The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel
Page 8
Serena and Ollie had been having occasional sex for nearly two years. It wasn’t exactly an affair; not in the conventional sense. They certainly weren’t in love with each other. It was merely a mutually convenient arrangement.
Serena loved her husband dearly, but she was thirty-eight, fit and vibrant, and now and then she craved an actual flesh and blood cock inside her, to satisfy that worsening itch.
Ollie loved his wife, too. All the supposed faults Mia perceived in herself, he found attractive: her short grey hair, her tiny breasts, the little wrinkles around her eyes. But she wasn’t as sexy as Serena. There was no doubt about that. Serena was faultless: toned body, lustrous golden hair, flawless skin. What was he supposed to do? After all, guilt-free, no-strings-attached sex with a gorgeous woman was not something any red-blooded man could easily say no to. Or that’s what he told himself when he lay awake at night.
The very first time it happened, it was unclear who had made the initial move. One minute they were walking Stumpy and Lord through a secluded moonlit field – the stars twinkling above them, the perfumed air warm and still – the next minute they were in each other’s arms, frantically unzipping and unbuttoning.
When it was over, Ollie had said, “Well, that was … unexpected.”
“Mmm,” hummed Serena. “How do you feel?”
“Surprisingly unguilty. You?”
“Same.”
“Did you … erm …?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Inside me?”
“Yes, is that okay? I didn’t think …”
“It’s fine. I wanted you to. But I guess I ought to pop to the chemist tomorrow and sort myself out with a morning-after pill.”
“No need,” said Ollie. “I had the snip after Barney was born. It bloody hurt, I can tell you.”
“Oh,” said Serena, somehow pleased and disappointed at the same time.
“I guess this was just a one-off,” Ollie stated, although it sounded like a question.
Serena glanced at him as she replaced her bra and re-buttoned her blouse. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“What are you saying?”
“Eric and Mia can never know about this, but, if we’re careful … I don’t see why it can’t be a regular thing. Not every night, obviously, but now and then, if we both fancy it. What do you think?”
Eric zipped up his trousers and tucked his shirt in. “Yeah. Why not?”
◆◆◆
“Oh, my word!” Lord exclaimed to his friend. “They’re at it again. Those two are like animals.”
“Where?”
“Up against the oak tree where I urinated earlier. She simply dropped her knickers and bent over. No foreplay or anything. There wasn’t even any fellatio.”
“You know I don’t understand Latin, mate.”
“No blowjob on this occasion.”
“Oh, right. In Australia, we call them gobbies, you know.”
“Have you ever actually been to Australia?”
“Nah, mate. It’s innate, innit?”
“I hate to say it, old man, but your owner has no class.”
“And yours has?”
“My owner is the male of the species.”
“Yeah, good point. Are they done? My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
“No, but from the noises they’re both making, it shouldn’t be long now.”
Chapter 19
Monday 1 September, 2003
McDougal study, 4:37 p.m.
Serena was bored. She’d been for a five-kilometre run around the village (24 minutes and 47 seconds, her ninth-best time ever). She’d derived much pleasure from a long shower in the company of a waterproof vibrator and a six-inch dildo (the kind with a suction cup to fix it to the wall). She’d visited the hairdressers to get her highlights re-done. She’d followed Chantara, her cleaner, around the house from room to room, pointing out partial fingerprints, incongruous fibres and specks of dust, like a crime scene investigator. She’d walked Stumpy, twice. She’d caught up with her favourite soap (Eastenders). And she’d prepared a lasagne on the off-chance that her husband returned home at a sensible hour with an appetite and sufficient courage to brave her cooking.
She was currently enjoying a cup of tea in Eric’s study, idly attempting random passwords in an effort to unlock the mysterious ‘Miscellaneous’ file on his computer. Attempts 539, 540 and 541 were just as unsuccessful as their predecessors.
She was on the point of giving up and leaving the room when she noticed the flashing green light on a battery charger plugged into the wall. That must be the battery for Eric’s camera, she thought.
Serena spent the next twenty minutes attempting to locate the camera that went with the battery; eventually discovering that a key in the pocket of Eric’s jacket, hanging on the back of the door, unlocked the top drawer of his desk, which contained another key, which unlocked a filing cabinet which contained the aforementioned camera. She inserted the battery into the camera and pressed the power button.
The tiny screen on the back sprang into life, showing what Serena would have described as a seagull, but which was in fact a herring gull (Larus argentatus). In the bottom-right corner of the screen, the designation 1/314 was visible. She pressed the right arrow.
2/314. Seagull.
3/314. Seagull.
4/314. Seagull. Boring.
She pressed the button more rapidly.
Seagull. Seagull. Seagull.
At 37/314 she paused. Something was different. This was a lesser black-backed gull (Larus fuscus), but Serena was unaware of that. What does Eric see in these things? Onward. 38/314. Seagull.
39/314. Seagull.
After 112 uninspiring photos of seabirds, Serena was about to stop looking, and return the camera to its secure location, when she came to 113/314. Ava. Ava?
