The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel

by Sam Anthony

“That’s where I should be,” said Jemima, nonchalantly kicking the wall and leaving scuff marks which her parents must have seen but chose to ignore.

  Serena didn’t feel it was her place to admonish the child, but she was sorely tempted to say something she might regret. Instead she searched the room for a distraction. “Oh, I love what you’ve done with your hair, Ava.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. It’s so … unique and … stylish.”

  “Me too,” said Ollie. “It really brings out your eyes.”

  “What about you, Dad? I can always rely on you for an honest opinion.”

  “I thought you’d never ask …”

  “Steve, don’t …”

  “It makes you look like a boy. A small Victorian urchin who’s been stuffed up a chimney headfirst to clean away the soot with his noggin because there’s a national shortage of brushes. It’s all different lengths and it’s sticking out all over the place at weird angles.”

  “But do you like it?”

  “No, it looks bloody awful.”

  “Steve!”

  “Sorry, love. But it does.”

  “What about the new colour?” said Serena. “You must like that, Steve. How would you describe it, a sort of dark silver?”

  “Nope. It looks like soot to me. I don’t know why you changed it, Pumpkin. I loved your hair before.”

  “I decided it was time to develop my own unique style. This is the brand new me. New clothes and new hair.”

  Jemima scowled. “You should keep it like that.”

  “Or,” said Steve, “You could grow it out and go back to how it used to be when everybody admired it.”

  Stumpy padded over and licked Ava’s hand.

  “At least Stumpy approves, don’t you, boy?” She tickled him behind the ears.

  “Woof!” said Stumpy.

  “I concur, old chap,” said Lord.

  ◆◆◆

  Midway through the first half, England were four points down, and the men in the room were anxiously anticipating a place in the final slipping away.

  The women in the room had other concerns.

  Fiona was trying to calculate in her head how long it had been since she had last had sex with her husband.

  Serena was wondering if Chantara knew how to remove scuff marks from pristine white walls.

  Mia was contemplating the best way to teach reverse percentages to a class full of disruptive pupils dominated by Wayne Smith.

  “Come on, everyone,” said Eric. “We aren’t going to win this unless we all concentrate on the game. Focus on the screen and think positive thoughts.”

  Serena put her hands to her cheeks. “Jason, no! Oh my God, is he okay? Did you see that? The little one tripped him up, and then the big brute kneed him in the head. Is that allowed?”

  “No. The ref’s spotted it. Yellow card, yes! We can still win this.”

  “But is Jason okay?”

  “He’ll live.”

  “What a relief,” said Mia. “He’s the cutest one on the pitch by far. I’d definitely shag him.”

  “Me too,” said Serena.

  Fiona nodded, but said nothing.

  “Absolutely,” murmured Jemima.

  Serena fanned her glowing face. “What is it about rugby players’ thighs?”

  Eric grabbed two fistfuls of his already thinning hair. “What are you women wittering about? Stop talking and concentrate.”

  The game continued.

  ◆◆◆

  An hour later, the referee blew his whistle for the last time and it was all over.

  Steve, Eric and Ollie leapt out of their seats and embraced in an awkward three-way hug. “We did it, we bloody did it. World Cup final, here we come.”

  “What was the final score, Dad?” asked Barney.

  “Johnny Wilkinson twenty-four, France seven. That guy is an absolute legend, a one-man team, despite Serge Betsen trying to cut him in half at every opportunity.”

  “When’s the final?”

  “Next Saturday. Now listen, everyone. Remember where you’re sitting, remember what you’re wearing, remember to keep your lucky underwear somewhere safe ready for next week. Do … not … wash it.”

  “Fuck that,” muttered Jemima, but no one heard her.

  Fiona got to her feet and stretched. “At least that’s the sport over for the day. We can enjoy the rest of the weekend.”

  Steve glanced at his friends to discover that they too had guilty expressions on their faces. “Actually, love, there’s a football match we’re going to watch at the pub this evening. England against Denmark. I promise it’s the last sport for six days.”

  “We don’t have to come, do we?” said Fiona.

  “No, no, no. It’s not an important game. I’m sure you’ve got better things to be getting on with.”

  “Are you referring to that massive pile of ironing in the spare room?”

  Say no, thought Eric. Say no, thought Ollie.

  “Yes,” said Steve.

  ◆◆◆

  That evening the pub was full of inebriated men, drowning their sorrows and bemoaning the highs and lows of supporting England at any sport.

  The large TV screen in the corner mocked them mercilessly with the joyous faces of opposition fans.

  “Bloody hell!” Ollie wailed. “How can we be losing to sodding Denmark? We were two-nil up after eight minutes.”

  “Erm … because we’re shit?” Eric posited.

  “Ah, that’ll be it.”

  Steve said nothing. This was unusual, as Steve was usually the first to pile on the armchair criticism whenever the opportunity arose, which was often.

  Eric and Ollie turned to their friend and were shocked by the expression on his down-turned face.

