The Rose Petal Beach (12 page)

‘How long have you been using this stuff?’ I asked when it was apparent the sentence wasn’t going to be completed, his actions weren’t going to be explained.

‘I’ve only been up here ten minutes.’

‘You know what I mean.’ This explained why sometimes I would walk into a room and there would be the faint odour of sex in the air. I’d always tell myself that I was crazy because why would the living room – any room – smell of sex when we hadn’t had sex in there?

His sigh moved his body, he chewed on his bottom lip, ran his hand through his hair, all the while avoiding visual contact with me. ‘It’s only a bit of porn, Tami, don’t make it into a big incident. It really is no big deal.’

‘Actually, it’s a huge deal. I didn’t know you looked at this stuff, I thought you had more respect for women.’

In an over-exaggerated manner, Scott rolled his eyes at me. ‘All men look at porn. It doesn’t mean they don’t respect women.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me about it if it’s so normal?’

‘Why didn’t you ask if you’ve got such an issue with it?’

‘Because I thought you had a lot more respect for women.’

Another eye roll, another sigh, another facial expression that dismissed what I was saying.

‘Is this why we haven’t had sex in weeks?’ I asked. ‘Because you’ve been getting your kicks by doing this?’

‘No, you being constantly tired and tied up with the girls and snowed under with work is why we haven’t had sex for weeks.’

‘That’s not true. Not completely, anyway. I’ve tried to initiate it and you haven’t really responded.’

‘I’ve responded, but not as enthusiastically as I should because I could tell your heart wasn’t in it.’

‘It was.’

‘It doesn’t feel like it, Tami. I don’t get the feeling that you, you know, want me as much as you used to. It sometimes feels as if you’re doing it because you feel you have to.’

‘That’s not true. You know that’s not true.’

‘That’s how it feels.’

‘So wanking off to dirty movies is better, is it?’

‘Not better, easier. I know they’re not going to reject me.’

‘I never reject you.’

‘It feels like it.’

Inhaling a few times, I stared at him wondering if he really felt rejected or if he was doing that old Scott trick of turning it onto me to win the argument, or if it was a bit of both. I’d never know, of course. ‘Look, I don’t like you watching this stuff, I’d
really
rather you didn’t. But if you’re going to do it, make sure the girls never see it. I can’t believe you’ve got it on this computer when Cora could easily click on it.’

His eyes dipped and his head lowered while a modicum of shame emanated from him. At least he could see how wrong he was to do that.

‘If you’re going to use it, then I can’t stop you, but if the girls ever see even one image, I will divorce you.’

His head snapped up at that. ‘It’s only a bit of porn.’

‘If the girls see it,’ I repeated slowly so he could understand, ‘I will divorce you. I’m telling you this now so there’ll be no arguments should it happen. OK?’

He nodded.

As I turned to leave, he said, ‘Get the champagne open, I’ll be down in two ticks.’

I spun to look at him, to check if he was in any way joking. ‘Take your time,’ I said when I realised he wasn’t. He actually thought we’d be doing it after what I’d just discovered. Astounding. ‘Take all the time you want. I’m going to sleep.’

No matter how hard I tried to doze off, I couldn’t. The image of the woman with the rictus smile and torment etched into the windows to her soul was something that kept waking me up before I could properly sleep.

This is how I know I am still alive: it hurts. My life hurts.

There is a huge gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be, and it is so big I could put my whole fist in there and it would not touch the sides.

This is how I know I am still alive: his words are killing me. His words are like a truck that has hit me full-force without slowing first, and I am nearly gone but not quite because it hurts, and every thing that comes out of his mouth is killing me.

I am sitting on the armchair in our living room, knowing I should be somewhere else. Knowing that none of this would be happening if I wasn’t living someone else’s life.

In my mind, I see Scott holding his hand out to me as I reach him at the end of the aisle. He has a smile on his face, and tears streaming down his face. In my mind, I feel his hand tighten around mine and I know he will never let me go. In my mind, I hear him say,
until death us do part
. In my mind I relax and let go because this is forever.

Scott has been having an affair with Mirabelle.

This is what he has just told me.

