The Adulterer's Handbook

by Sam Anthony

  “Thanks, babe. You’re so sweet. How come I’m your favourite?”

  “It’s that thing you do with your little finger!!!”

  “Er ... That’s not me. You must be thinking of someone else!”

  “My mistake! That must be blonde number 4. Her name’s Olga or Inga or something Scandinavian.”

  “Speaking of names. Any ideas for our baby?”

  “I’ve always liked Gertrude, after my grandmother, or possibly Smokie, my old pet dog.”

  “Smokie Bolton?! Hmm!! I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. I’m tempted to bring up little Millenia Jane on my own!”

  “I love it! Milly … or MJ for short?”

  “If you like. And for a boy?”

  “Thelonious?”

  Sophia shakes her head at me. Frowning and looking genuinely annoyed, she heads back to her office.

  ◆◆◆

  Tamsin has become something of an expert at turning me down gently, whether I request lovemaking verbally or electronically. Over the years, she’s developed a subtle way of letting me know that I’m not going to get lucky any time soon. An hour or two before bed, she’ll casually drop into the conversation an issue of some sort. This is to make it clear that if I bring up the possibility of sex in the near future, the response will be a definite no, so don’t even bother asking. A few examples:

  “Well, that was a stressful day at work.”

  “I hope I can shift this headache soon.”

  “What’s the time? I feel really sleepy already.”

  “My throat’s a bit tickly. I hope I’m not coming down with something.”

  “Bloody kids!”

  “Your mother phoned earlier…”

  “I really must shave my legs at the weekend.”

  I’ve become quite an expert at interpreting these hints, and I now realise that, on these occasions, it’s just never going to happen, so it’s best if I find something else to do for ten minutes in bed that evening. Maybe read some more of my book.

  Once she’s given me the secret sign, Tamsin can’t be persuaded or cajoled into having sex for love nor money. I know; I’ve tried a couple of times. In the past, my persistence, or nagging as Tamsin refers to it, has led to days, if not weeks, of the cold shoulder. It’s better by far for me to just suck it up and wait patiently for a more conducive moment.

  ◆◆◆

  “Isn’t Sophia one of your colleagues from the office?” Tamsin asks.

  “Er … yes, I think you’re right. But I don’t call her Soph,” I say. “There was a Sophie in my Year 4 class at school. Perhaps it was her.”

  “Why are you having sex dreams about an eight-year-old girl?”

  “She’s not eight anymore. She must be forty-five now, like me.”

  “Was she attractive?” Tamsin says.

  “No. She was eight! And I was into trains and superheroes back then. Not girls.”

  “So you probably weren’t dreaming about her then. It must have been Sophia from work.”

  “I’m telling you, Tam. I honestly can’t remember my dream.”

  I’m trying to keep calm, not wishing this to escalate into a full-blown argument.

  “Could I have said sofa, as in ‘Ooh, what a lovely comfy sofa’?”

  “No. It was more like ‘Ooh, Soph, that feels so good.’”

  “Did I say that?”

  “No, but that was the gist of it.”

  “You’re just teasing me, aren’t you?” I say.

  “Partly, but you definitely sounded like you were thoroughly enjoying yourself in your dream, and I don’t think it was with me or with the Asian newsreader with the impressive breasts.”

  “Tam, you know in real life I worship the ground you walk on. I’m a one-woman man. You are my dream girl.”

  “Apparently not!” Tamsin says.

  “You’ve been making quite a few accusations lately. I’m starting to think you don’t trust me anymore,” I say, trying to sound light-hearted.

  “I trust you when you’re awake, but who knows what you get up to when we’re both asleep.”

  “Does it count as infidelity if it’s in a dream?” I say.

  “What do you think, Lee? You’re the one who had the dream?”

  “Actually, I read an article about this very subject.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Tamsin sighs. “You seem to be reading a lot of articles lately.”

  “Apparently, the experts reckon that cheating dreams are usually about insecurity, low self-esteem, and fear of abandonment.”

  “So, you’re having sex dreams about other women, because you’re worried I might leave you, due to your tiny penis?”

  “What? Is it really tiny?”

  “You see!” Tamsin says, triumphantly. “You’re so insecure.”

  “I’m not. I’m totally secure and confident in my manly prowess.”

  I pause.

  She waits.

  “But, be honest, Tam. It’s not really tiny, is it?”

  “What do you think?”

  She’s so mean sometimes.

  “I think it’s perfectly adequate. Now reassure me, or I’m going to keep having sex dreams about other women.”

  “Okay, Lee. Calm down. It’s perfectly adequate.”

  “Is that it? I was hoping for more.”

  “So was I,” she laughs. “But we can’t always have what we want. What would you like me to say?”

  “I’d like you to say: Lee, you’re a sex god with the most magnificent love truncheon there’s ever been. You satisfy all my desires and nobody else could ever compare to you.”

