The lights in the living room had been turned down low, too. I could smell whatever room fragrance Bianca used – something clean and sophisticated, like freshly ironed linen.
Myles and Bianca were on the couch, next to each other, very close. They were talking intently but quietly, and I couldn’t make out their words over the music. But, as I watched, Bianca stretched out a hand and touched my husband’s thigh, quite near the top, and gave it a little squeeze.
‘Uh, hi there,’ I said. ‘Sorry we disappeared for such ages.’
When they heard my voice, they sprang apart like two magnets suddenly turned the wrong way around.
‘We should get going,’ Myles said. ‘It’s late.’
In that moment, everything changed. I went from thinking that everything in my marriage was more or less okay – and if it wasn’t, it would be, just as soon as the house was finished and I’d got a double line on a pregnancy test. My dad always used to say that if you believe in yourself and work hard for your goals, nothing can stop you.
I’d believed in myself. I’d put in the hard yards. I grafted at my job and my marriage and my friendships and – well, everything. And, mostly, I achieved what I set out to. I won’t say I’d led a charmed life – of course I hadn’t. Plenty of things had gone wrong for me, but when I got knocked down or knocked back, I picked myself right up again and carried on.
But this – this I wasn’t sure I could handle.
Myles and I didn’t talk on the way home. We got into an Uber and he stared at his phone, not tapping on the screen like he was messaging someone, just staring and scrolling and staring and scrolling. And I gazed out of the window, trying to get my thoughts into some kind of order.
Bianca had hinted that Myles might be playing away – or at least considering it. I’d dismissed her warning out of hand, thinking that she was just trying to meddle, or seem like some kind of oracle of wisdom.
At the time, I’d genuinely believed I was right. If Myles was being unfaithful, I’d know. Don’t ask me how, but I would. Some deep-rooted spider sense would tell me, and I’d confront him, and if I was right I’d leave. Maybe. Or maybe, if leaving didn’t seem like the right thing to do – if his transgression had been relatively minor, like a drunken snog on a night out, or something – we’d talk things through and see a counsellor and fix things so that it would never, ever happen again.
But now, there’d been evidence, right there in front of my eyes, that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just the way they’d been sitting together, oh so close, and the way Bianca had touched – okay, stroked – my husband’s long, denim-clad thigh. That by itself I could have put down to her habitual boundary-pushing; her assumption of an intimacy that wasn’t actually there.
It was the way they’d behaved when they heard my voice; when, in my Scandi-chic felt slippers, I’d padded silently up behind them and abruptly announced my presence, and they’d reacted like they’d both just had a thousand volts zapped through them.
But if my new-found suspicion – which was rapidly crystallising into certainty – was correct, why the hell would Bianca have alerted me to the possibility that my husband was fooling around? Why wouldn’t she have wanted me to remain oblivious, the stereotypical wife who’s always the last to know?
Watching the rows of dark houses and lit-up shop-fronts flash past the cab’s windows, trying to take deep, steadying breaths of the cloyingly pine-scented air, listening to the meant-to-be-soothing sound of Smooth Radio and the driver occasionally taking a call, I struggled to figure it out.
And then it hit me.
What would I do, if I was married to a man I no longer found sexually desirable but who offered me the financial stability, security and status (so long as you were able to look past the chemical toilet thing) I craved? Well, if that were me, I’d have a long hard think, beyond the present to the next forty or however many years of my life, and I’d make a decision based on my long-term happiness.
But what if I had a daughter to think about? And, more to the point, what if I was Bianca, a woman who seemed to thrive on drama and intrigue and secrets? What if I was Bianca, in that marriage that seemed happy enough on the surface but might be riven with problems beneath it? And what if, in her position, I met someone else?
Someone like Myles.
Someone who was, by any measure, infinitely desirable. Handsome, successful, polished and groomed like an expensive car. Charming, sparky, funny, sexy. But taken.
What if I fell for him, and he for me? And what if the situation was further complicated by me being friends with his wife?
