The Guilty Wife

by Elle Croft

  He was talking with his hands now, voice rising, brows meeting at the bridge of his nose.

  ‘You, on the other hand, you act like you’re just an innocent girl who never meant for anyone to get hurt, but what you’re doing is deceitful and malicious. You’re not honest with your husband, you’re lying to him. You’re waiting for life to make your decisions for you rather than knowing what you want and owning that choice. If you don’t want me to judge you and your decisions, then you can’t judge me and my marriage. You’re not pure, you’re not a victim here, and I won’t be criticised. Not by you. Not when I thought we understood each other.’

  I stood, slack-jawed, not sure what to say. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, but still simmering with anger.

  ‘We’ve both got flaws. I just thought you’d accepted that.’

  My cheeks burned with the humiliation of being berated, and his angry face wobbled through the tears that suddenly stung my eyes. I wanted to scream, to defend myself, but I knew that if I opened my mouth the only thing that would come out would be a sob. He wasn’t going to see me cry.

  Saying nothing, I spun around and walked towards the door, blinking furiously to stay my tears.

  ‘Come on, Bethany,’ he called from behind me, but I was already halfway across his apartment. I expected to hear footsteps following me, but the only noise that reached my ears was my own staccato breath.

  I hauled my bag over my shoulder, shielded my pathetically watery eyes with sunglasses and stormed out of Calum’s apartment, pulling the door forcefully. But the door, obviously designed to neutralise such dramatic exits, slid silently back into its frame without so much as a click.

  The security guard barely glanced at me as he pressed the button on the wall, and we waited side by side in excruciating silence. I managed a tight smile as the light flashed, then hurried into the elevator. When I reached the ground floor I power-walked across the over-the-top lobby, head down, before exhaling into the evening air.

  Crossing the road, I stepped into Kensington Gardens, tears suddenly flowing and hiccuppy gasps escaping from the depths of my lungs. I was a mess, but at least I was an anonymous mess; just another crazy person littering the streets of London. My crying barely drew a second glance.

  I didn’t want to join the throngs of tourists and office workers who were soaking up the last moments of sunshine. I needed to be alone, to bathe in my self-pity away from such palpable joy. Wiping my nose on the back of my arm, I walked purposefully towards my favourite part of the park, a flower garden near the Albert Memorial. I could never explain why I loved the depressingly gothic structure that had been built by Queen Victoria. It was somehow meant to prove her love for her dead husband, but it looked more sinister than romantic.

  Finding an empty bench engulfed by a tangle of yellow and pink roses, I carefully turned Calum’s words over in my head. Malicious. Deceitful. Self-righteous. Each of his accusations smarted like the smack of a gavel.

  He was right. I knew he was. But that didn’t mean I was willing to hear it.

  I knew the situation I was in hadn’t just happened – affairs never just happen – but it felt like one day I was happily married, innocently getting on with my life, and the next I was in love with another man. How had I let myself get into this mess?

  Since I’d assumed the role of Mistress, I’d been refusing to face the decisions I inevitably needed to make. I’d ignored my conscience as it tugged like an impatient child, begging for attention while I declined to acknowledge its existence.

  Life wasn’t going to just make this decision for me, as much as I wished it would.

  I knew the right thing to do. Of course I did. I should end things with Calum, confess to Jason, beg for his forgiveness and spend the rest of my life trying to prove my love for him. Or, at the very least, I should end things with Calum, hope Jason never found out and carry on like nothing had ever happened.

  It was hardly the worst outcome in the world, being married to a man I loved.

  And yet, even knowing that, I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing Calum again, never looking into those eyes, never joking with him, laughing at his easy wit, being swept onto his bed.

  I’d fallen in love with him, and I didn’t know how to reverse that.

  And honestly … I didn’t want to.

  Chapter Four

  ‘How are things with you? It’s been too long!’ Alex said, taking a sip of prosecco.

  I raised an eyebrow, wondering what I could say without slipping my secret to the woman on the stool next to me.

  ‘Uhm …’ I began. A statement rather than the beginning of a sentence.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine.’ I exhaled deeply and watched my breath ripple across the pink surface of my cocktail. I avoided Alex’s eyes. She knew me too well, and I couldn’t risk her suspecting that I wasn’t telling her the whole truth. ‘Well, it’s just Jason and I …’

  ‘Are you guys OK?’

  ‘I guess. I mean—’

  ‘What’s he done?’ she interrupted, immediately launching into the mode she operated in best: defensive and aggressive. ‘If he’s cheating, I will bloody kill him.’ She slapped her hand on the bar, drawing disapproving looks from the couple next to us, who were clearly struggling through a first date.

  ‘No, no.’ I forced a laugh, equally embarrassed and pleased by Alex’s ferocity. ‘It’s nothing like that. Oh, it’s just so … well, I guess being married can just sometimes seem … restrictive. You know?’

  I wasn’t lying. Not exactly. But I couldn’t even gather my jumble of emotions into a coherent thought. It would be impossible to explain to Alex without giving the affair away.