  “Why are you crying, mate? I realise we’re going to lose the game, but it’s only a friendly.”

  Steve raised his head. “Listen. Can’t you hear it? They’re singing my song.”

  And they were. Every sports fanatic in the pub was lustily and ironically singing Steve’s chant.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la la, we suuuuuuuck.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la la, we suuuuuuuck.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la la, we suuuuuuuck.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la …

  “This is the happiest moment of my life,” sobbed Steve.

  ◆◆◆

  “Last orders, gentlemen,” Mandy called and rang the bell.

  Every heterosexual eye in the vicinity swivelled to admire the barmaid’s breasts jiggling from side to side in pursuit of her arm.

  Steve leapt to his feet and grabbed the glasses. “I’ll get these.”

  “It’s not your round.”

  “I’m feeling generous.” With the subtle application of his elbows, Steve barged his way to the front of the queue.

  ◆◆◆

  “Are we ready to head off?” said Eric, putting on his coat and hat.

  Ollie upended his drink. “Yup. Steve?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Coming, mate?”

  “No, you go. I’m going to help tidy up here.”

  “What?”

  “I told Mandy I’d give her a hand. She’s on her own tonight.”

  “Why? You don’t work here.”

  “Why not? I rather enjoy hanging out with Mandy. She’s good fun.”

  Eric frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Isn’t Fiona expecting you home soon?”

  Steve shook his head. “We had a bit of a row earlier about the ironing. I’ll probably be sleeping in the doghouse tonight.”

  “You haven’t got a dog.”

  “The metaphysical doghouse.”

  “I think you mean ‘metaphorical’.”

  “Whatever. I’ll be relegated to the spare room, so it doesn’t really matter what time I get home.”

  “You aren’t going to do anything … foolish, are you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like cheat on your wife.”


  “Fuck off! What kind of arsehole do you think I am? I’m just going to help Mandy tidy up the pub. That’s not cheating, is it?”

  Eric shrugged. “What do you think, Ollie?”

  Ollie swallowed. “About what?”

  “About infidelity.”

  Ollie tried to swallow again, but his mouth was dry. He turned to Steve. “I think it’s a bad idea, mate. Too much temptation. Just go home and apologise to Fiona.”

  “Apologise for what? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Doesn’t matter. In my experience, it’s best to apologise at every opportunity.”

  Chapter 53

  Wednesday 19 November, 2003

  O’Connor kitchen, 5:50 p.m.

  “You’re home early,” said Steve, glancing at his watch.

  “The judge adjourned my case, and I couldn’t be bothered to drive all the way back to the office.” Fiona stepped out of her shoes. “Anyway, Ava’s going to a friend’s house for tea tonight. I thought maybe you and I could …”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t. You haven’t said anything yet.”

  “Well, we’ve got a few hours of uninterrupted quality time. If you fancied it we could …”

  “We could what? Watch a movie? Have a game of Monopoly?”

  “Why are you being so obtuse?”

  “Why are you being so vague? If you want something, just say it. Be explicit for a change.”

  Fiona actually stamped her foot. “I thought you might like to pop down to the basement and have sex with me, but you’re clearly not in the mood. Just forget I even asked.”

  “You didn’t ask. You just waffled on about what I might like to do. Why couldn’t you have said, ‘I’m horny, darling. I want you to take me down to our sex dungeon, tie me up, spank me till I’m red raw, and then fuck me senseless.’?”

  “You know I’m not comfortable talking about that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Lovemaking.”

  “Do you mean ‘fucking’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then say it.”

  “Why?”

  “Fiona, are you ashamed of what we do down there?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘ashamed’. A bit embarrassed, maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. It’s … kinky.”

  “Stop being such a prude. Do you enjoy it?”

  “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

  “Do … you … enjoy it?”

  “Usually.”

  “Then why do you never suggest it? Why does it always have to be me?”

  “I just did suggest it.”

  “You didn’t. Once in a blue moon you drop subtle ambiguous hints, but you never actually come out and say it. Why do you always beat around the bush?”

  Fiona giggled.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “That’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “Beat around the bush. That’s what you do.”

  “What? Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose that is rather funny.” Steve smiled. His muscles began to relax as the anger drained out of him. “I’m sorry, love. I just find it frustrating that it always has to be me who initiates everything. When you fail to be pro-active, it makes me think you don’t really enjoy it. And then I feel as if all my effort is unappreciated.”

  “I don’t understand why we can’t just make love in bed like … normal people.”

  “Are you saying I’m abnormal for wanting to spice up our sex life?”

  “Not at all. Why are you raising your voice?”

  “Because I’m frustrated.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To dig up the keys. You go and get your gear on.”

  “Steve, …”

  “What?”

  “I’m not really in the mood anymore. When you’re angry, you get a bit … aggressive.”

  “Aggressive?”

  “Violent. You hurt me.”

  “I thought you enjoyed it.”

  “Not when you’re out of control.”

  Steve paused in the doorway. “Shall I fetch the Monopoly?”

