At First We Practice to… Blackmail

by Vandemonium1

I think I’ve said this before, but I sometimes get my inspiration from reading the stories of others and spotting a crossroad where the story could go in quite a different direction to that chosen by the author. I unashamedly stand on the shoulders of the authors who have come before me.

Thanks to Nandan for their significant contribution to the concept of this story. Also, to XTCH for proofreading. No matter how often you read your own stuff, mistakes can still slip through. But, of course, thanks mainly to CreativityTakesCourage for vainly hammering away at my grammar.

Some commenters have noted on my previous office infidelity stories, that shit like that has almost been eradicated in the US. At the risk of repeating myself, I don’t live in the US, so don’t judge it by those standards.

Once again, this is FICTION. It doesn’t need to be realistic and commenters writing essays pointing out what would have happened in real life are probably wasting their time.

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It’s a cliché I know, but I really had felt my jaw drop at Michael’s last statement.

“You know, Sarah, this doesn’t have to change anything.”

The sheer incongruity between his actions and that statement just stunned me. He smiled as he watched the shock that must have been on my face. When it did come, my reply was pure reflex.

“Let me get this straight. You march in here, a day after I tell you our affair has to stop, and show me some sordid photos you’ve taken of us. Then, not only demand you get the promotion but insist we keep seeing each other? If I don’t agree to both of those, you’ll send the photos anonymously to my husband.”

“Spot on, Lover.”

“But, Michael, I thought we meant more to each other than that.”

“Oh come on, Sarah. That was just you justifying your cheating to yourself. You told me yesterday that you loved your husband more than me and that was why you were breaking off with me. We were never going anywhere, Sarah. By the way, I noticed you didn’t tell me to go to hell until after we’d had sex.”

I digested all this. I realised I could live with half of his demands; the promotion part. However, now that I knew what a sociopathic rat he was, the thought of continuing to have sex with him made me nauseous. I would do anything to avoid that choice. I recognised the photographs as being from one of our early meetings, possibly the first. I realised the only reason I hadn’t been confronted with them before was that I’d voluntarily kept going back for more.

“You’re forgetting one small detail, Michael. If you send those photos to my husband, he will come after you.”

“Bullshit, Sarah. You’ve spent the last four months telling me how gentle and mild mannered your husband is. Besides, you will notice that none of these photos show my face, just yours. Who will he come after?”

“Let me see those.” I reached out to grab them. He snatched them away.

“Do I look stupid, Sarah? I’m not letting you touch these. Do you think I want you to threaten to show them to my wife? They may not show my face but I’m sure she will recognise me.”

“Well, if you send them to him, I will just tell him the man in the photos is you. He could come after you.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take, Sarah. See, I’m bold, I’m smart and my figures are at least as good as the other three going for that promotion. Where’s the harm in just going along with what I want?”

“Yes, you do deserve that promotion, Michael. Even without our… relationship. But, tell me, how am I supposed to make love to you now that you’re blackmailing me?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sarah. I’m still the owner of that beautiful cock you told me you loved. The one you said was better than your husband’s. Frankly, I’m not sure it will work for me either, but I intend finding out. In fact, I insist on finding out the day after tomorrow. You can make the excuses and the arrangements.”

“But my husband will be in town Thursday. You know I only meet you when he’s out of town.”

“Well, that’s another thing that will change. Make it happen. It doesn’t have to be in your house, in your bed again. I know you hate that.”

“Where will your wife be Thursday, Michael?”

“She’s away all week, but don’t even think about doing it at my place. I respect her too much to do that to her.”

After that smack in the face, he left, leaving me to slump into my office chair. I couldn’t believe that I’d been taken in by that asshole. How had it come to this mess?

It had been common knowledge for a while that one of my direct reports was retiring at the end of the year. I’d quietly let his subordinates know that their performance before then would influence which of them got the job.

I don’t know whether it was the fact I was so busy, or simply middle-aged naivety, that the alarms didn’t sound loud and clear when Michael, one of those contenders, started coming on to me. At first, it was slightly irritating, but slowly things changed. The boss me was subtly pushed aside as the woman me fell under his spell. I’ll admit it. The thought of a virile, fit man, fifteen years my junior showing interest in me sexually, bypassed my brain and appealed straight to my libido.

I looked down at the body that had finally succumbed to weeks of flattery and attention. I saw the padding that was typical of a fifty-one-year-old woman. I saw the slight bulge of the tummy, typical of a mother of three children, now gone and living lives of their own. I remembered the face I’d seen in the mirror this morning. A face that was only just starting to look its age, complete with laugh lines and the other ravishes of time.

In the end, the guilt of betraying my husband hadn’t been the impediment I thought it might have been when I decided to begin my first extramarital affair. After our first encounter, guilt still wasn’t a major factor. In fact, all other issues were soon blown away as the thrill of my new experience swamped all other considerations. Michael was everything a mid-thirties male should be. Strong, dominant, and with plenty of staying power. Lust had started my betrayal and the pure rejoicing of my ego continued it. The fact he was attentive to my needs, easy on the eye, and endowed better than most men, ensured that the affair lasted as long as it did. Let’s face it; he got inside me once or twice a week and took me to heaven and back. Whether it was at the Hilton or the Sheraton, when it was the second meeting in a week, or the two times in my office after hours, I loved every screaming, orgasmic episode. I was glad Michael had excluded my house in the future. We’d only been there once, when Dave was away, and the disrespect I felt at doing it in Dave’s bed had ensured an extremely unenjoyable experience. I’d vowed never again.

However, as the emotional and physical thrill faded, it was guilt that made me call a stop to it. Guilt from an extremely unexpected quarter. No, it wasn’t the fear of destroying Michael’s marriage. His wife was away every second week and I was assured of Michael’s discretion. No, it wasn’t the twinges my professional ethics gave me knowing Michael had wormed his way into certain promotion. It wasn’t the fear of being caught by my husband, even though it was related to that. No. It was the sheer ease with which I hid things from my soulmate that got me in the end. I never thought my husband would ever discover my betrayal because he was so easy to fool. He travelled frequently and randomly, as part of running his own business. That, allied with the fact, he loved and trusted me so unconditionally, meant he would never suspect I would do such a thing and was thus totally blind to my activities.  

After four months, it was this puppy dog trust my husband had in me that killed my conscience. The fact he was so easy to fool made a mockery of the elaborate precautions my intelligence insisted I took. The betrayal of that trust was killing me and the love and respect I had for him. In the end my decision was made three days ago. I was lying in bed trying to allay my conscience enough to go to sleep. One of my techniques to encourage sleep was to imagine lying in post coital bliss folded in the arms of my husband. That technique was only necessary when he was away, like then. When he was home, I had the real thing and no imagination was necessary. I remembered the last time I’d collapsed sweating into his waiting embrace. Or tried to.

Any thoughts of sleep evaporated as I frantically tried to remember when it had been. Surly it wasn’t that time, two weeks after the start of my affair was it? Shit, it was. He’d taken me out for our anniversary. He’d wined me, dined me, and in the end, plain seduced me. There was only one way the evening could end. The supressed memory of the night shot arrows into my soul. Despite him being as loving and considerate as normal, he’d basically failed to excite me. I’d tried thinking of Michael, but even that failed. In the end, I did something I’d never done or expected to do. I faked an orgasm. With his pride satisfied, my husband had let himself go and wrapped me in his arms. Sleep had eluded me in my confusion.

For the next months, I’d gently rebuffed his amorous advances with excuses of hormones and work stress. Considerate and trusting man that he was, he’d gently let me know he was available when I was ready and left me alone. I knew I had to regain what I used to have with this remarkable man. 

That was the last straw. Yesterday after an enjoyable final session with Michael, I’d regretfully, but forcibly, broken the news to him. After some heartfelt pleading, he accepted his fate. Or so I thought. Today’s confrontation destroyed yet another delusion.

After Michael’s departure from my office and my reminiscing, I settled down to some serious planning. I basically had four choices. Give in to Michael, give him his promotion and hope like hell he tired of me sexually. The latter could be encouraged by simply letting him know he no longer did it for me. The archetypal lying there quietly while he did his business. This was risk free but now I knew his true nature, completely abhorrent to me.

Secondly, I could confess to my husband. This triggered an odd reaction in me. I was so sure he would never discover my betrayal I’d never given a second’s thought to what his reaction would be. I forced myself to think now. Instinct told me he was almost certain to forgive me but there was enough doubt it wasn’t a serious option until I’d explored every other possibility. I knew instinctively that even when he forgave me, things would never be exactly the same again. I now craved what we used to have.