‘I didn’t want to tell you this,’ he’d said to me when he first started talking. We sat in our living room, in our favourite places, both of us on the edge of our seats. ‘I really hoped …’ He’d paused, squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes brimming with tears, ‘I didn’t want you to find out like this.’ Isn’t that the sort of thing that Mirabelle said to me.
I’m sorry you had to find out like this.
Neither of them had said they were sorry for what they had done, they were just sorry I had to find out. ‘It was a flirtation that got out of control. Me and you weren’t getting on that well, I felt shut out from the life you had with the girls, you had no time for me. I felt really …
lonely
, yeah, lonely in our marriage. I threw myself into work to try to block it out, and she was there. We started off just as friends, then we started spending more time together, mainly working, and we started to chat about non-work stuff, and one thing led to another. I didn’t mean for it to happen. But after that, it became impossible to end it. Every time I tried she threatened to tell you. She said she’d ruin my life if I finished with her, she’d tell you everything and would make out that I was going to leave you for her. That was never going to happen, please believe me.

‘I felt so trapped. And then we were getting on again, you started to be like you again, you seemed so much happier, and I felt so dreadful, so awful. So I finished with her once and for all. Told her that I didn’t care if she told you because I’d take my chances. I told her I was going to tell you myself. And she went crazy. She called me all sorts and said she was going to ruin my life just as I’d ruined hers. She said she was going to do something that would make sure everyone hated me. Three days later I was arrested.’

I always thought that if I was cheated on, if the man I loved slept with someone else behind my back, I would lose the plot. I
would shout and scream and throw him out. I would then hurl his stuff out the window, still screaming abuse, still making my feelings known, and then, when he was removed from the house, I would call a divorce lawyer. I never thought that it would happen with Scott, of course, but it’s one of those things that crosses your mind; that you’d talk about – like you’d imagine what you’d do if you won the lottery even though you don’t buy tickets. It’s a hypothetical situation that wouldn’t ever happen, but if it did you’re pretty sure, knowing your own personality, how you would respond.

So why am I sitting here, a chain of knots linking my chest and my stomach, my body frozen in horror, my mouth filling and refilling with bile, my mind racing and suspended at the same time?

‘I didn’t ever want you to find out,’ Scott is saying to my silence. I have been unable to speak since he started to because every word has been slicing me apart; dismantling everything I thought about us, about our lives, about him, about me.

‘Do you love her?’ My voice has asked this all on its own. I don’t remember instructing it to, it just did it.

‘No. God, no. It was a horrible, horrible mistake. Especially with what’s happened in the past few days. I’ve been hoping that she’ll go to the police and tell the truth. That’s why I didn’t get a solicitor. I know she’s not going to let it go that far. She’ll tell the truth and all this will go away. I really didn’t want you to find out like this.’

‘How many times did you make love to her?’ I ask.

‘It wasn’t lovemaking, it was … It was stupidity. A hideous mistake.’

‘How many times did this hideous mistake happen?’ My lips feel odd, like they’re not attached to my body; numb and cold.

‘You don’t want to know that,’ he says.

‘I do. How many times?’

‘Tami, believe me, you don’t want to know.’

‘Stop telling me what I do and don’t want to know. How many times?’

‘I don’t remember,’ he replies.

‘When was the first time?’

He shrugs, looks away. ‘I really don’t remember, Tami.’

‘You don’t remember the first time you slept with the woman who you’ve thrown your marriage away for, but you’ve never once forgotten your boss’s daughter’s birthday? Don’t give me that. When was the first time?’

‘Eighteen months ago,’ he replies. More than a year. More than a year ago he started to lie to me. He started to deceive me. And I’m sure he remembers how many times, too. Even if it was once a month, it would have been at least eighteen times. Eighteen times. And I know what Scott is like, what anyone is like when they start something new, it wouldn’t have been once a month. It would have been more. It would have been as many times as possible.

‘Where was the first time?’ I ask. I need to get the picture right in my head. I need to fix it there so I can understand all this. Because until I hear it, I don’t think I’ll really believe it. I don’t think I’ll be able to frame this as something that’s really possible.

