Up next in our series of commissioned work from members of our community – ‘The Fix’, by Marin Scarlett. This short story is told from the point of view of a woman whose husband has seen sex workers, thinking about marriage, infidelity and stigma.
Diane gazed down at the photo, and her own face beaming back at her. Cheers to 30 years! announced the golden cake topper at the edge of the frame. Beside her, Mark wore the satisfied grin of a man who had gone all out for the occasion. She’d come downstairs that morning to find a bouquet of long stem red roses leaning against a gift-wrapped bottle of Bollinger. To my darling wife, gushed the pre-printed card. He’d even thought to sign it.
That was the before-times.
She hadn’t been trying to catch him out. The phone had simply been left on the dresser that evening, after the celebrations were over. She’d waved off their guests with carefully packed slices of white chocolate and raspberry sponge. Mark had just gone for his evening shower. She was taking off the earrings from that lovely Pandora set that he’d bought for her birthday, wondering if she would ever see those Tupperwares safely back in the cupboards, when the phone lit up with the unfamiliar name.
FROM: <yourdarlinglily@proton.me>
RE: Meeting next week?
She had never gone through his phone before. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. She trusted him. They were faithful to one another, she knew that. But she also knew the passcode. 2406: that very day’s date. Their wedding anniversary.
And as she scrolled through the emails, the realisation of what he’d been doing behind her back washed over her like stinking sea water. She couldn’t dispel the thought that inside her husband of thirty years was a stranger.
Thirty years. The funny thing was, she had spent almost the same amount of time swearing off the institution of marriage entirely. They all had, her little clique from university. They’d quoted the cautionary tales in Betty Friedan’s “Feminine Mystique” and attended “Reclaim the Night” marches and danced to Aretha Franklin. Some of them even had armpit hair. Not that she really went in for that.
But then she had met Mark, and he was charming, and she wanted to have a child, and it didn’t seem fair to saddle them with the stigma of illegitimacy for the sake of honouring her student ideals. Not to mention her own mother, who would have just about died of the shame. And so, when his hand disappeared into his pocket at dinner one night and re-emerged clutching the little burgundy box with gold trim, she had said yes.
She wanted to confront him that night. For a moment, she fantasised about bursting into the bathroom to tear back the shower curtain and expose him where he stood, naked and pink and vulnerable. But as quickly as it had reared its head, the vision slunk away.
Instead, she clicked the button marked “Reply”.
TO: <yourdarlinglily@proton.me>
RE: Meeting next week?
Can we meet this Monday instead?
Temples twitching from the hammering of her heart, she dragged her thumb down from the top of the phone screen. She watched the spinning pinwheel over and over, until –
FROM: <yourdarlinglily@proton.me>
RE: Meeting next week?
OK! Still 1pm? I’ll ask for Room 438 again.
She was shaking so much she could only muster a thumbs up in response. Then she deleted the messages and put the phone back on the dresser.
The squeak of the shower handle and the halt to the rushing sound of the water sent her scrambling into bed. She lay as far from her husband’s side as possible, balanced as though on a cliff edge. A towel rustled, dropped – he never hung it up – and the light switch snapped off. Her body stiffened like a corpse at the feeling of him climbing in beside her. As his unabashed snores began to fill the room, her mind seemed to tumble off, in freefall, while her body remained silent and rigid above.
She could never have prepared herself for the difficulties they would have conceiving. Sex between her and Mark, while never exactly electrifying, had always been enjoyable enough at the start. The five years that followed their wedding saw it slip down the rungs from pleasurable, to functional, to mechanical at best. The hormonal injections that supposedly primed her for conception put her in the mood for anything but. Bloated and miserable, she lay back and occupied her mind with desperate thoughts of the future while he pumped joylessly away.
Despite her elation at finally seeing two thin blue lines, pregnancy had offered little respite. She began every day with an urgent morning commute from the bed to the bathroom sink to retch up the stomach acid that had spent the night creeping up her oesophagus. Her so-called morning sickness extended through rocky afternoons and queasy evenings.
But then Jennifer had been born, and it had all been worth it, even if their married life had never quite recovered. But she was a mother now; that was her first calling. Mark understood that, of course he had. Hadn’t he?
It was Your Darling Lily’s fault, she realised suddenly. A sour taste rankled her mouth and she jerked upright in bed, sucking her teeth. Who was this woman, this homewrecker, who had a usual room where she met her husband? Her imagination ricocheted between scenarios of how she had done it; finagling her way into their marriage. Mark was a good man, she knew that, but he was only human. She could only imagine how Lily must dress. Maybe she had cosmetic surgery. She probably looked like one of those awful women on Instagram that she sometimes saw in the newspaper. But Mark was a good man. She had likely sold him on some sob story, about her family in Eastern Europe – Romania or Albania, one of those – who she needed to send money back to. She would have played on his compassionate streak. Mark was a good man. How else could she ever have said yes to that burgundy box with the gold trim?
