakes his head, but still does not resist. I reach up, bring his face down to mine, and kiss his lips.

Instantly, I feel him relax. With a smile, I kiss him again, this time deeper and longer. Slowly, his beer-laden arms wind around me, and for a few moments, we hug in silence.

“See you tonight?” I say.

His nod is slight.

“Rival, your phone is ringing!” Arena shouts from outside. “It’s Bradley.”

“Oh.” Without thinking, I dash out of Ritchie’s arms and run outside – a move I immediately regret.

“Wonderful!” Ritchie spits from behind me.

“Ask him to bring the kids over for a swim,” Arena shouts.

“Hey Rival, where are you?” Bradley asks.

“At Bear and Arena’s. Why?”

“Would you like to see the kids? Spend some time with them?”

My eyes bulge as I lock eyes with Arena. Seeing the kids two days in a row – wow! “I would love to see the kids, Bradley.”

Arena frantically motions for them to come over.

“Yeah, tell him you have plenty booze,” Ritchie murmurs in a voice that makes Bear and Arena look at him.

“What?” He shrugs. “Just saying.”

“Eh, Brad,” I say, my eyes on Ritchie’s face, feeling unsure about inviting him over, but not wanting to raise Arena’s suspicions. “Arena wants you guys to come over for a swim.”

“Wonderful!” Bradley says, “Be there in five.”

“Again without Scarlett?” Arena shakes her head. “Can’t believe how quickly things have turned to crap.”

“Some people would call him a dog,” Ritchie says. We all turn to look at Ritchie, and an awkward silence follows.

Even though I try to ignore Ritchie’s snips, I find them disconcerting. I put down my phone and look at Ritchie. With a snort, he turns and walks into the house once again. Bear and Arena exchange confused looks, while I turn red with embarrassment. What the hell is wrong with Ritchie?