Thirdly, I could call Michael’s bluff. Guarantee his promotion; even announce it; but say no to continued sex. Not risk free in any sense of the phrase. Or, I could threaten to expose him to his wife. Even without evidence, I’m sure I could convince her. No. That was no good. Too much chance of word getting back to my husband.

That left the last possibility. Find those photos and either destroy them or use them in a counter blackmail to maintain Michael’s silence. With the logic that had served me well in my business career, I reviewed my options and made my decision.  I didn’t think he would risk taking hard or even electronic copies of the photos to his marital home. That meant they were still here, in his desk and/or still on his computer.

My next problem was how to gain access to his desktop. I could use computers but was by no means an expert. I did know even deleted files could be retrieved if you had the knowhow. With no choice, I rang the company IT guy and asked him to come and see me. Five minutes later he arrived. If there was ever a stereotype for an IT guy, this was it. Late twenties, scruffy, glasses, socially awkward with no apparent professional friends. Shit, I bet he even still lived at home with his mum. Before he arrived, I came up with a plan to minimise the chances of him becoming privy to my secrets. I relied on his naivety.

I swore him to secrecy, then told him Michael was suspected of taking photos of confidential company equipment. I asked him if he could stay after work, access Michael’s computer, then isolate any photographs he found without looking at them, so I could delete them. Seemingly happy at the trust and the challenge, he readily agreed. I met him at Michael’s desk when everyone else had gone home. Using his super-user status, our geek quickly isolated seventeen video files and two hundred and twelve photographs for me. As promised, he then left me to look through them. I gave him a sweet smile of thanks. As he was leaving he asked me if it was possible that any of the photos could have been printed. Distractedly, I answered yes.

Once he was clear and working on his laptop on the other side of the room, I got to work. Half an hour later, I’d identified one video clip and twelve photos featuring me. I copied those to a memory stick and deleted them from Michael’s desktop. I then forced the cheap desk lock and went through Michael’s drawers. Sure enough, there were the photos in an envelope. After telling the IT guy to make sure Michael’s deleted files were truly deleted, I shredded the photos.

Ten minutes later he announced the job was done. In my relief, I gave him a hug and my profuse thanks. As I turned away, he spoke.

“You know, you’re one hot lady.”

I turned, stunned. He was holding a piece of paper. As I looked, he turned it over. It was one of Michael’s photos.

“Where did you get that?”

“Didn’t you know that all files sent to a printer get saved to that printer’s memory?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

He just grinned.

“What do you want?”

He kept grinning, reached down and unzipped his fly. I was shocked but recovered to quickly review my options. Slipping into business mode helped remove the revulsion that would otherwise have stopped me assessing all options impartially. Of course, I only had one. One small hurdle and my only risk free option with Michael was intact. Time to negotiate.

“If I do this, what guarantee do I have you won’t keep coming back for more?”

“Clever lady. This is the only printout and Michael’s computer is clean. How about you watch me delete the printer memory, then we put this photo on that desk over there. After you do me a favour, you can shred the last remaining evidence. Come on, lady. All I want is a blowjob. I’m saving my virginity until I get married.”

I looked into eyes that were twinkling with mischief. I realised I’d greatly misjudged this guy’s naivety. He’d guessed exactly what opinion I had of his nature and was throwing it back in my face. I knew I had no choice.

“Okay, but not here. In my office.”

He placed the photo on the indicated desk and followed me into my office. I sank reluctantly to my knees and took his sweaty, smelly penis in my mouth. Luckily, a healthy premarital social life, twenty-five years of marriage and a four month affair had honed my skills to the point I could guarantee this wouldn’t last long. To distract myself from the shame of what I was doing, I thought what had led to this. How could I have gone from the perfect wife to blowing this strange nerd in so short a time? How could I have been so naïve as to be fooled for four months by a gold digging asshole like Michael? The tears flowed freely. I did such a good job of distracting myself, compartmentalising this degrading thing, that I missed all the signals. Before I knew it, he had a handful of my hair and was pushing my face into his groin. Judging by the noises he was making he was satisfied by my performance. He unloaded in my mouth and kept me trapped until well after he was finished. Finally, I found the strength to pull away and vomit into my bin. After multiple heaves, I looked up to find I was now in an empty room. In panic, I ran into the main office. There was the photo, thank god. I shredded it, then went to clean my office. Even brushing my teeth for fifteen minutes wasn’t going to get that taste out of my mouth.

When I settled down, I consoled myself by making a very pleasant phone call. Old habits die hard, so I used my desk phone to call Michael’s landline. We’d never used our cells in the whole four months of our affair. As soon as he picked up, I launched into my speech.

“Hey, asshole, Thursday is off. I got the photos from your bottom drawer; I’ve deleted them from your hard drive and permanently erased your deleted items. I’ve even erased the printer memory so suck shit, creep.”

I hung up before he could respond Picking up takeaways on the way home to my lonely house, I spent the evening watching some mindless shows until I managed to bury deep the memory of tonight’s events. Still, sleep was a long time coming.

Michael was at his desk when I got to work on Tuesday. I smirked at him as I passed. Surprisingly, he smirked right back. Then he reached into his drawer and retrieved an envelope. I paused long enough for him to reach in the envelope and expose a half piece of paper that was clearly a photograph. He then mouthed, ‘Tomorrow’, at me and returned the envelope to his drawer. I don’t know if it was shock, or the memory of that damned blowjob that made me puke my breakfast into the bin.

I spent the whole day in my office plotting and scheming. It turned out to be time well spent. With only three options remaining, I was spurred to ingenuity. By 2:00p.m. I had option five, a modification of option one. I called Michael into my office. The success of this depended on me convincing him he’d won.

“Michael, please, for the sake of everything we once had, if I promise to announce the promotion next week, will you let me off the sex thing?”

I watched the greed flit across his eyes. He had half of what he wanted but that wasn’t enough. He wanted the lot and he knew it was within his grasp.

“Aw shucks, honey, you wouldn’t rob me of your sweet honeypot would you?”

“Okay, Michael, you leave me with no choice. If you can’t guarantee this will ever end and intend holding those photos over my head forever, then I have nothing to lose by calling your bluff right now.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Tomorrow won’t happen. It will never happen.”

He looked genuinely disappointed.

“But, Sarah, I love our times together.”

He looked so crestfallen I had to modify my opinion of his motives.

“Okay, Michael, how about a deal? We keep meeting until the promotion is announced next month. Then we have one final fling and kiss each other goodbye. You hand over the photos and we go back to being co-workers. Okay? But we have to go back to only meeting when my husband is away.”

The puppy dog look he gave me was pathetic. I had to work hard to mask my contempt.

“Can we still do tomorrow though?”

I quickly analysed risk and reward. Slightly elevated risk of being caught by my husband, as he was back in town tonight. Zero chance of being caught by his wife. Balanced by the reward of this all being finished by close of business tomorrow.

“Yes, okay. I’ll book us a room in the motel across the street, that way our cars won’t be seen anywhere strange.  I’ll tell reception I have an offsite meeting and leave at ten past two, after ringing to make sure my husband is at work. You ring your wife at quarter past to make sure she’s still out of town, take your cell and leave at two-thirty.”

“Right, see you later.”

He left. Shit, if he’d had a tail it would have been wagging. I used my seniority to leave early. I got home just in time to shower before meeting my husband, my poor neglected spouse, at the door. As usual, when he’d been away for a week, he’d dropped by my office on his way back from the airport, but, of course, I wasn’t there. I was so rattled that I’d forgotten that. Once upon a time, his dropping in had been almost a weekly occurrence. When I was promoted to division manager, I’d reluctantly asked him to cut down on it. I didn’t think it set a good example for my subordinates. His popularity and easy going nature ensured at least a half hours’ distraction from my busy crew.

Despite his tiredness from the trip, I dragged him to the bedroom and ravished him. I struggled to get off just the once but instinctively knew I couldn’t expect normality until Michael was a thing of the past. I made sure to blow him and relaxed my habit of recent years by swallowing. That finally got Mr. Nerd’s taste to disappear, but damned near triggered a memorial puke. Despite my continued sexual need, I was one emotionally satisfied woman. Wrapped in his arms, we slept through dinner time. Just before I fell asleep, he whispered in my ear.

“It’s good to see your hormones have settled down.”