The wind was at her back on Monday’s drive to the city centre, ushering her forward. She had identified the problem. How to fix it was clear. She breezed into the hotel lift – didn’t even need a keycard to reach the floor! – and stalked up to Room 438. Five knocks. Was that shave and a haircut? She almost laughed.
What she saw, when the door pulled back, snapped her smile shut like a switchblade.
Her hair was dark, for a start. It was only shoulder-length and didn’t look like extensions. Her black shoes and pale grey dress were straight out of a Reiss catalogue. Her soft pink lipstick and mascara weren’t overdone. She looked – Diane fought back a grimace – tasteful.
“Oh. Hello.” Crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. “Can I help you?”
That accent could have read the Six O’Clock News. Diane stared at her, deflated.
“I think you’ve got the wrong room?” she suggested politely.
“No.” Diane darted a foot over the threshold, in case she tried to slam the door. “No, I haven’t. Lily.” The name burst out of her mouth, somewhere between an address and an expletive.
The other woman froze. She stared down at the foot that blocked the door, and Diane felt a wave of relief to notice that she was wearing false eyelashes. Whore! she thought triumphantly.
A door opened somewhere down the corridor. Lily looked anxiously past her. “You’d better come in,” she said quietly.
Diane stalked past with her head up and let the other woman close the door behind her. They stood in heavy silence for a beat. Her skin prickled at the sudden intimacy of being ensconced in a hotel room with a stranger. The queen size bed to her left loomed large as she took in the room, its pillows plumped and unspoiled, white sheets crisp with high thread cotton. She looked away and focused on the cream carpet and immaculate skirting board. Someone had done a very thorough job with the cleaning.
“I don’t suppose you brought my fee?”
The question caught her off-guard. “Your what?”
The other woman folded her arms. “Well, you made a booking.”
Diane stared at her.
“So, I’ve put aside this time,” she continued. “I’ve paid the day rate on the hotel room out of my own pocket. Plus my train ticket here.”
“That…” Diane was perplexed. What was she talking about? “I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.
A wry smile flickered briefly on the other woman’s face. “I can imagine.”
Diane twitched her left arm, hoping her cashmere sleeve concealed the expensive watch that now seemed to burn into her wrist, furious at the flush she felt creeping up her neck. How dare she make her feel ashamed?
“You’re the one seeing my husband,” Diane hissed. She looked away for a moment, hoping that her gaze would return to find the other woman aghast and crumpling with shame.
“I advertised my services,” Lily said evenly. “But your husband would have had to go on the websites where I advertise. He would have had to look through the listings. He would have had to make the first contact.”
“Well,” Diane scoffed. “No, that’s…why do you…don’t you understand what you’re doing? You’re ruining people’s families. People’s lives. How dare you!” She felt a rush of triumph as the other woman’s composure faltered; hands clenching in culpability, the showy lashes casting shadows over her eyes as she looked down at the floor. “That’s my husband. Do you understand? We’ve been married since before you were even…why would you do this…this…this?”
Lily smoothed the front of her dress and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” She looked up. “Truly. I’m sorry that he did this to you.”
Diane felt her jaw drop. Her mouth flapped like a dying fish.
“This is my work,” the other woman continued “and I would never have seen your husband if he hadn’t booked me.”
Rage lifted her arm like a puppeteer. She pointed a shaking finger at Lily. “You don’t see him again. You hear me?”
The other woman stared back at her evenly.
“You don’t see him again,” Diane repeated.
“You think that’ll fix it?” Was that pity, in her voice?
“You…” The word hissed like steam out of a kettle. “You stay away.”
Lily shifted her weight between her feet, swaying ever so slightly like a reed in the breeze. She looked directly at Diane. “I won’t see him again.” Her lips twitched as though she had more to say, but she seemed to think better of it.
Diane spun towards the door. She couldn’t bear how the other woman looked at her. The heat of her gaze followed her like a searchlight as she yanked the handle. Down the corridor and into the lift and through the lobby and back to her car, safe from its burn behind a shield of tinted windows. She tugged at her cashmere collar to let the stale air provide some relief.
She couldn’t remember putting the keys into the ignition, but there they were, swinging like a metronome. Watching them, her heart slowed. In the space of some dozen stilled heartbeats, she imagined pulling out and driving off somewhere. Anywhere. Seeing how far she could get, before he realised. Her seatbelt slid serenely across her body as she thought about ignoring his calls. Letting him simmer. Making him bow and scrape.
