LOVE LETTERS 1

CHAPTER ONE

Please note, I’m an Australian, and though I’ve read a lot of American fiction, I felt more confident dealing with divorce laws I was familiar with—less chance of screwing it up! They are a little different to American laws and I hope the way I incorporated them doesn’t sound too much like an information dump. One thing where we’re quite different is in the way monies are put aside toward retirement. You guys seem to have 401K’s and 403K’s, we have Compulsory Superannuation. Basically, and employer is obligated by law to put aside into a superannuation fund chosen by the employee the equivalent of 9.5% of their gross wage, excluding overtime. There are a few quirks to it but the above is all you really need to understand about it for Danny’s story.

I haven’t used an editor as I do a bit of freelance beta editing for authors in my not so free time, so any mistakes are my own!

LOVE LETTERS

GOD, HOW I WISHED I never got around to building my wife, Claire, the bookcase she’d been nagging me for ever since we’d moved into the old Federation cottage. The cottage she fell in love with and just had to have when we were finally financial enough to upgrade from our apartment to a house.

When you read the words “old Federation” decode that to meaning I needed to spend nigh on every weekend, and more than a few evenings, performing repairs and maintenance—once again, an understatement. Thank God, I’m a carpenter-joiner by trade, and, as much as it may have frustrated Claire, I thought a workable kitchen and replacing rotten floor boards was more important than building a bookcase, no matter how much she loved to read and how many books she wanted to be able to unpack from the boxes stored out in the old shed.

So, yeah, idiot me for getting all romantic and wanting to do something sweet for my wife for our upcoming tenth wedding anniversary. As if buying the old cottage and spending just about every spare moment making it beautiful for her wasn’t enough of a display of my love and commitment. Enough proof of my desire to please her and make her happy. While she planted a herb garden out back and pretty roses to line the path to our front door, I had to practically gut the inside and rebuild it. But that, apparently, doesn’t spell devotion the way gifting her a long weekend at a beauty spa does.

Long story short, while she prepared for the celebration of our landmark anniversary by having facials and massages and generally being pampered, I sweated over a custom built bookcase to line one entire wall of our living room.

I was thrilled with my planned surprise until I tripped when bringing in the fifth box from the shed, throwing the whole carton six feet in the air. The box filled with romance novels; Claire’s weakness. Books flew everywhere; one even hit the light fitting sending it swinging wildly. So did pretty pastel paper.

The place to store love letters, I soon discovered, is within the pages of books about love conquering all. Makes sense, I guess.

How I wished I resisted the temptation to read the opening paragraphs of the first one I picked up. But I didn’t resist. How could I? Page after page fluttered to the floor like petals thrown in the air like confetti. It actually reminded me of our wedding day. Sweet and innocent and romantic. So promising of happy-ever-afters. And inviting. How deceptive.

I thought they were from Claire’s youth, from one of her high school boyfriends. Something she’d kept for sentimental reasons, and remembering one or two sappy love notes I’d penned myself as a lovesick fifteen year old, I read one.

Big mistake. Huge.

There was a problem. An enormous problem—the love letters weren’t from a childhood sweetheart.

That wasn’t the only problem.

Two more instantly came to mind.

The letter in my hand was written by my cousin Zack.

The other problem… the one I’d picked up was dated only a matter of weeks prior to our move to the cottage a year ago.

That bit of information raised a host of questions. How long had they been having an affair? Were they still seeing each other? Was she with him now? Was Claire hiding more letters? No. No. No. Surely not. Not while I’d been slaving to give her her dream home. My labor of love for her. My heart recoiled in absolute horror from the questions, from the possibilities. My brain, my ever logical brain, told me it was all too probable and that at some point I’d need the questions, no matter how abhorrent, answered.

As that first letter slipped from my nerveless fingers I wanted nothing more than to turn back time so as to never having read it. It gutted me. Winded me, like a massive blow to the chest. I tried to breathe but it felt as if my ribs were broken. The pain took the strength out of my legs and I staggered back, sliding to the floor. I sat slumped against the wall with my head between my knees, willing the contents of my belly to stay within the confines of my body.