God, I loved this wonderfully naïve man.

I made sure we had time for a repeat performance in the morning. I forwent my usual shower. Michael was going to get the whole sweaty, sloppy seconds experience today.

The day dragged until it was time to leave. I rang hubby on his office line and told him I’d just rung to tell him I loved him. He reciprocated and said he was looking forward to more playing catch-up tonight. I made a mental note to buy some douches on the way home. Once out of the office door, I realised one small flaw in my plan. Sure, we’d covered all bases with our spouses, but the target motel was in plain sight of our office windows. To throw off the scent, I took the long way there. This had the advantage that I could go via a pharmacy for those douches. I still got there five minutes before Michael. Plenty time enough to use the express check-in and set up the camera I’d brought.

When Michael arrived, I let him take the lead. He quickly had me stripped. With my delusions gone, I now recognised what I’d taken as youthful enthusiasm before for what it was; impatience. I knew I was as dry as a bone so pushed him away when he tried to mount me. I forced his head into my groin. It was so hot, as he lapped at my husband’s stale leftovers, that I deeply regretted not having done this sloppy seconds thing before. It took all my effort to keep my face blank as he tried to get me off. My plan called for me to play the reluctant participant. If the worst came to the worst, I could always claim I’d been blackmailed into being here. Well, that was kind of true wasn’t it?

There followed much grunting and groaning on Michael’s part and some discomfort on mine. My wetness from the excitement of Michael’s unknowing degradation dried up after two minutes of him grinding away. I knew he was being put off by my lack of activity. I could have ended it sooner by responding to him but that would have spoilt the plan. I grinned and bore it. Or should I say, scowled and bore it?

I woke with a start at 5:10p.m. It was common for Michael to sleep after our meetings, but my sleepless nights had caught up on me as well. Still, it wasn’t a disaster. I could still clean up and be home before my husband. I wrapped the doona around myself and reminded Michael to be vigilant leaving. In the stupor of those freshly awoken from an afternoon nap, he dressed, and then, to my dismay, opened the door and stepped straight out. As I was heading towards the shower, I heard unusual noises from outside. Hiding behind the door, I opened the curtains a crack. There was Michael, looking very sheepish, with half the employees from the office standing in the carpark applauding. With relief, I didn’t recognise anyone from the senior staff, but did see two of the other three contenders for his promotion and they didn’t look anywhere near as happy as the rest. When they saw the curtains twitch, the applause redoubled in effort. I assured myself they couldn’t possibly know who was still in the room. I’d taken a circuitous route to get there. Michael-the-dickhead had probably walked in a straight line from the office; In plain sight of any observer the whole way. I was seriously starting to worry about the effect all this stress was having on my health. I’m sure when I looked in the mirror I’d visibly aged in the last few days.

I forced my panic down. What was the worst that could happen? They could deduce it was me and someone could report me for inappropriate behaviour. That would be the end of my career. I made a mental note to type up a resignation letter in case it came to that. Being fired would lead to unwelcome husbandly questions. One thing was for sure, Michael couldn’t get that promotion now. That triggered me remembering the camera. I retrieved it and turned it off. I would see if eyebrows were raised in the office tomorrow, and if they were, subtly let the other contenders know the race was definitely still on.

With a good plan, and back-up contingencies in place, I had a thorough shower, douched, and got dressed. Cracking the curtains again to make sure the coast was clear, I carefully opened the door and scanned the area again. Satisfied, I hurried by the quickest route to my car. The car that was sitting on its own in the now nearly empty carpark. My car that should have been at some offsite meeting. As I drove home, I mentally composed my resignation letter.

As promised, I didn’t resist as hubby dragged me off to the bedroom as soon as he came home. I was so busy contingency planning in my head I have only hazy recollections of what happened. I suspect, I just laid there, ironically, just like I’d intentionally done with Michael this afternoon. Later, I lay awake trying to piece it together. I think my husband must have gone down on me as I had a hazy memory of almost snapping out of my reverie as he tried to put a finger in my dry vagina. All I know for certain was he wasn’t there when I snapped out of it. I put a dressing gown on and went downstairs. Any worry he wasn’t there was dispelled when he arrived back with dinner. I gave him a huge hug to avoid looking him in the eye and apologised that a work distraction had spoiled his evening. He forgave me.

Claiming exhaustion, I went to bed early. When I heard my partner’s soft snores, I snuck out and grabbed my camera. I captured five stills from the video and saved them to a memory stick. I printed them and took them and the stick to my car. Returning to bed, I spent at least the next two hours plotting, until exhaustion took me. Before finally succumbing, I desperately tried to remember any of the pleasure I’d gotten from my affair with Michael, to offset the anguish and terror I was feeling now. Frustratingly, I couldn’t.

Consequently, I was very tired, even as I steeled myself to walk in the office the next morning. The only way I could face the day at all was to repeat to myself, ‘They think it was you, but they can’t be sure’. As expected, the office was one big smirk as I walked in. I put the photos and sticks in my drawer but stayed in my domain with the door open until I saw Michael heading for the coffee room. Grabbing the envelope, I followed him in. Facing away from the door I pulled the prints out and showed him two. His face fell as he digested what he saw. Man, did I look that stupid on Tuesday? Before he could recover, I launched into my prepared speech.

“Now listen, prick, this is how life is now. If we don’t handle this properly, both our jobs are toast. You’re going to feel some heat today and you can kiss that promotion goodbye right now. Go along with everything you hear today and you should not only keep your job but your marriage as well. Monday, after the heat has died down, I expect you to stay late and put any photos and electronic copies in my desk drawer. If you do that, then Tuesday after work, you will find my photos and a memory stick in that same drawer. Be a good boy and this could all be over by Wednesday. We’ll just write it off as a very bad experience, shall we?”

I stared at him until he nodded. I noticed his eyes were watering up. What did I ever see in this wimp?

I waited till just after lunch, when several people had been in my office, before calling Michael’s line manager in. I told him I had enough evidence that Michael Beaumont had bunked off in company time yesterday to censure him and requested he write him up. I gave him an hour to do that, then called a departmental staff meeting. It took all my courage and acting skills to blast the whole department. I told them of my disappointment that during my meeting of the previous afternoon, the one that our client had picked me up for, a member of staff had used the opportunity to carry on a sordid liaison in the motel across the street. I was proud of the passion in my voice when I told them that such behaviour wouldn’t be tolerated and there were now only three contenders for next month’s promotion. I tried to look in everyone’s eyes before they left, to see if my gamble was going to work. I certainly didn’t see any more smirks.

Physically and emotionally exhausted, I gave myself an early minute and went home after stashing my evidence in the car again. Thankfully, I made it through cooking hubby a lovely meal before falling asleep on the couch. Waking up after midnight, I climbed the stairs and woke my darling in his favourite way. Not only to assuage my own conscience but to distract him from asking embarrassing questions about my recent chaotic behaviour. I got my cuddle out of it.

There followed an extremely enjoyable weekend. Sex for breakfast. A picnic by the river followed by sex. A movie, followed by sex. Sex for breakfast again. Well, you get the picture. The sex was every bit as good as it used to be but better was being wrapped in those huge, sweaty arms afterwards. After our session Sunday morning, the man of my dreams told me he’d received an offer to buy his company. For $12M. He could close the deal in as little as a month if I was on board. I was stupefied. I had no idea he had grown the business that big. All of a sudden, the roughly $70,000 I’d squirrelled away from fifteen years of bonuses seemed absolutely insignificant. I had been so looking forward to springing that on him as my contribution to our early retirement, which I’d thought was at least ten years away. The only amounts I ever spent from that account was when I’d written cheques against that account for hotels with Michael. As the boss, and with a higher salary, I’d felt obliged to pay for the room at the normally swanky hotels we’d used. Plus, I was smart enough to know that with me paying, dopey Michael wouldn’t accidentally leave a paper trail for his wife to find. The receipts for the rooms, champagne, and dinners, were still in my office drawer with the statements.

The next two hours passed with squeals of joy, like two kids let loose in a candy store. Cruises were planned, ski chalets were purchased, a Caribbean love nest was acquired, and the globe was circumnavigated. We broke with tradition and had sex before lunch. Then after lunch as well. I hadn’t been this sore since our honeymoon. We were still in bed when the kids rang, one after the other for their usual Sunday afternoon check-ins.