He stares at the fireplace in response to my question. He’d wanted that fireplace. I’d thought it was too big and imposing, the marble too wishy-washy amongst the cream walls, beige carpet and tan leather sofas. I’d wanted a solid black one, one that would stand out, make a statement in this otherwise bland room. But no, Scott had insisted. ‘I know best,’ he’d said. ‘It’s going to look fantastic.’ And it hadn’t. It’d looked bland. I’d never said that. I’d never say that. I have a sudden urge to tell him that now. To put him in his place. To let him know that he wasn’t always right. In fact, sometimes he could be downright wrong.

‘Where?’ I ask him. I have a horrible creeping suspicion that it was here. In our bed. I have a deep, seasick-type fear that the first time he cheated on me he used my sheets, my pillows, my
home. She probably showered in my shower afterwards, as well. Dried herself on my towels. Probably went through my belongings and had a laugh about my assortment of dull, ordinary black knickers. My range of dull, ordinary black bras. My average clothes. My run-of-the-mill hair products. If I was screwing someone’s husband, I would probably go through her things and laugh at her too. What would stop me when I’d already crossed such a huge line?

‘Where?’ I ask again. The feeling is coming back to my lips. Feeling is flowing through my body again, crashing and crashing through me in hot, foamy waves of anger.

He hangs his head, a puppy dog in need of some reassurance that he isn’t completely bad, he isn’t totally naughty.

‘
Where
?’ The word is forced out through gritted teeth and burning lips.

‘I don’t think you—’

‘Where. Just tell me where. Why is that so hard? You did it, so now tell me about it. Where, where, where, where?’

‘In her kitchen,’ he says loudly to drown me out. ‘Up against the sink. Over before it even started. Does that make you feel better? Is that what you wanted to hear?’

Colours are exploding behind my eyelids. That truck has hit me again. The hole where my heart should be has exploded again. My body is numb and on fire at the same time. I cannot get air into my lungs. I cannot breathe in one smooth movement. Every breath is a short, forced gasp. I press my hand over my chest, I push the other hand over my stomach. I cannot breathe.

One year ago

‘Is Scott a good husband?’ Mirabelle asked me.

‘What an odd question.’

‘Not really. Just wondering if he is or not. I might ask him one day if he thinks you’re a good wife.’

‘Go right ahead. I have no worries that he’ll tell you I’m the best
wife a man has ever had. Why wouldn’t he?’

‘But you can’t say the same thing about him as a husband?’

‘Of course I can,’ I replied. ‘He’s wonderful.’

She grinned at me. ‘You went all gooey when you said that.’

‘Well, I’m allowed. He’s, you know, he’s my man. He does that to me.’

‘I was married once,’ she said.

‘You? How come you’ve never mentioned that before, Mirabelle Kemini?’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘What went wrong?’

She stared off into the distance for a while, looking at where we’d just come from on our run. ‘Lots of things. But mainly it was my fault. I got married too young to the wrong person. I was bound not to stay, always chasing the impossible dream, me.’

‘Which is?’

‘Love, of course. What else is there in life that is worth chasing?’

‘And you didn’t love your husband?’

‘Oh, I loved him all right. Just not enough. Not in the right way. Especially when my impossible dream was out there somewhere.’

She stood upright, stretching, and as her running top rode upwards, it showed off her smooth, flat stomach and the diamond body bar inserted into the skin below her belly button.

‘Come on, we’ve got to get showered and on with the day. Have you finished your stretches yet?’

‘Did you cheat on your husband?’ I asked.

She stopped her final stretches and lowered her arms to look at me, a haunted look on her face. ‘I suppose I did, if I’m honest. But not necessarily in the way you mean. I do know I did some things I wasn’t proud of. And I need to come to terms with that. Which I will one day. I’m trying not to be the sort of person who would do what I did back then. I’m trying to be a better person.’

‘I think you’re a great person,’ I said.

‘Thanks, honey,’ she replied, tugging affectionately on one of my twists that had escaped my ponytail before securing it behind my ear. ‘You’re great too. I hope Scott knows how lucky he is to have you.’