The Secret Lives of Emma: Unmasked

by Walker, Natasha

  ‘What did you lie about?’

  Emma paused. There would be no return from here.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything. And by the time I realised what you meant to me it was too late. There was no going back.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m not the person you think I am.’

  ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘Someone better than this.’

  For a moment it seemed as though her words had given David some relief. He looked up at her hopefully. She realised she hadn’t been clear enough.

  ‘Before I found out about you and Sally, I thought I could do this. Be the wife. Live in this house. Have a baby. I was convinced I could change and be this new person. And I probably could have been. But I’ll never know. I can’t go back to not knowing what I know. You fucked my friend. You made her your mistress, which makes this new life I was trying to live look like an ugly version of the life I had been leading quite happily before we met. If you want to fuck Sally, fuck Sally, but don’t expect me to play my role. I want to have fun too. And I can’t have fun being the good wife.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re telling me, Em. I’m listening. I am. But …’

  ‘Which is, and always will be, the problem.’

  ‘Emma, I will stop seeing Sally. We can work this out.’

  ‘If you knew me you wouldn’t need to stop seeing Sally.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you to have what you want. I want to help you get what you want but to do that you have to be my partner. We have to have no secrets.’

  ‘You’ve lost me again.’

  ‘You have a lover. A mistress. How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Like a grub.’

  ‘Bullshit. How does it make you feel to have two beautiful women loving you?’

  David would never have an answer to this question, not while he failed to understand Emma.

  ‘I think you feel pretty good. I think you wonder why you waited so long to do it. I think you feel as though you’re finally alive. I think you feel like the most potent man on the planet. And I think you feel sexier than you’ve ever felt.’

  David couldn’t look at her.

  ‘That’s how you should be feeling. If you’re not, you’re not doing it right, or for the right reasons.’

  Emma waited for David to say something. Minutes ticked by. She wondered if his mind had fused. She had to speak,

  ‘How did it feel the first time? The first illicit kiss? The first illicit touch? When you knew you could have her? When you had her in your arms? When your cock first entered her, knowing you were breaking your promises to me? How did you feel? Were they the most erotic moments of your life? Were they?’

  ‘Emma, don’t do this. I fucked up. I don’t want to lose you. Tell me what I have to do.’

  ‘You have to forgive me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I haven’t been true to you.’

  The visible impact of these words was slight. He did not flinch as he had before, but she saw that their meaning was burrowing into his mind. Over a few silent seconds she saw David’s body become rigid. His jaw clenched. His brow darkened. Over those seconds he had forgiven himself for his transgression. It was forgotten.

  She had betrayed him first. Fear and remorse were replaced by anger.

  ‘Who?’ asked David, in a barely audible whisper.

  Emma, too, had changed in the time it took for David to respond. She was remembering Paul’s warning spoken some time ago: ‘Never tell him. Know him. He will never know himself. Therefore, he can’t be trusted.’ She had known instinctively from the beginning that David was not a man she could be honest with. What had changed? Did she really think that because he had transgressed he would be more understanding?

  ‘I was going to tell you everything. But I see you’re not ready to be my partner.’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘I know you will. But by then I will be long gone. What will it matter? You can have the knowledge but it won’t do you any good.’

  Emma stood up. Her strength had returned in full. She walked down the stairs, passing him. He didn’t make any move to stop her. Halfway down the hall she paused and looked around. She wondered if this would be the last time she’d be in the house. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which she’d be happy living as she had once lived.

  Was she leaving for good? What about all of her stuff? Her clothes, her furniture, her computer? All of it was tainted. None of it seemed like hers. She dropped her beach bag on the floor. She would leave as she came. Free and empty-handed. Except for one thing. She stepped into David’s study and opened the right-hand desk drawer and took out her passport.

  Then she walked out the front door and kept on walking.

  SIX

  Otranto, Italy

  The bar Emma chose was in the old town but away from the port. She had spied the place on her walk back to her pensione from her employer’s shop. Every time she passed by Il Castello, the same two old men were seated on the street at the table that the bar owner had pushed up hard against the wall. The street was narrow and there was no pavement and while they sipped their drinks the occasional car would roll past their feet. Neither man seemed disturbed by the dangerous proximity of the wheels. Both seemed more than happy to risk death or disfigurement for the chance to sit in the fleeting afternoon sun.

  Emma only discovered that these men were incessant talkers after she too had become a habitué of the bar, because when she’d first passed them on her walk home she’d found them silent and staring. Neither man said a word or removed his eyes from her until she had walked out of view. Day after day the hungry eyes followed her and day after day Emma looked beyond them into the dark regions of the bar.

  If they had been younger she might never have taken that route home again, such was the intensity of their gaze and the narrowness of the street, but the antiquity of these old men made their stares comical, their threat shrivelled. As it was, Emma was looking for a place to sit and thought she might risk it as no one was ever seated inside the bar. She had tried on a number of occasions to have a quiet coffee in the cafés overlooking the picturesque port but within a couple of minutes her peace would be intruded upon by some male, whether young or old, attractive or repulsive, wanting to sit with her, to chat with her, to proposition her. She hoped to find sanctuary within Il Castello.