  “Lee, my darling, you’re a sex god with the most magnificent love truncheon there’s ever been. You satisfy all my desires and nobody else could ever compare to you.”

  She pats my cheek, patronisingly.

  “Thank you. Was that so hard?” I say.

  “Not recently. Maybe it’s time you considered using those little blue pills.”

  She snorts in her effort to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter.

  “Oh, come on! What’s with all the insults?”

  “I’m sorry, Lee. You know I don’t mean it.”

  “I’m not so sure. Tonight I, and my mighty love truncheon, shall be dreaming about the new reception teacher at your school. Now, do you want a cup of tea or not?”

  Chapter Nine

  The Email

  It’s the day after my bizarre dream. Tamsin is out playing tennis and I’m at home in my office, unpleasant thoughts running through my mind. Intellectually, I know dreams don’t actually mean anything significant, and mine didn’t contain any sort of revelation or hidden message, but the memory of it is fresh enough that I’ve still got a lingering feeling that Tamsin and Sophia cheated on me, with each other. Clearly, that never happened, but I still find myself walking into Tamsin’s office and switching on her laptop computer, with the intention of reading her emails and browsing her search history. Just to be sure.

  I start with the search history. It’s not particularly enlightening:

  Clothes shops.

  Holiday accommodation.

  Celebrity gossip.

  Tennis equipment.

  Local news.

  More clothes shops.

  Personalised greetings cards.

  Food shops.

  Slimming tips.

  Hotel and spa special offers.

  Cheap flights.

  Apparently not security conscious at all, Tamsin doesn’t bother to keep her phone password-protected or to secure her laptop. She has even less security on her email account, which is permanently signed-in. Why would she need to log-out when her laptop is safely at home? After all, she has nothing to hide. Unlike me.

  ◆◆◆

  Sophia and I have been exchanging emails for years, as is common for people who work closely together in an office environment. Our first emails were dedicated entirely to work issues; businesslike, relevant and concise:

&n
bsp; “Can you forward me the invoices before the end of the week?”

  As we got to know and like each other better, they became less formal, but still fairly innocuous:

  “That’s a really nice skirt, is it new?”

  “Great haircut, it suits you.”

  “You look refreshed after your holiday.”

  Over time they became a bit less anodyne:

  “You look good today.”

  “That jumper brings out the colour in your eyes.”

  “Is it coffee time? I miss you.”

  Then increasingly personal:

  “Your knees are distracting me this morning!”

  “You smell lovely! New aftershave?”

  “I prefer work when you wear high heels!”

  Before long they were rather rude:

  “Is it my imagination or are you wearing stockings and suspenders under that skirt?!!”

  “I saw you bending over the photocopier provocatively!! You’re such a tease!”

  “Nice cleavage!!”

  Then crude:

  “Is it cold today? Your nipples are looking rather perky!!!”

  “I can’t stop looking at the bulge in your trousers!!! What have you got in there?!!

  “I’m imagining you naked right now!!!”

  By the time our affair was in full swing, they had become practically pornographic:

  “Thinking about you deep inside me makes me want to go to the bathroom to masturbate!!!!”

  “Babe, I love how your breasts bounce when you’re riding me hard!!!!”

  “Send me a photo of your rock hard cock!!!!”

  Fearing that our emails might be less than secure, and concerned that we might use up the world’s supply of exclamation marks, we both agreed it would be sensible if we used work email for business-related communication only, and we switched to texting for the naughty messages. And the pictures!

  ◆◆◆

  I’ve not been sleeping well lately.

  As soon as my head hits the pillow, the guilty thoughts begin. I’m an adulterer. I’m having sex with another woman. While I’m lying awake, the family I adore are sleeping peacefully nearby, oblivious to the fact that I’m a fraud. They have no idea that my selfish actions might tear apart their happy lives.

  Even if I do manage to fall asleep, I often wake up with a start, in a hot sweat, imagining that I’ve been found out and I’m being confronted by the people I love and admire the most. On these occasions, it’s almost impossible to get back to sleep. My mind is too busy trying to come up with justifications for my unjustifiable behaviour, and I have imaginary conversations with my accusers for hours; until finally I hear the garden birds singing the dawn chorus, and I get up for work, feeling shattered.

  Audiobooks help sometimes. I’ve discovered that if I put in my headphones and concentrate hard on a good story, my mind will eventually stop torturing me, and I can slip back into the arms of Morpheus, only to wake, too soon, with the story still playing in my ears.

  Perhaps I should end the affair. Sophia and I have been lucky so far, but we’ve nearly been caught a few times. Why not finish it while nobody knows? I could go back to my previous, stress-free life, when I used to be able to sleep soundly throughout the night.

  Why don’t I stop committing adultery?

  Because I’m enjoying it too much.

  It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me for many years.

  ◆◆◆

  “Spying on Mum’s emails, are you, Dad?”

  I didn’t hear Charlie approaching, and she’s guessed correctly that I’m doing exactly that.

