Do u like me Hamo? a Skype instant message asked.
His mind whirled.
Like is an understatement, he typed.
LOL, she replied. Show me u.
What the hell was he going to do?
He clicked on his photos folder and scanned through family photos, work photos, a passport-sized headshot.
I wanna c u, she wrote.
Okay. He typed back. Hold on.
He needed a photo that would make him look youthful, while also being acceptable for work colleagues using Skype. A tall bloody order, he thought.
He flicked through the shots taken at last year’s Christmas party, the cruise on the Yarra. Lots of group shots, mostly blurry. But there was one short-range shot of Hamish with his arm around Nick Bridge. He didn’t like Nick—a young, self-righteous upstart—but he’d managed to suspend his enmity for the Christmas party. And so they’d ended up holding their beers like microphones, bellowing out Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’, both of them completely hammered. The photo was taken late in the evening; Nick was wearing a blue Bonds singlet and a goofy reindeer cap complete with antlers, his unruly surfer’s hair poking out at crazy angles. Hamish stood a full head taller than him, his blond hair cropped close to his head, a tight white t-shirt stretched across an even summer tan.
The photo made Hamish look thirtyish, he guessed.
He clicked the ‘account’ tab in Skype, then ‘update profile photo’. Selecting the image on his hard drive, he waited for it to upload.
The delay was excruciating.
And then her instant message arrived.
U r not cute.
U r hot.
He began to smile.
Nice hat, Rudolf.
Hamish blinked. Oh, fuck. She thinks I’m Nick Bridge.
He heard the ping of another instant message.
Hotties website 2 slow . . . I like Skype better anyway.
Wanna get to know u.
What r u wearing?
The question caught him by surprise. He couldn’t possibly tell her the truth: threadbare navy trousers and an old grey t-shirt.
Boardies, he typed.
He waited for her to reply.
When she didn’t, he lifted his fingers to the keyboard.
What are you wearing Lisel? Feeling a little self-conscious, he scanned her previous messages, then backtracked in his. Abbreviating the words exactly as she did.
What r u wearing Lisel?
He hit the return button and waited.
He clicked on her profile photo, zeroing in on the crotch of her bikini. Man, her thighs were smooth, like Snow fucking White.
My silk robe.
Ice blue with pink cherry blossoms.
Makes me feel like a Japanese princess.
Bet u r a princess, he replied.
Im opening up my robe now.
Hamish swallowed, following the words on the screen.
Undoing the tie.
Letting the robe drop.
Its on the floor now.
In my G-string n nothing else.
Hamish leaned forward.
What colour? he typed.
Black.
Smooth as silk.
U could rub ur dick against it.
Wld feel so nice 4 me.
Hamish exhaled.
I’m rubbing my dick against it, he typed. Boardies on the floor. My cock is hard Lisel.
Hamish stood up from the bench and unbuttoned his trousers, shaking them to his ankles. His dick was standing to full attention, and he began to move his hand up and down its shaft.
Several minutes passed without another message, long enough to suggest that Lisel was touching herself. This only revved Hamish up even more: to have that pretty package of pussy tweaking herself over him.
And then, a message.
Ohhh . . . that feels so good Hamo.
Rub my clit harder with ur cock.
U r making me so wet.
It had been a long time since a woman had said anything like that to him.
When he made love to Paula, she rarely talked about how her body felt or gave him any direction.
But this chick, Lisel, she knew what she wanted. It wouldn’t take more than two minutes before he’d blow, for sure. His cock felt like reinforced steel.
Now I want u inside me.
Put it in Hamo.
It was difficult to type with his left hand.
I’m putting it in.
Your cunt is so hot, he added, then decided to delete it. Some women didn’t like the c-word. Paula was one of them.
He shut his eyes against the fleeting image of his wife. When he opened them again, Lisel’s message flashed at him.
Ur cock has filled my cunt right up.
Lisel clearly didn’t object to it.
I want it faster Hamo.
Faster n harder.
