The Adulterer’s Wife
Leigh Russell
Copyright © 2018 Leigh Russell
The right of Leigh Russell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
To Michael, Jo, Phill, Phil, Rian and Kezia
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
1
Clearing away the breakfast plates, I noticed my husband’s mobile lying on the worktop. It wasn’t like him to leave his phone at home but he had been in a rush that morning, dropping Dan at school on his way to the station. There was plenty of time to finish clearing up before I had to leave, but I hurried nevertheless. Having recently started work as a part-time receptionist at our local medical centre, I was keen to make a good initial impression. It had taken me a while to summon up the courage to apply for paid employment.
Seventeen years earlier our son had been born with cerebral palsy, and I hadn’t returned to work when my maternity leave expired. Only a few weeks ago I had finally given in to my husband's insistence that Dan was perfectly capable of looking after himself, and I had found a part-time job, three mornings a week. We didn’t need the money, but Paul said it would be good for me to get out. I knew he was right, but it was a challenge. I was out of the habit of going to work.
I was planning to leave a message at Paul's office to let him know his phone was safe, so he wouldn't worry about it, but before I had finished stacking the dishwasher, Paul's phone beeped, and the opening of a message flashed up on the screen. To say what I read there startled me would be an understatement. It was impossible to ignore the message, so I picked up the phone and keyed in what I thought was his passcode, but he must have changed it because my birthday didn’t work, and nor did our son’s. Down to my last chance to access the phone before it locked me out and determined to read the message in full if I could, I made one last attempt to open it. It was risky because, if I failed, Paul would realise I had tried to unlock the phone. Crossing my fingers, I tried his birthday, and succeeded.
Even though there was no one at home to see what I was doing, I went into the bathroom and bolted the door before opening the message. Invading my husband's privacy might have been indefensible, but my frisson of guilt was quickly dispelled by disbelief. What I read made me reel. For a few seconds the bathroom seemed to spin out of control. Feeling dizzy and nauseous, I sat down on the toilet. Holding onto the edge of the sink, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before opening the message again. I hadn’t misread it.
‘See you tonight, sexy?’ the message began.
Paul had a regular arrangement to play squash with a colleague on Tuesday evenings, and he had taken his sports bag with him that morning. Pecking me on the cheek as he left the house, he had reminded me that he would be home late. It had all seemed so normal. I’ve never been a jealous wife who becomes suspicious when her husband makes his own independent arrangements with friends. On the contrary, I was pleased he had a regular weekly squash game. But what followed didn't give the impression that Paul was planning to play squash that evening.
‘Can’t wait,’ the message continued, before saying the writer would be ‘wearing lacy black undies.’ It was signed ‘Bella’, followed by a row of kisses and a smiley face.
If this was a joke from my husband’s squash partner, he had a very odd sense of humour. It was possible that this really was two men fooling around, but I had to be sure. Paul would never find out that I was reading private messages on his phone, but even so my hands shook scrolling through previous messages from that number, each one more disturbing than the one before.
‘Can't stop thinking about you.’
‘Can't wait for Tuesday.’
‘I’m naked.’
‘Have you got a hard on?’
And there was more along those lines. A lot more. Some of the messages were merely suggestive, others were explicit. The ones sent by my husband were the most graphic. His correspondent was called Bella, but he addressed her as ‘Sex Bomb’. Even more upsetting than their reciprocal flattery was her complaint that he was ‘stringing her along’. In response, he urged her to be patient. Patient? What the hell did that mean? Reading on, I realised there was a theme running through the messages. Paul had agreed to leave his family to go and live with this other woman.
Most of the messages were confirming arrangements to meet, invariably on Tuesday evenings when his ‘Sex Bomb’ enjoyed regular encounters with her ‘Sexy Beast’. It was hard to square that with a husband who was usually snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. Our lovemaking had all but fizzled out after Dan was born. It wasn't that I was no longer attracted to Paul, I was just too exhausted after taking Dan for his therapy, and coping with the stress of protecting him, and doing everything possible to ensure his development was normal. Our sex life had dwindled to one quick shag a week, on a Friday night, the midpoint between the times he was screwing his ‘Sex Bomb’, Bella. Wondering whether he had been thinking about her when making love to me, I felt like throwing up. Stunned, I read on.
