Exposed: An Anthology

by Brooke Cumberland

  “What have you got on today?” She asks, following me through the building until I reach my office.

  “I have a walk through at one and an open house at three. I’ve also got to get onto preparing some leaflets and brochures for the Marsden residence auction. Those have to be sent to the printers today to ensure they’re ready. I’ll get Bridget onto that. Oh, and I also have to make a few phone calls to book an inspection with the tenants of two two eight River Crescent,” I say as I flip through my appointment book.

  “Okay, well I’m out of the office today, so I’ll be on my mobile,” she smiles breezily as she struts out of my office and into her own.

  I set about organizing the photos and information that we’ll need to make up into brochures and then get printed.

  “Eden, there’s a delivery of flowers for you,” Bridget says as she walks into my office carrying a beautiful bouquet of red roses mixed with baby’s breath.

  “Oh, thank you,” I say, slightly shocked. I can’t imagine who they’re from.

  I spy a small white paper envelope, so I open it and read the message:

  B,

  You’re all I ever want. You’re my every star in the sky. My every dream come true.

  P x

  I slide the card back into the envelope and call out to Bridget.

  “Uh, who told you those flowers were for me?”

  “Nobody did. I saw them sitting on my desk and assumed they were for you. It is your birthday, after all,” she explains.

  “They’re for you,” I smile, handing her the bouquet. “I’m sorry, I read the card.”

  “Oh,” she gasps. The swiftly takes the card out of the envelope and, I swear, she melts on the spot. “Phillip,” she whispers to herself.

  “They’re a gorgeous bunch of flowers,” I tell her.

  “Yeah. I’d better go call him to say thanks,” she says dreamily.

  “Okay,” I chuckle.

  A part of my heart pangs, wishing it was Matt who sent me the flowers. You would think I’d know better by now.

  “I’m off for my one o’clock, Bridget.”

  “Sure,” she mumbles, still dreamy.

  I shake my head and make my way out to my car. I love my car. She’s a sporty, navy colored, Toyota RAV4, with dark tinted windows. I’ve had her for two years now and I bought her brand spanking new. I take a detour for drive-thru Oporto’s for lunch (it is my birthday, after all) and then make my way to my appointment.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bateman, I am Eden Cross from Prestige Real Estate. It’s lovely to meet you both,” I smile warmly and shake their hands in turn. I have spoken to Mr. Mark Bateman over the phone twice, but this is the first time we’ve met.

  “And you, Ms. Cross. We’re quite interested in this property,” Mr. Bateman replies.

  “Well, let’s get started.” I move my hand aside so they can precede me into the house. I spend about forty minutes showing them through the three bedroom, two bathroom house. They seem even more interested to put an offer forward by the time we leave.

  I head back to the office and collect the papers I’ll need for the open house this afternoon and then head out to the property. Around twenty people arrive to view the house and I hand out small leaflets with information about the property itself, the upcoming auction for its sale and Prestige Real Estate. I can tell that five of the inspectors are very interested in the property.

  I drag myself back to the office at half past five and unload the leftover leaflets onto my desk. Bridget has already left; her work day finishes at five, so I shut down my computer and head for home.

  I’m halfway home when I take the detour that will change everything. I decide to call over to Matt’s and see if he’s home. I know he said he was working late, but I’m hoping his plans changed and we can go out to dinner and celebrate my birthday. If he’s not home, I’ll stop by the liquor store and grab a bottle of wine and celebrate by myself.

  I park the car across the street from Matt’s townhouse and then walk down the path about fifty meters so I can cross the road safely. Matt lives in a beautiful Victorian era townhouse. When he bought it two years ago, the previous owners had been very keen gardeners and kept the front yard in immaculate, manicured condition. I convinced Matt to hire a gardener to keep it in its pristine condition. He did, and the yard looks even better today than when he brought it, if that’s possible. Walking up the paved pathway to the huge chestnut wooden door, my brow knits together in confusion.