I lost that battle.

I managed, with only a second to spare, to roll onto my knees. The assault on my senses of the sour smell prompted more gagging and retching until there was nothing left inside of me.

I crawled away from the mess, not trusting my legs to hold my weight, to sit with my back against the now hated bookcase. I eyed the other letters spread across the floor like a pretty patchwork of pastels pinks, blues, and creams. They looked rather lovely against the dark of the hardwood floor. Another lie. Another deception. Their contents, I knew, would be anything but lovely.

I debated whether to read them. The cowardly part of me, the part that was in agony, didn’t want to, didn’t think I could face more hurt. It wanted to crawl away and hide. It wanted to dig a hole for me to slot my head into. It said to read them would be like sticking hot pokers in my eyes and heart.

The braver, more rational side told me told me to rip the blindfold from my eyes in one fell swoop. It told me to get that painful part of the journey I’d now been thrust onto out of the way. It told me there was no point in prolonging the agony. It whispered to me the logic of gathering all the information I could for the upcoming battle, for a battle, a confrontation, was inevitable.

I listened to my brave side.

On my hands and knees, I gathered all the letters and sorted them into date order. Zack, the ever-so-helpful bastard, had been kind enough to date them. I’d have to remember to thank him later… maybe with my fist. From the look of things he only wrote two or three a year to coincide with things like Valentine’s Day or her birthday. I swallowed to see one dated within days of my thirtieth.

Yet another problem made its presence known—most were written after Claire’s and my wedding date.

I moved to my favorite armchair. The bitter smell wafting around me from my vomit seemed appropriate. It fit my feelings. I closed my eyes and, in spite of the acrid smell, took a few deep fortifying breaths. Starting with the oldest, written when Claire and I were still dating, I read.

Words and phrases leapt from the page, branding themselves on my heart, filling my mind with unwanted images. Images that had me biting my lip to hold back the sounds of my pain.

I thought I was the birthday boy when you managed to slip away from old Danny Boy at the party. I think the quickie we shared out in the alley was the hottest sex I’ve ever had. Thank you, my beautiful naughty girl. From the date I knew he was talking about Claire’s 21^st. We’d been dating a year. She’d looked so lovely that night. I clearly remembered the white dress she’d worn that night and the way it floated about her as she danced. It was the night I’d decided to ask her to marry me.

You looked so sexy in that red bra and knickers. And you shaved for me! Every time I picture you I can’t help getting a hard-on. That from Valentine’s Day eleven years ago, we’d not long been engaged. And the lingerie? She’d only ever owned one set of red lingerie—a set I bought her. A set she’d had the hypocritical gall to tell me was a bit too slutty for her and had only worn for me the once. Bitch.

And then something else dawned on me. And you shaved for me! That Valentine’s Day had been the first time she shaved her pussy. She’d said it was for me. Another lie.

I remembered how surprised I’d been at the time because when I’d asked her to do it on an earlier occasion, when we’d gone away for a romantic weekend and I’d proposed, she’d refused. Instead of questioning her change of heart, I’d been excited by the vision. I’d looked at her in wonder; as if she was a mystery.

Interesting word choice. Mystery; meaning something not understood or beyond understanding.

They certainly applied to how I’d seen Claire that night, but, silly me, instead of being curious about her sudden turn around, I’d been aroused. Her actions had shown I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did, that she was, in fact, still, in some small way, a bit of a stranger.

Rather than being alarmed at the notion that there was clearly much I had to learn about my fiancée, my future wife, I’d found it intoxicating. I’d seen it as another layer to peel away, another facet to learn and love. Discovering she had thoughts and motivations I wasn’t privy to hadn’t set any alarm bells off—it had, if anything, made me even more enchanted with her.

I’d been such a gullible fool.

The first fingers of anger clawed at my gut, fighting with pain for possession of my body.

Standing by Danny, watching you walk down the aisle, knowing you were full of my cum, is the kinkiest, most perverse thing I’ve ever known. I had to think of dead puppies to stop from cracking a boner. You’re such a naughty, nasty girl, Claire-Bear. I love it!