In one of her messages, Bella mentioned that they had been together for two years. The implications of that made me howl with rage. I hurled his phone across the bathroom. Paul had been seeing another woman behind my back for two years, and in all that time I had never once suspected he was cheating on me. To learn the truth in such an underhand way was like a physical pain in my guts. Wracking my brains, I searched my memory for any hints that he was unfaithful but all I could recall was that he had been excited about his squash games. Looking back, perhaps I should have suspected something, but I had just thought he enjoyed playing squash. He must have been laughing at me behind my back.
What hurt even more than the fact that he was seeing another woman was discovering he had been lying to me for so long, about something so serious. Even if he stopped seeing her, I would never be able to trust him again. After nearl
y twenty years, he had wantonly destroyed the marriage we had built together throughout almost my entire adult life. Only a complete idiot could fail to see the truth that was staring me in the face. Resisting the urge to call Paul straight away to tell him exactly what I thought of him and his despicable secret, I picked up the phone and switched it off. Whatever I decided to do, our son was on the point of taking exams. Until he finished, his interests had to come first. My husband’s adultery wasn’t going to ruin Dan’s life as well mine.
While I was deliberating, I heard the front door slam. It was too early for Dan to be home. Wiping my eyes, I patted my short blond hair and went downstairs to the hall where Paul was hanging up his jacket. Clearly flustered, he turned and stared at me with a slightly wild expression which only enhanced his classic good looks. Just one year older than me, he generally appeared younger than forty-three, but today his face was taut with anxiety. His normally tidy dark hair was unkempt, as though he had been running his hands through it as he did when he was stressed.
‘You’re home early. What's up? You look terrible.’
‘I’ve lost my phone!’ he cried out. ‘Have you seen it?’
Slipping the phone into my pocket, I shook my head.
‘Shall I call it?’
I pretended to hit the speed dial number several times while Paul walked through every room listening out for it, unaware that I was calling an unallocated number. After that we spent a fruitless hour searching the house, until finally Paul sat down in the kitchen and dropped his head in his hands.
‘I’m sure it’ll turn up,’ I said. ‘Where did you last have it?’
He shook his head.
‘Don't look so worried,’ I went on. ‘It’s only a phone. You can replace it.’
‘That’s not the point. There was an important number stored on it that I won’t be able to access anywhere else.’
‘Surely you can get hold of it again?’
‘No, I can’t. You don’t understand.’
I understood only too well.
‘There’s no need to panic. It’ll be stored on the cloud,’ I said. ‘You can retrieve all your numbers from there if you have to.’
Still frowning, he stood up abruptly. ‘You're right. I need to get this sorted out. There’s an important meeting later, and I’m expecting a call.’
I nodded but didn’t say anything. I knew all about his ‘important meeting’.
Without another word, he strode out of the room and a moment later I heard the front door slam again . Through the front window, I watched his car pull out of the drive. As soon as he had gone, I took his phone out of my pocket and looked up Bella’s number. I couldn’t send her a message and risk Paul seeing it when he had his phone restored, so instead I scrabbled around for a pen and copied the number down on a scrap of paper. Then I took the phone out to the garage where Paul kept his tools and found a hammer. Having removed the SIM card, I put the phone on the floor, crouched down and swung the hammer. It took me a couple of blows to smash the screen which shattered with a satisfying crack. After that I set to work on the back of the phone. That proved more difficult to damage, but I managed to dent it.
Having demolished the handset, I googled “How to destroy a SIM card” and discovered that, without access to a shredder, the best way of destroying it was to use some sort of acid, or else risk damaging the microwave, neither of which suggestion was very helpful. Finally, I came across a practicable solution which was to cut the card along the centre line to disable the silicon chip, and then soak it in salt water to corrode the metal contacts. After doing that, the advice was to cut it into small pieces and dispose of them in various locations. It all seemed a bit excessive, but I decided to follow the recommendations.
Using my large kitchen scissors, I chopped the SIM card into four tiny pieces which I boiled in salty water. Satisfied that the metal contracts were ruined, I poured the hot water through a tea strainer, wrapped the fragments of card in kitchen roll, and stored them in my purse. Having dealt with the SIM card, I turned my attention to the handset. After wrapping that in kitchen roll as well, I stuffed it into an empty tissue box which I sealed in a plastic bag. With the packaged phone further concealed in an otherwise empty cereal box, I took it out to the bins which were due for collection early the next morning.