Waaaaaahh-ooooh!
The passing wail from the ambulance jolted her like a cattle prod. God, what was the time? What if Mark had decided to leave work early? Her mouth went dry as she imagined trying to explain where she’d been. What she’d been doing. She wrenched the keys and fled the reverie like the scene of a crime.
The paved asphalt driveway adjoining their home was empty. Of course it was; the dashboard clock had barely ticked past 2pm. Not even past a respectable time to eat lunch. The car door pushed back against her as she climbed out. He wouldn’t be home for hours yet.
The front door sighed open. Diane’s eyes fell on the shoes disorderly on the rack, dust snuck onto the skirting board. She edged past into the kitchen and fought paroxysms of shame at the sight of their best crockery still piled high in the sink after Saturday night’s celebrations. Retrieving her apron from its hook, she flung the keys she hadn’t realised she was still clutching onto the table. From the cupboard under the sink, she pulled out dusters, antibacterial wipes, glass cleaner, degreaser and bleach, lining up the supplies like an arsenal. That hotel room had been pristine. She pulled the cordless hoover from its wall mount and brandished it like a fencer’s sword.
It wasn’t for another four hours that the tremors in her legs forced her into an armchair. She slumped back against the headrest. On the side table, biscuits that had been carefully arranged on one of their freshly-washed best plates swam in and out of focus. She closed her brittle blue eyes, feeling the tears slide towards the grey hairs creeping at her temple. That Fortnum and Mason hamper had been one of their anniversary gifts. Teeth drove into her lip. She shoved something carelessly into her mouth. The bitter dark chocolate slid and stuck about her mouth like tar. She should really make biscuits from scratch.
Mark didn’t seem to notice anything different when he walked in that evening.
She still kept the house pristine, in the days and weeks afterwards. She booked into the salon to touch up her roots. She visited the weekend farmers’ market and made sure to cook his favourite meals. She watched what time he left for work and what time he came home. The look on his face when he read the morning newspaper. The programmes he preferred on their evenings in front of the television. She kept a running tally of even his smallest shows of affection. That cup of tea that he made her on Sunday morning when she returned from the weekly shop. The hand that lingered on the small of her back as she put the dishes in the sink to soak. The Le Creuset oven dish that he bought her for her birthday, and the compliments he paid to the potatoes she roasted in it. Every gesture was recorded in a swelling column of evidence to support his renewed fidelity. That she had made the right choice some three decades ago. It had been a blip. Who didn’t have those, in thirty years of marriage? No need to linger on it, now that everything was back on track.
“Are you OK, Mum?” Jennifer had been asking her that a lot lately.
“Of course, of course I am.” Her laugh tinkled like sleigh bells.
“You’ve just been calling a lot. Which is fine,” her daughter added quickly. “I just wanted to check before – I have to go in a sec.”
“Go?”
“There’s a birthday party for Harriet from work. I told you about it?”
“Of course, darling.” Another party. Diane used to go to parties.
“The District line isn’t running so I need to leave a bit early.”
“Wonderful. That’s wonderful.” Jennifer had so many friends. And she was doing so well in her first graduate job in the city. It had all been worth it.
She didn’t check his phone again, until she just couldn’t stand it any longer.
His new screensaver background gave her a jolt. Strange to think how recent it was, when they celebrated three decades strong. Beaming for the photo, not knowing that her whole life was about to be cleaved apart like the cake they’d served out to their guests.
She never had gotten any of those Tupperwares back.
It was a relief when their smiling faces disappeared as she clicked the email icon. Slowly, she typed Lily’s address into the search bar.
He had emailed her a few times, asking to meet, Diane held her breath as she checked – it seemed that she hadn’t replied. True to her word, she thought. Probably a novelty for her! She snorted slightly as she exhaled. She knew she had done the right thing. You think that’ll fix it? Her lip curled.
Her index finger hovered over the sent button. Lily was the problem. Was there any real need to check? She was sure there wasn’t. There wasn’t. There wasn’t.
TO: <theviolettelass@proton.me>
Meeting this Saturday?
Dear Violette
I’m a man in my 40s, white, fit, clean, look after myself etc.
But enough about me, much more interested to learn about you 😉
Might you be free this Saturday afternoon at 4pm for 90 minutes? Possibly with a view to extending. Let me know if you are free. I would also need you to reserve the incall.
Eagerly awaiting your reply!
Diane looked up from the phone to the trifold mirror that perched on the dresser. Was that a smudge in the top left corner, still? She’d have to try baking soda with vinegar.