Adultery for Beginners

by Sarah Duncan

  'We?'

  'Me, then.' She couldn't remember knocking them over. Her insides contracted, aching with remembered pleasure. There's nothing I'd like better than to fuck you repeatedly, he'd said. But he wanted it to be her decision. She realised she'd made her decision long before, without knowing about it. No discussion, however rational and dispassionate, could change that. She had made the decision when she had touched him during the rainstorm. The line had been crossed then, and there was no going back. Now she turned and touched him again, hesitating, unused to taking the initiative, excited to be making the first move.

  He stood still, waiting, his breathing shallow, not touching her. 'Take your hair out of that stupid band.'

  She pulled the band off and shook her hair out.

  'Better. You shouldn't tie it back.'

  'It's more practical.'

  'Practical!' He touched her hair. 'Who wants to be practical?' He stood very close to her, his hands stroking the little hairs at the nape of her neck, stirring up the nerve endings. His fingertips caught the tiny whorls at the edge of her hairline, moving down to stroke the hollows of her collarbones. She let her head fall back, giving in to the feeling, letting the sensation flow from his fingertips and down through her. She felt her body was like an acupuncture chart, meridians flowing and connecting, linking neck to breast to centre in one tingling universal line.

  Feeling very daring she ran her hand further down, feeling him pressing hard against her hand. Her breathing had changed, become heavier, deeper. With her other hand she undid his top trouser button. He put his hand on hers to stop her.

  'Sure?'

  'Yes.'

  'No regrets. No falling in love. No tears when we part?'

  'No.'

  'Two adults enjoying each other with no strings on either side?'

  'Yes.' He released her hand, then slid his own up her thigh. It was almost painful when he touched her, sudden, all-absorbing, wonderful pleasure. 'Oh yes, yes please.'

  'And what do you want?' he murmured.

  'This.'

  'Say it.'

  'I want... I want...' It was hard to say the words, hard to concentrate on speaking. Each word came out on a rush of breath. 'I want you to fuck me.'

  'Ah,' he said. 'That's better.'

  And this time it was better. Slower, deeper, longer. They went upstairs to the bedroom where Patrick carefully removed the rest of Isabel's clothes. She had always thought that the embarrassment of exposing her body would be enough to stop her having an affair, yet here she was allowing Patrick to cover her with kisses, running his tongue over her skin, apparently unfussed by the stretchmarks and imperfections. No, unfussed was the wrong word. He made her feel that these were glorious, sensual emblems of a woman in her prime, not middle-aged, and that her body, for all its flaws, was beautiful. Encouraged by his appreciation she relaxed, and without shame opened herself to him in a way that she had always been slightly embarrassed to do with Neil.

  And afterwards he held her close as her mind drifted, half-asleep but listening to the rain falling outside in a continuous murmur. She nuzzled his skin, feeling the tang of salt on her lips.

  'Which do you prefer,' he said, running a lazy hand over her body, 'fast and furious on the kitchen table or slow and sensual in bed?'

  'Both. I want both.'

  'Exhausting. You'd better pass me the water; there should be a glass on the floor on your side.'

  Isabel rolled over and looked on the floor. She saw Patrick's water glass and alarm dock. She was an hour late for the school pick-up.

  'Help! The children!' Isabel jerked upright, then subsided back down beside Patrick, heart still beating fast. 'No, it's all right; Michael's late tonight and Katie's at a friend's house.' It felt strange, to have forgotten them, the same sickening jolt in the stomach as when you think there's an extra step on the stairs only there isn't one, but magnified by so many times it hurt to think of it. How could she have forgotten the children for one second? She sat up, pulling away from Patrick's encircling arms, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  'I trust Madam found the service satisfactory?'

  'Oh, yes. It's just I feel -' she hesitated, uncertain of what to say.

  'Delighted? Exhausted? Shagged out?'

  'All of them. Bruised mostly. I'll be walking like John Wayne for the next few weeks.'

  'Mmm. Wasn't he the strong, silent type?'

  'Oh dear. Was I -?'

  'Let's just say it's a good thing the neighbours on both sides go out to work.'

