‘What are you still doing here, Samantha?’
She jumped. ‘Stewart! You startled me.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to.’ He considered her. ‘You’re usually out of here in such a hurry. Don’t you have kids to collect?’
She breathed out heavily. ‘They’re spending the weekend with their father.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘At a bit of a loose end?’
‘No,’ she lied. ‘This is the good part. No kids to run around after. It’ll be like being a single woman again.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, let me take you for a drink.’
God, she’d walked right into that one, and she didn’t quite know how to get herself back out.
‘Come on,’ he persisted. ‘What are you going to do? Sit in an empty house all weekend waiting for them to get home?’
That was the plan.
‘You haven’t been to the Carlton since they’ve done it up, have you?’
She shook her head grudgingly. Maybe she should go. What harm could there be in having an innocent drink?
That was almost the last coherent thought Sam could remember having. Until about ten minutes ago, when she had emerged out of some kind of fog to find Stewart on top of her, his body heaving against hers, the smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes and sweat almost suffocating her as he rammed himself inside her. She’d wanted to scream, push him off. But instead she froze. She was frightened, terrified in fact. If she struggled she didn’t know what he might do. She didn’t know what he had done to get her this far. So she stayed completely still, let him think she was still passed out. It would be over soon and she could get away. He must be nearly finished. Sam bit her lip, holding back tears. She’d never slept with anyone but Jeff in her whole life. How could this have happened? Suddenly Stewart had arched, grunted, and then collapsed over onto his back on the bed beside her. He hadn’t made a noise now for a while, hadn’t budged. But Sam wanted to make absolutely certain he was asleep before she dared to move a muscle. She couldn’t risk waking him up. So she lay there, half naked, barely breathing, trembling inside.
Finally Stewart broke into a snore and Sam mustered up the courage to move. Her heart was racing as she slithered off the bed noiselessly. She crawled around on the floor, gathering up her clothes, then crept out to the living room. She dressed quickly before tiptoeing to the front door, carrying her shoes. She opened it silently and closed it behind her with an unavoidable click.
Sam was shaking as she hurried down the stairs of the apartment block, trying to recall if she even knew where Stewart lived. She slipped on her shoes and walked out through the security door. It was a nondescript street, lined on either side with amorphous apartment blocks. She headed up the road towards an intersection. A small blue signpost under a streetlight pointed to North Strathfield railway station. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was only a short walk and, as Sam had hoped, there was a taxi waiting at the entrance to the station. She hurried over and climbed into the back seat, her heart pounding almost painfully against her ribs. But it wasn’t until the taxi pulled away from the kerb that Sam felt she had escaped.
‘Where to, lady?’
‘Um,’ Sam hesitated. She didn’t want to go home alone, not now. She bit her lip as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. ‘Enmore, thanks.’
Sam pulled out her mobile and dialled Max’s number. Oh, please be there. Relief washed over her when she heard her sister’s voice.
‘Max, it’s me.’
‘It’s the middle of the night, Sherl. Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way to your place,’ she said tearfully. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Sam, what is it, what’s wrong?’ Max urged. ‘You sound weird, are you alright?’
‘I . . .’ Sam swallowed. ‘I’ll be there soon.’
She hung up the phone and dropped it into her handbag. She tried to remember what had happened. They’d gone to the Carlton Hotel and Stewart had bought her a glass of wine. And then another almost straight after. They’d moved to a booth, with a bottle of wine as she recalled. But Stewart only drank spirits, she was pretty sure. Had the bottle of wine been all for her?
She’d talked and talked and talked while he kept filling her glass. She told him everything, she remembered now. She found his hand on her knee comforting. She recalled getting weepy. She looked at him through an alcohol haze and remembered thinking, ‘He does look a little like Harrison Ford’.
Oh God.
A vivid image suddenly pierced through the fog in her brain. She was sitting in Stewart’s car in the passenger seat. ‘You can sleep it off at my place, babe.’ She remembered the smell of leather upholstery, his hand groping under her shirt, his tongue down her throat. She thought she was going to be sick. She caught sight of her reflection in the window. Who the hell are you, Samantha Holmes? What the hell have you done?
