Wife for Hire

by Dianne Blacklock

  Max squealed, lifting it off the fabric. ‘Oh shit. I should have left already. And I haven’t had a shower –’

  ‘Give me that,’ said Sam, pushing her out of the way and taking the iron. ‘Go and have your shower.’

  Max stooped to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Thanks Sherl.’

  She dashed into the bathroom, dropping her robe on the way. ‘Come in and talk to me.’

  ‘I can’t do that and iron your dress too.’

  ‘Oh, okay. When you’re finished then.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Sam said under her breath. She ironed the dress in a couple of minutes and placed it carefully onto a hanger.

  ‘Faarrghhk!’ Max screeched.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sam, appearing at the door to the bathroom.

  ‘I cut my leg shaving,’ she hissed, holding a face washer against her leg to stop the flow of blood. ‘Bugger, bugger, bum, shit, ouch.’

  ‘You know what they say, “Less haste, more speed”,’ said Sam, closing the lid of the toilet and perching herself on top.

  ‘You’re really getting that impersonation of Mum down pat,’ Max remarked snidely. ‘So, tell me about the American. Was he old, fat and bald like I said?’

  ‘No,’ Sam hesitated. ‘He’s around my age, and he’s reasonably good-looking, you know, in that stereotypically American way.’

  Max stuck her head around the shower curtain. ‘What, is he black?’

  ‘No, he’s not black!’

  ‘Well, statistically there are more blacks than whites in the States.’

  ‘There are not! You’re getting mixed up with South Africa.’

  ‘Oh, am I?’ Max turned off the taps and stepped out of the tub. Sam handed her a towel.

  ‘So what’s stereotypical American-looking?’

  ‘Oh, you know, clean-cut, a little plastic, lots of teeth.’

  ‘They do have more teeth than us, you know,’ said Max.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m sure I read it somewhere,’ she insisted, wrapping the towel around her hair and twisting it into a turban.

  ‘How could they have more teeth than us? They’re not a different species.’

  ‘Just seems like it, eh?’ Max grinned.

  Sam followed her back to the bedroom. ‘You know, that’s racist.’

  ‘It is not!’

  ‘If you said that about someone from Asia or the Middle East, it would be considered racist.’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t be racist about Americans,’ Max maintained, slipping her dress over her head. ‘They rule the world. We’re just the little insignificant ants having a whinge. It’s like you and me with Alex.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Do you want me to dry your hair?’

  ‘Nuh, it’ll be dry by the time I get there.’

  She watched Max tousle her damp hair with her fingers, then flick some mascara on her lashes and dab on lip gloss. It had taken a day at an expensive beauty spa for Sam to look presentable and Max looked stunning after barely ten minutes. It had to be the three less years, the three less children, and, well, frankly a lot more than three inches in height. But things always come in threes, Sam thought ruefully.

  ‘So what have you got to do for . . . what’s his name again?’ asked Max.

  ‘Hal.’

  ‘Hal? What is he, a Texan?’ she drawled in a very bad accent.

  ‘No, he’s the son of a Shakespearian scholar,’ said Sam bluntly.

  ‘Huh?’ Max frowned.

  ‘Don’t ask. Anyway, to answer your question, he wants me to help him become acclimatised . . .’

  ‘How are you going to do that?’

  ‘Well, for starters he wants to learn about football.’

  Max looked shocked. ‘From you?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘He can’t join in the blokey talk at the office.’

  ‘And he thinks you can teach him about football?’ Max raised an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t that a bit like Osama Bin Laden teaching feminism?’

  ‘I’m well aware of the irony,’ Sam returned. ‘I thought I’d ask Josh to come along.’

  ‘Do you think he will?’

  ‘Maybe, if I bribe him.’

  Max picked up her handbag and walked out to the living room. ‘Have you seen my keys?’

  Sam held them up. ‘They were in the door when I arrived. You’re going to get burgled, raped and murdered one day, sister of mine.’