After reading those lines I had to stop for a moment while my stomach tried to find something else to vomit up. Pain engulfed me—even my fingers and toes hurt. No. Please, God, no! Our wedding day? She’d screwed him on our wedding day? And him? My cousin? Family? Christ, we’d grown up together. I’d thought of him as one of my best friends. He’d been one of my groomsmen.

I had to take a breather at that point. I made my way shakily to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my flushed face. I barely recognized the man looking back at me. I couldn’t look at that man. Seeing his pain was too much for me. I concentrated on brushing my teeth in the hope of ridding my mouth of the bitter taste coating my tongue. Toothpaste didn’t cut it. Nor did the mouthwash.

If they weren’t up to the job, perhaps the brandy I kept on hand for my father would be. Normally, I was more a beer man, but when Dad visited, I’d share a snifter with him. He always maintained brandy was medicinal. I hoped he was right; I could certainly use some medicine for my broken and bleeding heart.

I settled back in my chair and continued reading, and each time I read something particularly painful I took a sip of brandy. I sipped a lot. I relished the burn. Dad was right—it was medicinal. It cauterized my wounds from the inside out.

The tone of Zack’s letters were a direct contrast to the gently colored pastel paper upon which they were written. They should have been written on sheets of red. Blood-red for the perversity, for the wounds they inflicted, for the emotional blood they spilled. They were more sex-talk than romantic. A poet he wasn’t. It made me wonder why she kept them. He never waxed lyrical about her beauty, never likened her to the moon and stars, never said she was his alpha and omega, or compared the two of them to famous lovers like Romeo and Juliet. He never declared his love for her. There were plenty of times he wrote that he loved something she’d said, done, or worn, but he never told her he loved her.

Oddly, that made me feel sorry for her. She’d thrown away our marriage, thrown away the love of a good man—and I was a good man—for sleazy fucking. For a quick, illicit thrill. It wasn’t even as if he had a huge cock. I’d seen what he was packing a handful of times over the years and it was nothing special. On top of that he never seemed to be able to hang on to a girlfriend. In fact, more often than not, it was them leaving him, not the other way around. If he was such a stud, such a fantastic lover, such a great catch, why was he always being traded in for another model?

The last letter was in much the same vein as the others, and either the brandy had numbed me, or the sheer volume of loathsome shit I’d already read had deadened my capacity to be shocked. There was nothing in the tone or wording to suggest their affair had ended or even tapered off. Actually, quite the opposite—Zack had signed off saying he was looking forward to christening every room of the cottage with his sexy Claire-Bear. Mentally, I substituted the word slutty for sexy for that is what she was. A slut. Zack’s slut. His sign-off suggested there was another two or three letters hidden somewhere in the house.

Based on my not-so-loving wife’s previous filing system, I headed into our bedroom to the cheap, temporary bookshelf she’d set up against the wall on her side of the bed.

In the space of five minutes I found three more letters. I couldn’t even muster a sense of horror that she kept them in our bedroom. That she made so little effort to conceal them. Did she read them while I showered in our ensuite? Did she use them to get herself hot before I made love to her? She’d shown herself to be such a brazen bitch of a slut nothing she did would surprise me anymore. I realized I didn’t really know her at all. The girl I thought I’d married would never have done the things she had. That knowledge breached the pain already enveloping me to pierce a new wound into my heart. My wife was a stranger to me.

The last letter, dated only a week ago, shocked me out of my numbed state. It took several attempts to read it in its entirety as my vision kept blurring. I couldn’t believe I’d actually read its contents correctly. It was too perverse, too cruel. And while blood roared in my ears I re-read it yet again, needing to confirm my mind hadn’t conjured the words from some dark unmentionable place.

God, baby, you’ve got me so hot for you! Are you serious? Do you really want me to impregnate you? Man, the idea of you having my baby and getting old Danny Boy to raise it has my cock as hard as titanium. You are the nastiest, sexiest woman I’ve ever known, Claire-Bear. Nobody turns me on like you do. 