  “No. They just happened to be on the screen,” I reply nonchalantly, minimising that particular window, opening another and searching for the latest football results.

  “Why aren’t you using the computer in your office?” she says.

  “Flat battery. I thought it would be quicker just to use Mum’s.”

  “Can’t you find the football scores on your phone?”

  “I could do, but it’s charging upstairs.”

  “I see.” I don’t think she believes me. “If you’re looking for Mum’s email messages to all her secret lovers, I doubt you’ll have any luck. Everyone uses the drafts trick these days.”

  “What’s the drafts trick? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Come on, Dad. You must know this one. If you type something in drafts, such as the top-secret nuclear launch codes, but don’t send the message, someone else – maybe your Russian handler – can use your password to log-on to your email account from anywhere else in the world – say Russia for example – read the message and then delete it. The message never gets sent or received, so it doesn’t appear in your in-box or your sent messages folder. It’s not a completely untraceable email, but it’s much harder to find.”

  “That’s really clever,” I say. “Is it something lots of people do?”

  “No. I don’t think so. But it’s quite a useful method of communication if you’re trying to keep your emails secure from prying parents.”

  “Just to put my mind at rest, Charlie, can you tell me something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you an undercover Russian spy?”

  “Nyet,” she innocently replies with a shake of her head and strolls out of the room.

  “Good talk, comrade!” I call after her.

  ◆◆◆

  One Friday, I arrived at Sophia’s house, entered the usual way, and walked straight up the stairs to the spare bedroom. On opening the door, I found Sophia seductively reclining on the bed. She’d changed out of her smart office clothes and into a tiny, figure-hugging, red dress, red stockings and suspenders, red high heels, and a red bow in her hair.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, babe,” she said, as she stood, sauntered over to me, and started to undo my belt …

  Afterwards, immediately before I left her house with my obligatory bag of used condoms and wrappers, Sophia handed me a red envelope and looked at me, expectantly. I tore open the envelope, and inside it was a cute Valentine’s Day card featuring, on the front, a picture of two teddy bears in a loving embrace. Inside the card, Sophia had hand written, “You are the love of my life! Will you be my Valentine? XXX”

  “Aww, thanks, babe,” I said. “That’s really sweet, but didn’t we decide we weren’t going to exchange cards or presents? Remember rule seven: No gifts or mementoes.”

  “This isn’t a gift or a memento. It’s just a card. I thought you’d like it.” Sophia pouts.

  “I do. It’s really thoughtful. But now I’ve got two problems: I didn’t give you anything for Valentine’s Day, and where I am going to put this lovely card? I can’t take it home or put it on my desk at work.”

  “You’ve given me plenty already,” she said, and winked at me. “If I’m not mistaken, there are three condoms in that bag. You’ve made me very happy indeed.”

  “Not bad for an old man,” I said, feeling rather proud of myself.

  “You’ve still got it, stud. But I don’t see why you can’t have the card on your desk at work. You could pretend it’s from Tamsin. It’s not signed, so nobody will realise it’s actually from me.”

  “What if someone mentions it to her? ‘That’s a very romantic card you bought for your husband, Tamsin.’ Then I’d be in huge trouble.”

  “Fair enough. But at least you could keep it in your office drawer. Then it’d be hidden from prying eyes, and you could take it out whenever you want to be reminded of how crazy I am about you.” She smiled up at me, adoringly.

  I looked back at her, feeling uncomfortable.

  “Am I really the love of your life? I thought we were going to make sure we didn’t fall in love with each other. Rule fourteen, remember? Be honest, Soph. Are you falling in love with me?”

  She paused, for just a fraction of a second, before she burst out laughing.

  “You wish!”

  She spun me around by the shoulders, pointed me towar
ds the open door and gave me a resounding slap on the backside.

  “See you back at work, babe.”

  ◆◆◆

  Would it be weird if a man collected data for four consecutive years – and put it in a secret spreadsheet – to keep a record of every single activity of his connubial sex life? Maybe the spreadsheet would record who initiated the sex, the number of orgasms he and his wife had, the type of foreplay, the duration, the length of time since their previous sexual encounter, the day of the week, a score out of ten, and, most importantly, the position, chosen from the following options:

  Missionary

  Cowgirl

  Reverse cowgirl

  Rear entry

  Spooning

  Doggy-style

  69

  Anal

  Sitting

  Standing

  Cunnilingus

  Fellatio

  Hand job

  Would that be weird?

  ◆◆◆

  After I hear Charlie go upstairs and close her bedroom door, I return my attention to Tamsin’s laptop, and re-open the email window. First, I scour the in-box for anything suspicious. Predominantly the emails are work-related; also there are lots of adverts from clothes and shoe shops, plus the usual unsolicited promotions that have made it past the spam filter. After scanning back through six months of anodyne emails, I find a handful of slightly flirty ones to Tamsin from her worryingly handsome head-teacher: