Valentina

by S. E. Lynes

  “We need that money, Michael,” I said. “I can’t believe you’re taking her out while I’m stuck here on my own.”

  “But I take you out.”

  “Michael, no one takes me out. I’m not a dog. We go out together.”

  “But if I never take her anywhere she’ll get suspicious. I can’t pretend we’re that skint.”

  “I had to pay her damn nursery bill last month and there you are, swanning off to country pubs. Tell her to sling a damn chicken in the oven. Tell her she can’t have any more childcare until she’s got a bloody job.”

  “I don’t want her getting a job,” he hissed – he was trying to keep his voice down, hiding in Isla’s bedroom like a crook – it was all so seedy, so bedroom farce, now I think about it. “If she goes back to being a reporter she’ll be zipping about all over the place. Even with Spyware, it’s too risky.”

  I sighed. “Convenient.”

  “Look, you knew the deal when we moved here,” he said. “It’s a bit late to start moaning about it now.”

  There was an edge to his voice I recognised. I knew I could push him no further. I took a deep breath – theatrical, perhaps – and reminded myself of the long game.

  “OK,” I conceded, forced a conciliatory smile into my voice. “You’re right. I miss you, darling, that’s all.”

  My phone rang at 8:20am on Monday. Michael’s work number came up on the screen.

  “Georgie, thank God.” He sounded shaken.

  “Michael? Are you OK?”

  “Shona’s gone mad.”

  My throat went tight. This was it, game over. I wasn’t even nearly ready for the fun to end quite yet. “Why? Has she found something out?”

  “No, it’s ...” He was so stressed he could barely talk. “I’ve just had to have the conversation. The one about coming into the office when I’m onshore.”

  “You’re always onshore.”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t joke. I told her she knew I’d have to go into the office, like you said, but I don’t think she bought it. I know she’s spaced out but she’s not stupid. She’s saying she only agreed to come here in the first place because she thought I’d be off work for two weeks.” He gasped, a kind of throttled sound. “Oh God, I remember the conversation.”

  I waited a moment, to be sure he’d finished with the histrionics, before beginning softly, “Michael, we discussed this. Think it through. She has no reason not to trust you. Why would she start looking for clues? She has no idea, remember? None. We don’t go around worrying that everything we know is a lie, do we? We’d have a nervous breakdown. We accept the reality with which we are presented unless there’s a very good reason not to. You’ve seen The Matrix, haven’t you? Plato’s Cave ring any bells? There is nothing, nothing about Shona’s existence that doesn’t fit her belief in what that existence is. So if you tell her what the arrangement was, she will believe you, doubt herself. Don’t use too many words.”

  “If you say so.”

  I almost said – leave it to me, I’ll talk to her. But of course, he had no idea we were friends. But I did call her afterwards. I knew how she was feeling, knew it before I picked up and dialled. And when she told me how she was feeling, how hurt and hoodwinked, I was ready with the words to console her. I was there to make the suggestions a good friend would make and, after I’d dropped Zac off at Little Beans for an hour, I could drive her to the station, put her on a train to Glasgow and wave bye bye.

  That evening, when Michael’s home number appeared on my mobile, I knew what he was going to say before I answered the phone. Oh, the trip. It was like being psychic. It was like being God.

  “You’re not supposed to call me from the cottage,” I said, my voice edged with caution. “What if Shona hears you?”

  “She’s not here.” He sounded furious. Tearful, possibly. “She’s left me. She’s written me a fucking note. I never thought she’d do something like that. I didn’t think she had it in her. It’s unravelling, Georgie. The whole thing’s unravelling.” He sniffed. Good God, he was tearful.

  “It is not unravelling, don’t be silly. Wait there. I’m coming over. Do not call her until I get there.”

  “OK,” he said. “Thanks.”

  I packed an overnight bag, for Zachary and myself. I thought wearing her nightie would be a step too far, although there was, potentially, some erotic capital in it. When I got to the cottage, he’d barely opened the door before he started blithering on and on about this friend of Shona’s, this Valentina – he almost spat the name. She was leading his partner astray, he said. She was a shit-stirrer, she was trouble, she was turning her against him. She was a bitch.