  She smiled to herself, remembering, as she fished her clothes off the floor and started to get dressed. Drat, my knickers must be downstairs in the kitchen, she thought. Patrick knelt behind her and kissed her neck.

  'Don't tie your hair back again.'

  She turned to him with a shy smile, feeling as if against all odds she had pulled off some clever trick.

  'I won't.'

  'Happy?'

  'Oh, yes.' She remembered Patrick saying "No falling in love" and kissed him, to stop herself from saying anything more. Kissing Patrick made her realise how rarely she and Neil progressed beyond a friendly peck on the cheek. She remembered reading something about prostitutes never kissing their clients, that it was too intimate, but the thought frightened her and she kissed Patrick with more intensity. Finally she separated from him.

  'We've not got much work done this afternoon,' she said.

  'And whose fault is that?'

  'Yours.'

  'Really?'

  'Mine then.' She couldn't stop smiling at him.

  'I'll dock your wages.'

  'I'll work harder tomorrow,' she pretended to grovel.

  'You'd better,' he growled, 'or I'll take the whip to you.'

  'I'm not sure I'm into S&M.' She took a deep breath. 'I ought to be going.'

  'Off into the real world.' He smiled, then patted her behind. 'Go on, scoot. No guilt trips though, promise?'

  'Promise.' She smiled at him, then eased herself off the bed. 'My legs are all wobbly.'

  Patrick put a navy blue dressing-gown on. 'C'mon, Bambi, let's check you're all ready to go home to your family.' He tilted her face. 'Mmm, I think you're presentable.'

  'I've got no knickers on.'

  'Don't tempt me, or you'll never get home.'

  Isabel went down the stairs, very conscious of her nakedness under her skirt and Patrick behind her. She went to pick up her knickers, which were curled in a heap on the kitchen floor. Patrick bent too and, with a swift sweep of his hand, beat her to it.

  'These are mine.' He smiled at her. 'An incentive for you to return or a souvenir to comfort me in case you don't come back.'

  She thought about saying something, but decided against it. It seemed odd, almost perverted, but then again, with her limited experience, what did she know? Her legs did feel most peculiar. She collected her bag from the sitting room and went to the door. Patrick stopped her.

  'Isabel.' She looked up at him and saw him suddenly look uncertain and vulnerable. 'Will you come again tomorrow?'

  A slow smile spread across her face. 'Oh yes,' she said shyly. 'I do hope so.'

  - ooo -

  Isabel was convinced that one of the other mothers would notice something different about her, but they appeared oblivious. And if she had told them, would they have believed her? Come to that, did she believe what had happened? That she, Isabel Freeman, devoted wife and mother of two, could have spent - or misspent - the afternoon in the arms of one Patrick Sherwin, employer, now lover. It couldn't have happened. It shouldn't have happened. But it had.

  As she stood outside the gym, waiting for Michael to finish Cubs, she could feel her nakedness under her skirt, the cool rustle of the fabric against her thighs. It seemed extraordinary that no one should notice; she felt surrounded by a glowing halo of scarlet wickedness. The heat given off by her body alone should have been enough to generate a few raised eyebrows. And the smell. She must reek of sex. She casually
raised one hand to her face, as if she was going to push back a wayward strand of hair, and surreptitiously sniffed. The scent of Patrick brought back the afternoon's activities in a rush. It was wicked, it was wrong, but, oh, it was wonderful. She hid a smile behind her hand.

  Michael came out, grumpy about some argument over badges. Isabel nodded and made soothing noises without listening as she drove to Helen's to collect Katie. She was thinking about Patrick, the unhurried way he stroked her skin, the way he knew without telling when to be slow and when to be fast, the skillful way he -

  'Why are we going this way, Mum? I thought we were getting Katie.'

  Isabel looked around her. 'Oh dear, I've overshot the turning.' She reversed into a gateway, narrowly missing the post, and set off again. She collected Katie from Helen's house, declining a cup of tea. Helen seemed disappointed and kept Isabel chatting on the doorstep about the PTA committee. 'You ought to join,' she kept on saying and Isabel, conscious of a breeze trying to lift the edge of her skirt, kept trying to leave. Finally she managed to escape. Her naked bottom felt round and cold as she walked back along the path to the car.