There’s that woman whose husband left her. She gets drunk on Friday nights and she’s anyone’s.
Max had moved to Enmore to be closer to the uni, into a tiny place that was barely big enough for all her junk. But she insisted her days of house-sharing were over and she couldn’t afford anything bigger on her own. Sam directed the driver to the small block of flats, paid him and got out of the cab. She was starting to feel frail as she climbed up the stairs. Max must have heard her on the landing, because she opened the door before Sam had a chance to knock. Her face was creased with worry.
‘My God, what happened, Sam? You look terrible.’
That was it, Sam couldn’t hold on any longer. She collapsed into her sister’s arms and started to sob violently. Max held her tight, drawing her inside and closing the door.
‘Sherl,’ she said insistently, ‘you’re scaring me. Tell me you’re alright.’
Sam took a deep, tremulous breath, and looked up at her. ‘It’s just . . . I . . . Oh God, Max, I slept with Stewart . . .’
‘Sleazy Stew?’ Max exclaimed.
Sam nodded, her face streaked with tears. ‘I don’t know how it happened. I was so drunk,’ she wailed.
Max held Sam’s head against her shoulder, stroking her hair. ‘You’re safe now, it’s over.’ She waited until Sam had calmed a little. ‘How did it happen?’
Sam looked up at her. ‘I don’t know, that’s the thing. We went out for a drink, and next thing I was in his bed, he was on top of me . . .’ Sam started to shake, ‘Oh God, what have I done, Max?’
Max held her hands to steady them. ‘You’re in shock. Come and lie down,’ she said, walking her into the bedroom. Sam curled up on the bed and Max wrapped the covers snugly around her.
‘Here,’ said Max, reaching for a small bottle on the bedside table. ‘Have some of my Rescue Remedy.’
‘What is it?’ Sam frowned.
‘It’s a homoeopathic mixture,’ Max explained. She unscrewed the lid and drew out a glass dropper. ‘Lift your tongue.’
‘Why?’ Sam said dubiously.
‘Because you’re supposed to hold it under the tongue and just let it absorb.’
‘What does it do?’
‘It’s good for shock, it’ll help you calm down.’ She could see the doubt in Sam’s eyes. ‘Come on, it can’t hurt.’
Sam opened her mouth obediently and let Max squeeze a few drops under her tongue. The taste was inoffensive enough. She sighed deeply and snuggled into the covers, closing her eyes, but all she could see was the image of Stewart bearing down on her. She opened her eyes again, startled.
‘Just let go, Sam,’ soothed Max. ‘Get some rest. You’ll feel better after you’ve slept.’
‘But when I close my eyes I keep seeing him,’ Sam said tearfully.
Max lay down behind her, on top of the covers. She wrapped her arms around her and spoke quietly, close to her ear. ‘Think about the beach at Taloumbi, Sherl. Can you see it?’
Sam nodded.
‘Now close your eyes. Look at the two of us running along after Pop. It’s warm, the sun is low in the sky.
And Pop’s taken hold of your hand, remember how big his hand was? We’re heading home for dinner . . .’
Sam could see it all in her mind’s eye. The beach and the ocean, the sand dunes, Nan and Pop’s house. Soon the sound of the waves crashing on the shore drowned out Max’s voice, and she was asleep.
Saturday morning
‘Sam?’
She blinked a couple of times. The room was gloomy, but she could see daylight through a chink in the curtains. She looked up to see Max sitting on a chair beside the bed, holding a mug of tea.
‘Hi,’ Sam murmured sleepily.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, staring intently down at her.
Then Sam remembered what she was doing here. She felt an ache well up in her chest. ‘What am I going to do, Max?’
‘You’re going to have a nice hot shower. And then I’m taking you to the doctor’s.’
Sam frowned up at her. ‘Why?’