Well, if that were me, I’d walk away. No question about it. I wouldn’t even acknowledge the chemistry that was there, the growing closeness. I’d put my feelings back where they belonged, in a secret no-go zone deep inside me, and I’d carry on. Either I’d work to make my marriage better, or I’d check out of it in a sensible, sensitive way.
But if I was Bianca?
I tried to put myself inside her head, feel her emotions, share her insecurities. But it was so hard – even though I’d known her, and seemingly been her friend for a couple of years now, I didn’t really understand her. She was like a Teflon pan with an impermeable surface off which everything from a drop of water to a burned omelette would glide without trace.
And, thinking about that, I figured I had my answer. If I was Bianca, I’d want to get my man. But I wouldn’t want to do it with a load of mess and carnage and fallout, like chucking a hand grenade into my own life. I’d want to do it by stealth. I’d want my result, but for it not to have been instigated by me.
So I’d find fault-lines I could exploit, and I’d gently chip away at them, widening them gradually and imperceptibly, until suddenly everything fell apart, leaving a clear field for me – or at any rate, for me if I was Bianca.
She’d begun that process already, I thought, by insinuating herself into our marriage by offering to design our home. And she’d built on it further by sowing seeds of doubt in my mind that would make me cantankerous towards my husband, and make him more likely to contrast his needy, scrappy wife with the smiling, accommodating, admiring presence of her rival.
If that was how it was, it was going to be all-out war. And I was in it to win it.
Eight
In it to win it. The words reverberated through my hung-over brain the next morning, when I pinged awake next to Myles’s snoring form at five thirty in the morning. At first, I wasn’t sure what they meant. Instinctively, as I always did, I ran through my checklist of things I needed to do that day.
Spruce up Vivienne’s résumé and sound out a few directors who I knew had massively tight budgets and could be attracted by the lure of a big name, even if that name hadn’t been big for twenty years. Meet with Ruby-Grace Miller to talk about her career aspirations now Love Island was off the table. Tell Wayne and Shane that the delivery of our new kitchen had been delayed by a week or possibly more. Make appointments to get my eyebrows and lashes done, legs and bikini line waxed and gel nails in-filled. Pick up Myles’s suit from the tailor who’d been taking up the legs.
Oh. Myles.
Thinking of my husband instantly brought back what I’d seen the previous night. Myles and Bianca. My husband and my so-called friend. The reminder was like a bucket of cold water being chucked over my head and, with it, all prospect of further sleep vanished.
I swung my feet onto the floor and stood up. God, I felt like seven shades of shit. Michael and I must have got through more whiskey than I’d realised. My head hurt, my eyes were scratchy and dry and my mouth tasted foul.
But all that was nothing compared with the deep, sick weight of dread that filled my stomach. I think my husband’s having an affair. Saying the words, even silently inside my own head, made them feel more real.
I glanced over at Myles. He was deeply asleep, his face still and relaxed, one arm thrown up behind his head. He looked just the same as he did every morning. There was no hint in his
peaceful face of anything wrong.
I wondered if he was dreaming about her.
Next to him, on the nightstand, I could see his phone, plugged into the charger as it always was. I walked carefully around the bed and reached for it, but just as I touched it, it vibrated and beeped softly. An incoming email from a client abroad, maybe. Or maybe something else. It was face down, so I couldn’t see, and the sound had disturbed Myles’s sleep; he turned over, before pulling the duvet back over himself.
This is not a smart idea, Sloane. If I took the phone into the other room and it rang, Myles would wake up for sure. And he’d want to know what I was doing. And I’d have to tell him. I wasn’t ready for that yet. If there was going to be a confrontation – and I wasn’t sure I wanted one, not yet – I needed to be prepared and in possession of far more information than just a hand on a thigh, a start of guilty surprise.
I needed proof. And I needed a plan.