Dear sweet Lord. She wanted Zack to father our kids. I’d been asking her when we could start our family since our fifth wedding anniversary. I longed to be a father. Each year I’d asked and each year she’d fobbed me off saying we—which really meant she—wasn’t ready. She gave me all the expected excuses: we needed more time to be secure in our respective careers, we needed to be more financially stable, we needed to be in a house rather than an apartment. I addressed each roadblock she put up, and, finally, after our ninth anniversary she committed herself to us trying after our tenth—a week away. It was something I’d planned to remind her of at our celebratory dinner. This can’t be true. Oh my God it can’t be true. Butit was. It was there in black and white. His letter confirming her words, her plans, her desires.

I was too stunned to even feel pain at the revelation. Or perhaps, more accurately, I was already in so much pain, this final blow was felt as a mere deepening of my existing agony.

Like an unwanted commercial break, I saw the scenario play out in my head. I imagined her sharing the news with him that their screwing had born fruit. That she was pregnant and he was going to be a daddy.

He’d kiss her, of that I was sure. And hug her, too, but would his face be a picture of joy or would he merely look triumphant because he’d won yet another victory over me? If he looked triumphant would he hide that from her? Or would she share in his victorious gloating?

I’d always pictured myself in the moment she shared such momentous news with me as my being like the guys in a sappy romcom movie—emotional, proud, happy. But I wasn’t part of the movie. Not really. I was the foil. The stooge.

Zack had stolen my lines, my role, my future. The news, the hugs, the kisses, the twirling her in my arms, both of us brimming with happiness. It was meant to be my role. My part. All of it. I’d waited for years for her to be ready. What had Zack ever waited for? Who had he loved and nurtured and supported? Who had he sacrificed and compromised for? No one. Not one damn soul.

Perhaps, she’d never have been ready with me because she never wanted me to father her children. That possibility cut through the fog of pain to pierce a new wound.

Why did I choose to read the first letter? Why had I succumbed to my curiosity? Had I resisted, I could have remained in ignorant bliss. God, how I longed to be in ignorance. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly as if to block out my new reality. I wanted my old reality. The one where I believed my wife loved me and only me. The one where I was happy.

Now, I was saddled with excruciating awareness, drowning in overwhelming pain. Now, I had to make decisions. Tough decisions. Now, I was faced with the knowledge my whole marriage had been one big lie. One huge farce. A sham. Now, I knew the last twelve years of my life had been wasted. I’d been made a fool of day in and day out for our entire relationship. My love had been squandered on someone who didn’t appreciate or respect it, and most definitely didn’t deserve it. Now, I knew I’d been used and deceived for God only knew what reason. No vow, no promise, no words of love had been true. None of it. All lies and deceit.

Image after image, like a film reel of favorite moments skimmed across my mind. Claire laughing up at me. Claire smiling. Her tears the day I’d gone on bended knee and asked her to marry me. Claire sleeping, the face of an angel. Claire’s hand in mine, her face as I made love to her. Lies. All lies.

Who was this woman? What had I ever done to her to make her hate me so much? For hate me she must. No one could do the things she had without being filled with absolutely loathing for their victim.

I sat back, sipping the brandy, trying to reconcile the woman portrayed in Zack’s letters to the woman I’d known and loved. My lacerated heart didn’t want me examine things further but my brain defiantly set about trying to unravel the riddle. I couldn’t seem to switch it off. It was determined to find an explanation. It couldn’t live with the unanswered questions. The why and how and where. Mostly, the why.

I’d never been blindly in love with Claire. I knew she had faults, that she wasn’t a saint, but I’d loved her quirks and flaws. They were a part of her and what made her unique and so I loved them, just as I’d hoped, no, believed, she loved me in spite of, or maybe even because of, the things that made me less than perfect.

Had you asked me when I woke, I’d have said we complimented each other. She taught me spontaneity. I taught her organizational skills. She learned to set goals. I learned its okay to detour sometimes. I’d thought she was the yin to my yang.