Ava, in her navy blue bikini, was using a spade to fill a bucket with sand. Ah, that’s nice, thought Serena.
114/314. Ava brushing the hair out of her eyes.
115/314. Ava upturning the bucket to make a sandcastle.
116/314. Ava bending over to pick up a pebble.
117/314. Ava smiling at Jemima.
118/314. Jemima smiling at Ava.
119/314. Jemima kneeling and drawing patterns in the sand with her finger.
120/314. A close up of Jemima’s face.
121/314. A close up of Jemima’s cleavage.
122/314. A close up of Jemima’s crotch. What the fuck!
Serena pressed the button over and over again. Jemima. Jemima. Jemima. Jemima. Jemima. Jemima. Jemima. Jemima. Jemima. Ava. Ava. Ava. Ava. Ava. Ava and Jemima. Ava and Jemima. They kept coming. Just photos of two teenage girls innocently playing on the beach, but so many of them.
303/314. Ava and Jemima, hand in hand, walking down the beach to the sea, about to get lost in the crowd.
304/314. Seagull.
The final ten photographs were innocuous pictures of seagulls.
What had Serena just seen? Her heart was beating fast and her mouth dry. Absentmindedly, she picked up her cup and took a gulp of stone-cold tea.
This wasn’t right. Eric had never mentioned taking photos of the girls. And so many photos.
◆◆◆
When Eric returned home that evening, declining the offer of lasagne, Serena waited until he was seated in the lounge – glass of wine in hand and small talk out of the way – before she spoke.
She rubbed her bare arms and casually said, “Oh, dear. My tan’s starting to fade already. We were so lucky with the weather in Cornwall, weren’t we, darling?”
“Mmm,” said Eric.
“That reminds me, you never showed me the puffin photos you took.”
Eric blanched. “They didn’t come out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Erm … I think the memory card must have been corrupted or something.”
“How?”
Eric was floundering. “I don’t know. Sand? Yes, I probably got sand in the camera. It’s a shame. I got some great shots of a storm petrel (Hyrobates pelagicus) diving into the sea.”
“Do you ever take photos of people or only wildlife?”
“Just wildlife. I love nature.”
Serena reached down next to the sofa and retrieved Eric’s camera from the floor. “I guess the memory card must have fixed itself because when I turned it on, there was a lovely photo of a seagull on the screen.”
Eric stood up. “Where did you find that? It was …” He trailed off.
“Chantara found it in your study when she was cleaning.”
“She can’t have. I …”
“You what?”
“I thought I’d locked it in my filing cabinet.”
“Apparently not. Anyway, why don’t you show me this storm petrel?” She held out the camera and Eric snatched it from her.
“No, they’re really boring. You wouldn’t be interested. One storm petrel is pretty much like any other.”
“But I am interested. Let me see.” She stood, too, and took a step towards him.
“Here.” He kept a firm hold of the camera but turned the screen to face her. “I’ll show you the first few and the last few. You’ll get the idea.”
Eric flicked quickly through 1/314 to 20/314, then pressed a button to jump to the end and flicked backwards from 314/314 to 305/314.
“See. Just a load of boring seagulls. I knew you wouldn’t be interested.”
Eric started to walk back to his study.
“Now show me 226.”
Eric failed to avoid a reflex to swallow. “Pardon?”
“I said, show me photo number 226.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Eric blinked like an owl caught in a searchlight. He pressed a few buttons and located the photo. “Oh, I’d forgotten I took this one. It’s the girls.”
“The girls?”
“Jemima and Ava.”
“Show me.” She held out her hand.
Reluctantly, Eric parted with the camera.
“You see. It’s just the girls playing on the beach. It’s a nice photo, don’t you think?”
“I would, if the next twenty photos weren’t almost identical. This is called a burst, isn’t it? Continuous shooting mode, where you take rapid photos of the same thing.”
Eric nodded.
“So, why have you taken twenty shots of Jemima and Ava hugging in their bikinis?”
He swallowed again. “I thought it was nice, two friends embracing on the beach.”
“Why twenty?”
“I think the shutter button must have stuck.”
“Sand again?”
“Probably.”
Serena pressed the arrow button several times. “Now explain this one.”
It was the cleavage of a fifteen-year-old girl wearing a Union Jack bikini. Jemima. There was nothing else in the shot. No seagulls, no puffins, no petrels. Just breasts.
Eric opened his mouth to speak but could find no words.
“Why have you got dozens of photographs of pubescent girls on your camera, Eric?”
“Don’t say it like that. You make it sound … dirty.”
“It is dirty. It’s disgusting.” Now it was Serena’s turn to swallow. “Are you a paedophile?”
“Me? What? God, no! I just took a few photos of our friends’ daughters. There’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Hundreds of them!”
“I like photography. What can I tell you?”
“And then you lied and pretended you only took photos of storm fucking petrels!”
“I forgot, all right?”
Serena decided it was time to bluff.
“I spoke to Angela earlier.”
“Angela?”
“Your ex-wife. She told me everything.”
Eric slumped down into his chair. “Bugger.”
