by Joyia Marie
“Hey, baby, where are you? I thought you’d be here by now,” Jillian said when he said hello. Her voice was high and breathy like Marylyn Monroe, which was one of the first things that had attracted him to her.
“Uh,” Harold said, not sure how to explain this turn of events.
He promised Jillian he would end things tonight and come over to her apartment with his clothes but that wasn’t happening now. Moreover, there was no way she could come there. Helen might be uncaring in theory, but he had a sneaking suspicion she would burn the house down with them in it if he even thought about it seriously.
Even if Helen was okay with it, the odds were Tonya wouldn’t be. Tony probably wouldn’t care or he might think the idea of having someone so sexy in the house cool but Tonya would not be amused.
In fact, if Helen decided to burn down the house, Tonya would probably be standing beside her with a can of gasoline and the match. As long as her twin was out, she could care less about the rest. Harold had a sinking feeling he might fall in with ‘the rest’.
“Is everything okay, baby, you sound stressed. Are you still there? Oh my God, is she standing right there?” Jillian said with a fake shriek of horror. Harold didn’t know how he knew it was fake, but it was fake. Jillian was pulling little things lately that made Harold think she was trying to get them caught.
Harold knew he had taken longer than Jillian liked to decide to end it with Helen but it took a minute to decide to end a marriage that had lasted over a decade and produced children. Harold had never thought to find himself in this position. He took his vows seriously and Jillian was a surprise. A welcome surprise, he thought as he visualized her sexy body but a surprise nonetheless.
“No,” Harold said slowly, “she’s not standing right here. In fact she’s gone.”
Jillian was silent on the phone, then shrieked much more sincerely, “Gone? What do you mean gone? Gone where?”
Harold sighed, then recounted the evening’s events to his mistress. Jillian was ominously silent when he finally rolled to a stop. He felt a frisson of fear crawl up his back. It would be just his luck for her to dump him after this. Now that would make the day complete, lose his wife and his mistress in the same day.
Harold had no illusions about his looks. He was tall, thin, and balding and if his father was any indication, he had a bright future playing Ebenezer Scrooge if the community theater ever decided to mount a production of ‘A Christmas Carol.’
His luck with women was less than stellar before he met Helen and he was sure if her mother hadn’t introduced them, she never would have given him the time of day. This indicates he would have approached her, which he wouldn’t have.
Helen was out of his league in so many ways. She was tall, exotic, and dark with jet-black hair and olive skin. She wore loud, flamboyant clothes and made her living as a writer. She lived in a loft and drank wine. She was his polar opposite.
Her mother was a photographer. He met her when he was visiting a store carrying the family’s line of paper. He was checking out a display and she took him for a sales clerk and had him by the arm before he even realized what happened.
Fortunately, she was asking about his family’s products, so he was able to steer her in the right direction. When he put the paper in her hand, she thanked him profusely and then stared at him for a long moment. He wondered if he had something on his face when she spoke.
“You have the most interesting face,” she said almost reverently.
He didn’t know whether to be complimented or insulted, but it was the most unusual thing that had ever been said about his face. The usual comment was pleasant or nice. Which he found rather weak, the same could be said for the lead character of the Charlie Brown cartoon.
“I think you would be perfect for my daughter,” Vivian said thoughtfully.
Harold gave her a long look. Vivian had curly black hair, was wearing a multicolored serape and had a black messenger bag instead of a purse. Harold couldn’t see himself as perfect for anything that might have sprung forth from her loins.
“So what are you going to do?” Jillian asked, pulling him out of his memories again.
Harold ran an agitated hand over his face and wondered what Jillian thought he could do. He could and would go to her loft and talk to her but if she didn’t want to come back, he didn’t know how to make her. He guessed he could pack up the kids, drop them at the loft, and let Helen make the next move. However, he had an idea he wouldn’t like that next move.
“I’ll go by the loft tomorrow and talk to her,” Harold said uncertainly.