Oooh my cunt is . . .
U r gonna make me cum Hamo.
Her words set him off; he could feel himself spiralling towards orgasm. His hand moved faster and faster.
O God Hamo ur cock is so good. My cunt is wet.
He gasped aloud, his frenzied hand tugging like a piston.
I’m cuming Hamo I’m cuming.
He arched his back and exploded, hissing with ecstasy.
Then he fell forward across the laminex table, catching his load in a tea-towel.
He could hear the ping-pinging of more instant messages, but he didn’t move.
When he finally stood up again, he looked at the computer screen.
OMG Hamo.
Biggest orgasm I eva had.
No kidding.
U r amazing.
U still there?
He smiled.
Yes.
Was it good 4 u 2? she asked.
The load I dropped would stop traffic.
She replied with a smiley-face emoticon.
He wiped his dick with a handful of tissues, then placed them in a small plastic bag. Better to throw the evidence into the backyard bin straightaway.
He pulled up his trousers.
Now what? her next message asked.
He hadn’t thought about anything beyond the happy cock feeling.
Can we meet again like this? she asked.
He smiled with relief.
Of course.
Guess u have other girls on Hotties tho? she asked.
No, u r my first.
They all say that, she typed.
He wondered how many men she’d had on Hotties. With a face and body like that, he probably didn’t want to know.
How about u? he asked, hoping it seemed casual.
A few, she replied. But after a fuck like that, Im all urs if u want me.
His face flushed.
Good, he typed, feeling like a warrior.
How old r u Hamo?
The question smashed him back down to earth. He closed his eyes, thinking hard. How old was Nick Bridge? Thirty at most.
28, he replied.
A safe number, he supposed. If Lisel was in her early twenties, it wasn’t too old. If she was closer to thirty, they’d be equal enough.
How old r u? he asked.
Sweet 17.
His mouth fell open.
‘Oh fuck,’ he whispered, running his fingers through his hair.
11 yrs apart is not 2 much, she typed, with another smiley emoticon.
Try twenty-three years, he thought.
I just want u 4 e-sex, she added.
But no webcam ok coz mum won’t let me lock my bedroom door . . . ROFL.
He had no idea what the acronym meant.
And her mother was lurking nearby?
He paced around the caravan, trying to think.
He’d just told a seventeen-year-old girl that he was twenty-eight.
Jesus, he thought suddenly. She’ll see I’m older if we ever use a webcam . . . Thank God she’s not allowed.
Another instant message sprang onto his screen.
<
br /> Let’s just have fun Hamo. Age doesnt count.
Hamo . . .
. . . Hamo?
He sat there vacillating.
She’s right, he thought finally. This is not a courtship. We’re not having a relationship. We’re not even having real sex. We’re doing it virtually, getting ourselves off. No strings, no consequences. Doesn’t matter how old she is, as long as she’s over the age of consent.
Ok. He typed. Sleep tight.
She replied with a lascivious-looking emoticon, its little tongue dipping in and out of its squiggly mouth. It could have meant I’m thirsty, or even Euw, that’s gross. But Lisel made sure he knew exactly what she meant.
Next time I want you to lick me out Hamo.
He read the words several times over, noticing his cock shift in response. How could she arouse him again so soon after orgasm? It hadn’t happened since his twenties.
He closed the browser and shut down his laptop.
Work would have to wait tonight.
He locked the caravan door and crept back across the yard, down the side path and into the house.
All was in darkness: no sign of Paula. He pattered to their bedroom like a cat burglar and found her motionless on the bed. Stripping down to his boxers, he climbed between the sheets, careful not to disturb her. The silhouette that he’d been lying next to for seventeen years. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, suddenly shamed by the realisation: their marriage was as old as Lisel.
Looking again at the lump that was Paula, Hamish felt the guilt growing. It wasn’t the first time he’d wanted other women; he’d wanked over the idea again and again. Picturing his cute gym instructor, the hot mother of one of Catie’s school friends, a secretary at work. But he’d never done anything to betray Paula’s trust; he’d never, ever touched.