Monday was, thankfully, still smirk free. I just couldn’t help telling everyone my good news. Reality only struck when it was time to go home. I walked through the office, waited until Michael made eye contact, then secretly nodded to my open office door. It was with only mild trepidation that I opened my office drawer on Tuesday morning. There was the envelope and memory stick I was almost certain would be there. I found it distasteful to look at the photos to check them. Once assured they were all there, I took great delight in shredding them. The stick, I slipped into my pocket for later deleting and disposing of at home. At lunch time I went to my car and retrieved my photos and stick from under the carpet in the trunk. True to my word, I put them in my desk drawer. As an afterthought, I hand wrote a note to place with them. I formally wrote on the envelope, ‘Mr. Michael Beaumont’.

Michael

I sold my soul to have my one and only affair with you. I thought we meant something to each other. If you’d just taken my request to break off with good grace, I would have taken fond memories of you into my old age. The fact you abused my trust by taking photos of us having sex, then used them to blackmail me into continuing with you, was a massive abuse of my trust. I will never forgive you for making me further tarnish my soul by threatening you with the enclosed photos.

These are the only copies in existence and I have held up my end of the bargain. If you don’t hold up your end and hand over every shred of evidence you have, I will destroy you and to hell with the consequences. 

Sarah

The heads of department meeting that afternoon lasted until almost 5:30. Partially because I gave my months’ notice. The office was empty when I went to get my bag. Almost as an afterthought, I checked my drawer. The envelope and stick were gone. I sent a prayer of thanks to any god that might have been listening. I was safe. My husband was still madly in love and lust with me. We were a month away from living a life of luxury and glamour. However, best of all, my last month of work could be spent in dignity and relaxation.

When I got into the office, Wednesday, and sat in my chair, I noted with annoyance someone had adjusted it. I had one of those chairs that have three different adjustments and I liked it a certain way. Someone had adjusted the height and the tilt. As I was adjusting it back, Michael strode into my office and shut the door behind him firmly.

“All right, Sarah, what the fuck is going on? I thought we had a deal?”

“We did. What happened?”

“You know very well what happened. You left the stick there but there were no photos. Where the fuck are they, Sarah?”

He looked at the confused expression on my face. It must have been convincing as he sank into a chair with a “Fuck no.” I felt exactly the same. Would this nightmare never cease?

I’m sure we both had racing hearts as we discussed the possibility of a third party having some very damaging photographs. I quizzed him on who’d been in the office after I left yesterday to go upstairs. Before he could reply, we were interrupted by my phone. We didn’t get a chance to talk for the rest of the day. I was worried all day and all night a home. I wasn’t accustomed to not being in control. Luckily, with due diligence investigations in full swing, my husband was flat-out at work. Due diligence financial and technical auditors, I knew, like to fly in for as few days as possible and fill each day to overflowing.  Another bloody sleepless night.

In lieu of sleep, I compiled a mental list of who could have taken the photographs. First on the list was Michael. It wasn’t impossible it was him, so he had to be on the list. Only now did I think of my foolishness for giving him more blackmail material. What was his motive? Not promotion, surely, and if it were for more sex, he would have said today. Was it pure spite? Had he already sent them to my better half? Only time would tell on that one.

Next on the list were my line managers. They knew my job was up for grabs and had probably guessed the CEO would be asking for my recommendations on a replacement. I’d already given it, but they didn’t know that.

The next obvious group were the three remaining contenders for the upcoming line management role. With my imminent departure, there would be two line manager vacancies. Surely, with those odds, none of them would risk something underhand, would they?

That left, well, everyone else in the office. If just one observant person had seen me going to that motel room they would know I had big things to hide. Sure, I was leaving soon, but they would know my post departure reputation was worth a great deal to me.

A chilling thought struck me. Please, let it not be that creepy IT guy. At that thought, I’d swear I could taste his rank cock again, and I had to fight the urge to puke. 

Well, that was the list. Now what was the plan? That, at least, was easy. I would line up one-on-one interviews with the line managers and the contenders, ostensibly to allow them to pitch to me on why they should be promoted. If it was one of them, then surely they would use the private time to lay their cards on the table. If I taped all the interviews, and one of them played their hand, it was all over. Their handing over the photographs would guarantee my tape didn’t go to the police. That was a bluff, but they didn’t know that. The police led to my husband.

Talking of my husband, I was almost asleep when he came in and straight to bed. I cuddled his back to let him know I was still awake. He rolled over and enveloped me in his arms. That was the point I knew everything was going to be all right.

First thing next day, I sent out emails to all concerned with a timetable of interviews and what they were about, apologising for the short notice. I had just finished my second one at 11:00 a.m., and was having a coffee, when the receptionist delivered an express mail envelope. Coffee forgotten, I went back to my office and tore it open. Inside was one of the five photos I’d culled from my motel video. On the back was typed, ‘This is a freebie, just so you take us seriously. The next one will cost $20,000. Have that amount ready, in cash, by next Monday at 10AM. If you talk to Michael Beaumont about this, or go to the police, the rest of the photographs will be sent to your husband’s office.’

So it wasn’t about promotion at all. It was good, old-fashioned avarice. I assessed my options. That didn’t take long. Then I reassessed my list of potential blackmailers, which had just got much bigger. With money as the motive, one candidate started to stand out. The retiring line manager. I’d beaten him to my job. Could he be harbouring some resentment and want to sweeten his retirement? Before my next interview, I stopped by his office and invited him to have lunch with me to reminisce about old times. Back in my office, I tried to bring my blood pressure under control. Shoot, at this rate, I wouldn’t make the end of the month. I would pop a cork for sure.

I was committed to completing the rest of the interviews. As expected, nothing but earnest self-aggrandisement occurred. Lunch would have been pleasant if I wasn’t trying to second guess my companion. In between interviews, I tried to look into as many eyes as possible but nothing and nobody jumped out at me. By the end of the day, I was as clueless as the morning. Except for one of the contenders, out on a sales trip today, I’d seen everyone.

 Friday was the announcement of my replacement. We had a celebratory morning tea, then I started showing him his duties. With no other choice, I did slip out briefly to withdraw twenty grand from my secret account. God, that hurt.

Both hubby and I were mentally exhausted after a tough week, so it was a quiet weekend. We just slept late and I cuddled him often. Lying in bed on Sunday morning, it suddenly struck me how isolated I was. When I rejoined the workforce, I’d let all of my motherly friendships lapse to concentrate on my career. At work, I couldn’t befriend my bosses or subordinates. That wasn’t the done thing. I’d always kept my peers at arm’s length. They were rivals, after all. Obviously, Michael was no longer a confidante. I didn’t ever consider turning to my children for comfort. The thought of their opinion of me taking a nose dive if they ever even suspected what I’d done to their father, ruled that right out. That left my husband. For the past few years he’d been the anchor to my sanity, my best friend, and my life support system. Now, because of one major lapse of judgement, I was totally and utterly alone in the world. I cried as I contemplated telling him of my transgression, just on the chance I could regain him as a friend. No, I just couldn’t risk it.

I was exhausted when I went to bed Sunday night. I was just dropping off, when Hubby joined me. I snapped at him when he put his arms around me from the back, his left hand automatically enveloping my right breast. It was our usual way of falling asleep, but exhaustion, and the fact he had roused me, made me chew him out. Five minutes later, I realised I was now fully alert and deeply regretful. I tried to drape his arms around me again, but they remained stiff and uncomforting. I think I managed about three hours sleep that night.

In the morning, there was no sign of my rock when I awoke at 7:00 a.m. I suddenly remembered he was flying out this morning for a five day visit to the buying company’s head office. I searched for a note, or any other sign I could use, to compensate for the fact he’d just left town for the first time ever without giving me a passionate kiss and telling me he loved me. Nothing. I rang his cell and had barely the time to apologise for growling at him last night, before I heard the final boarding call over the airport announcing system in the background. So began a lonely, frustrating week.

On arriving at work, Michael tried to talk to me in the coffee room but I managed to escape. At exactly 10:00 a.m. the receptionist delivered the now familiar envelope. Inside was a typewritten page. ‘Drop the $20k in a brown paper bag in the bin closest to the statue in Pheasant Park at 11AM. Get in your car, drive around the park twice then look in the bin again. Remember, no police and no tricks.’ This time it was signed, ‘The Vice.’ They obviously had a sense of humour. The Vice referred to was clearly the one they had my balls in. Figuratively speaking, of course.