I’d thought she was basically a good person. I’d certainly never known her to say bitchy things about friends, family, or colleagues. Actually, I’d always thought her to be nice to others. She could be a bit of a flirt when she got a wine or two under her belt, but nothing excessive. I’d certainly never doubted her fidelity.

Sure, I often thought her a bit flighty and far too caught up in shallow things that didn’t really matter. Things like following the lives of celebrities and the latest fashion trends and hairstyles. I didn’t think she needed all that crap—she was just as beautiful sans make-up in jeans and a tee with her hair in a ponytail as she was in some designer dress with her hair styled in some elaborate do and coated in enough hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer—but she was a sucker for every celebrity endorsement going. She owned enough make-up and cosmetics to start her own pharmacy. And shoes! My God, the woman loved shoes. We’d have been far further along financially if she’d curbed her passion for them and handbags.

It wasn’t that I had a problem with spending money, I wasn’t tight, but I’d rather spend it on things that had meaning. Things like making shared memories—special dinners, weekends away, travel to foreign countries. Things like learning together how to ski or ride a horse. Hell, I’d even have gone to cooking or pottery classes with her if it would make her happy. As long as it was something we could do or learn together I was on board.

Claire had enjoyed our travels, but, with the wisdom of hindsight, I realized that while I’d gravitated toward visiting some architectural marvel, gallery, or museum she had preferred to spend her time on some fancy shopping street. While I wanted to snorkel with sea turtles, she wanted to sunbathe and celebrity-watch by the pool. The list went on and on. I reluctantly admitted to myself that most of the time we’d done our own thing during the day, the exceptions being when I compromised, and only met up at our hotel in time to get ready for dinner.

I guess she wasn’t as far removed from the shallow selfish slut of Zack’s letters as I’d first supposed. All I’d needed to do to recognize her was remove my rose-colored glasses.

I closed my eyes, momentarily despising myself for my blindness to her true nature. It was clear to me I’d only ever seen what I wanted to see. I’d focused on the things she said or did that reinforced the image I wanted to have of her and ignored or discarded those that contradicted it. It was a bitter pill to swallow to know my naivety and idealism had aided and abetted her in my betrayal. How she and Zack must have laughed at my gullibility. How they must have giggled over my unquestioning trust in my wife.

Despair hit me, like a bullseye, between my eyes. Our whole relationship, twelve years… twelve bloody years. Right under my nose. Again and again and again. How could I have been so stupid? So blind? How could I have been such an idiot? Christ, maybe I deserved it. Maybe, being dumb earned me the set of horns she’d hung on me. For a time I wallowed in self-pity, my stomach churning, a lump filling my throat, and unshed tears burning my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want to give her that. She would never know, but I would, and she wasn’t worthy of my grief.

And then something happened, some chemical reaction in my brain, and right then and there I made a decision to stop beating myself up. I wasn’t the one who had lied and cheated and used. I wasn’t the one who had deceived and betrayed. I wasn’t the bad guy. Whatever my shortcomings, they didn’t warrant the way I’d been treated.

So love had made a fool of me and made me deaf, dumb, and blind to what was going on in my own backyard. That’s what love did. Love made you trust, made you want to please and support and nurture. It made you want to believe the best of your partner. It meant it you gave them the benefit of the doubt. After all, what sane, healthy person chooses to love someone cruel and amoral like Claire or Zack? People like them counted on the goodness of people like me, counted on our trust and faith, in our innate belief that most people are basically decent. If it came to a choice between being the asshole without a conscious or the gullible chump, I’d take being the chump. At least the chump can look in the mirror and know the person looking back at him is honorable, stupid maybe, but honorable.

With each minute that passed the host of conflicting emotions coursing through my body slowly coalesced into just two—grief and rage. Grief, I made a conscious effort to box and file away to be dealt with at a later date. After all, I was grieving for a woman, a relationship, that never was. It had been a thing of fairytales, existing only in my mind. Rage, however, was righteous and deserved. Rage had earned the right to rear his ugly head. And ugly it was. Ugly and corrosive and just what I needed. While pain threatened to cripple me, rage put steel in my spine and resolve in my gut.