“Loft? What loft?” Jillian demanded. “You never said you had more than one home.”
“The loft isn’t ours, but hers. She uses it for her writing,” Harold said, feeling strangely disloyal discussing his wife with his mistress. The cheating was such a declaration of undying fidelity, his conscious screamed at him, awake from the coma he had shoved into it during his affair.
“So where is this loft?” Jillian asked craftily and Harold got a bad feeling about that.
He wouldn’t put it past Jillian to try to confront Helen if she could figure out where she was. Harold had to prevent that at all costs. It wouldn’t do for the mother of his children to end up in jail for killing his mistress. Harold could see it happening. Helen was not one to be trifled with.
“That doesn’t matter,” Harold said, eager to end the call. “Like I said I’ll go see her tomorrow and give you a call when I know more. I need to get to bed; I have to take the kids to school in the morning. Love you. Bye.”
Harold hung up the phone and again wondered how it went so wrong. Not only did he have to contend with Tonya the teenaged terror and her reign of fury when she found out he had driven away her beloved mother, but now he had to prevent his wife and his mistress from getting within 100 yards of each other. Any closer was sure to result in bloodshed.
Harold reached over for the bottle of aspirin he put on the nightstand after Helen had slapped them in his hand along with the kids’ schedules. He popped two of them and took a swig out of a lukewarm bottle of water that was sitting there God only knows how long.
“Looks like she was right,” he said aloud as he winced from the bitter taste of the aspirin. He was going to need them and at the rate this was going that two-hundred count bottle wasn’t going to last long. He gave a long mournful sigh, then fell back into bed and tried to force himself to sleep. If she was right about the aspirin, he was willing to bet she was right about him needing a good night’s sleep.
Chapter Five: Jillian
Jillian Reynolds looked at the silent cell phone and couldn’t believe Harold had all but hung up on her. Before tonight he was so besotted, he was hard pressed to interrupt her when she talked. What had happened? It was so simple, even he shouldn’t have been able to mess it up but somehow he had.
“Okay, okay,” she assured herself at least part of the plan went right. Helen was out of the picture, but Jillian hadn’t figured on her leaving her two brats behind. What kind of woman did that?
She paced the luxurious bedroom of her apartment and ignoring the way the silk negligee swirled around her long slender legs. She had dressed for Harold’s first night as a free man, but that was now shot to crap.
How to fix this, how to fix this, she thought furiously. She would fix this there is no way she was letting six months of her life go without a fight. She couldn’t afford it at 27 as she could at 22, the age she claimed.
Jillian Reynolds was a gold digger and proud of it. She came from a long line of gold diggers and frankly thought women who worked or got married for love were suckers. The only thing that matters was the almighty dollar, Harold had them or at least access to them, and she was going to get them.
She took a job as a sales rep at Peterson Paper and soon her sights set on Harold. He would be easy pickings. He was tall, plain, and sexually starved. He looked at her as if she was a bowl of dog food and he was a chained up junk yard dog.
The fact he was married wasn’t a consideration. After all, men left their wives all the time and usually for a younger, prettier woman. Jillian was determined to be that younger, prettier woman for Harold. Her last two stepfathers were married when her mother met them so she didn’t see the problem getting Harold away from Helen.
However, it was a problem because look was all Harold would do. It was as if he couldn’t believe she was actually flirting with him. She’d give him her best come hither look and he’d look, but fail to go thither. She thought he was slow and was about to move on to greener fields, but the thought of all that lovely money kept her plugging away.
Finally, one night she caught Harold alone in his office after his assistant had left for the day. Jillian slipped into his office, slipped off her dress and very soon, Harold was slipping into her. Even as he slid his surprisingly large penis into her well-lubricated vagina, he was moaning about how he shouldn’t be doing this and she did know he was married, didn’t she?