  Back home she quickly made Michael a sandwich, then charged upstairs into a hot shower. She had just finished dressing in clean clothes when she heard Neil's cheery 'Hello' downstairs.

  'Just coming,' she called back, twisting a towel around her wet hair. Neil's footsteps on the stairs. She bundled her clothes into the dirty linen bin, just in case some lingering scent of Patrick remained on them, then checked her face in the mirror. Was this how she normally looked?

  Eyes bright, cheeks flushed. She had to be normal. Neil came into the bedroom.

  'Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you. I was just going to change.' He looked at her curiously, as if surprised to see her upstairs.

  'No, you carry on. I've finished here. I forgot to wash my hair yesterday,' she added. 'I thought I'd do it now so it'd be dry by bedtime.'

  'No need to explain.'

  No, no she didn't have to explain. Stop explaining, she told herself. Be normal. She felt as though someone had placed stereoscopic glasses over her eyes so her depth of vision was heightened into super three-D. Every little bit of fluff had heart-piercing definition. She smoothed the bedspread nervously, seeing her hands as if for the first time.

  'How was work?' she asked. 'Busy?'

  'Same as usual.' He shrugged. 'Meetings, meetings and more meetings.'

  'Sounds a bit dull.'

  'Office politics.' He got out of his jacket and dropped it on the bed. 'What about you?'

  'What about me?' Isabel froze in the middle of reaching for the jacket.

  'Your job.'

  'Oh.' She picked the jacket up and put it on a coat hanger, like a good wife. 'It's just me and Patrick so there's not much opportunity for office politics. We'd have to have factions of one and gossip to ourselves in corners.' She paused. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to stress that it was just her and Patrick in the house. 'Of course, Patrick is out a lot. Most of the time. In fact, almost all the time. Seeing clients, that sort of thing.'

  'So how are you finding it?' Neil's face was politely inquiring, rather than challenging. He hardly appeared interested, and she relaxed.

  'Fine. A bit boring in fact. I just answer the phone and do the filing.' It wasn't a lie. That was all she had been doing. Until today.

  'Doesn't sound very stretching.'

  Isabel brushed imaginary fluff off the jacket, trying not to think of being stretched out across Patrick's bed. 'You'd be surprised. Chuck me your trousers and I'll hang them up.' He tossed them towards her, sensible grey from M&S, with a touch of hard-wearing polyester to prevent knee and bottom sag, although on Neil they did have a marked resemblance to loose covers on an old armchair.

  A drip of water slid down her neck, tracing a cold path where Patrick had run his tongue over her collarbone. She felt herself go scarlet.

  'When's supper?' Neil asked, now dressed in old cord trousers and a lambswool sweater, both an indeterminate shade of khaki.

  'I don't know. Soon. About an hour.' How could he not have noticed her face, flaming with desire and longing? She hoped her voice at least sounded casual. 'You can have some paté on toast if you can't wait.'

  'That'd be nice.' He yawned and stretched, rotating his shoulders and neck to ease the tension. 'That's better. I think I'll go and watch the News.'

  'Send Katie up for her bath, would you?'

  He nodded and left the room. Isabel sank onto the bed, her legs threatening to give way for the second time that day. Then it had been the trembling reaction to sex, now the reaction to deceit. Although, she salved her conscience, she hadn't actually lied to Neil. She frowned.

  She hadn't needed to lie to Neil; he hadn't asked any awkward questions, hadn't noticed anything different about her. Which was strange as she felt gloriously, rampantly different. Every molecule tingled, every atom glowed. She flopped back on the bed, arms wide. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Fourteen hours until she saw him again. Would it be as good tomorrow? She smiled to herself. He was quite right. She didn't feel guilty. She felt great.

  Chapter 8

  Helen and Isabel arrived at the church for Harvest Festival at the same time so it was natural for them to sit together. Isabel was pleased, as she still didn't know many of the other mothers, at least, not well enough to go and sit next to them. And the fathers with their camcorders and serious cameras were completely unknown. Helen, on the other hand, seemed to know lots of people. Isabel commented on that.

  'It's the PTA committee,' Helen said. 'I've met loads of people through it. I told you, you should join. They're always on the lookout for new blood.'