Be smart, Danny. Be smart about this. Neither Claire, nor Zack, is worth going to jail for. Besides death would be too humane. What would they know of pain or regret if they were in their graves?

Research. I needed to research to find out my rights in a divorce.

Galvanized into action, I raced for the spare bedroom where my home office was currently set up. An hour later I knew a whole lot more about divorce Australian style than I had the day before. We’d have to be officially separated for an entire year before I could apply for a divorce, and once the application had been filed with the courts, I’d have to wait about four to six weeks for a hearing date during which time I’d have to make sure she was served. Then, as long as the judge was satisfied our marriage was irretrievably broken down, he’d grant a Decree Nisi. A month and a day after that, unless I’d changed my mind, (no way known that would ever happen) the courts would automatically grant a Decree Absolut. Claire would be able to dispute a settlement of our assets for up to twelve months after the Decree Absolut.

I walked around the cottage and looked at all my hard work. Half-finished the house wouldn’t fetch much, and, in truth, we’d probably lose money, but once the renovations were complete a handsome profit could be made, mainly because we wouldn’t have had to pay for my labor. The house had been Claire’s choice, but I’d be damned if I’d move out and hand it to her in a divorce settlement. In fact, it could be one more way to inflict a bit of pain on the conniving bitch. I’d rather torch the place than see her be rewarded for her perfidy.

I already owned my own apartment when we married, well, the bank had, but the mortgage was in my name and the payments had come out of my earnings. It had been the equity I’d established at the time of sale that provided the bulk of our deposit on the cottage and the balance had come from our savings account to which I could show I added three times as much as Claire. On top of that, it was my pay check covering the mortgage. Come to that, my pay check paid for most of our life—the utilities, both our phones, the repayments on her Mazda 3, our various insurance policies, and even our holidays. About the only things Claire paid for were her clothes, hair and beauty, and some groceries.

If I understood correctly what I’d read it was a godsend we hadn’t started our family. Without children to complicate things the split of our assets didn’t have to be a straight fifty-fifty. As long as I could show where the deposit and repayments had come from, along with everything else I’d paid for over the course of our marriage, she should only be entitled to approximately 30% to 40% of our assets. So, no more fixing the place up until our divorce and property settlement was finalized. And if I did a little undoing of my handiwork….

I wasn’t sure if it was true, but most clichés had a basis in truth so, if possession was nine-tenths of the law, I decided I was going to be the one in possession. That meant changing the locks before she got home on Monday evening. Today being Saturday meant I had plenty of time. Plenty of time to hedge my bet and do a little undoing as well.

No need to separate our bank accounts as we’d never gotten around to setting up a joint checking or saving one. Knowing what I now did, I wondered if that had been intentional on her behalf. Why would she want to while I paid for everything? Much better for her to keep her money separate so I couldn’t see how much money she wasted on clothes and the like. Or worse, spent on hotels to hook up with Zack. One thing I did do was pay out and drastically lower the limit of our one joint credit card. Considering that the bulk of transactions on it were hers, it seemed unfair to clear it using my earnings, but I wanted to limit her access to money without alerting her to my nebulous plans. And I sure as hell didn’t want to be liable for any debts she rang up from here on in. It now had a $250 limit, so over the next couple of days she’d be able to fuel up or pay for a meal and be none the wiser as to what I’d done.

My one concern was my superannuation. Considering my income was three times that of Claire’s, and I was a few years older, I had considerably more put away for retirement. A sympathetic judge could award her up to fifty percent of mine at the time of separation, regardless of the way the rest of our assets were split. Sure, they could also award me half of hers, but I’d still end up the loser and she’d be laughing the whole way to the bank. I made a mental note to find out what I could do to stop her from gaining access.

With the little I could think of to do over the net regarding our finances completed, I hovered, feeling lost. What now? I looked around for an answer, spying the mess of my vomit on the living room floor. Bracing myself, I cleaned it up, its foul stench bringing my simmering rage back to boiling point, and focus back to my actions. Time to pack Claire’s things.