  “She sounds like trouble,” I said. “But nothing we can’t handle. We’ll deal with her later. Now, let’s run through what you’re going to say.”

  Once I was satisfied he would stick to the script, I rolled a joint and handed it to him while he called her and talked her through it. When I asked – quietly – if he wanted a glass of wine, he shooed me away, panic in his brown eyes. I poured a large glass of Bourgogne, slid it across the table to him. God knows, he needed it. The man was a wreck.

  I left him to it. I could hear every word from the living room. Eventually, I heard the beep of the phone returned to its holster and duly returned myself to the kitchen. He was bent forward in his chair, face in his hands. “She’s coming back tomorrow night.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” I knelt at his feet, put my head in his lap. He stroked my hair. I ran my hands up his thighs and felt him stiffen against my head. I stood, took his hand and pulled him upstairs, grabbing a second bottle of Bourgogne, two fresh glasses and the corkscrew en route.

  He sat on the bed while I opened the wine.

  “She apologised.” His smile was wretched, his eyes sad. He took the glass from me and drank.

  “Don’t think about it. It’s sorted now. Let’s think about us.”

  We burnt the midnight oil that night. The kerosene, to be precise. What was it with those funny little lamps? Some survivalist shit? They cast a lovely light though, I’ll admit. And they gave off an old-fashioned aroma, like how I imagined a gypsy’s caravan might smell or a hideaway shack in the outback. When he started up again, fretting about that Valentina woman, I rolled on top of him, kissed him hard to shut him up, kissed his chest, his navel, his hips, took him in my mouth and, yes, he stopped talking then. He shut right up. When, later, we let each other go, I lay beside him and stroked the hair on his chest and wondered how soon I would be in this bed for good. My moods on this subject came and went. Sometimes I wanted to stay where I was, to remain independent with benefits, sometimes, like that night, I wanted to be here, in my rightful home, and to have all that went with it. He loved me more, much more than her. That much was obvious. He simply didn’t realise it yet.

  Shona came back. On my next day off, I went over to the cottage, where I had spent Monday night. We had lunch and I let her tell me what I already knew. Not before I’d rescued the corkscrew from upstairs. The bloody thing had slid under the bed, thank God but even so, it was too close a shave and I must confess I did not enjoy the panic. It felt ... low, a little grubby. But as she spoke, as she confessed to her shame and her selfishness, I saw in her eyes that she trusted me absolutely. And trust is halfway, more than halfway, isn’t it, to love?

  And then the damn door clattered open and who should be standing there but Michael, one hand to his chest and looking like he’d seen the Wicked Witch of the West out in the front garden. There he was, shocked beyond reason to discover that this troublesome friend of his mistress, this Valentina woman he had raged about the night before in bed to his wife was in fact – er – his wife. If I too hadn’t been so stunned to see him I would have cracked right up. Looking back, it’s a wonder the vicar didn’t arrive, trousers round his ankles, followed by a busty wench in provocative underwear and spike heels. It was quick thinking on my part, though, I’m sure you’ll agree – all that nonsens
e with the paper bag. Shona never suspected a thing. As for me, I got out of there pretty damn quick. I knew Michael would be furious.

  He was. But with anger comes passion.

  He came over to the Fittie place at about 9:30pm – but, wait a minute, that's right, not before Shona had reached my blasted answering machine. Christ, that required some quick thinking. I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid as to leave my name – not a mistake I could repeat. As soon as she rang off, I deleted that sucker, I can tell you, and replaced it with a brief Australian: G’day, leave a message folks! To anyone else who asked, I could say it was a joke. Hilarious, that’s me, a real prank a minute.

  Anyway, Michael arrived about half an hour later, full to bursting with fury. I was smoking a joint and sipping a lovely crisp Sancerre in front of The Apprentice when I heard the firm thrust of his key in the lock.