Serena sat, too, and for minutes they remained silent; she staring at him anxiously; he gazing with unseeing eyes at the muted, flickering television.
Eventually, he spoke.
“Look, it was all just a big misunderstanding.”
Serena sighed. “You’d better tell me your side of the story.”
Taking a deep breath, Eric began.
“Nigel, my youngest, was having a party with some friends for his fourteenth birthday.”
“Where?”
“At our house. Please don’t interrupt. Just let me say it.”
Serena suspected this was a long-planned and much rehearsed speech, but she let Eric continue.
“There was this girl – some friend of Nigel’s – dressed like a right tart. Mature girl. Breasts hanging out all over the place. I asked her to help me fetch the birthday cake from the kitchen. I’d had a few drinks – it was a party after all – and at one point I might have … accidentally bumped into her. Anyway, she went crazy. Started screaming and ran out the room accusing me of touching her.”
“What do you mean ‘touching her’?”
“She didn’t say. She was hysterical by then. Bloody drama queen. Just kept yelling ‘He touched me, he touched me!’ I assume she thought I’d touched her inappropriately in some way, but she was sobbing so much it was impossible to tell what she meant.”
Serena said nothing.
Eric shook his head. “You should have seen the way everyone looked at me. The disgust on their faces. I hadn’t even done anything. Poor Nigel was distraught, all because of some delusional girl. His party was ruined and his friends got it into their heads that I was some sort of pervert. There were no witnesses and yet that bitch Angela believed her instead of me. I swore my innocence, but she kicked me out of my own house there and then.”
“That doesn’t sound likely. Surely she should have given you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Well, she didn’t. When I tried to go home that evening to apologise, I discovered all my stuff on the front lawn. My clothes, my photography equipment, my record collection, my books. All scattered on the grass and flower beds. She didn’t even give me a chance to explain myself. When I tried to go in the front door she started screaming, so I beat a hasty retreat before any of the neighbours got involved. By the following afternoon, she’d changed all the locks and was refusing to talk to me, in person or on the phone.”
“That does seem like an overreaction.”
“That’s not all. Before I knew what was happening, she initiated divorce proceedings against me. I was devastated. I lost everything.”
“Not everything. You may have lost Angela, but at least you still had your kids. You could have arranged some sort of joint custody arrangement.”
“Pah! She poisoned them all against me. I don’t know what she told them, but all three have refused to speak to me since that day.”
“That’s so sad. Have you tried to get in touch with them?”
“Not for years. They all made it abundantly clear that they didn’t want anything to do with me ever again.”
“Oh, babe.”
Eric put his face in his hands. “I swear I have never touched any child inappropriately. You have to believe me.” When he removed his hands and looked at his wife beseechingly, there were tears running down his cheeks.
Serena nearly wavered, but then she remembered the photographs.
“Are you sexually attracted to children?”
“No! God, no! I’m not like that. I fancy adult women. Women like you.”
“Women like me. Who else?”
“No, just you. Definitely not children.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not a paedophile.”
He looked right at her, his gaze level and unblinking. “I swear to you on all I hold dear that I’m not a paedophile. I despise those people. They’re monsters.”
“Then how do you explain all these photos of Jemima and Ava on your camera?”
“I don’t know … I … they were just there, pl
aying together on the beach. I had my camera, there were no interesting birds, so I took a few pictures.”
“A few! There are nearly two hundred photos of teenage girls in their bikinis on here. Our friends’ children. You must realise how this looks. If Steve or Ollie ever find out you’ve taken these pervy photos of their underage daughters, they’ll kill you.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’ll delete them now.”
“Have you got any other photos like this?”
“Like what?”
“Of young girls.”
“No, I swear.”
“You keep saying you swear. It doesn’t mean anything. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I’d never lie to you. I love you.”
“But you do lie to me. You told me that you divorced Angela after she had an affair. Now you’re telling me that she divorced you after you sexually assaulted a fourteen-year-old girl at your son’s birthday party.”
“I didn’t sexually assault her, I bumped into her. She was mistaken, that’s all.”
“Did Angela have an affair?”
Eric was cornered. Sheepishly he said, “No.”
“Who divorced who?”
“She divorced me.”
“So you do lie to me.”
“Just once.”
There was a lull in the conversation while Serena decided what to say next. Eric just sat there, head down, shamefaced.
Eventually, she spoke. “Eric, why don’t you want to have sex with me? You know I’m desperate to have children , I’m running out of time. I’ll never get pregnant if we don’t make love. Don’t you fancy me anymore? Am I too worn out and haggard for you to pretend I’m a fourteen-year-old?”
“What? No! I do fancy you. You’re the sexiest woman I know. It’s just … I …”
“What?”
“I’m having trouble getting hard and staying hard,” he blurted. “It’s not you, it’s just my age. These things happen.”
Serena was shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t. It’s too embarrassing.”
“Eric, we need to talk about these things. You mustn’t shut yourself off from me. I want to know what’s bothering you.”
“Okay. I will from now on.”
“When’s the last time you had an erection? Be honest. You don’t lie to me, remember.”