  Having made up her mind to enter, Emma returned the stares of the men. In the eyes of each there flickered that irrepressible male optimism that shakes off reasonable doubts on the strength of a half caught glance, an accidental touch, a request for directions. As Emma approached she saw their backs straighten. A hand was passed over the hair. A smile rose out of its bed of wrinkles. A mouth opened to speak just as she altered her trajectory and entered the sanctuary of the bar, leaving the men to their afternoon sun – and their delusions.

  And for a few weeks, Il Castello was a sanctuary, the first she had found since leaving Paul in Rome. Seated at the back of the bar with a coffee, then later a glass of wine, she was able to write in peace. She still had no idea what she was writing. It was a collection of scenes, some interlinked, others rising from nowhere, blossoming and dying within a thousand words. But it felt good to write. Nothing else could stop her mind from gnawing on the edges of itself.

  And she was left alone. No one molested her. The owner of the bar had tried to strike up a conversation on the first two occasions but Emma had been able to convince him to leave her in peace. She had been warned not to travel alone in southern Italy but always by those who lived in the north. Contrary to expectation she had found the further south she had travelled the more respectful the men had become. This was one of the reasons she had stayed so long in Otranto. Here she was treated disrespectfully only a few times a day, which for Italy was pretty good.

  Another reason she stayed was that she’d
found a job. She was paid to talk in English to a woman in her fifties. The woman, Silvia, had never married but had lived in the United States for a few years two decades before. Though reserved about her time away from Otranto, Emma had been able to piece together Sylvia’s story from details she let slip. She had fallen in love with an American tourist. He had begged her to come to the States and, after much pleading, she had. But Silvia had not liked America and pined for home. When she left him, she’d half expected him to follow. He never did. Recently he had accepted her friend request on Facebook. Silvia took this as a sign that he still loved her and so, to prepare for his return she had placed an advertisement on the Internet for someone to converse with her in English, which Emma had answered. For three hours a day Emma sat in Silvia’s dress shop and in between the comings and goings of customers they talked in English about this and that; Emma correcting Sylvia’s mistakes as they went. Sometimes Emma was asked to lend a hand in the shop, which she was happy to do, though her Italian was terrible. She was even asked to model some of the dresses. It was easy work, and Silvia, though dull, was a nice woman who paid in cash and asked no questions.

  The rest of the day was her own. Her mornings were spent reading, her afternoons were spent writing. And at night she would lie for hours on her bed in her small room waiting for sleep.

  After leaving David at the foot of the stairs that day, Emma had walked across Mosman to Sally’s place.

  ‘I need to borrow some money and some clothes,’ she had said when Sally answered her impatient knock.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You’re fucking my husband. I think a few dollars, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt isn’t too much to ask.’

  ‘Emma!’

  ‘I don’t want you to speak. I want you to help me out. I’ve left him. I’m going away and I have nothing except this.’ She held up the passport she was clutching.

  ‘Stop, Emma. Please. Think about what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m done thinking. I’m going to live my way. Can I have the stuff or do I have to start stealing clothes from your neighbour’s clothesline?’

  Then Emma had caught a few buses across Sydney to Paul’s flat in Bondi.

  He wasn’t home. She had no phone so she waited on his doorstep. Hours went by. Emma didn’t mind. It gave her time to think. She asked herself if she could have done things differently. She ran through the night at the beach house when she had forced Sally to watch her with David. She ran through the last few weeks, remembering how David was, how much attention he had paid her, how loving he was, how lustful. He had been so happy.

  Then Paul arrived home with a woman. They had been at the beach and were still in their swimmers. The woman had a sarong wrapped around her hips, sandy feet, sunglasses, smiles.

  ‘I’ve left him.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would take a week.’

  ‘What do you want to do now?’

  ‘Shall I go?’ asked the woman, pulling out an iPhone from the beach bag slung over her shoulder.

  There was the slightest of pauses. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ said Paul. ‘We were going in to have a drink, Em. Will you join us?’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Emma asked the woman.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Paul unlocked the door to his flat. Emma watched as the woman entered and then Paul stood aside to let Emma through. She stopped and whispered in his ear, ‘We need to leave Sydney tomorrow. Can you arrange it?’

  ‘Why don’t we leave tonight?’

  ‘We’re busy tonight.’

  Emma entered the flat and Paul followed, closing the door behind him.

  SEVEN

  She had left Sydney with Paul the next day and they had flown to London via Singapore and then on to Rome. They had behaved like teenagers on the trip.

  They had got drunk. She needed to be drunk.

  They had fucked in the cramped toilet. She needed to be fucked.

  They had refused to sleep. She needed to stay awake.