  ‘Bethany,’ Alex said, her tone lower and calmer now, ‘you and Jason are perfect together. You’re in love, you know you are. You’re just going through a bad patch. How long have you been married?’

  ‘Coming up to seven years.’ I drained my glass.

  ‘See? The Seven Year Itch. That’s all it is,’ declared Alex with an astonishing amount of confidence for someone who had absolutely no experience in navigating long-term relationships.

  Our waiter sidled up beside Alex, making no effort to disguise his up-and-down gaze, before placing a plate of chips in front of us. Alex, who used her tall, hourglass figure as a kind of weapon, winked at the muscular young man and grabbed a chip, somehow managing to turn the act of eating it into a sort of foreplay. After he’d walked off, she turned her attention back to me while taking another swig from her glass.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I lied, selecting a chip and dipping it in the tiny metal tub of ketchup. ‘I guess I just see you having fun dating, getting to sleep with different guys … it just seems exciting, and I’ve never had that. Jason was the first guy I ever slept with. The problem with marrying your first love, I guess. I feel like I missed out on all the fun that comes along with being single.’

  ‘God!’ Alex said dramatically. ‘The grass is always greener, Bethany. Do you have any idea how much I’d love to be married? Dating is the worst. Seriously. For starters, the sex is usually too drunken to be good. And it’s not like I feel awesome for it the next day. More often than not I wake up guilty. I mean, it can be fun, I’m not going to lie about that. But I’d much rather be in your shoes. I feel like my ovaries are about to shrivel up and I don’t even have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess the grass really is greener. I’m trapped and your eggs are scrambling and we’d both like to trade places. We’re doing pretty well at this adulting thing, huh? Screw it, let’s drown our sorrows. I need some excitement.’

  Excitement, escape … semantics, really. Either way, I wanted to forget about myself, and more importantly, forget about Calum for the night, which wasn’t going to happen at home. Jason had asked me to stay in, to cook a meal together with the steak marinade he’d just made, but I’d never been so glad to have plans with Alex.

 
‘Drunk Bethany,’ squealed my already-tipsy friend. ‘Well, that is a rare treat these days. I’m in. Garçon!’

  She clicked her fingers in the air obnoxiously. The dark-haired waiter arrived, flushed by the attention but clearly happy to be close to Alex again.

  ‘We’re going to need a bottle of prosecco,’ she purred. ‘And I’m going to need your number.’

  Chapter Five

  Public transport was the worst place to be on the morning after a night out.

  I was curled up on a seat near the back of the bus, cursing Alex and her obsession with prosecco, and wishing there was an adults-only transit service that would mean I didn’t have to listen to the schoolkids squealing and cackling as they huddled together to take more selfies than my phone even had the memory to hold.

  I groaned and turned up the volume so my headphones drowned out the high-pitched gaggle with a chill-out playlist that seemed to be doing the opposite of what its name promised. I leaned my head on the cool glass window and watched as ominously grey clouds rolled in over London. It looked as though our warm spell was over.

  My bag vibrated on my lap and I fished my phone out of its depths, smiling wryly. It was probably Alex, wanting someone to share the misery of this morning’s struggle.

  A notification hovered above the Twitter icon, but before I could tap through to the app, the little red alert changed from a one to a two. Had I been drunk-tweeting last night? I opened Twitter and stared at my notifications, not making sense of them. I had two retweets, but it wasn’t my tweet they’d been reacting to. I frowned, sitting forward in my seat.

  I tapped through to my profile and stared blankly. At the top of my screen was a tweet that read:

  For hire: killer photographer with a focus on *exceptional* client relations … ;-)

  The pounding behind my eyes intensified, and I concentrated on pushing through a fresh wave of nausea. The song was building to a synthesised crescendo, and I snatched the headphones from my ears in frustration. The schoolgirls’ shrieking was now a simmering chatter.

  I stared at the tweet on my screen. It claimed to have been posted five hours ago, which would have been around three thirty in the morning. What time did I get home? I grappled with hazy memories from the night before, but couldn’t even remember how I’d arrived in my bed, never mind what time it had been. I must have been much more drunk than I realised, but surely not drunk enough to send that? I shook my head, berating myself for letting Alex order that last round of drinks.

  I was mortified. Not only did I look desperate for work – which I wasn’t – but my choice of words also implied that I got a little too close to my clients. It was careless, and frighteningly close to a confession. The pressure of keeping such a huge secret was obviously affecting me more than I’d thought. I’d have to limit my alcohol consumption in future, if this was the kind of thing I’d do after a few drinks. OK, more than just a few drinks. But either way, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  Inspecting the profiles of the two people who had retweeted me, I was relieved to see that they only had a handful of followers each. The silver lining of this embarrassing slip was that my drunk tweet wouldn’t be going far. Now I just had to cross my fingers that Calum hadn’t seen it, or I’d have to make up a plausible explanation for even suggesting that something was happening between me and a client. I exhaled as I deleted the evidence of my stupidity and closed my eyes, willing the bus to hurry up so the giggling kids would disappear.