With no other available options, I made my excuses and took off for the park. Just before I dropped the cash in the designated bin, I asked myself a question I hadn’t thought of until then. Was my marriage worth $20k? Yes, it was. It was worth every penny of my secret bank account. In my mind, I knew it would come to that. Last night I’d even checked its balance. $52, 324, plus the cash I was holding. Dropping the bag in the bin without a moment’s hesitation, I made my way back to the car, surreptitiously scanning all the faces I could see. There were no familiar ones. Just a bedraggled bum lying on one of the benches and a young couple kissing one another. Getting back in my car, I drove the demanded two blocks. For some of the drive I could see that end of the park, but for about a minute, up the other end, I lost sight of it due to a low wall along that side. After my prescribed two circumnavigations, I pulled in again and walked to the bin. My bag was gone. An envelope was in its place. I checked the contents and was pleasantly surprised to see what looked like one of my original photographs in it. On the back was typed, ‘10AM next Monday, same amount. Will let you know where.’

I stormed back to the office, made my excuses for why I couldn’t train my replacement, sat in my office and stewed. The money meant nothing to me. It was a mere drop in the ocean compared to what was coming. I just found the whole concept of being blackmailed, with no control over my life, offensive. How could I regain some control? Without knowing who it was, I was stuffed. Or who THEY were. It wasn’t lost on me the first note had referred to ‘They’, and the second in the singular. 

An idea struck me. The receptionist had instructions to log who and when everyone entered and exited the office. The records of that morning would narrow the list of suspects, possibly down to one. Excitedly, I rushed to reception. On examining the log, I saw only visitors were listed. On questioning the new girl, she apologised for her misinterpretation of the instruction. After chewing her out angrily, I made sure she knew to log absolutely everyone. I stormed back to my office, attracting glances from absolutely everyone. I noticed Michael look up, but immediately look away. Apart from the one time when this all started, he hadn’t nagged me to talk to him. I thought it highly unfair I was the only one suffering.

The next weeks were purgatory. At work, I continued busily, handing over to my successor. That left only non-office hours to worry and plot. Some nights, I was so distracted I would come out of a reverie to find myself alone on the couch. When I criticised Dave the next day for not telling me he was going to bed, he told me he had. I was forced to tell him the reason I was so distracted was my concerns over how life would be after retirement. I knew that must have been unconvincing, after my previous excitement, but it was the best my distracted mind could do. I knew it was destructive behaviour, but I just couldn’t stop it. I was relieved when Dave announced another trip away.

With no other option in sight, I returned to the bank Friday for another $20k which sat in the spare wheel well of my car all weekend, like a glowing beacon of my affront at being made so helpless. Dave returned Friday and I was still distracted. I’d done the maths. Five photos disappear from my desk drawer. One is returned free. The next two cost me $40k. That left two, but only enough money in the bank for one. There’d been $32,324 in my account Friday after the latest withdrawal. I knew I could cover the eight-grand shortfall from the housekeeping account, but with a reasonable chance of uncomfortable questions from my husband. Besides, that just felt wrong. Some of that was Dave’s money and that was tantamount to stealing. It took me until Sunday afternoon to decide what to do. First thing Monday morning I wrote a note to go with the cash this week. “Have only $32,324 in my personal account left. If I try to get money from joint accounts, husband will probably find out anyway. My offer; $32,324 for the last two.” If they went for this, it had the advantage of bringing this torture to an end a week earlier than they planned.

I was quite surprised when the blackmailer told me the next drop off point. The same bin, in the same park. I left after making sure the receptionist was logging everyone in and out.

I dropped the envelope in the bin and sped around the block as quickly as possible. On return, my bag had gone and there was the familiar envelope in its place. Like last time, I scanned the park to see who was there. Being a nicer day, there was two couples and one lady playing with her children, on various benches. I went to a vacant bench and sat down. When I lifted the envelope to open it, I noticed writing on the back in a very messy hand. “Your problem. Next week, one photo, $20,000.” I sat in a daze as I contemplated the implications of this. Could I steal from Dave to cover my treachery? I was fairly sure I couldn’t. Should I confess to Dave now? The odds of him forgiving me if I confessed were surely better than if I called the blackmailer’s bluff and they called it right back. I was indecisive but that was okay. I had two more weeks to decide and two unknown factors to consider. The first was the blackmailer must have written the note after less than a minute’s thought. They may change their mind after they’d digested my plea and offer. Time would tell on that one. The second was I had two weeks of reception logs to help me, this week and next week. Surely, someone of my intelligence could find the culprit with that information. I looked at the envelope again. The writing was so bad it could only have been done by a child or someone using their off hand. One thing was for sure; when I did identify them, vengeance would be swift.

Slightly more relaxed, I returned to the office. I immediately grabbed the visitor’s log. Besides six visitors, five employees had left the office that morning. Three salesmen, Michael bloody Beaumont, and an unfamiliar name. The salesmen were all still out, the other two were back already.

“Who is Matt Smith?”

“He’s the computer guy.”

Shit. Still two serious suspects. Before entering the main office, I hatched a plan. I prided myself in my ability to read people. The next time I saw Michael, I would glare at him accusingly. That wouldn’t break my blackmailer’s terms, but just may give me my answer. I anticipated which return expressions would mean what and strode in. I paused in front of Michael’s desk and gave it to him. Pure anger. He looked up a little confused, then gave me an angry look right back. That one I hadn’t anticipated. I kept going to my office to process it all. Unless Michael was a lot smarter than I gave him credit for, it wasn’t him. That left the computer guy. I’d run into him several times since that horrible night and he’d just smirked every time.

That week was almost a repeat of the previous one. Me distracted. Dave either away or exhausted. I did pass the computer guy a couple of times but his smirk was entirely consistent with our shared secret. Friday’s trip to the bank was routine by now and I worried through the weekend at what the delivery Monday morning would say. The only thing out of the ordinary was when I sounded my boss out on the possibility of retracting my resignation. I pride myself on covering all bases, remember. If worst came to the worst, and Dave was told, or I confessed and he didn’t forgive me as I’m fairly sure he would, I’d need a job. The boss said I couldn’t keep my current job, as I expected. It would be grossly unfair on the guy already told it was his. We discussed lower vacancies, but my pride wouldn’t allow that. The deal we decided was I would finish up as planned and if a suitable vacancy became available in the future, I was free to apply for it.  

Again, I used Sunday to plan. Dave was away for three days, so I typed a letter to my extortionists, at home. Rather embarrassingly, I realised I didn’t even know where Dave was. He’d told me but I was so distracted I hadn’t listened well enough. Last week, I’d timed how long it took from losing sight of the bin end of the park until I could next see it. My plan was to write a letter that took at least that long to read. The gist of the letter was that I was calling their bluff. After today, I had $12,324 to pay for the last photograph. I was unwilling to steal from my husband to make up the shortfall. If this wasn’t acceptable, then I would confess to my husband and rob them of their hold over me anyway. It wasn’t negotiable. I hunted out Dave’s binoculars. I would pull over as soon as I could, after turning the corner at the top of the park and race to a vantage point and zoom in on the bin. This all assumed the rendezvous point remained the same. If not, then my only source remained the reception log. I practiced reading the letter and timing it. Then I put it in the bag with the cash and wrote, ‘Important note inside’, on the outside.

My relief was great when the delivery Monday morning stated the same drop point. The reception log showed Michael was already gone when I left. I dropped the bag in the bin and looked around. Two couples, an old guy who was entirely unfamiliar and a bum sitting at a bench. Walking to my car, with a nonchalance I didn’t feel, I jumped in. Craning my head to keep an eye on the bin for as long as I could, I drove up the block. My luck was in for a change. Just as I turned the corner, a car pulled out of a parking space. Parking very badly, I sprinted to the wall with the binoculars. I didn’t have perfect vision through the trees but could see the bin. One of the couples was walking away hand in hand. Two patrolling policemen were moving the bum along. I stayed there for five minutes and no one approached the bin. I returned to my car and completed the circuit.   

I was very surprised to see my bag gone, replaced, as usual, by the exchange envelope. For the first time I saw the flaw in my plan. There was a thick hedge thirty metres from the bin. Someone hiding in it would need only half a minute to make the exchange and disappear again. Frantically, I searched the hedge but there was no one there now. Once again, I sat at the bench and opened the envelope. There was no writing on the outside this time but there was a typed letter along with the second last photo. The contents of the letter stunned and confused me.