  'You make them sound like vampires.'

  'Seriously. Why don't you join?'

  'We were always having coffee mornings when we were abroad. I'm not sure I can take many more.'

  'It's not just coffee mornings,' Helen laughed. 'And all the meetings are in the evening. Not everyone's a lady of leisure, you know.'

  'Nor am I any more.'

  'Of course, you're working now. How's that going?'

  'Fine.' Five weeks of work, three weeks of them as Patrick's lover. It seemed incredible to Isabel. She realised that Helen was looking at her.

  'I had to take the morning off to come to this and it didn't go down well.' Patrick had been furious when she had told him. They'd had a row which had ended up with them tearing at each other's clothes and having sex on the stairs. Isabel smiled to herself. Perhaps they should have rows more often. She was brought back to the present by Justine slipping into the pew next to her.

  'Can I join you?'

  'Of course,' Isabel said, moving up.

  'I was telling Isabel how she ought to join the PTA committee,' Helen said, leaning across Isabel. 'She was saying that she thought it was too much on top of her job.'

  Justine gave her a sidelong glance. 'Is working for Patrick that tiring?'

  Isabel stiffened inside. Had Justine guessed? Or did she know? Had Patrick said anything? She made herself smile. 'Not tiring, but time-consuming.'

  Justine settled back in the pew while Helen persisted, talking about what the committee did and pressing Isabel to join.

  'Look, it's a bit difficult at the moment because Neil's had to work late at the office recently, but I promise I'll think about it, all right?' Isabel said at last. Helen flushed with pleasure, and Isabel was touched that it mattered to her. In a sudden flash of insight she wondered if George was always nice to Helen. Helen was rearranging one of her hair combs, and her sleeve fell back from her wrist. Was it Isabel's imagination, or was there a shadow of a bruise on the inside of her arm?

  'If you want me to come onto the committee, I will,' Isabel said. 'But can I join just like that? Wouldn't I have to be elected?' She turned to Justine.

  'Being elected implies that there are lots of people who are just dying to join,' Justine said. 'I can't see Mary, but she'll be about somewhere. Probably organising the vic
ar. We'll catch her at the end of the service.'

  'I've not been to a Harvest Festival service before,' Isabel said, thinking how alien it was after all the desert countries she had been living in. 'I was expecting enormous marrows and baskets of apples.' She craned her neck to see the pile of tins and other non-perishable goods such as nappies and cotton wool. More useful, perhaps, but decidedly less romantic.

  There was a stirring among the pews, a ripple of shushing and heads turning to try and see. The children came in singing 'All Things Bright and Beautiful', the smallest first, then the older children. They put their gifts down at the front, then were shepherded by the teachers to sit cross-legged in untidy lines. Isabel spotted Katie, wide-eyed and sucking her thumb. She looked very young. Rachel sat up straight beside her, her hands folded in her lap, unlike Millie who was picking her nose in the row behind them. Isabel could sense Helen wince.

  Michael strode along, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked as he took in the strange surroundings. Once seated his eyes sought hers in the audience. Then he saw her. He didn't smile - that would be utterly uncool - but he condescended to remove one hand and give her a minimal wave, so slight that only a sharp-eyed observer would have noticed. Isabel felt her heart swell with love for him, and his determined masculinity that had banned all maternal displays of affection except in private when he was her cuddly, loving little boy again.

  The children sang a lilting melody in praise of the harvest, most of their faces beaming with sincerity, mouths opening like baby birds. Isabel was pleased to see Katie was singing, although Michael appeared more interested in the back of his neighbour's shirt. His mouth opened occasionally, but Isabel could tell he was la-la-la-ing along to the music. After the song the vicar gave a speech of welcome and thanks for the generous gifts. Isabel immediately felt guilty that she hadn't given more. He invited the congregation to rise to sing 'We Plough The Fields and Scatter'. Isabel was singing the words unthinkingly when an image of Patrick ploughing her fields and scattering his good seed came into her head. She dropped her hymn-book, pink-cheeked with shame to be thinking such thoughts in church, and had to scrabble round Justine's polished shoes to retrieve it. She recovered herself just in time to hear Katie's single line, which she had practised to distraction.