That was the beginning of a torrid affair and Jillian wasn’t surprised at how quickly the mea culpa’s turned into justifications then protestations of love. He loved her. He hadn’t known what love was until he met her and the usual nonsense.
Jillian echoed back what he said, but her heart was concerned with how soon he would make his break for it. She wasn’t a spring chicken. Her mother was married twice by her age.
Harold claimed to love her and spent lavishly on her, but he wouldn’t make the final break. Jillian started leaving little signs on him for Helen to find on the off chance, maybe she’d be the one to push for a divorce but no joy. Either Helen was blind or just didn’t care, but nothing, no matter how blatant would get her to confront Harold.
Finally, Jillian gave Harold an ultimatum. She knew it was a gamble, but she needed him to poop or get off the pot. If he wasn’t going to ante up, then she needed to move on. A nice 60 old banker was giving her the eye the last few times she was in the local branch. He would do in a pinch.
Harold folded like a house of cards in a windstorm. While he might not be sure about losing his wife, he was sure about losing Jillian so Helen and her kids had to go. Jillian made sure that Harold knew she wasn’t into kids.
Not that she didn’t like them. There was really no way to say that without sounding like a sociopath. Instead, she said she wanted to spend her time with Harold without any interruptions.
She made sure he knew she’d be eager to have his child when they married and she was. Alimony was iffy into today’s judicial system, but child support was guaranteed. Tonight was the culmination of all her hard work and his bitch of a wife messed it up.
Jillian growled and wished she’d pushed Harold harder for where Helen bolted. She was surprised the little hausfrau had a bolt hole or a career if you could call writing a career. She’d bet Helen sold maybe one article a year to some women’s magazine called that her career and that justified her spending Harold’s money on her little hideaway.
Jillian would be putting a stop to that as soon as possible. She bet Helen came running back home if that loft’s rent were no longer being paid. In fact, she’d mention it if Harold hadn’t already thought about it.
Jillian walked to the side of the bed and grabbed the bottle of champagne. She should put this up for when she and Harold had something to celebrate, but she needed a little pick me up now. She’d get Harold to replace it.
She popped the cork expertly and poured herself a flute from the tray sitting next to the bed. The chocolate covered strawberries were starting to sweat and the Brie was a little drippier than needed. She sighed and dug in. It would all have to be replaced anyway so she might as well enjoy it.
By the second glass, she was getting mellow and by the third, she was starting to see the humor in this. There was no way this woman would leave her kids forever and the fact she pulled this would only help in the final divorce settlement. She’d be willing to promise almost anything to get her precious rug rats back and Harold would be able to get away with only minimal child support.
Nevertheless, she had to give the woman credit for throwing a spike in her wheels and on her fourth glass of champagne that emptied the bottle she lifted her glass to the missing Helen and toasted her silently. Well played, lady, well played, indeed. Jillian guzzled the last glass of champagne and fell back in a drunken, sated stupor that soon turned to sleep.
Chapter Six: Helen
I woke up late and stretched, a little disoriented, and then suddenly it all came flooding back. Harold, his sidepiece, the twins, the loft, and I was back. The ringing cell phone reminded me of what woke me up. I picked it up and smiled when I saw Harold’s number.
Right on time, I thought gleefully as I let the call roll over to voice mail. When it immediately rang again, I turned it off and got up. I walked into my utilitarian bathroom, used the toilet, and washed up.
Mentally, I made notes of what I needed to do to turn this into an actual living space. The task was daunting but without all that running back and forth with the twins, my schedule really opened up and I’d have all the time I needed.
I picked out an outfit from the clothes hanging from an exposed pipe I used as a clothes rod. Today felt like a red day, I thought as I picked out some red yoga pants, a red T-shirt, and a red button down shirt to throw over everything. I looked like a demon, which fit my mood exactly. I was going to make Harold's life hell or as much of a hell as I could without affecting the twins.
