by Sam Anthony
I paused.
I weighed my options.
Sophia waited.
Our eyes were locked, but I blinked first.
“There’d have to be some ground rules,” I said.
◆◆◆
Sometimes I worry about the way my mind works. Every now and then, I can’t help wondering what my life would be like if Tamsin was to die. Perhaps a slow painful death from leukaemia after I bravely and selflessly donate some of my bone marrow. Maybe she drops dead from a brain aneurysm or is killed instantaneously in a car crash. Tamsin would be gone, and I’d be all alone, but just think of the sympathy I’d receive. Attractive single ladies would flock to my house from miles around, bringing the delicious home-cooked meals they’d prepared for me, and try to lift my spirits.
In my imagination, I’m at home watching TV when the doorbell rings. It’s one of the hot young teachers from Tamsin’s school – the redhead with the eye-catching arse.
“Hi, Lee. I was really worried about you – all on your own and feeling sad – so I’ve cooked you some Lobster Thermidor.”
“Yum! That’s my favourite. You’re so kind and thoughtful. Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you,” she says, enters and takes off her coat to reveal that she’s only wearing a black lacy basque, stockings, suspenders and high heels. Her figure is stunning.
“Sorry about my outfit,” she says. “I’m on my way to the pole dancing club where I work two nights a week.”
“Not a problem,” I say.
“You must be so miserable and lonely, Lee. Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?” she asks.
I try my luck. “It’s being physically close to someone that I miss the most,” I say, wistfully.
“Come here,” she says and takes me in her arms.
She starts to nibble my earlobe, and it’s very enjoyable.
“This is definitely helping,” I encourage her.
“I think it would help even more if we have very naughty, absolutely-no-strings hot sex,” she whispers into my ear. “My identical twin sister’s in the car outside. Do you mind if she joins in too …?”
That’s how my mind works when I allow my thoughts to roam freely. There must be something wrong with me.
I wonder how long I’d have to mourn before I could start dating again, following Tamsin’s very sad demise. At least a month? I’m not being serious. In reality, I’d be absolutely devastated if I was to lose her. Tamsin is my life. My raison d’être. Nobody could ever take her place in my heart. Thank goodness she’s fit, healthy and a careful driver.
◆◆◆
“Oh, and you can tell your mother, I don’t want her stupid DNA kit, and she can jolly well give me gift vouchers from now on.”
I’m in the bedroom with Tamsin and she’s starting to let off steam now we’re alone for the first time since 07:30 this morning.
“I can’t say that,” I reply. “She’d be devastated. Maybe I could use the DNA kit instead? To be honest, I’m actually quite interested in my genetic heritage. But we’d better tell my mum that you did it, and we were amazed to discover that you’re actually human after all.”
“Don’t even attempt to be funny!” Tamsin yells.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to placate her. “Apart from Mum’s present, we had a pretty good Christmas, didn’t we? The food was amazing. You excelled yourself once again. I don’t know how you do it all. You truly are superhuman. Thanks for making it such a special day for all of us.”
I kiss her on the cheek.
“It was a nice day, wasn’t it?” She smiles, and I’m reminded of how beautiful she is and how lucky I am to be married to her.
“So, why don’t we finish it off with some rumpy-pumpy?” I ask, more in hope than expectation. “The perfect end to a perfect day.”
“Oh, Lee. I’m so tired,” she sighs. “Maybe in the morning.”
I’m pretty certain it won’t happen in the morning, but I still believe that I’m the luckiest man in the world.
Chapter Four
The Photograph
It’s a warm Saturday morning in early spring. Outside my bedroom window the birds are singing their hearts out in the hope of getting some action. That was my hope too, but Tamsin got up early, before I was awake, so I didn’t even get the chance to initiate sex. She left the house about ten minutes ago to go shopping for some new shoes. I’m towelling myself dry, after a shower in our en-suite bathroom, when I receive a text message.
“Hi.” It’s Sophia.
“Hi, gorgeous! What are you up to?” I reply.
“Still in bed. Thinking about you! Joe’s out playing golf.”
My interest is piqued. “What are you wearing?!”
“Guess!” comes the speedy response.
“Are you naked?!”
“I might be!! I can send you a photo if you like?”
Now, this is something of a grey area. It’s not explicitly forbidden by the rules of our affair, but we both agreed that it was way too risky to send each other naughty photos.
“Yes please!” I reply, reasoning that there can’t be any harm. Tamsin is out of the house, and I can delete the photo long before she gets home.
◆◆◆
“Look, Soph, I want to get this straight from the outset. I love my wife and kids. They’re my priority. I won’t let anyone or anything come between me and my family. What we’re about to embark upon is just an affair. Nothing more. We’re both lacking sexual fulfilment in our marriages, and this is simply a way of getting a bit of extra physical pleasure and satisfaction without anyone getting hurt. Agreed?”
“Yes. I feel exactly the same way,” Sophia said.