I went through to the bathroom – the one part of the house that was actually, properly finished. With its freestanding copper tub, walk-in shower, expanse of marble surrounding the washbasin and piles of carefully folded, fluffy towels, it was just how I’d wanted it to be: a haven for pampering and relaxation.
Only I didn’t feel relaxed now.
I peeled off Myles’s old T-shirt I’d worn in bed and squeezed toothpaste onto the brush, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror. Jesus. I didn’t just feel like shit, I looked like I’d been dug up after several days. My hair was a tangled snarl, there were clumps of yesterday’s mascara still clinging to my eyelashes and black smudges under them that were either also make-up, or just the legacy of a crappy night’s sleep. The pillow had left a deep crease in my cheek.
In it to win it.
One thing was certain: I wasn’t going to win anything unless I upped my game.
I cleaned my teeth, even though the feeling of the brush in my mouth made me want to gag, switched the shower on to boiling and got in.
An hour later, I was ready to face whatever the day had in store for me. I’d got myself ready for work far more painstakingly than usual, ironing every last bit of frizz out of my hair, smoothing on scented body lotion and using industrial amounts of concealer to cover up the dark circles under my eyes and the angry red spot that had erupted on my chin.
I’d put on a navy blue wiggle dress with tiny red dots that I knew Myles loved – the first time I wore it, he’d literally whistled and said, ‘One of the things I love about you, sweetheart, is that you’ve not only got curves, you’re not afraid to use them.’ The memory gave me a small, much-needed confidence boost – as did the matching navy satin bra and pants I slipped on underneath. He did fancy me – or he had, at any rate.
I slipped my feet into ballet flats for my commute to the office, tucking my mid-heeled red peep-toe shoes into my bag to change into later, and checked that I had everything else I needed. Only then did I allow myself to switch on the coffee machine. It was still not yet seven, so I had time for a leisurely breakfast. I microwaved some oatmeal, added cream and maple syrup, and perched at my makeshift desk to eat, trying to gather my thoughts.
It might well be that nothing was happening with Myles and Bianca – or, at any rate, nothing from which there was no turning back – yet. I knew that there was an element of truth in what she’d said to me: that, when a marriage was under strain from external factors, infidelity was more likely to happen.
I knew I’d been cranky and snappy with Myles, annoyed that the ambition of the building project had thrown our treasured home into chaos and worried that the end result would be more about winning awards and appearing all over people’s Pinterest boards than about creating a home for us to raise our family in.
I knew that my anxiety about conceiving a baby had made sex feel functional and lacking in the spontaneity and passion we’d both revelled in so much before.
So, I figured, sipping the last of my double espresso and spooning a final mouthful from the bowl, I needed to do two things. First off, I needed to find out what, if anything, was going on. I needed to get hold of Myles’s phone at the earliest opportunity and have a look at what was on there. It would feel wrong, and horrible, and intrusive. It was all those things. But, at the same time, it was necessary. I needed to be in full possession of whatever facts I could gather before I had a serious conversation with him about what – if anything – was going on.
And anyway, it wasn’t like we had some sort of strict confidentiality thing going on between us. My own phone was often lying around, Myles knew the passcode, and if a text came in when I was having a bath or painting my nails, I’d often ask him to check it. I knew his passcode too: one zero eight zero, because the football team he supported had last won the FA Cup by one goal to nil in 1980.
I knew it, but I’d never needed to use it. Until now.
I’d have to wait for the right opportunity. I’d need a good half-hour to have a proper look through his email, text messages, WhatsApp and photographs. If I found nothing, I’d be reassured. If I found anomalies – messages that seemed to have been replied to, for instance, but the reply was missing, or a contact saved under a name that looked false – I might have to investigate further. Though God only knew how.
But the important thing, I decided, was to bide my time, wait for the right moment and do my investigation – okay, my snooping, because that’s what it would be – discreetly.