I walked to the kitchen area after slipping on some red socks and red tennis shoes and found the cupboard was bare. The loft had never been a place to live for me, but rather a big office for me to get the business of writing done. I could do a rough draft in a wind tunnel if I had to but the fine tuning needed peace and quiet, a commodity not to found in a house housing two pre-teens.
The futon was a hand me down. An artist friend of mine had decided to go to Spain in the manner of Gauguin and left it behind. I had taken it because I had a big empty loft to fill and it was free. Anyone in the art world learned that free was gold and even a healthy bank account didn’t break the habit.
I managed to find a tea bag and a cup to put it in but breakfast was out of the question. The lone carton of yogurt looked a bit sketchy and I thought it might have made a break for it when I opened the door. Therefore, groceries were a definite item on today’s to do list.
I took my cup of tea, wishing it were the strong cup of coffee my body was screaming for and went into the living room. I tucked away the linens and returned the futon to its couch incarnation. I grabbed my suitcase and went to the area I was using as a closet. I popped open the suitcase to unpack. I would need it if I needed to make a run by the house to pick up more clothes.
I smiled when my clothes popped out like those spring snakes from a joke can of peanut brittle. I wasn’t the best packer in the best of times and last night hadn’t been the best of times. I pulled out my clothes and shook my head.
What had I been thinking I wondered, as I looked at a pair of plaid yoga pants, a sequined top, and a pair of maternity jeans. This wasn’t packing, this was a cry for help. I expected those people from one of those makeover shows to pop out any second ready to take my badly dressed self in hand. I piled the rejects to the side and hung up the few sensible pieces that had actually made the trip.
I looked at my sparse wardrobe and sighed I would need to make a run by the house soon. I had some clothes I left in the loft, but they were either my high fashion, artsy stuff or my comfortable writing clothes. I had no sensible middle of the road stuff. That stuff was currently gracing the walk-in closet at my former home, now known as Casa Asshole.
I grabbed a garbage bag and stuffed the rejects into it. The maternity jeans were the first in. I couldn’t even believe I still had them. My pregnancy was not a happy memory nor would it be repeated so I thought I got rid of all that crap when I got home from the hospital with the twins. They must have been hiding and somehow in m
y rage last night I had unearthed them. They could go and join their brothers and sisters at the goodwill.
My mother in law, Gwendolyn, had bought my maternity clothes as well as planned my baby shower and set up the nursery. Harold’s major contribution to the coming of the twins after his initial DNA was to hand his mother a credit card and wait on me hand and foot after the nurse left for the day.
Harold tentatively suggested getting an evening nurse, but one look at my basilisk glare and he shut his mouth. It had all been his idea in the first place so it was only fair he suffer along with me. Even if his suffering merely required him to run around like a chicken with its head cut off while I screamed demands like Cruella DeVille on crack.
I was not a good patient and I’m sure if the doctor had had any idea how I intended to torture Harold he would have moved my bed rest to the hospital. Ah well, you want to play, you have to pay.
I think Harold lost as many pounds as I gained during my pregnancy running around playing personal slave and all around whipping boy for me. His already thin frame looked positively skeletal by the time the twins arrived.
After shoving that gold sequin top, another fashion don’t from Harold's mother into the garbage back, I got up to grab a pad of paper. That is one thing I would miss from my marriage to Harold, the never-ending supply of paper. That was like offering a crack head a never-ending supply of crack, when I met Harold and discovered his father owned a paper company. I refuse to say it’s the reason I accepted his proposal, but I would say it didn’t hurt.
I quickly made a shopping list for my trip to Wal-mart. It was too late in the day to try to go to the house. I’d make my run during the day when Harold was at work and the kids were at school. Even if Harold jumped bad and changed the lock, Mrs. Gunderson would let me in.
I didn’t expect he had, he was still probably reeling from last night. One thing about growing up in a family of free spirits, you learned to think on your feet. Harold’s middle class upbringing had raised him to expect it to all work out… somehow. I wondered how that was working out for him now.