Alice replied evenly. ‘He’s hardly going to find out, is he. I’m not likely to leave Mark for some tour guide, am I – albeit one with an incredible dick and the last word in sexual athletics. Come on, Thea – get off your moral high horse! I had a one-night stand! That’s all! And do you know something? I don’t regret it and I don’t feel guilty. It’s what I needed and I feel fucking great. It completely boosted my self-esteem. There will be no repercussions.’
Thea sipped her tea. It was lukewarm and she grimaced as she swallowed it down. Despite that, she sipped again to give her time to think because, just then, she really didn’t know what to say. Thea was gutted by her friend’s behaviour. She wanted to whack Alice, to scold her, to say what the hell were you thinking, why the hell did you do that, don’t you dare get a taste for it, don’t you ever do it again. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Just look at Alice – just look at her – gone is the pale complexion of late, the dullness to her eyes, the slump in her demeanour, the fatigued gazing into the middle distance, the disillusionment with her lot. Look at her now – she looks as though she’s spent a fortnight being pampered at a world-class spa, she looks as though she’s won the lottery, she looks as though she’s mid-leap from Cloud 8 to 9, she looks as though she’s having the time of her life. She’s beautiful and centred and exuding delirious happiness. She’s radiating the glow of a well-laid woman.
‘You’re wicked, you are,’ Thea decided to say, acting bright and breezy, though privately it irked her to have to do so, ‘you’re a slag!’
‘I know!’ Alice said, surfacing from giggles to sigh at the memory of it all. ‘I tell you, if you had to choose between Paul Brusseque and Brad Pitt? No contest whatsoever.’
‘And if you had to choose between him and Mark Sinclair?’ Thea said with a sternly arched eyebrow.
‘Fuck off!’ Alice barked defensively, trying to cover it with a beguiling pout. ‘It was a one-night stand – that’s all. A common, simple, one-night stand. Christ, stop giving it more gravity than it deserves. Anyway, I’m telling you, Miss Sanctimonious – if you were faced with someone even half as horny as Paul Brusseque, far from home and safe in secrecy, I’d defy you not to drop your knickers too.’ Alice sucked in her cheeks slightly, as if challenging Thea to retort, to deny if she dared.
‘But I have Saul,’ Thea said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t want to.’
‘When temptation confronts you, believe me you are a helpless, happy slave.’ Alice lowered her voice ominously and wagged her finger with detectable superiority.
It was as if, by being flung far from Alice’s conscience, thoughts of Mark were assaulting Thea’s. She couldn’t rid an image of him from her mind’s eye. It was irrelevant that he would not find out about his wife’s adultery – still Thea’s heart bled for him. She felt like an accessory to Alice’s crime. And Thea decreed it a misdemeanour absolute. She deemed sexual fidelity and true love to be inextricably bound. For the latter to exist, the former was unconditional. No one would ever love Alice as much as Mark – and Thea believed he should be loved right back. Just then, Thea didn’t know which was worse – the fact that Alice had been unfaithful to Mark or that, as a cuckold, he was to be pitied. On Mark’s behalf, Thea felt the humiliation and bewilderment she hoped sincerely that blessed ignorance would keep from him. It was horrible.
‘Are you OK?’ Saul gently tucks Thea’s hair behind her ear. He’s concerned – she’s been withdrawn all evening, chewing at the skin around her fingernails, fiddling with her ring, frowning suddenly, even wincing once or twice.
‘Fine,’ Thea nods with minimal eye contact though Saul notes a gauze of sadness clouding her eyes, ‘just tired.’
‘You sure?’ Saul presses because he’s rarely known Thea in anything other than her sunny, happy state. Especially recently – she’s been infectiously euphoric. He doesn’t like to see her unhappy but he doesn’t know how to help and it is not his style to pry.
‘Honestly,’ she says, but unconvincingly because he knows she’s trying to inhibit further probing, ‘I’m done in. Sometimes, giving massage can invigorate me – sometimes it utterly depletes me. I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘OK,’ Saul says, placing his hand tenderly across her forehead, then tapping the tip of her nose with his finger. ‘If you look in my bag, I bought you the new issue of Grand Designs.’
‘Thanks,’ Thea says and she takes the magazine off to bed, grateful for distraction. That’s what she’ll think of – sinks and fabrics and flooring and ways with light. Not Alice, she won’t think of Alice. Or Mark. She’ll think about setting up home with Saul. And she smiles at the knowledge that absolutely no one, from Brad Pitt to this Paul Brusseque, could tempt her from Saul.
It’s peculiar – I almost feel like writing an anonymous piece for Adam on the merits of infidelity. I want to evangelize the effect that a one-night stand has had on my life. I want to stand up and defend what our society denounces as morally reprehensible. It’s not. I was miserable before – doubting the point of marriage, questioning my choice of husband, negative about my lot, pessimistic about my future. And it all came down to sex! Just sex. That instinctive, carnal interchange. Simple sex – that’s all. I’m sure of it. One dose of pure sex and I’m cured! Now I’m happy with my husband, my energy and optimism have returned at both work and play and best of all, I feel happier and more centred in myself than I have done for months.
When Alice felt buoyant, everyone in contact with her was dusted with her jauntiness and vigour. Her team produced work worthy of awards and Mark reaped the benefits of his wife’s excellent mood. She was spirited yet affectionate, effervescent but considerate. She didn’t glower when he said he’d have to go to Singapore and Tokyo the following week, instead she came home with potions and tonics from the naturopath to alleviate all primary and secondary symptoms of jet lag. Their lovemaking was back up to twice a week and Mark noted with some pride how she wanted to prolong each session, how her eyes were closed throughout as if in utter appreciation of their coupling.
It lasted a week. Then the first text message arrived. And by replying to it (initially she justified it would be impolite not to at least answer, but if she was honest, she fired back her reply in anticipation of another response) Alice somersaulted down into the murky depths of secrecy, lies and betrayal.
‘Is that your phone?’ Mark said, while ripping something out of the Financial Times and tucking it in his suit jacket. ‘Bloody hell, it’s almost midnight – who’s texting you at this time as if I couldn’t guess?’
‘It’s just Thea – fretting about her house sale and stuff,’ said Alice, not knowing quite how she was controlling herself, having seen that the number was overseas. ‘I’d better reply – I know how stressful the process is.’
‘Why don’t you just ring her? Your thumb will get RSI!’
‘Saul’s probably asleep – that’ll be why she’s texting,’ Alice said with a mock yawn. ‘I’ll go and have a bath and reply.’
‘Tell her we thoroughly recommend our conveyancing lawyer.’
‘I’ll do just that.’
With enormous restraint, Alice resisted running to the bathroom, sauntering away instead with credible nonchalance. As the bath ran, she sat on the edge of the tub and read the message, her stomach flipping with a swarm of manic butterflies, her heart galloping in her throat.
it’s late. lying here thinking of u and ur wet pussy. PB x
Alice wanted to squeal and squeak and run around whooping ‘It’s from Paul, it’s from Paul!’ What should she say? How should she reply? Should she reply? Or ignore? Should she text Thea and send her four or five possible responses to choose from? Shit – the bath is almost overflowing.
Alice