And I haven’t this time, either, he thought suddenly.
Have I? Hamish remembered Doggo’s words in the pub: it’s not like it’s cheating or anything.
There was nothing real about what he’d done with Lisel, Hamish reasoned. It was simply a modern-day form of masturbation. When he was young, he’d used porn mags. Nowadays, there was the internet. No care, no responsibility. Just a pretty little profile picture and words across a screen.
There could be nothing really wrong with that, could there?
I’m going crazy in here.
Hamish squinted against the fluorescent hospital lighting; the bedside clock confirmed that he was still trapped, yet again, in 20 Oct.
He tried to stretch out his left leg a little.
Fuckety fuck.
The pain pummelled the left side of his body. Little orange sparks shot out from behind his eyelids. His fingers reached for the call button, but clawed instead at the blanket.
Oh shit, I’m going to puke.
Warm bile gushed into his mouth and down his chin. Some of it ran back down his throat, making him gag. The coughing made it worse; he tried to sit up, but couldn’t.
And then he saw her: Paula, perched on a chair next to his bed.
She waved the console at him. ‘I’ve called the nurse.’
‘Thanks.’ He coughed again, unable to shift the burning acid in his throat. ‘Water . . .’ He looked at the tray table with the glass on it, then at Paula.
‘Let’s wait for the nurse,’ she said, pressing the call bell again.
‘Give me the water, Paula.’
A grey-haired nurse bustled into the room.
‘Sorry for the delay, we’re run off our feet,’ she said cheerily. ‘Oh dear, having a little cough, are we?’
She began pumping at a foot pedal beneath the bed, then adjusted the gradient of the mattress. Once Hamish was propped forward, the bile ran back down his throat. He sucked in the air through the oxygen prongs still planted in his nose. She offered him some water, then wiped his mouth and chin with a paper towel.
‘We can take these out for a while,’ said the nurse, plucking out the prongs. ‘So you can talk to your better half.’ She turned to Paula. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? You’ve been waiting a while for Sleeping Beauty to wake up.’
Paula pointed to a plastic cup on the floor. ‘I had one earlier, thanks.’
‘Alright, then. Let me know if you need anything else.’
The nurse pulled the blue curtain behind her despite the fact there was no one in the bed opposite.
‘Hi.’ Hamish smiled at Paula, glad for some human company. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘It’s almost four o’clock. I got here at twelve-thirty, but I’ve been catching up on emails. The morphine’s knocked you around, I guess. The doctor came while I was here, which was good timing.’
In her lap, he noticed, was his iPhone.
‘What did he say?’
‘That you were lucky to escape a head injury. You’ve fractured your kneecap in three places, he’ll operate on Monday when the swelling’s gone down a bit. He’ll have to wire the patella back together.’
‘Surgery?’
Hamish had never been under the knife before.
‘They’ll keep you in hospital on antibiotics for a few days afterwards. You won’t be able to bend your knee for six weeks, until the bone fragments grow back together. You’ll need to wear a splint too.’
‘Oh.’ He closed his eyes, daunted by the prospect. In an operational role like his, working from home just wasn’t an option. But neither was hobbling around the office like a cripple.
‘I called Gary,’ she added, as if reading his mind. ‘He wants you to focus on getting better. He’s putting Nick Bridge in your role for now.’ Paula’s voice sounded odd, strained somehow. Probably anticipating how he’d feel about Nick-the-Dick Bridge. That sleazy little brownnoser, he’d lick the CEO’s balls if he could. Now, care of Hamish’s accident, Nick-the-Dick’s career dream had just come true.
‘Well.’ Paula stood up from the chair and slipped his telephone back into her handbag. ‘I’d better get home and start on the tuna pie.’ Just the mention of it turned Hamish’s stomach; it wasn’t one of his dinner favourites. Paula’s patchy success in the kitchen, despite her many recipe books and several cooking courses, had become the target of family taunts.