  I had bathed, I had removed every hair from my body, moisturised so thoroughly I needed a sign: caution, slippery surface. I had put on a loose kimono and turned the heating up high.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” In one stride he was bearing down on me, hands on hips, glowering. He was really quite ... menacing.

  “What do you mean, what am I playing at?” I raised my shoulders, the kimono slipped from one of them. “I’m making things more interesting.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “You’ve gone insane. You’re going to blow this whole thing, you’re going to ruin it.” He put his hand to my long white neck and squeezed.

  I did not budge, did not take my eyes off his. “I’m not.” The pressure of his thumb was choking me. My voice sounded strangled, like a robot’s. “I’m making it better, baby. I thought you’d see that straight away. This is for us.” I leaned forward, put my hand to his crotch. He was as hard as granite. “See?”

  His eyelids became heavy, his grip loosened. “You ...” He straddled me, pulled my hair, bit my collarbone. “... Are a piece of work.”

  I had not imagined there could be another level to all this but, clearly, there was. I had never known fulfilment like I shared with Michael that night. There was a moment, the coffee table upended, ash scattered, white wine soaking into the cream rug, when I genuinely feared for my sanity. I was touched in every possible way: emotionally, intellectually, physically. I was flying. I could feel the heat of the sun on my feathered wings. It was heady, fearsome, irresistible and in that moment I knew I could not possibly end what I had started. I had to fly higher.

  Months passed. I never thought I’d enjoy being the wronged wife so damn much. And then, of course, just when I’d decided to string this whole thing out for as long as possible, she fucking well caught us in the supermarket. And yes, it was my turn for a near cardiac arrest. It’s one thing understanding inevitability, quite another when the thing you know must happen actually goes ahead and happens.

  Basket pushed close to her trolley, I looked right into her eyes and texted Michael:

  Get out now. Shona in dairy aisle.

  Told her I needed peas. Peas and quiet, more like. Some goddamn space. What the hell was she doing in Marks and Spencer’s Food Hall for Christ’s sake? Shona the frugal. Shona, the don’t mind me, I’ll manage. I thought I’d got away with it. But still I could barely maintain eye contact. I knew she’d picked up on something but I was hoping she’d put it down to that tiny embarrassment you can feel when you bump into someone you’re close to in unexpected circumstances. I know now that she saw someone in the car, but not that it was Michael. Did she see us, chuckling like maniacs at our near escape? Who can say? But when I saw her at the pool that Friday I did what I always do: waited for it to blow over. If she had noticed anything, found my manner a little strained, let her be the one to mention it.

  She didn’t say a word. And when she invited Red and I to dinner, I became pretty sure she hadn’t seen a damn thing. Are you and Red free on Wednesday to come over for a bite to eat?

  Who the hell’s Red? I almost said. But I did have a good laugh the next day in the office with Michael.

  “For crying out loud,” I said to him, “where the hell am I going to find a red-haired musician at such short notice? Most people have to rock up with nothing more than a bottle of plonk.”

  But Red caught a cold. So I, naturally, texted Shona to let her know. Poor Red. Poor music-loving, pothead, sickness-prone Red. What a dog’s life I led him – not letting him come out to play, making him work in some dreary vintage record store with no hope of success. I wondered if she’d cancel, but I didn’t want her to. The evening promised to be so interesting and besides, who doesn’t enjoy a cosy night in with their husband and their best friend?

  What I didn’t bank on was her calling me at work. She never called me while I was ‘teaching’. So I hadn’t factored in her hearing the open-plan office in the background. Bloody hell. But – wonderful thing about someone believing your lies so utterly? The handy way they have of providing your alibi for you. Are you in a yoga class? Ah – yeah, Shona. Sure I am.

  By 6pm, I was ready. I had put Zachary in front of some mindless baby television (How do those presenters do it by the way? How do they avoid complete nervous collapse?) and had had a hot bath. I had put on my Max Mara dress to remind him of our wedding day. At seven, half an hour early, the babysitter from the nursery arrived. I didn’t see the point of waiting around in Fittie stone-cold sober and alone – so I went.