  ‘And then won’t you miss me!’ she grinned, grabbing the keys and shoving them in her bag.

  ‘Are you going to change your handbag?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To match what you’re wearing, perhaps?’

  ‘Christ, who has the time? Swapping over all your crap whenever you change an outfit? That’s too exhausting to even contemplate.’

  Sam stood at the door, holding up the pashmina. Max grabbed it and flung it casually across her shoulders. It looked perfect.

  ‘See ya. Lock up for me, will you, Sherl?’ she called as she clattered down the stairs.

  February

  ‘Are you going to be home Tuesday while Ellie’s at pre-school?’ Jeff asked Sam when he dropped the kids off. He had hung around the doorway, waiting until they were out of earshot.

  Sam frowned. ‘I suppose so.’

  She had plenty of work to keep her busy at home these days. Sheila had passed on three more names since Sam had confirmed she’d finally established contact with Hal Buchanan. She’d bought herself an index box and cards to keep all her client records. She knew she could set up a database on the computer, but Sam liked to have a hard copy anyway. She liked neatly printing out the details, the same format for everyone. Surname, first name. Address, telephone, mobile, fax, email. God, there were so many ways to contact a person now. She also kept job cards for each client, with the date, what she had done for them, and any notes she thought relevant.

  Her work involved a lot of phone calls. Making appointments, inquiries, booking, ordering. She enjoyed the authority her position gave her, she was always calling on behalf of someone else and that made her bolder than she might normally be. She didn’t care how many questions she asked, or how many details the person on the other end had to go and check. She was also developing index cards on the best restaurants, hotels, courier services, caterers, travel agents, anyone who had been helpful and easy to deal with.

  Sam enjoyed the work, as she knew she would. She had settled into a comfortable groove. The children were back at school, and she had found a rhythm to her days again.

  ‘Do you mind if I come over?’ said Jeff tentatively. ‘There are some matters I think we need to discuss.’

  The rhythm suddenly jarred, like the needle scraping across a vinyl record. Sam felt sick. She’d been living on borrowed time and she knew it was about to catch up with her.

  ‘Tuesday,’ she said vaguely. ‘Aren’t you at work?’

  ‘I’ll take the morning off,’ he explained. ‘It’s just that we don’t get much opportunity when the kids are not around.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sam tentatively, wishing she had an excuse. But it would only delay the inevitable.

  ‘Good.’ Jeff breathed out. He seemed relieved. ‘I’ll see you then, around ten?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Tuesday

  Sam heard the knock at the front door right on ten o’clock. Jeff was nothing if not punctual.

  ‘Hi,’ she said as she opened the door, trying to sound bright, confident, assertive, even though she felt none of those things. Ever since he’d suggested this ‘talk’ she’d had the jitters. The fact was, Sam knew there was a whole lot to discuss, but she didn’t really want to deal with it yet. When they were together, she had been the one who had wanted to talk about everything, while Jeff had either not been around, or hadn’t been listening. So she had just turned into a nag, like most other wives she knew.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, standing back. It felt weird inviting him into his own house. He was dressed in a suit, as usual,
for work. Jeff always looked impeccable, though Sam had assumed that was largely due to her.

  They walked through to the kitchen and she noticed from behind that his hair was brushing his collar. He was overdue for a haircut, he usually kept it quite short. Not quite so impeccable after all.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Sam went to fill the kettle and Jeff crossed to the cupboard for the cups. They continued without speaking; she prepared the plunger, he took the milk from the fridge. It was strangely poignant.

  When the coffee was ready they sat on stools at the island bench. Jeff reached into his suit pocket and drew out an envelope, placing it down between them.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sam asked, not sure she wanted to know.

  He cleared his throat. ‘It’s an assessment from child support.’

  ‘I see.’ Sam stared at the envelope. ‘You applied for this?’

  He nodded. ‘I thought it was time we . . . settled some things.’