Max sighed. ‘Sam, you don’t know whether Stewart used anything last night. You’re going to have to take the morning-after pill.’
‘What?’
‘The morning-after pill. Haven’t you heard of it before?’
‘Sure,’ Sam nodded, sitting up. Her head was throbbing. ‘Do I have to, really? I’ve heard it makes you sick.’
‘Better that than the alternative, Sherl,’ said Max. ‘Here, I made you a cuppa.’
Sam took it from her, the ache in her chest welling up into her throat. ‘God, Max, what have I done?’
‘Sherl,’ Max said seriously. ‘You couldn’t remember much last night. Do you have any idea what happened?’
She stared into her cup. ‘He asked me to come for a drink after work. I was hanging around, feeling at a bit of a loose end. I didn’t want to go home to an empty house.’
‘You should have told me, Sam. I could have changed my plans.’
‘I didn’t realise it was going to bother me that much.’
‘So, what happened then?’
‘It’s all a bit of a blur. I remember being in his car, he was groping at me, slobbering all over me,’ Sam shuddered. ‘He said I could sleep it off at his place, but I don’t exactly remember going inside. Next thing I knew he was on top of me . . . God, how could I do that, Max?’
‘Sam! You haven’t done anything. It was done to you. Stewart targeted you, he knew exactly what he was doing. They call it date rape.’
‘I think that’s overstating it. I didn’t even put up a fight . . .’
‘Sam, you couldn’t put up a fight, you were virtually unconscious!’ Max exclaimed. ‘Would you ever have slept with him willingly?’
She shook her head weakly. ‘I’m so stupid.’
‘You’re not stupid, Sherl, I won’t hear you talk like that.’ Max patted her arm. ‘Naïve maybe, but not stupid.’
‘I should have known better than to go out with Stewart in the first place. I don’t even like the man.’
Max sighed. ‘People do strange things under duress. Things against their character. You’ve had a tough few weeks. Give yourself a break.’
‘I feel like I don’t know who I am any more.’ Her voice became a whisper as tears rose in her throat. ‘Everything was one way before. I knew what to do each day, what was expected of me. Who I was.’ She paused. ‘Now it’s all gone haywire.’ Her eyes were glassy as she raised them to look squarely at Max. ‘How am I going to get through this?’
Max sat on the bed next to Sam and put her arm around Sam’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be right, Sherl. It’s all part of your journey of self-discovery,’ she said sagely.
Sam sniffed, brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘Oh don’t start your new age crap.’
‘It’s not crap, and it’s not even new age. As bad as things might get, you will find yourself through all this.’
‘I didn’t know I was lost.’
‘Don’t be trite.’
‘I’m not the one being trite.’
Max turned to face her. ‘Sam, this is an opportunity to spread your wings. Do what you want to do, be what you want to be.’
‘You’re not going to break into song are you?’ Sam looked at her dubiously. ‘Besides, aren’t you forgetting I’ve still got three kids to raise? And I’ll be doing it largely on my own from now on.’
‘You’ve been doing it largely on your own all along.’
Sam was thoughtful. ‘It feels different, though. I know Jeff wasn’t all that involved but he was there, like a silent partner or something. It gave me a sense of security, I suppose.’
‘He was your safety net,’ said Max.
There was something terribly safe in being married, Sam realised. Your position was defined. You were Mrs someone. You had a husband. You could say ‘my husband this’, ‘my husband that’. But now Sam only had an ‘ex’. And what’s more, she had become an ‘ex’ without any say in the matter. She had gone from a marriage with no life in it to a life with no marriage in it, and she wasn’t sure which was worse.
‘Come on,’ said Max. ‘We’d better get you to the doctor’s.’
Sam sighed deeply. There was no competition, this was by far the worse.
‘What are you doing today?’ Sam asked Max, pretending for a moment she was just a woman indulging in weekend brunch with her sister. Not a woman who had just been to a clinic because she had unprotected, unwanted sex with the office lech in a drunken stupor the previous evening.