  They were a nuisance and were reprimanded by the flight attendants. She needed to be reprimanded.

  When they arrived at their hotel in Rome they were both exhausted. Emma slept for twenty hours straight.

  When she woke the enormity of what she had done finally descended upon her. The hotel room was empty. There was no Paul. She could hear Rome through the closed windows.

  The night spent with Paul and his friend in Bondi had been long. They had started by drinking cocktails. Too many cocktails. Then she had slept with both of them. She had let a stranger touch her. She had done all that she could do. She had sucked, licked and fucked until she could feel nothing at all and then she had sucked, licked and fucked some more. The woman had said her name was Robyn, but later Paul had called her Gale. She was gorgeous and sexy. But Emma wasn’t able to lose herself as she had done so many times before. She had hoped that by behaving badly after leaving David she would be able to draw a definite line between her past and her future. Yet no line was drawn. There was no future in Paul or the woman. She could not escape her past so easily. It was a foolish thing to do. She could still smell the woman in her hair. Pleasurable but foolish. No amount of debauchery would wipe away the memory of David.

  And now she was in Rome.

  And she had nothing but Paul and the clothes she had borrowed from Sally. She did have money in an account in Sydney but she had left home without her bag and wallet. It would take days, maybe weeks, to work something out.

  For now she was dependant entirely on Paul’s goodwill.

  She rolled out of bed and staggered across the marble floor to the window and looked out. There was no view. At least the room was well heated. She crawled off to find the bath.

  Emma was sitting naked on the edge of the bed when Paul entered the room. He was carrying a shopping bag.

  ‘Don’t get excited. I wouldn’t presume to pick out a wardrobe for you. I made a note of the size of the jeans you borrowed, and your underwear, and bought clothes like them. Just so you had something to wear today. Oh, and I bought a coat, too. It’s freezing out there.’

  Emma motioned for him to come to her.

  He put the bag down, took off his jacket and did as he was told.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. But I had to do something; I sent the clothes you were wearing to be cleaned.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘But now I’m sorry I bought you clothes. I like you naked.’

  Paul knelt down. Emma thought about refusing him but couldn’t. She was feeling so strange. Emotional. Tired. Slow. Full of yearning. As soon as he’d entered the room she had wanted him to come to her. She wanted him to wipe her away as a child wipes away tears.

  When he placed his hands on her knees and spread them slowly, she shuddered.

  ‘You can’t leave this room if you’re naked.’

  He pushed her onto her back.

  ‘I can do whatever I want to do to you. You’re miles from home. Penniless. Undressed. Entirely defenceless.’

  He lowered his mouth onto her.

  Emma closed her eyes.

  His kissed her lightly, brushing his lips against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, teasing and taunting her with his proximity. He reached up and cupped her left breast, then trailed his fingertips around her nipple. Each touch thrilled her.

  All their recent encounters had been rushed or manic. He had fucked her with little or no fore-play. She had forgotten he could be tender. She allowed herself to sink into the bed. She shut off her head and tried to concentrate on one thing, what his tongue was doing.

  He was gentle. He kissed her lips with an open mouth, his tongue entering her then running up between her lips to her clit. Again and again. Emma moaned. There would be no resistance or games. What he was doing was delicious, she would enjoy him.

  Paul brought both hands down and he gripped her bottom and lifted her slightly. His tongue dipped in deeper, his mouth was all over her.<
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  Emma’s was imagining him on her. She had jumped ahead and was opening her legs wider as he fucked her. She could even feel his weight and his heated kisses.

  But Paul was still on his knees. His tongue was flicking her clit. And his fingers were in her. He was seeking a spot he knew Emma liked. She moaned generously when he found it. His tongue flicked her, his fingers massaged her and she lifted her hips rhythmically. She was fucking him in her imaginings now – sitting on the cock she had known all her adult life. Grinding.

  Paul felt her hand in his hair. She pushed him down. He started to fuck her with his fingers. His tongue flicked more quickly. Her body was trembling. She started to suck in air, she was writhing, her thighs crushed him, her hand took a clump of his hair in a fist and then she bucked.

  ‘Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!’

  She held him to her roughly. Her thighs held him captive. She rammed her pussy against his face and came. It was huge. It lingered. It was intense. And then her body could handle no more and she pushed him away and lay shivering and shaking in the long reprise.

  Paul undressed and climbed quietly onto the bed. He lay beside her. He knew what he done, he could see the ripples running across her skin. He pressed his body to her side. He was hard. Emma made no sign that she recognised what he was doing. He lifted her right leg and draped it over his hip.

  Emma eyes were closed, she hadn’t moved. Then she felt his cock enter her and there escaped a long low moan from her lips. His cock was thick, not long. It filled her. She knew it and loved it. She knew what he could do with it. And after her orgasm she wanted him to use it. She wanted to be fucked, properly fucked, again and again. She’d stay in that room forever if he promised never to stop.

  But Paul was her lover. He was not her man. He could never be her man.