  His door is ajar. Never, in the entire time I have known him, has Matt left a door ajar. He tells me frequently that we live in Sydney and you cannot be too careful. “People will slit your throat to rob you of a dollar these days.” I always scoff and tell him to stop being so dramatic, but even so, I always lock my doors.

  The first thought that runs through my head is that his house has been broken into. I stand at the door and concentrate on listening as hard as I can. I can’t hear anything that sounds like a sound a burglar would make. There’s no crashing of pans, smashing of photo frames. Not that I know what sounds a burglar makes, but I did watch Home Alone a time or two when I was a kid!

  I hear no sounds at all, so I decide it’s safe to enter. I push the door open and walk as quietly as I can on my tip toes (to stop my heels clicking on the wooden floors) the four steps it takes until the hallway opens out to the left into the open plan kitchen/dining/living room. My eyes scan the room and then stop on the couch. I am frozen to the spot. My legs are like lead weights that I can’t lift. I think I’m in shock. I want to blink to clear my eye sight, just in case I’m seeing things. But I know I’m not. I see a naked Matt kneeling on the floor. A woman’s long, slender legs are coming off the couch and are thrown over his shoulders. I see his tongue in profile as it snakes out and licks the woman’s core. She tightens her legs and then moans. Suddenly, Matt rears up and impales his length into her, thrusting hard. It all happens in about twenty seconds, but it feels like twenty hours. Finally my legs come unstuck and I race out of the house. I don’t know whether I made a noise with my shoes. I don’t know whether I slammed the door shut or left it wide open. I don’t know anything. I bolt across the road, not caring that it is peak hour and I should be using the crossing down a bit. I jump in my car and speed off toward my house. My heart is thundering in my chest and the lump in my throat is making it hard to breathe.

  I arrive home and on shaking legs, I make my way up the path and into my duplex. My hands are shaking so badly, I drop my keys three times before I can insert them into the lock and make my way inside. I shut the door, lean up against it and slide down until my ass hits tiled floor. My mind is whirling. So many questions are swirling around and the images. Oh god, the images.

  How long has he been cheating on me?

  Is she the only one? Is there more than one?

  He never, not once, gave me an orgasm. He never once gave me oral sex – he said performing that act on a woman was filthy.

  What am I going to do?

  What am I going to do?

  Then the tears come. Huge drops raining from my eyes, tumble down my cheeks. I hang my head between my bent knees and let my tears splash onto the floor as I sob quietly.

  Should I confront him?

  Will I forgive him?

  Should we stay together?

  Does he still want me?

  Do I still want him?

  Can I get past this?

  Do I love him enough to forgive him and try to make it work?

  Does he even want to make it work?

  Do I want to make it work?

  The questions continue to run through my mind, but I know one thing deep in my heart. I can’t forgive him. It doesn’t matter if it was one time or a hundred. I can’t move past this.

  My mother put up with my father’s infidelities throughout their entire marriage. It wore her down and she developed deep self-esteem issues from his cheating. Don’t get me wrong, my father was the best dad. He was also a loving
and caring husband to my mother. He was just shitty at being faithful. That’s why she stuck with him – because everything else was great and the only down side was his faithfulness, or lack there of as the case may be. I remember a conversation I had with my mother, about a week before they passed away. We were sitting on the back deck at their house (the same house I grew up in) drinking coffee and eating fresh cinnamon scrolls from the bakery down the street. They were still warm. My mother looked sad. Dejected. Lost. My father hadn’t come home last night. He still wasn’t home, and it was nine a.m.

  “Mum, are you ok?” I ask, watching as tears fill her eyes. She doesn’t let them fall though.

  “I’ll be fine, sweetie,” she says in a small voice.

  “Why do you put up with it, Mum? If I had a man and he cheated on me…” I shake my head and let my words trail off.

  “I know it’s hard for you to understand, Eden, but I promised your father ‘for better and for worse’. You can’t expect a marriage to last if you’re prepared to only take the better. My whole life with you and your father has been the ‘better’. His … indiscretions are the only ‘worse’. So to continue having the better, I have to deal with the worse.”