  “We need to talk about something else first.”

  Oh, shit! thought Steve. She knows. “What?”

  “Ava.”

  “What about her? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. But … the thing is ... she’s fifteen and not exactly unattractive. You must have noticed the older boys sniffing around her. I think it’s time we had the talk.”

  “What talk?”

  “The talk. The birds and the bees. The pills and the condoms.”

  “Ava? Boys are sniffing around our Ava? But she’s just a kid.”

  “I’m afraid not, Steve. She’s becoming a young woman. She’s been having periods since she was eleven and her breasts are bigger than mine already. It’s just a matter of time until she …”

  “Don’t say it. Just stop right there. Our daughter is not going to have S - E - X until she’s at least twenty-five. Preferably thirty.”

  “Now who’s being a prude. For all we know, she’s sexually active already.”

  Steve put his hands over his ears and sang, “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, …”

  “What are you doing?”

  “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, I can’t hear you, la, la, la, …”

  “We need to talk about this.”

  “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, pardon? La, la, la, …”

  Eventually, Fiona managed to prise one hand off one ear.

  “Please don’t make me do it,” Steve begged. “Can’t I live in blissful ignorance of my sweet little girl’s sexuality for just ten more years?”

  “No. But you can have ten more minutes while I make us both a cup of tea. And then we’re going to decide what we’re going to say to her.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we.”

  ◆◆◆

  “Ava?”

  No response.

  “Ava!”

  “What?”

  “Can you come downstairs? Your father and I would like a word with you.”

  “Coming.”

  “I can’t do this.” Steve leapt to his feet and hurried out of the house.

  And so it was Fiona on her own who had The Talk with Ava. It was a dry, informative talk; mostly biology, chemistry and psychology, but occasionally sprinkled with cautionary tales and urban myths to instil horror and fear.

  There were some pithy one-liners:

  “Sex is all about expressing love.”

  “Wait until you’re ready.”

  “Just say no.”

  “You are in control.”

  “Always use a condom.”

  “Don’t be pressured into doing something you don’t want to do.”

  “A knee in the testicles is usually effective, but use pepper spray if you have to.”

  But there was nothing practically useful. Why can’t experienced mothers pass on to their daughters tried-and-tested masturbation techniques, sex toy recommendations, lovemaking advice?

  “Tell him what to do.”

  “Never fake an orgasm.”

  “Other people’s feelings are important, but in sex, you come first in every way. However, buy yourself a large dildo in case he does.”

  “These are the best positions for women to climax …”

  “If he’s not really doing it for you, try fantasising that he’s someone else.”

  “When you’ve had your fun, and you want him to come quickly, try this …”

  “Magic wand vibrators are awesome.”

  “Watch loads of porn to find out what gets your juices flowing.”

  “One blow job every six months should be enough to keep him faithful.”

  “You don’t have to swallow. He doesn’t really care at that point.”

  “If you fancy a cheeky finger up your arse, say so.”

  Fiona wouldn�
��t dream of saying any of those things to her little girl. Ava would have to learn for herself. Just like Fiona had, and her mother before her.

  ◆◆◆

  Ava cringed throughout. She sighed at the reference to ‘down there’. She began to blush when her mother said ‘penetration’. She broke into a sweat at the first mention of ‘natural lubrication’. She nearly threw up when Fiona described smegma. She had never wanted anything to be over so much in her young life.

  “Do you have any questions, sweetheart? There must be some things you want to ask me.”

  “No!”

  Ava leapt to her feet, even faster than her father had forty-five unforgettable minutes earlier, and sprinted up the stairs as if a pack of wild dogs were snapping at her heels.

  Job done, thought Fiona.

  Chapter 54

  Thursday 20 November, 2003

  The health centre, 4:15 p.m.

  “Hello again, Mr and Mrs McDougal. Come in. Take a seat.”

  “Eric and Serena,” said Eric.

  “Of course, I remember now. Rampant haemorrhoids, wasn’t it?”

  Eric’s face dropped. “Erectile dysfunction.”

  The doctor laughed. “I know. Just my little joke. Now, how have you both been getting on since we last met?”

  “Very well,” said Eric. “I’ve lost seven pounds, improved my five kilometre run time by thirty-nine seconds, slept through the night twice, I can maintain the plank yoga position for over a minute, and – I’m reliably informed – my farts smell sweeter.”

  The doctor was aware of a tiny shake of Serena’s head. “That’s excellent news,” he said. “But what about your erections?”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah?”

  “Yes, ah. I’ve been having plenty when I’m asleep. Very few when I’m awake.”

  “How do you know you’re having them when you’re asleep?”

  “It’s a highly technical diagnostic process involving elastic bands, glue and tissue paper. I won’t go into details, but, take it from me, I’ve been having some cracking nocturnal boners.”

  “And a fat lot of use they were,” Serena contributed helpfully.

  “But you mentioned having a few while you’ve been awake.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Would you care to tell me about them?”