Max glanced at her uncertainly. ‘Well, I have a date, but I’m going to cancel –’
‘Not on my account you’re not,’ Sam said firmly.
‘But you don’t want to go home alone . . .’
‘That was last night. I promise you I’m over that,’ she insisted. Sam was determined to put the whole mortifying experience behind her, from the sickening images of Stewart replaying in her head, to the intrusive, embarrassing questions asked by the doctor this morning. Did she look like someone who had multiple sexual partners, for godsakes?
They were sitting at an outdoor café in the sunshine. Sam had initially baulked at the idea of food, but Max ordered her scrambled eggs anyway. She had to admit, the warm food was comforting in her stomach, and she was starting to feel normal again. Almost.
‘So, who’s your date?’
‘You don’t know him, I met him the other day at an exhibition.’
‘Oh?’ Sam was justifiably suspicious about Max’s dates. ‘What exhibition?’
‘Well, he was the exhibition actually. He’s a performance artist.’ Max placed her cup in its saucer. ‘He does this kind of postmodern interpretative dance piece tracing the fall of communism across Europe, using kitchen appliances as a percussive underscore.’
Sam winced.
Max looked blankly at her. ‘What’s with the face, Sam? You look like Mum.’
‘Couldn’t you just go out with someone normal for a change?’
‘Now you sound like Mum as well.’
‘I’m just saying that if you want to settle down –’
‘Who says I want to settle down?’
‘What, you don’t want a home, a family?’
‘Sure, like that really worked out for you,’ Max said dubiously.
Sam stared at her cup.
‘Sorry,’ said Max.
She breathed out heavily. ‘Don’t worry, I know it’s true . . .’
‘But?’
‘I didn’t realise it was so bad. We were like most other couples. The wives complain about their husbands, the husbands complain about their wives. It’s what people do. You never think it’s serious. And then you hear one day that so-and-so are getting a divorce, or someone is having an affair, and you’re shocked, even though you haven’t heard them say a nice word to each other in years.’ Sam twirled a teaspoon around in her coffee.
‘Do you miss him?’ Max asked, watching her.
She shrugged. ‘It depends. Sometimes he’s so frigging smug I can’t wait to see the back of him. But then other times, he’s sensit
ive and apologetic, like he’s trying really hard to do the right thing.’ Sam thought for a moment. ‘That’s when I want to ask him why he couldn’t have put that effort in with us, instead of . . .’ She sighed. ‘But I already know the answer to that.’
‘What?’
She looked squarely at Max. ‘Whether we were happy or not, or had nothing in common any more, or whatever, is beside the point. Jeff stopped loving me. And that’s what hurts the most.’
It was one o’clock by the time Sam pulled into the garage at home. She’d caught a taxi from the café to Pennant Hills Station where her car was still parked from the day before. She was feeling okay, maybe a little seedy, but that was probably just the remnants of her hangover. The doctor said she was more likely to feel nauseous after the second lot of tablets, which she was due to take twelve hours after the first. In the meantime, she was going to get on with her chores as though it was a normal Saturday. Though on a normal Saturday she would have been in and out, ferrying the kids around, Jeff would have had the weekend newspaper spread across the family room floor . . . Sam felt a sharp stab in her chest. She didn’t even know what normal was any more.
As she walked into the kitchen, she was confronted by a pile of notes spread across the bench. There was a neatly written memo from Jeff with details of his new address and phone number. Just what she’d always wanted. Then a stack of notices from Josh’s school. Flicking through them, Sam realised they were all asking for money: upcoming excursions, levies for extra equipment, sports fees. He could have given these to his father, she thought wryly. There was a painting Ellie must have done at pre-school. It was of all three children, with a misshapen heart and the letters ‘MUMY’ scrawled across the top. And finally an urgent note from Jess insisting she phone ASAP. Sam glanced across at the answering machine. Christ, there were eleven messages! She pressed Play and Jessica’s voice filled the room.
Wife for Hire Page 6