  They sat for a while longer, not saying anything, sipping their coffees.

  ‘Aren’t you going to look at it?’ Jeff asked eventually.

  Sam picked up the envelope. Her heart was literally in her mouth as she drew out the folded paper, opened it and read through the contents of the letter. Most of it didn’t make sense, not that it was difficult to understand, but for some reason the words didn’t gel in her mind. The numbers, on the other hand, flashed at her like a neon sign.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Sam shrugged, sighing heavily. ‘I’ll just have to work out which of the children’s activities to cut.’

  ‘Sam,’ Jeff said curtly. ‘Nothing will have to be cut. That’s a very generous amount.’

  ‘How the hell would you know?’ she cried, getting off the stool and pacing across the room. ‘Do you even know how much the mortgage is, the electricity, the rates?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said calmly.

  ‘What?’ she spun around. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since I looked into our accounts and worked it out.’

  ‘You’re checking up on me now?’ Sam shrilled. ‘Who gave you the right to start snooping around?’

  She noticed his jaw clench. ‘You’re obviously forgetting that this house is still half mine, that it’s my wage paying for everything and my name along with yours on bank accounts that I have every right in the world to access!’

  Sam stood there, breathing hard, tears rising in her throat.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘Your true colours are shining through now, aren’t they, Jeff? You’ve been all sweetness and light and understanding. But you’ve just been waiting to come in for the kill.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Samantha.’

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You don’t care about the kids. You just want to make sure you get to have the life you want, while we can all go to hell.’

  Jeff stared at her, his eyes flinty. He went to say something, but then he stopped, dropping his head and raking his fingers through his hair. When he looked up at her again he seemed calmer.

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ he said in a level voice. ‘Can’t we keep this reasonable? I’m just trying to do what’s fair.’

  ‘Fair? You want to talk about fair?’ The tears rose into her throat now, sticking there, making her voice sound strangled. ‘Being completely faithful and loyal to you for sixteen years and then getting dumped when I got too fat or too old or God knows what. Is that fair?’

  His eyes registered surprise, embarrassment, perhaps even pity. She couldn’t look at him. She turned and ran out of the kitchen to the stairs, not stopping until she got to their room. But it wasn’t ‘their’ room. It was just her room now, and it felt big and lonely and wrong.

  She fell onto the bed, sobbing. She hated this. She used to be Mrs Holmes but now she was being reduced to some kind of pathetic welfare case. Jeff would dole out the money, giving her no choices, no status, no control. He must despise her.

  Sam heard the bedroom door open quietly and close again, but she kept her head buried in the quilt. Bugger, she just realised this was the white damask cover – she’d be getting make-up all over it.

  She felt Jeff sit down on the bed, then his hand gently touching her arm. She shook it off.

  ‘Sam, please. This isn’t the way I wanted this to happen.’

  ‘Well you got everything else you fucking wanted. Sorry for spoiling your plans.’

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ he implored. ‘The hardest part about all this is that I’ve hurt you so much.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ she sobbed.

  He leaned over her, stroking the hair away from her face so he could see her.

  ‘You can’t think I’d want to hurt you, that I’d enjoy seeing you in pain?’

  Her face crumpled and she started to sob more violently. Jeff moved close in behind her, sliding his arms under and around her. He was really hugging her, his face close to hers, gently soothing her tears.

  ‘It isn’t fair.’ She twisted around to look at him. ‘You have this all the time. You’ve got somebody to hold you, and support you and comfort you.’

  Jeff stared intently down at her.

  ‘And I’ve got nobody. I have to keep it together for the kids, but I’ve got no one to hold me, or comfort me. It’s not fair,’ she finished, her voice barely making it out of her throat.