“We are so glad that you have decided not to steal from your husband. He’s a nice guy and doesn’t deserve that on top of your other crimes. As you’ve been so co-operative we have reduced your final payment from $20,000 down to $18,453. This offer is not negotiable. Failure to bring that amount to this place at 4PM this Thursday will result in not only your husband being told of your sordid affair but your employer as well.”

I sat there, stunned. Whoever was doing this to me was a very skilled manipulator. They’d predicted not only that I would call their bluff, but that I’d respond by saying I was going to confess to Dave. It was almost as if they knew the risk I would take with Dave and cover my bases by trying to retain my employer. Them telling my company would leave my reputation in tatters and me unemployed. If I wasn’t feeling so helpless and frustrated, I would have admired their skill. The amount of their final demand struck even my overheated mind as odd. They knew it left me about $6,000 short. Why concede $1,547? There had to be some significance, but I couldn’t see it. It was almost as if they knew exactly what was in my letter, but that was impossible. I’d typed it at home, in my empty house, yesterday, then emailed it to my company email last night for printing today. Who could possibly have intercepted an email to a password protected computer? A chill ran down my spine. A network bloody super-user, that’s who.

I stormed back to work and went to the basement hideout of my nemesis. He wasn’t there. His supervisor said he’d taken the whole week off. I went to HR and got his address and contact details. With no answer on his phone, I left again and drove to his address. There was no answer to my banging on his cheap apartment door except his neighbour coming out and saying that Matthew had taken off for the week. Talk about bloody frustrating.  

Knowing I was useless for the rest of the day, I rang work and told them I wouldn’t be back in. I went home and sat. I knew I had three days to make the right decision. As an insurance industry executive, the decision should have been simple. Weigh the cold hard facts and risks, then see what answer spat out. I didn’t need a pen and paper to see the obvious outcome of that. Topping up my bank account with a mere $6,000 from a joint account would prevent both my problems. It would mean my marriage was secure and my career would end honourably.  I even toyed with the idea of replacing the money from my final pay. The annual leave alone would cover it. Could I hurt an innocent man by defying this logic?

The trouble was, I wasn’t only a business executive. I was a wife as well. A wife who’d done something dishonourable and wrong. Abused my position in the company and the trust of my husband. Sure, I could fix two huge problems by doing a third wrong, stealing from the very man who I’d betrayed. Morality fought with practicality. It was the loneliest decision I’d ever made, and in the end, possibly the most selfish. I realised I could never live with the secret I now held and the one I proposed. I stayed at the kitchen table when Dave came in after his trip.

“David, we need to talk.”

I told him everything. Starting with my feeling of getting old and Michael’s seduction. Our affair and the subsequent blackmail. My guilt and self-loathing. Every sordid detail. Even the sickening blowjob performed on the IT guy. I never once met Dave’s eyes. I knew he would be in pain and the sight of that would stop me finishing what I had to say. When I got to the last meeting with Michael in the motel near work, and the reasons for it, I did lose it. I buried my head in my arms, on the table, and lost it completely. What I wouldn’t have given to feel Dave’s arms around me right then. I composed myself to finish the last piece of my confession, so that I could seek his permission for the extra money to salvage my professional reputation. I finally raised my head. He was gone. So was his car. His cell phone was on the charger where he’d put it on entry.

In my planning, I’d known he’d walk away, he never made hasty decisions. I’d steeled myself for some shouting and definitely some uncomfortable questions. I wasn’t in the least bit prepared for what I got. Nothing. Did that mean he was too overwhelmed to speak or that he didn’t care? I didn’t have enough data to decide.

After I’d got myself under control, I rang friends and Dave’s office number. I didn’t come straight out and ask if he was there, but it was obvious he wasn’t. I didn’t ring the kids and confess. I decided to wait to see what, if anything, Dave wanted to tell them. I couldn’t see why Dave would want to involve them, but with some of my destiny no longer in my control, that wouldn’t be my decision. After the phone calls, I just sat and waited. For the first time I anticipated what Dave would ask, starting at why and going all the way to how. Let’s just say, self-loathing played a big part in my evening.

I awoke on the couch with the dawn. In an act of pure optimism, I checked the bedroom. No luck there. I wasn’t really expecting him to have thought that quickly, in fact, I was relieved. A knee jerk decision wouldn’t be good. I debated staying home, but all the distractions in the last few weeks meant I still had a crap load of information to pass to my successor before I left on Friday. I must have checked my phone at least fifty times that day, without the result I wanted. I rang Dave’s work but was told settlement on the business had occurred the day before and Dave wasn’t expected back. That hurt. Dave must have come home with the terrific news last night and I’d kicked him in the teeth. Heaven to hell in fifteen minutes flat. With no other options, I sent an email to his personal address, in case he was monitoring that. Knowing exactly what he was feeling, I worded a gentle apology and invitation to lambast me whenever he was ready.

I was a little surprised when he wasn’t there when I arrived home Tuesday night, but not yet alarmed. Wednesday was a repeat of Tuesday. I did consider talking to Michael, but still not knowing for sure who the extortionist was, didn’t want to risk them telling the company. I rang Dave’s friends again with no luck, so I started ringing the kids. I figured I’d be able to tell from their demeanours if Dave had been in contact with them. None of them answered their cells. Doing the rounds of their landlines only netted me being answered by Paul’s wife. She seemed friendly, but said she was late for something and had to go.

After another worried and fretful night, I awoke Thursday morning with the knowledge I still had a problem. If Dave hadn’t reappeared by 4:00 p.m., I still didn’t have his blessing to use money from our joint accounts to top up my shortfall and guarantee my professional reputation. There was more at stake than my memory, I realised. If Dave never came back, I’d need to be on good terms with my soon to be ex-employer and their promise of re-employing me, to guarantee a comfortable standard of living. If my reputation was trashed, that was out. I sent another email to Dave’s address, laying out what I wanted and begging him to give me his blessing before the afternoon.

I watched the screen all day but at two-thirty, there was still no reply. I left for the bank. Three-fifteen saw me in the bushes near the drop off bin. I carried two envelopes. The first had the last of the cash from my personal account, the second, had an extra $6,129 in it from a joint account. My plan was to surprise them in the bushes, if that’s where they hid. I’d written a note on the first envelope, begging them to accept the smaller amount as payment for the last photo, but offering to return with the rest if that was unacceptable. If they went for the deal, then I would return the extra to the joint account.

Feeling like a bit of a fool, I waited in the bushes, looking out at the scenes of ordinary life in the park. At three-fifty, a shambling bum wandered into the area and sat with a young couple on a bench. They lasted about fifteen seconds before deciding the neighbourhood was no longer desirable. Five minutes later, a vaguely familiar lady walked to and sat at the bench closest to the drop point. I wondered where I’d seen her before; I’m good with faces.

Just as I recognised her as the young woman I’d seen playing with her kids here a previous time, she reached into her handbag and withdrew a yellow envelope. It was the same type and colour envelope all the other photos had been returned to me in. I expected her to put it back in her bag, but she just placed it prominently on her lap. It was obviously an invitation to approach, so I did. She seemed unsurprised when I came out of the bushes and even less surprised when I sat next to her. She smiled as I took her picture with my cell phone and waited patiently while I sent the photo winging to my work email address. She was silent as I put the phone away and looked at her closely for the first time. Her eyes were unreadable behind dark glasses but there was no hiding her soft smile. She was somewhere between thirty-five and forty, quite pretty, with a body I would have been happy with at her age. With no sign of her breaking the impasse, I opened.

“I was going to say hand over the photos or I’ll send your picture to the police, but there’s been enough blackmail here already. Instead, I want to beg something of you.”

I paused as the bum from the other bench walked over and shamelessly started going through the bin metres away from us. I glowered at his back.

“I want to beg you to let me keep a little of my soul. I’ve disrespected my husband and myself by carrying on a seedy affair with another man. I may have lost him forever because of that and I wouldn’t blame him if that was so. I have $12,324 here and I ask you to take that as full payment. To pay you the rest, I will have to compound my crimes against my husband by raiding money that is partly his. I beg you to spare him that.”

I couldn’t help a tear escaping my eyes, so I turned away to wipe them. Thus, I wasn’t looking at her when she said softly but vehemently, “Okay, but only to prove to myself that I’m not as much of a bitch as you are.”