  I tried to calm the sense of shame that was building as the bus drove towards my studio. I needed a distraction, and I hoped the office would keep my mind too busy to dwell on the consequences of my night out. But as soon as I arrived all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed.

  I made a few unenthusiastic attempts at editing some smaller clients’ photo shoots, but my mind never strayed far from my argument with Calum, which had been replaying in my mind on a loop since it had happened.

  It was still astonishing to me that I’d ever even been in the same room as Calum Bradley, let alone become close enough to have a fight about our relationship. The first time I met him I’d been struggling to keep up with the steady stream of appointments that had been the result of my first photography award. I was so overwhelmed with work that I’d rented a small studio in Tooting – still all I could afford – and hired Fran, a new graduate with equal measures of talent and eagerness.

  ‘Bethany!’ she had squealed first thing one morning, bounding to my desk. ‘You will never guess who just commissioned head shots from you!’

  I had glared at her, wishing it was illegal to speak to anyone in a tone louder than a whisper before coffee.

  ‘Mmmm,’ I mumbled half-heartedly. ‘Go on …’

  Fran had rolled her eyes, frustrated that I wouldn’t play along, then paused for a dramatic second.

  ‘Calum BRADLEY!’

  I’d almost spat my first mouthful of coffee onto my keyboard.

  ‘I just got off the phone with his publicist. He wants new head shots for some book cover. I quoted him triple your usual price and he booked it right there and then. You’re doing it tomorrow at his apartment. You’re going to Calum Bradley’s freaking apartment, Bethany!’

  That night, I barely snatched two hours of sleep, but the next day, when the man who I’d been so nervous to meet had walked into the room, I’d surprised myself by being disappointed.

  We were introduced by one of his many staff members, and as he smiled and shook my hand I took in his barely lopsided eyes, the topography of a nose that had clearly taken a beating or two in its time, and his remarkably average height. He wasn’t short – certainly taller than me, even in my heels – but he was hardly the towering, powerful man I’d anticipated. I felt foolish for being so anxious about working with a man who, apart from his fame, was no different from any of my other clients.

  Calum had been relaxed throughout the shoot, clearly accustomed to being photographed among an artillery of security and public relations personnel. I had asked him to tell me about his new book and as he spoke I captured candid moments of him animatedly explaining how it would help real people achieve success in business. I had to admit that his media training was impeccable, although he really did seem passionate about this project. He was charming and funny, albeit in a rehearsed sort of way, but I left the appointment that day with the distinct impression that he was just a normal guy who also happened to make a lot of money.

  My friends had sent an excited onslaught of text messages throughout the day and I’d answered each of their questions while assuring all interested parties that the whole experience had been far less exciting than they’d imagined. And that had been the end of it.

  Except, of course, it hadn’t.

  A couple of days later, Calum had called me personally to say how much he liked my photos. I barely believed it was him on the other end of the line, but when he asked if I’d like to be involved in a longer-term project with him and a team, the nature of which he couldn’t discuss without me signing a non-disclosure agreement, I let out the laugh I’d been holding in since I’d answered his call. He insisted that he was serious, and asked me to meet with him the following day to chat about the opportunity, which I was naturally curious about.

  After I’d signed a pile of paperwork, Calum’s lawyer began explaining the new project, speaking in so many roundabout terms that I began to feel dizzy.

  ‘Basically,’ Calum cut in, ‘it’s a reality show, which is going to be God-awful but it’ll make a heap of money and it’s good for my image. What you’ll be doing is following the crew around as they follow me around, taking behind-the-scenes photos for a coffee table book. Very meta. And before you ask, no, I don’t know who the hell will buy the damn book, but my people assure me that it’ll sell.’

  I allowed a smirk at his frankness, but didn’t want to appear too scornful.

  ‘Does the show have a name?’

  It was all I could think to ask, aside from my one
burning question. But I obviously couldn’t bring that up. I did not want a billionaire to know my measly income.

  Calum rolled his eyes and raised his eyebrows at his assistant Mark, who cleared his throat, embarrassed.

  ‘Behind the Billionaire: Calum Bradley,’ he said, clearly pained.

  I tucked my lips inside my mouth and bit down to avoid laughing. But my mirth quickly dissolved into shock when I learned that my pay cheque for six months on this mortifyingly cheesy project would be quadruple what I’d usually make in a year. I obviously asked if I could think about it overnight, and left the building holding back a whoop and a celebratory fist pump.

  When I called the next morning to accept the offer, I prayed that it wasn’t all a bad dream, or worse, a cruel hoax. But it was neither, and after I’d visited the Bradley Enterprises headquarters once again to sign more paperwork and apply for my media credentials, I returned to my office to begin rescheduling the next six months of appointments.

  Despite trying to convince myself that it was just another job, I was a tangle of nerves on my first day at Bradley Enterprises. There was no point denying it: this job was different from any others I’d worked on. I wasn’t used to the film crew, the wires that criss-crossed the floor, the technical lingo being thrown around by the crew. I’d tried to play it cool, absorb as much as I could, and not let on how clueless I was, but underneath it I’d felt rattled. I was used to commanding the room, creating the shoot around my needs.