  He brought one hand up to cup her face, wiping the tears from her cheek with his thumb. Sam turned around fully so their bodies were pressed up against each other. Jeff started to breathe harder, and before she realised what he was going to do, his lips were on hers. They kissed voraciously, desperately, as though they were frightened to stop now they had started. Sam heard him moan faintly. Was he becoming aroused? She tugged tentatively at his shirt, pulling it up until she felt the skin of his back, grazing it with her fingertips. She felt goosebumps forming under her touch and he moaned softly again. It thrilled her that she was arousing him. That she still could. She wanted to see how much. She brought her hands around under him, fumbling with his belt buckle, clumsy in her impatience. She hadn’t done this for so long, especially not like this. She pulled down the zip, feeling the tremor through his body as she took hold of him. He was hard for her. For her. He couldn’t love Jodi if he was hard for her.

  He reached up under her skirt and dragged her pants out of the way. Sam could think of nothing but having him inside her. She still had hold of him as they manoeuvred their bodies into position and she guided him in. He thrust hard and she gasped, wrapping her arms tight around him. She wanted to cry, this was right, this was how things should be. They could make this work, they still loved each other. He didn’t need another woman when they could make love like this.

  Sam felt a sudden chill. She couldn’t get pregnant. That would spoil everything. ‘Jeff,’ she breathed, ‘wait . . .’

  He looked down at her, his eyes glazed.

  ‘We have to use something.’ They were lying across the bed, Sam stretched her arm up to reach for the bedside drawer. Jeff must have realised what she was doing and he lurched over, reaching the drawer easily, feeling inside until he drew out a cardboard packet. He rolled off her, wrestling with the packaging. Then Sam realised he had stopped. He was just lying there, breathing heavily. Then he sat up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered anxiously.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do it. It’s . . . not right.’ He was slumped over, holding his head in his hands. He sounded distressed. Sam touched his back gently.

  ‘Of course it’s right. We’re still married.’

  Then he turned and met her eyes directly. ‘Only on paper,’ he said quietly. He reached across her and picked up the edge of the quilt, folding it back over her. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He stood up and walked slowly to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  Sam stared after him. She must have been in shock because she couldn’t move, she could hardly even breathe. What did he
mean it was wrong? How could he believe it was wrong to make love to her when she was his wife and the mother of his children? He didn’t mind screwing his brains out with a woman he hadn’t even known a year.

  It hit Sam like a punch to the stomach. She rolled over, pulling the covers tightly around her and curling herself into a ball. Jeff had left her in every sense of the word. He felt he was being unfaithful to his mistress if he slept with his wife. He was right. She was only his wife on paper.

  The realisation filled her with pain. A lurching, sickly ache rose up from her stomach, wrenching through her chest and escaping out of her throat in an anguished sob. The sobs kept coming, they shook her whole body, as tears flowed from her eyes, soaking into the covers. She didn’t give a fuck if they were mascara-stained any more.

  The phone started to ring and for a moment she thought about ignoring it. But she hadn’t turned the machine on and the kids were at school. Something may have happened. She sniffled, wiped her face on the covers and reached for the phone.

  ‘Hello,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Samantha? Are you okay?’

  Her brain wasn’t working quickly enough to identify the voice.

  ‘It’s Hal Buchanan.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘What’s the matter? You don’t sound well.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘It’s not a good time, I’ll call you back.’

  ‘Are you alright, Samantha?’ he said seriously. ‘You’re . . . safe?’

  ‘I’m perfectly safe. I’ll call you later.’ She hung up. She lay there, gazing across the room at nothing in particular, just her life shattering into thousands of tiny pieces that, like in the nursery rhyme, could never be put back together again.

  Sam heard the bathroom door open but she didn’t look around. She was aware of the muffled tread of Jeff’s steps on the carpet as he walked around the side of the bed and into her line of vision. He crouched down so that she had to look at his face. But she looked right through him.

  ‘Sam, are you okay?’

  ‘Josh’s birthday last year,’ she said slowly, her eyes fixed, staring. ‘When you said you had to go to a conference, you were with her, weren’t you?’