So I proceeded with my rehearsed monologue. “I’ve been doing some research. It’s boring, but I’m afraid we have to talk about it if we’re going to proceed with this.”
She smiled at me patiently and I continued, enumerating the main issues on my fingers as I progressed.
“Apparently, the top way people get caught is their cell phones; things like their call log, itemised phone bills, text messages and emails. There’s no doubt that evidence found on phones is the most common way affairs are exposed. Then there’s the browsing history and search history on people’s computers. Also credit card statements can reveal all sorts of secrets. Even something like perfume or aftershave can catch people out. There’s a huge list of pitfalls: being spotted out and about together, lying about your whereabouts, changing your habits, a friend informing on you, something posted on social media …”
I’d long since run out of fingers.
“There are so many ways to be found out, Soph. We have to be really, really careful. Can we do that?”
“I believe we can, Lee,” she said, struggling to maintain a straight face in response to my long and serious speech. “Just tell me exactly what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“Okay. Please don’t laugh at me. I’ve put together a list of rules.”
She didn’t laugh.
“Get a pen and your notepad, and write these down,” I said.
◆◆◆
I don’t get it. Tamsin is the most important person in my life. She means the world to me. I genuinely don’t understand why I’d risk everything I care about, merely because my sex life isn’t perfect. I have a smoking-hot wife who I adore – who will actually have sex with me occasionally if the conditions are right – but I can’t help wishing that she’d lust after me the way that I lust after her. If only Tamsin didn’t make it seem as if sex is just another boring chore for her to carry out; right at the bottom of her list of priorities.
Once I put together a spreadsheet. I like spreadsheets. Don’t judge me.
It was a couple of years ago. For a four-week period, I recorded, as best I could without being too obvious about it, every activity Tamsin undertook and how long she spent on each one.
It turned out that, on average each week, Tamsin spent most time sleeping (56 hours),
followed by:
Work (45 hours)
On her phone (17 hours)
Watching TV (16 hours)
Socialising (12 hours)
Eating (9 hours)
Commuting (9 hours)
Cleaning the house (8 hours)
Exercising (7 hours)
Shopping (7 hours)
Playing the piano (7 hours)
Reading (6 hours)
Cooking (5 hours)
In the bath (4 hours)
Dining out (3 hours)
At the cinema (3 hours)
Ironing (2 hours)
Dressing (2 hours)
Applying makeup (2 hours)
In the toilet (1 hour)
Showering (1 hour)
Cleaning her teeth (70 minutes)
Having sex (45 minutes)
To be clear, I’m ashamed and embarrassed that I did this, but I couldn’t help finding it interesting.
Sex is extremely pleasurable, fun and free. Surely, it should be higher up the list.
Tamsin probably believes that I’m some sort of sex-obsessed pervert, but I just want her to take an interest in our sex lives. How about a scintilla of enthusiasm? There aren’t many real pleasures in life: fine dining, a good bottle of wine, an inspiring book, a riveting TV series and hot sex. Not only is the last one the most enjoyable, it literally costs nothing except time.
◆◆◆
Tamsin has arrived home unexpectedly and walked into the steamy bathroom.
With one hand I’m holding a towel around my waist, with the other I’m holding my phone. On the screen is the naked photo that Sophia has just sent.
“Forgot my handbag and now I’ve put my phone down somewhere and I can’t find it. Can I borrow your phone to ring mine?” Tamsin asks.
She reaches out to take it from me.
My peripheral vision blurs. All I can see, in the centre of my view, in perfect focus, is my phone, angled towards me, with a naked photo of Sophia right there on the screen, and Tamsin’s hand right next to it, palm up, ready to receive it. There’s nothing I can say to explain this away.
Is there any other way out of this potentially disastrous situation?
I could hand the phone to Tamsin and lie. Pretend the naked photo was as much of a shock to me as it was to her. Perhaps Sophia had accidentally sent it to me instead of her husband: “Oh my God, Tam! Look what Sophia’s just sent me by mistake. She’s going to be so embarrassed about this at the office on Monday (chortle).” But what about the preceding text messages that I haven’t had a chance to delete yet? They would definitely incriminate me.
I could refuse to hand my phone to Tamsin. Pretend I was expecting an important call from work. On a Saturday? No. Not believable.
I could feign losing my temper: “No, you can’t borrow my phone! I’m fed up of you using it every time you lose yours!” Except Tamsin never loses anything. I’m the one who’s always putting things in random places and then getting the whole household to help me search for them.
I’m out of ideas.
◆◆◆
1. Never tell anyone.
2. Delete everything (text messages, emails, internet history, search history).
3. Always begin text message exchanges with ‘Hi.’
4. If anyone ever has any suspicions, deny everything.
5. Change cell phone passcodes weekly.
6. Only use cash for any affair-related purchases.
7. No gifts or mementoes.
8. No contact when we’re with our families.
9. No public displays of affection.
10. Always use condoms.
11. No cosmetics (perfume, aftershave, lipstick, body lotion).
12. Always shower before going home.
13. No alcohol or drugs.
14. It’s a physical affair, not emotional, so no falling in love.
15. Either of us can end the affair at any time.
◆◆◆
“Is that all?” Sophia asked. She’d written all fifteen rules on a pad of paper as I’d dictated them from memory.