This took me aback. There was much more emotion in that simple sentence than I expected from a money motivated blackmailer. I looked back at her. She held out her hand for my envelope and once she held it, handed me hers. It felt much heavier than a single photograph. In fact, when I saw it in detail, it bulged at the seams. With an obvious look of disapproval, she stood. Whenever her facial expression changed from that soft smile, her laughter lines became pronounced. This was a happy person, used to smiling at life’s mysteries. I hate parting with anyone on bad terms, so I instinctively said, “You’ve got your money now, you have to tell me, what have I done to upset you?”

She’d taken two paces already, but stopped and turned. “You’ve broken my children’s home, that’s what you’ve done.” Her face returned to impassivity before she turned and strode towards the entrance to the park, head bowed and stumbling occasionally. I realised with horror, I was looking at the back of Mrs. Michael Beaumont. Waves of self-loathing washed over me. I’d given much thought on what the discovery of my affair could do to me, and some to the effect on Dave. Never once had I spared a neuron for my lover’s wife or family. Yes, I knew he had two children, I can’t even use ignorance as an excuse.

A strong smell of sweat enveloped me as the bum shambled past. Bizarrely, I wished he would hit me, stab me, or just shoot me to save me from the pain I knew was coming. He went right past and I watched him regretfully. It didn’t register with me that as he walked, his back straightened and the shamble turned to a stride as he headed for the same exit as the woman I’d ruined. Ten paces behind her, he shrugged off the moth-eaten coat. Five paces later, the coat joined a wig in a passing bin. With a sudden burst of speed, he caught the teetering woman up and braced her with his powerful arms.

“Dave.”

I couldn’t get my legs to move. All I could do was follow the retreating pair with my eyes. I waited for my husband to turn and look back at me. What would I see in his face when he did? Loathing or hope? Would I be able to tell from this distance? Both those questions became moot, as he reached a parked car and opened the door for his companion before getting in the driver’s side and taking off without as much as once glancing my way. Although I couldn’t accept it then, I had my answer to every question I ever had. Asked and unasked.  

In a daze, I sat there for about an hour, before returning to my office like a zombie. I’d lost Dave. All of a sudden, I realised losing my reputation at work was absolutely trivial compared to that. I was in such a daze I didn’t notice Michael was the only one left in the office when I returned. In fact, I was completely unaware of his presence until I passed his desk and he hissed at me, “Bitch. Are you happy now you have all my money?” With only a fraction of my attention, it took a while for me to wrest out of him he thought I’d been blackmailing him. He’d been leaving the office every Friday morning to drop a bag of money in a bin at a park at 9:30 a.m. The final payment today had cleaned out an inheritance account he’d received from the death of a grandfather. When I recounted the story of meeting his wife in the same park, he mentally collapsed. I looked at him and realised that’s what I would look like soon.

I held together long enough to get home and put a very large dent in our, sorry, my liquor collection, drinking hard and fast. It didn’t work. First, I lost control of my legs, then my arms, then my stomach. Throughout it all, my brain continued to function. Even after I staggered to bed, my head was spinning but still working. My biggest mistake that night was when I automatically used the technique I’d relied on to get to sleep when Dave wasn’t there; wrapping my own arms around myself and imagining they were his. That night, my arms were numb. I couldn’t feel them. As a metaphor of what the rest of my life was going to be like, it was complete. A picture of Mrs. Beaumont with my husband’s arms wrapped around her at the park wouldn’t leave my head. Was the younger, prettier, softer woman even now being comforted by those arms? Bizarrely, I hoped so. She’d done nothing wrong. Dave had done nothing wrong. They both deserved comforting.

As I lay awake, with the last of the alcohol going from my stomach to my bloodstream, I entered that strange calm state beyond dead drunk. If you’ve never been there, it feels like sobriety. In fact, you would swear you are sober. Don’t worry about drink driving at this stage, you won’t be able to stand upright. My mind flitted from one topic to another, always avoiding the biggest elephant in the room; what would happen to me. Instead, I wondered about trivial shit as a distraction. Had Dave found out and told Mrs. Beaumont? Or had she found out and told him? I still had enough residual pride left to think it was the latter. After the effort I’d gone to in preventing discovery, I couldn’t accept that Dave had seen through me. It just goes to prove that cheaters, yes, I was a cheater, could be as smart as anyone, but if the other party is a moron, you’re exposed.

My mind then flitted from questions about how and when I was discovered, to how Dave must be feeling. You’ll notice I hadn’t tried to contact him at this point. Knowing him, I knew that was a waste of time. The whole exercise of him draining the bank account I’d thought was secret, and the timing, was so obviously him absolutely ruining me. Just like I’d ruined him… no, my mind couldn’t afford to go there yet. Just like it couldn’t yet start berating itself for ever assuming he would forgive my transgression. That way madness lay. I’m not so selfish that I would seek solace in madness or suicide, however strong the temptation was.

I remembered back to my confession to him. He must have known already, and I may have spotted that if I’d been strong enough to have made eye contact. In fact, he must have known for at least a month. I should be able to pick when I was outed from his interactions with me over the last month or so. At that, an all body shiver wracked me. Shortly after his announcement of selling the business and the joyful few days that followed, my memory went blank. For a long time, I’d been so preoccupied being blackmailed by Michael, blackmailing him right back, blowing unwashed nerds in the office, and being held to ransom by persons then unknown, I’d missed one critical fact. My soulmate and I had become flatmates, no, worse than that; two ghosts inhabiting the same space. He’d suffered the worst nightmare of his life and had nowhere to turn to for comfort. I cried. I only stopped when exhaustion finally claimed me.

Waking the next day with a massive headache, I stumbled on auto pilot to get ready for work. I was an hour late because I saw Dave’s things had disappeared from his closet. A quick check revealed that everything Dave had disappeared. It took me an hour to put on five minutes of makeup. It’s hard to apply lipstick when your lips are constantly quivering. It was a day I’d been anticipating for a long time and should have been huge. Dave should have been there, and, ideally, one or two of our children at least. Instead, I drifted through the day in a daze.

Just after lunch, I made a coffee and returned to my office. As I sat, I experienced a flashback. A few weeks ago, when I’d sat in this very chair and found someone had adjusted it…. The only person who’d ever done that in the past was Dave when he’d visited and I wasn’t there. Harmless teasing of a fussy person. How long ago was that? About the time… oh no. I read my diary and pinpointed a day. I went to reception and saw Dave had signed in at 4:45 p.m. that day. Being allowed in unescorted was not unusual for the husband of the boss. I imagined him sitting in the chair, awaiting my return, possibly to take me out for an impromptu dinner to further discuss our retirement plan. Him idly looking around for some amusement, adjusting my chair with a smile. Looking for something else to keep his active brain occupied. Him opening my drawer, maybe to plant a rubber spider or some such other gag, like we’d done to each other so many times before. Instead, finding an envelope full of shocking photographs and the letter. The bottom dropping out of his world. The sudden biting knowledge that his soulmate, best friend and emotional support system, had betrayed him in almost the worst way possible. Not once in a drunken mistake, but in a cold, calculated, continuing way. I couldn’t even begin the grasp the enormity of his feelings at that precise moment in time.

I think I was rescued from complete mental collapse at that point by my cell ringing. It was my middle child, my eldest daughter. In a rather sad voice she asked me how I was, instantly making me realise she knew. We had a short, stilted conversation, at the end of which I knew one more thing and she knew another. I knew I shouldn’t expect to hear from the other two children until they’d processed what their father had told them. She knew suicide wasn’t on the cards. I intended to live to suffer my justifiable punishment.

Locking my office door, I spent an hour typing up my confession. I pulled no punches, made no excuses, and sincerely apologised for both my disgusting actions and my destruction of our family, making sure, at the end, that I accepted any punishment Dave wished to dole out. I reassured them, or maybe disappointed them, by telling them I was in no danger of ending my life, I’d already done that. Without know what Dave told them, I wanted all three of my children to know it was all my fault. After emailing the letter to them, I printed out one copy, sealed it in an envelope, and put it in my handbag. I was just about to indulge in the luxury of having a damned good cry, when my boss opened my door with his master key. I put on a brave face and joined him to attend my going away celebration. It was completely hollow and I have absolutely no memory of it.

Afterwards, I cleared my desk of all personal effects and left the office for the last time. Another triumphal moment lost forever. Outside, I rang Dave’s cell and was totally unsurprised when the number was no longer in service. I went to his old office and was greeted by Dave’s old PA of many years. She told me, rather coldly, that my husband’s farewell party had been two days before and he was gone. No, she didn’t have an address for my letter. Just before I left, Dave’s old office door opened and what must have been the new manager came out to put something in her in-tray. I wandered off. 