‘Paula,’ he said, motioning to her handbag. ‘Can I have my phone please?’
‘What for?’
What do you bloody think?
They locked eyes.
‘I don’t think you’ll be needing it,’ she said, her voice low and calm.
‘Look, Paula, I know you want me to rest, but I—’
‘I’ve been messaging Lisel.’
He froze, registering her words.
The room upended itself; windows, curtains and bed linen spinning in a vortex. Everything whirling and turning, all except Paula, who stood erect in front of him. A tranquil face with merciless eyes, like a Valkyrie poised to escort him to his fate.
‘She was really concerned about you.’
No air in his lungs.
‘So I told her not to worry. I told her your wife and children would look after you.’
She lowered her face in front of his.
He felt his bladder emptying into his catheter.
‘At first I didn’t know which was worse,’ she said. ‘A middle-aged wannabe pretending he’s twenty-eight to seduce a seventeen-year-old—or a teenage girl, barely older than Caitlin, behaving like a prize whore.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘After I told Lisel how old you really are, I asked her what her parents think of what she’s been up to. Funnily enough, she didn’t answer.’
Paula stood up and stalked to the door, then wheeled around again. ‘Of course, the biggest fool in all of this is me. For believing in us.’ Tears began to trickle down her face. ‘Almost a year of deceit.’
Not every day, he thought, silenced by her twisted face. Not even every week. Once a fortnight, tops. It was never a relationship.
‘Paula, it wasn’t—’ He couldn’t get the words out quickly enough.
�
�Lisel could be our daughter, Hamish.’ She spun around and thrust the blue curtain aside.
‘Paula . . .’
She didn’t look back.
Hamish’s eyes followed the thin gossamer web floating in the corner of the ceiling. Everything else was sterile, but somehow that spider had escaped the reach of the hospital’s cleaners. He’d been watching the web drift since Monday afternoon, when he’d woken up groggy and aching after the surgery.
It was now Thursday and Paula hadn’t returned. Not since her revelation that she knew about Lisel, and had even made contact with her.
After three days of enforced contemplation, Hamish now felt he had a better understanding of Paula’s surprise and, to some extent, her anger. But damn it, he’d also found himself thinking, had she ever tried to understand his needs? Or recognised the devastating impact of the sexual rationing she’d been meting out for years?
Hamish closed his eyes, engulfed by a wave of loneliness.
There was no point trying to justify it.
In his mind, Lisel had been a defensible way of managing sexual boredom in a monogamous relationship. But Paula clearly didn’t agree, and the five days in hospital since her visit now felt like five years.
The kids had called by on Monday night after the surgery. He’d held Caitlin’s hand and tried to smile at Lachie, but he’d been so furry-mouthed with painkillers he couldn’t even speak.
Since then, his only regular visitor was a morose-faced orthopaedic surgeon who’d told Hamish that a post-operative wound infection had set in.
‘We’ll need to keep you in hospital longer,’ he’d explained, ‘maybe another four or five days. But once the incision’s healed properly, we’ll put you in a splint, get you some physiotherapy and discharge you. With a walking stick, I’m afraid. I’m sure you can’t wait to get home.’ The doctor was trying to sound jovial, but his facial expression didn’t convince.
I’ll be lucky if Paula lets me in the front door, Hamish thought.
Without his mobile phone, Hamish couldn’t call anyone. He cursed his dependency on technology—having an electronic address book meant he hadn’t memorised anyone’s number. Except Paula’s, of course, but that was redundant—she simply refused to pick up. He could only remember the first five digits of Doggo’s, the first four of his older brother’s. He wondered whether Paula had contacted his mother, who’d retired to Mallacoota ten years back. He hoped not, on some level: he didn’t want his mother hearing about his misdemeanours from his wife. His father had passed away three years earlier, so he’d never know about any of it, thankfully. His dad had adored Paula, loving her like the daughter he’d never had. Look after her, son, he’d always said, a good woman is hard to find.
Wife on the Run Page 6