“Yes. Unless you can come up with any other good ones,” I replied.
“Do you really think they’re all necessary?”
“I do. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to explain why,” I said.
She smiled; that special smile which is usually reserved for humouring earnest children. “Go on then, Lee.”
I could tell she was indulging me, but in my opinion, it was vital that we agreed on the rules right from the start.
“Neither of us can tell anyone; not our best friend, our brother or sister, or the random stranger in the seat next to us on a plane. It’s such a juicy piece of gossip that we can’t trust anyone to keep it secret. If you tell your best friend and they tell their best friend and they tell their best friend, pretty soon everyone knows.”
“Agreed,” she said.
I continued. “Presumably, we’ll arrange our liaisons by text …”
“Liaisons!” she interjected, laughing. “You’re so old-fashioned.”
“Sorry,” I said. “But please don’t interrupt. I’ve got a whole speech to get through. It could take a while.”
Sophia sniggered and mimed padlocking her mouth shut.
“Presumably, we’ll arrange our liaisons by text message, so it’s vital we delete all communication promptly, just in case anyone gets hold of our phones. Also, if we begin all of our text message conversations with just the word ‘Hi’ then, if anybody sees them, at least they’re innocuous and explainable. If the other person’s in a position to continue the conversation safely, they can do so, but if it’s not a good time, just don’t reply.”
“Agreed.” She was still smiling.
“Next one. If anyone ever suspects anything untoward is going on between us: deny, deny, deny. The whole point of these rules is to make sure there’s no evidence to incriminate us, so if we stick to a firm denial of any accusations, nobody can prove anything.”
“Got it, boss.” She was cheeky, and I liked it.
“This one might be a bit over the top, but I reckon we should change the passcode on our phones on a weekly basis; just in case we’ve forgotten to delete everything. I’d hate it if Tamsin or one of the kids picked up my phone, typed in my date of birth and saw a dodgy message from you.”
“It’s not really your date of birth, is it?” Sophia laughed.
“Possibly.” It was Tamsin’s, actually. “Do you think every week is too often?” I asked.
“Definitely. How about once a month?”
“Okay,” I said. “I can be flexible. You haven’t changed your mind about this have you?”
“Actually, I am starting to have second thoughts.”
“Really?”
“No.” She winked. “Keep going.”
◆◆◆
Tamsin works extremely hard. Even though it’s only three days a week, being a primary school teacher is an intense job. She puts so much time and effort into planning, marking and admin that she’s often exhausted by the time she gets home. I try to help out by doing some of the housework. It’s my job to do the vacuuming, empty the rubbish bins, make the packed lunches for school, load the dishwasher and mow the lawn. I’m useless at DIY, but my dad is very handy, and he often carries out odd jobs for us. Tamsin does everything else, and I realise it’s a huge amount, but there are some things I simply can’t help with, due to issues of efficiency. For example, when I iron the kids’ school clothes, they get rejected and Tamsin has to do them all over again.
My ineptitude around the house adds to Tamsin’s tiredness and frustration. I know I ought to do more, and I would if I could, but my motivation for this is questionable. I sometimes feel guilty for doing chores because of my hidden agenda. I’m always secretly hoping that I might get sex in return. I realise I’ve got this backwards. If there’s a large amount of housework to be done, I’ve got no chance of getting lucky. But if the house is immaculate, and all the jobs are
completed, I’m in with a chance. A slim one, but a chance nevertheless.
◆◆◆
Everything stops.
Time is standing still.
I can see Tamsin, motionless, her hand out expectantly.
I can see Sophia’s naked body on the screen of my phone.
I can hear my heart thumping noisily and rapidly in my chest.
And … Action!
I start to hand the phone over to Tamsin, but my fingers are still wet from the shower. The phone slips out of my grasp and begins to fall towards the floor. I try to grab it, but only manage to fumble it further away from me and nearer to the toilet bowl. One last attempted catch is unsuccessful and, with a splash, my £600 phone plops into the toilet.
◆◆◆
“We mustn’t use cash for any affair-related purchases and we can’t buy each other any presents at all. There are a couple of reasons for this. It’ll save us having to explain where the presents came from and it’ll avoid suspicious items on our credit card bills.”
“What sort of purchases?” Sophia said.
“Hotel bookings, condoms, whipped cream, tinned pineapple rings, lubricants, handcuffs ...”
“Whoa there, tiger!” she interrupted. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“Kinky?” I suggested, hopefully.
“Yeah, that’s about right,” she nodded and gave me a lascivious smile.