The next two days were a haze of alcohol, while I slowly built up the courage to think of the full extent of my loss. No friends rang. Between Dave, children, and career, I didn’t have any. Day three, I had the courage to open the envelope Mrs. Beaumont had given me. I read the divorce paperwork and signed it immediately putting my letter to Dave in the return envelope to his lawyer. I also wrote a long letter of apology to Mrs. Beaumont to include, but that was returned three days later with, ‘Not known at this address’, written on the front.

I burned the last photograph with hardly a glance. I completed the paperwork transferring the ownership of the house to solely my name. A quick calculation of the money Dave had left me indicated I could lead a comfortable, but no way luxurious, lifestyle for the rest of my days. I didn’t even consider fighting for more, it was part of my deserved punishment.

What was conspicuously missing from the envelope was anything personal from Dave. I guess he’d said all he was going to say when he totally failed to look back at me as he was leaving the park.

The statement from one of my new accounts bugged the shit out of me. It had a balance of $72,324, which I recognised as the amount I’d paid to the blackmailers. I knew why I’d paid that specific amount, but their final demand for $18,453 still confused the crap out of me. Why the $6,129 difference between what I had in my bank account and that final demand? I was still musing that when I opened the bag containing the contents of my desk drawers at work. Idly, I totalled up the receipts from hotels, room service, and all the other minutia of my affair. Even before I finished, I knew what the total would be. Dave was making a point. Even using that account, I was stealing from communal funds. He’d been very generous giving it all back.

Until that point, I’d never wondered why Dave and Mrs. Beaumont had blackmailed Michael and I. By getting his inheritance money, she’d grabbed an amount that would have been unavailable in a divorce, normally. That told me Michael’s marriage was doomed. The same could be said about the amounts Dave had extorted from me, but why return it? Why the whole charade? The answer was obvious when I thought of it. My darling husband, devastated by personal tragedy, thought of the only thing he could to distract me enough not to notice him finalising the preparations to get the fuck out of my life without me even noticing. Proof, as if I needed it, he knew me a damned sight better than I knew him.

It was only then I allowed myself the luxury of crying properly. I cried for Dave’s loss and pain. I cried for the damage I’d done to my children’s memories. After I’d finished mourning those, I cried for my own loss.

I became somewhat of a recluse from then on. My eldest daughter came regularly from the start. Relations were strained, but improving. She never asked and I never volunteered anything about my affair. She refused to talk about her father except to reassure me he was okay.

The next to forgive me was my youngest daughter. She visited and let slip Dave had left the country and was living the dream we once shared, on a Caribbean island. After that she refused to add more detail. I asked her to pass on to Dave that I hoped he’d be very happy with Mrs. Beaumont. My daughter looked confused at that, which made me think I’d guessed wrong and the two crime victims weren’t consoling each other. She also let slip my eldest child was helping his father set up his new house. We discussed whether I was going to keep the house or not. When I heard her preference was for me to keep their childhood home, I agreed immediately. Keeping the huge house and garden clean and maintained was giving me my only distraction anyway.

I did see Mrs. Beaumont one more time. Walking through another park, I saw her and her children sitting in the sun, with a man who definitely wasn’t Michael. As her children jumped up to play, the adults moved very close to each other. I had the letter I’d written to her, still in my handbag, but realised she’d moved on and didn’t need it anymore.

In the next eight months, all three children visited and our relationship improved. We never spoke of Dave except for their continued reassurance he was fine. I asked two of them if Dave had read my letter and both said it was prominently displayed, unopened, in his study. The children of both my daughters couldn’t help excitedly telling me about their visits to see Poppa on his tropical island, so I gathered they’d all been there.

The nights alone were the worst. Learning to live with going to sleep, lonely and afraid of the future, with no strong arms to lull me to oblivion. I actually made an attempt to get closer to the couple next door, but when it became obvious the wife was afraid to leave me alone with her husband, I saw how that was going to work. Bad news has a way of getting out. The divorce became final and for the first time since those first few days, I allowed myself to self-stupefy with alcohol.

With our first separated Christmas approaching, I thought I’d do the decent thing and relieve my children of the agony of choosing who to spend it with. I told them to spend it with their father. They all responded that Dave had beaten me to it and wanted them to spend it at the old family home. That was totally in line with the decent man I knew.

Everyone turned up Christmas Eve and the house was bedlam. It was obvious there’d been more trips to the Caribbean. A hush came over the room when I couldn’t help myself and asked how Dave was travelling. Everyone said he was well. I’d had enough muscle relaxant to tentatively ask if he was all alone down there or whether he had a new woman in his life. All three of my offspring looked at each other before looking at my eldest to be the spokesman.  

“Um, Mum, when we were there, he had a lady he introduced us to. Her name is Wendy and they seemed to be, er, getting on very well together. She was certainly, er, staying over at night.”

I couldn’t interpret the funny looks that shot around the table. My eldest daughter solved that one when she addressed her brother.

“What are you talking about? When we were there he had some woman called Susan staying with him. I had to ask him to tone it down a little, she was a bit of a screamer, if you know what I mean.”

Both the first children looked at my youngest daughter, who looked down at the table and simply said, “Mary. I told him off for being a cradle snatcher. She was only in her thirties.”

 Overwhelming jealousy momentarily overcame me and I must have looked sick enough that my son stood to come to my assistance. I had some lousy hotel trysts with Michael, riddled with guilt. Dave was porking his way steadily through the available skirt in the Caribbean. I felt sick. The evening abruptly ended when I went to bed to cry.

 The next day was long and exhausting. Kids up at 6:00 a.m., screams of delight, lunch to cook, you know the drill. We stuck with tradition and the adults didn’t exchange presents until late in the afternoon, when the youngsters were almost comatose with exhaustion and over-consumption of rich food. After everyone had opened and thanked, all three of my children exchanged looks before my eldest handed me an envelope. On the front was written, ‘Sarah’, in Dave’s bold handwriting. With shaking hands, I opened it. Unexpectedly it didn’t contain a hand written letter, but three stapled sheets of type. It was an itinerary for travel to a Caribbean island, the day after tomorrow. My spirits soared, as I checked out the return date. Would I have to get mail diverted? Find a house-sitter? And a million other details. I felt my spirits sinking again as I saw the return day was only two days after arrival. I looked at my children for clues as to what that could mean. One after the other they all shrugged their shoulders.

My emotions didn’t know what to think for the rest of the day. Any invitation to visit was good wasn’t it? A week would have meant an opportunity for lengthy discussions. A month would have meant having an opportunity for discussions leading to a trial reconciliation. Two days was time for a considerate man to allow me to recover from the journey, deliver a short message, and pack me back off. Two days was torture.

The next day was spent in preparations, internal debate, and packing. Just a small carry-on bag. Early the next day, I was whisked to the airport and wished luck. The internal debate continued all the way to the main gateway into the islands. My itinerary showed I had to go through customs, then find my way to a smaller airline for the short hop flight to Dave’s island. After clearing customs, I wandered over to one of the televisions displaying departures. It was near one of the doors to the outside world. I was looking to find my flight number when I felt a huge pair of arms envelop me from behind and a head rest on my shoulder, pressed against the side of my face, preventing me turning. I didn’t need to turn; I knew my Dave’s scent anywhere. I closed my eyes in ecstasy. I felt each of Dave’s legs pressing against the back of mine. It was a game we’d played many times, walking as one. I clutched my small bag to my front, kept my eyes closed and allowed Dave to steer us. I sensed the light and noise change as we went outside and felt the blast of tropical heat. After about two minutes of Dave practically carrying me because my legs couldn’t handle it, we stopped.

I opened my eyes and saw barrier tape around a small construction site and a builder’s skip.

“I didn’t know how I’d feel until I saw you. If you want to stay, everything from your old life goes in the bin.”

Without a microsecond hesitation, I threw my bag into the skip. Without letting go of me, Dave reached into a top pocket and I saw a familiar envelope appear, tab hanging open, joining my case. I turned in his arms forcibly and we kissed. The ex-business woman inside me couldn’t help thinking I’d need to go shopping for more clothes. In the end, I didn’t need to go shopping for over a week. Dave showed me many new tricks and I loved and was grateful for every one of them.

The End.

NOW LIGHTEN UP

“Jesus Loves You.”
Nice to hear in church, but not in a Mexican prison.