  “I understand that, mum. But I think somewhere in your vows you also promised to ‘forsake all others’. Did dad leave that part out when he declared his love to you in front of Pastor Nicholson and the congregation?” I ask heatedly. I love my father but I hate when he hurts my mother.

  “Hello, my girls.” I spin around in my chair and see my father striding through the sliding doors. He leans in and kisses my cheek before making his way to my mum. He lays a passionate kiss on her mouth and I turn away - I definitely don’t need or want to see my parents making out.

  “Hi dad,” I answer.

  “Hi, honey,” my mother whispers.

  “What are you two doing out here? Oh, are one of those for me?” he asks picking up a cinnamon scroll.

  “Go for it,” I say, gesturing toward the delicious baked goods.

  I wait for my mother to call him out on where he’s been. I hoped my speech about their vows would hit a nerve. But she doesn’t say a word. She just acts completely normal and unaffected in front of him.

  I knew from that moment on that I couldn’t tolerate an unfaithful partner, no matter the ‘better’. I’ve always viewed cheating as a cowardly act. If you feel the need to cheat then you, at the very least, owe your partner the respect of telling them where your feelings lie before you commit an act of adultery.

  My tears ease and I know deep in my bones, the answers to my questions.

  I cannot forgive.

  I cannot forget.

  I cannot get past this.

  I don’t want to be with him any longer, regardless if it was one time or a hundred, with the same woman or with many.

  Should I confront him? I don’t know. I’ve never been a big fan of confrontation. I don’t like it and I go to great lengths to avoid it.

  My phone rings and vibrates in my pocket, bringing me from my thoughts. I lift it up, hoping it’s not an after-hours work related call, or worse, Matt. My shoulders sag in relief. It’s my best friend, Jules.

  “Hi,” my voice is thick from crying so I cough to clear it.

  “Happy Birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to yoooooou,” sings down the line.

  A small smile touches my lips. “Thank you,” I say as tears well in my eyes again.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” She gentles her voice, concern clear in her tone and I just know she’s frowning.

  “I wish you were here,” I manage on a quiet sob. Jules is in Bali on a work trip. She’s due home in two days, but she’s been gone a week already. Jules has been a part of my family for the twenty years we’ve been friends, but three years ago when I lost my parents, she became my only family.

  “Oh, honey, I know. Don’t cry. I wish I were there too. I’ll be home in a couple of days and we’ll celebrate then, ok.”

  “Matt cheated on me.” I blurt out to her.

  “What?” She gasps.

  “I caught him. He was … Oh, god, he was in between her legs and then he … I’m going to be sick.” I cover my mouth and jump up off the floor, racing down the hall and into my bathroom where I empty the contents of my stomach into the bowl. Wiping my mouth, I bring the receiver back to my ear and mutter sheepishly, “Sorry.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” she jokes.

  “I can’t believe it, Edie. Did you have it out with the bastard? You should have ripped him off her and kneed him in the balls,” she seethes.

  “No, I just ran out. It all happened in slow motion. I only watched for half a minute maximum but it was enough. It was more than enough.”

  “He was eating her out?” She asks, sounding confused.

  “I know,” I whisper. “He always told me that was filthy. Maybe he just meant me, that I was filthy down there,” I whisper even quieter.

  “No! Don’t you dare. This is all on him. He’s the stupid prick that couldn’t keep it in his pants. He’s a pansy anyways, honey. He never finished you off, always in it for himself. He never cared about anyone but himself. Don’t you take this on. You hear me?” Jules never did like Matt very much. She thought he was slimy and slippery – her words. I’m not sure what she meant exactly but I think she meant untrustworthy and dishonest. How right was she? I think sardonically.

  I nod, then remembering she can’t see me, I say, “Yes.”

  “What am I going to do?” I wail. “I just want to go away for a while. You know?”