As soon as I went back in the house, I panicked that Paul might come home and check through the bins in case his phone had accidentally been thrown away. If he found the phone with a cracked screen and missing its SIM card, he would realise it had been thrown away deliberately. Grabbing the rubbish bag, I carted it back inside and rummaged through it, frantically hunting for the cereal box. Paul might return and find me searching in the rubbish. While I could safely explain that I was hunting for his missing phone, it was possible he might spot me finding my mysterious-looking packet.
Even though the cereal box was hardly difficult to find, it felt as though my heart skipped a beat when my fingers closed on it. Grabbing the box, I retrieved the plastic bag containing the phone, and threw the rest of the rubbish out once more. I would have to dispose of the phone away from the house, but that could wait. Paul might be back at any moment. Meanwhile, I needed to hide his phone temporarily, somewhere he couldn’t possibly come across it by chance. This was turning out to be far more complicated than I had anticipated. It would have been so much simpler to tell Paul I had found the phone and hope he wouldn’t notice the most recent message had been opened.
If disposing of the phone was proving unexpectedly difficult, it was going to be straightforward throwing Paul out of the house. In fact, I was growing impatient having to wait to toss all his clothes out of an upstairs window, preferably when it was raining. But first, Dan had to finish his exams. In the meantime, I needed to carry on as though everything was normal. That was going to be the most difficult challenge of all.
2
Paul didn’t like to eat in front of the television claiming that, on some days, supper was the only quality time he spent with Dan. We kept our dining room neat and formal rather than homely, because our kitchen was just about large enough to accommodate a small table pushed up against the wall, and three chairs, and we all preferred to eat there, only using the dining room on special occasions, or for guests.
‘How did it go?’ I enquired, as brightly as I could, when we were all seated with our food in front of us.
‘The new phone’s still downloading. It’s taking hours-’ Paul began.
He broke off, realising that Dan was speaking at the same time, also in response to my question.
‘Useless,’ Dan said and paused, glaring at Paul in sullen silence.
‘Until it's working, I won't know what’s there.’
‘Dad lost his phone and had to get a new one,’ I explained.
‘Of course, that's much more important than my exams,’ Dan snapped. ‘Only the rest of my life depends on how I do.’
‘You know you’ve done fine,’ Paul assured him.
‘Same old, same old,’ Dan muttered, staring at his plate.
Paul and I had done our best to reassure Dan. I reiterated yet again how impressed we were with how well he was doing at school. His teachers had predicted he would easily pass all his GCSE exams with grades good enough to secure him a place at sixth form college.
‘Predictions,’ he hissed. ‘That’s not the same as results. You think it’s so easy.’
‘Nothing in life is easy,’ I said quietly, avoiding Paul’s eye. ‘We understand you’re under pressure. It would be strange if you didn't feel anxious. It’s only natural. But you can only do your best, and if you mess up on the day, you can always retake.’
‘So, you think I’m going to mess up and I’ll have to retake them all?’
‘No, of course not. You know perfectly well that's not what I meant.’
We got through dinner, but it was heavy going.
Paul wasn't the only one who had friendships outside the family, although mine wer
e no secret. I had arranged to meet a couple of girlfriends that evening and set off as though nothing was wrong, despite my inner turmoil. Paul wasn’t going to take my social life away from me as well as my marriage. There was no need for me to mention my painful discovery to my friends. My husband’s affair was no one else’s business. The situation was not of my making, so I had nothing to be ashamed of, yet somehow it felt like a guilty secret. Walking towards the station, I wondered whether it was wise to hide my problems from my friends. Admittedly I shouldn’t have read Paul’s private messages, but the first one of those had been displayed on the screen. The messages I had deliberately opened were merely an extension of what had already been revealed without any prompting from me. But gossip spread quickly, and I didn’t want Dan to hear a whisper of what was happening. He had enough to worry about right then. Once Dan’s exams were over, I wouldn’t hesitate to throw his father out. My friends could hear all about it then.
The weather was mild, but it was drizzling as I scurried along the street. As I walked, I glanced around, pulling the collar of my raincoat up around my neck. Although the street was empty, I hesitated to drop Paul’s phone in someone else’s bin in case I was spotted. I wasn’t sure whether information and contacts could be stored on the handset, so even though I had trashed the SIM card, I had to be careful about where to dump the phone itself. Leaving it hidden inside my bag, I kept walking. If I dropped it down a drain, it might block a pipe and be recovered. Similarly, if it were left in a bin, someone could come across it. If there was any way its owner could be traced, Paul might be alerted. There was no reason why he might suspect I was in any way implicated in the disposal of the phone, but if it were discovered with the SIM card removed, it might arouse suspicion.
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