In the meantime, my strategy had a second prong. It was based on the assumption – which I hoped with all my heart was the correct one – that nothing was actually going on. That, at most, Myles had looked at Bianca and compared her with me, and the grass had appeared greener on the other side of the fence. That he’d noticed how she pandered to him, thought how much of an asset someone like her could be to his architecture business and then seen other things about her too: her pearly skin, her pert breasts, her slender ankles, her tiny ass.
Which was all fair enough, I thought, trying to force down a wave of sick envy. Married people had crushes too. Just because you had a ring on your finger didn’t mean you’d never look at anyone else that way again, ever. Hell, I’d had my moments too, like when Ripple Effect signed David Albright, a former footballer, to launch him into an exciting new career as the face of a well-known brand of low-fat ready meals. For a few months, I’d caught myself getting all giddy with excitement when I had a meeting with him in my diary, dashing into the ladies to spray on scent before he came into the office, and even having the most cringe-making dreams in which we declared our mutual passion for each other and lamented that we could never be together.
And then David asked us to manage the publicity for his wedding to his partner, Phillipe, and my crush died an easy, painless death right there.
So, yeah, I got it. Myles might have a crush on Bianca. And the way to counter that was to remind him about all the things that first attracted him to me. Hence the trouble I’d taken with my appearance that morning. And until I had evidence that there was actually anything untoward going on, I was going to double right down on my efforts to be the perfect wife.
I fired up the coffee machine again and made a cappuccino for Myles, extra hot, the way he liked it. I rummaged in the tiny freezer compartment of the temporary fridge that currently served as part of my desk, found a pack of crumpets and stuck them in the toaster. Then I slipped off my ballet flats, retrieved my high heels from my bag and stepped into them and, a couple of minutes later, I was bringing my husband breakfast in bed, just as his alarm went off.
‘Hey, you,’ I said. ‘I brought you a coffee.’
‘What?’ Myles sat up, blearily pushing his hair off his face. ‘Coffee? Oh. Thanks.’
‘And crumpets. Because we never got to stop off for fries last night.’
He reached out for the plate and bit hungrily into a crumpet.
‘God, darling. You’re an angel. Just what I needed.’
‘All part of the service.’
‘A
nd look at you, in that foxy frock. Come here.’
I sat on the bed next to him, carefully weighing up my options. On the one hand, I wanted him to want me, and I wanted him. But, on the other, I was freshly made-up and dressed and could hopefully get out of the door before the builders arrived.
But there wasn’t much of a contest. Myles won.
I leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, tasting oily saltiness on his lips. I slid my hand down underneath the duvet, caressing his chest and belly, and running my fingers teasingly close to – but not quite where – I knew he wanted them to be. I felt his own hand reach for the hem of my dress and try to ease it up over my hips.
The dress was fitted snugly over my thighs, and it was quite the challenge. In the end, he had to abandon his breakfast and use two hands. I kept kissing and stroking him while he grappled with it, then, after a few minutes, we broke away from each other and started to laugh.
‘Get me – Mr Smooth,’ he said. ‘I know how to undress a woman.’
I stood, quickly rucked the skirt up to my waist, stepped out of my knickers, and then got back onto the bed, this time straddling him, the duvet pushed aside. He was naked, the way he always slept, and I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the musky, sleepy man-smell of him.
Slipping lower, I kissed my way down his abdomen, running my tongue over the line of fine hair that began at his belly button. He was hard already, eagerly waiting for my lips, and I heard his gasp of pleasure as I took him in my mouth.
We’d been together a long time. I knew what he liked, and I did it, slowly at first, teasing him with my lips, hands and tongue, not caring about the state of my lipstick, then gradually building up speed as I heard his breathing turn fast and ragged.
‘Sloane. Oh God, darling, I’m going to…’
‘Wait.’
I shuffled up the bed and slipped myself down onto the hot hardness of him, taking him deep inside me. There was a moment of pressure, then I felt him filling me, the pressure giving way to pleasure. He gripped my hips and moved me in the rhythm of his thrusts, closer and closer, until I broke off our kiss so I could see his face when he came inside me.
No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy Page 7