  And, by God, she looked like hell. Some women can really relax with their partners. I admire that, I really do. But personally, I’d have to be terminally ill to let myself look like Shona did that night. I’d have to be most of the way to death. I’d made an effort, sure. For myself. It’s a question of pride, after all. What is it with these women who, once they’ve had children, develop a sudden penchant for elasticated waist trousers and walking boots or, God forbid, Birkenstock sandals? What’s that about?

  Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, the dinner party à trois. When Michael and I had popped back to the Fittie house for lunch that day, I’d made him lay a bet with me that one of us would catch the other one out. Upping the jeopardy, you see? He loved it.

  I soon dispatched Shona upstairs to fix herself up – she needed to, believe me. While Michael set the table, I poured a quarter-pint bottle of vodka into the remaining Prosecco and took it up to Shona. She looked a little better – she’d taken off her slippers at least.

  “Here,” I said. “Let me top you up.”

  Later, when she’d passed out, Michael carried her up to bed and came down to find me. I was – ready, let’s say, by the fire. I do enjoy the sight of a man’s eyes popping straight out of his head.

  “Put your clothes back on,” he said.

  “Why? We’re married aren’t we?”

  “She might come down. She might see you.”

  I propped myself up on my elbow. “Michael, she’s drunk God knows how much wine. I don’t think she’ll be getting up anytime soon.”

  “This is madness,” he said, trying to pull me up from the floor.

  I knelt up, unbuttoned his jeans. “Isn’t it?”

  Afterwards, he went to fetch some water and I lit a joint. When he came back into the living room, he practically broke into a run. He looked ridiculous, knock-knee’d with panic, desperate to set the two glasses of water down. Honestly, he was becoming a neurotic old woman.

  “Put that out,” he hissed. “She’ll smell it.”

  “You need to grow a pair of bollocks, my darling,” I said relieving him of one of the glasses and taking a long drink. I was parched. And I was still enjoying the warmth of the fire on my skin, the illusion of being in my own place. “Tell her I had a cigarette, can’t you?” I pulled him close, blew the smoke into his open mouth. “I’m the guest. You have to accommodate my wishes.”

  “We shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That. Here. It’s wrong.”

  “Please. What difference does it makes where w
e do it? Spare me the guilty feelings, Michael. You’re being very small.”

  “Thing is,” he said, lifting the joint from my fingers and taking a pull. “I don’t feel guilty. I know I should. I know objectively that this is wrong but I don’t feel it.”

  We smoked in silence.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I said after a moment. “I want you to go upstairs and do to her what you did to me. I want to see you do it. I want to watch.”

  “No way.”

  “Come on! Don’t be a spoilsport. I won’t watch the whole thing, just enough to get a flavour.”

  “You’re sick.”

  I laughed. “All right, all right.” I threw the joint into the fire. “If you’re going to be boring, I’m going home.”

  He called a cab. I sent the cab away, waited on the driveway, twirling the keys to the cottage in my hand. It may have been the drink, maybe the sheer mischief of it all, but I could not stop laughing until I’d let myself back in and climbed the stairs. Taking care, of course, to step over the last one.

  She saw me. I know she did. And she never even mentioned it. What? I can feel you looking at me through narrowed eyes. I can feel the judgement. But don’t even try to argue that you haven’t thought about watching your husband make love to someone else, or that you haven’t fantasised about making love with him somewhere you shouldn’t, knowing you could be caught at any moment. And what about her? Do you seriously think she thought I was – what – a trick of the damn light? Please. Though I guess, conceivably, she could have believed that when what she’d actually seen was so very far from what she was telling herself she believed. The trouble with Shona is the same as the trouble with most people – a total lack of honesty. And if you’re not honest, you’re not living, as far as I’m concerned. You may as well put yourself in a straightjacket, dope yourself up on morphine, plug yourself twenty-four seven into a virtual reality game. Michael and me? We were honest. We were living.