  “Why don’t you? There’s nothing stopping you. Take your annual leave – I know you haven’t taken a holiday in the seven years you’ve worked at Prestige, so ring Dawn and take some time. Go somewhere, clear your head and see what you come up with. If you wait until I get home, I’ll come with. If you have to go tomorrow, then I’ll take leave when I get home and I’ll go to you, wherever you end up, if you want me to. Okay?” she soothes.

  “Okay.” I acquiesce.

  “Ring Dawn now. Tell her you need some personal time – you’re not sure how long you’ll need but you’ll keep her informed.”

  “What if she says no?”

  “She won’t. She knows how long you’ve been with her for. She also knows how valuable you are to her company. Further, she knows that you have not taken leave for seven years and you’ve only had, what, a handful of sick days in those seven years? And you were genuinely ill, not pulling her leg. She won’t say no. Trust me.”

  “Okay,” I say sounding firmer. Resolute. I want this. I need this. I want to get away.

  We talk for a while longer and then I end the call to phone Dawn. As Jules predicted, Dawn is totally fine with me taking unexpected leave for an undetermined amount of time. She assures me her daughter can fill my position indefinitely. She also ensures that Bridget will take care of the financials first thing in the morning.

  I breathe in deep and then let it go slowly.

  I spend the night packing. I don’t concentrate on what I am packing. I also don’t question what it is that I am packing and why I am packing certain items. I just pack. In one box I pack photographs and important papers. It takes three large suitcases to contain the clothes I want to take with me. Plus, I have two smaller ones. The first of which contains my toiletries and the other has my hairdryer, my straightener, my laptop, chargers for my iPod, phone, computer and anything else I deemed essential.

  Once everything is boxed and taped or bagged and zipped, I load up my RAV. Then I emptied my fridge and the small freezer attached to the top. I chuck away anything that needs tossing (which, considering tomorrow is usually grocery day, is not a lot). I place everything else in a bag so I can take it to Gladys in the morning before I leave. Gladys lives in the duplex next to me. She brought hers when she was widowed five years ago because she felt she needed to downsize seeing as it was only her now. She’s seventy if she’s a day and the dearest senior citizen I know.

/>   ***

  I knock (loudly) on the door of the duplex next to mine. Then I shake the pain from my hand before ringing the doorbell. Gladys is “deaf in one ear and can’t hear out of the other” (her words) hence the loud knocking and doorbell ringing.

  “Oh, hello Edie dear,” she opens the door smiling.

  “Hi Gladys, how are you?” I say talking a few octaves louder than what some would consider socially acceptable, especially at this time of the morning.

  “I’m good, dear. Is everything alright? You’re up and about early.”

  “Everything is fine,” I lie, “I’ve got to go out of town unexpectedly and I had some food I didn’t want to spoil while I was gone. I thought you could put it to use. There are some frozen dinners, milk, cheese, yoghurt, a tub of ice cream…” I rattle of some of the items while glancing in the shopping bags.

  “That’s kind of you. The price of groceries these days,” she scowls at nothing then continues, “You don’t get much for your pension nowadays. Back in my day, my mother would give me twenty pence and I could buy a meat pie with gravy and peas, and still have enough change to get a milkshake. Not these days,” she sighs, shaking her head.

  “I know,” I nod in agreement, because I did know. Gladys never missed an opportunity to tell us “young folk” (again, her words) about life in the “good, old days” (still, her words). “I have to get going, Gladys. I was hoping to be on the road a half hour ago, so I’ll leave these with you.” I hand her the bags which she takes, after unlocking her security screen.

  “Thanks, dear. Any idea how long you’ll be gone for?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a few weeks.”

  “You take care of yourself then. I’ll keep an eye on your side of the fence.”

  At her caring words, I feel a twist in my guts. I’ll miss Gladys. Before I can think, I wrap my arms around her and give a hug. She smells of soap and old lady. Comfort. She’s taken aback by my sudden show of affection, however it only takes a second for her to return the gesture.