As I worked, I contemplated what to do with her belongings. I could put them in storage, or drop them off at her parents’ house. I could even take them around to Zack’s apartment. At first, I discarded the idea of taking them to a storage facility as I’d have to pay the first month’s rent in advance and I resented spending so much as one more cent on the bitch. But as the afternoon wore on the idea grew in appeal. I could change the locks and go away myself for a few days and not tell Claire of my movements. Let her have a few days of wondering and worrying and being frustrated by not knowing where I was or what was going on. Perhaps, investing a few dollars would be worth being able to witness that.

The one thing of Claire’s I kept was the letters. I thought about scanning them, but decided keeping the originals was the better option. They obviously meant something to her, even if only to stroke her ego or make herself feel attractive and powerful, or she wouldn’t have kept them. Keeping them would be one more pin prick of pain and frustration of the many I intended to inflict on her and her shithead lover. I wondered how Zack would feel about our entire extended family reading his missives. Or his beloved, Claire-Bear’s reaction to her family reading how she walked down the aisle with the cum of a man not her husband running down her thighs?

The rhythmic actions of packing organized my thoughts and so once done, I returned to my home office and set up reminders on my Outlook calendar to formally register our separation in a week’s time and cancel Claire’s phone. Giving her a week meant I’d be married to her for an extra week but it also gave me time to make some plans and it would be worth it to cause her some stress and uncertainty. Plus, I’d enjoy the messages I was certain she’d leave on my phone. As her car loan was in both our names I was able to change the account for the repayments to Claire’s and while I was on her car, I called the insurance company and cancelled the insurance, effective from the following Friday. That earned me a refund of almost half of the premium I’d paid and armed with that little windfall I made a firm decision on the storage facility for Claire’s possessions.

My stomach finally made its presence known, demanding I feed it. I was hungry, and yet, not. Physically, my body wanted sustenance, but mentally, the thought of food repulsed me. In an effort to appease both sides I heated up a can of soup, and while eating it with some lightly buttered toast, I nailed down some details of my short term plans.

# # #

Turning my head, I glanced at the clock radio on my bedside table; 3:15. I sighed. Forty-five minutes since I’d last checked.

During the afternoon and evening it had been easy to keep my fury simmering at a low boil, but now, in the deep of the night, my rage faltered, unable to sustain itself.

I wanted it back.

Rage was good.

Rage could keep me upright and focused on dispensing a bit of justice when the thought of my love’s betrayal threatened to shatter me beyond repair.

Pain, however, had not suffered from the same problem as rage. Pain had thrived in the darkness.

Pain overwhelmed me.

I wept, each tear fought against. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to stem their flow. Each one that slid down my temples shamed me. She didn’t deserve them. Just like my love, they were wasted on her.

# # #

I welcomed the strands of light that filtered through the venetians. Daylight meant activity and activity meant a reprieve from pain.

As I forced a bit of toast down my throat I looked around, gauging what I could dismantle. I had a fine line to tread—the house had to remain livable for the next two years but I wanted it to be valued as low as possible.

The day passed quickly and by the time the sun had lost its battle with the horizon Claire’s possessions were in storage, locks were changed, and a few rooms of the cottage looked a little less finished.

Beer in hand, I dialed my parents place. Thankfully my father answered the phone—my mother was too intuitive by far. She, I knew, would see through me in less than two minutes. Make that in under one.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey yourself, Danny.”

“This is going to be a quick call, Dad. I just wanted to let you and Mum know I’ll be out of town for about a week, so I won’t be around for dinner like usual on Wednesday. I’ve been asked to quote on a complete fit-out of a new hotel restaurant complex a few hours north of here.”

“Oh that sounds good. It must be a big job if you have to be gone for a week. Make sure you take some photos with you of that Irish themed pub you did out at the valley.”

“Yeah, it is big, but I thought while I was up there I’d check out the local area to see if I could scare up some more work leads and get some pricing on accommodation or short term apartment rentals for me and the guys.”

“That’s my boy—always thinking positive and ahead.”

“Like father, like son, hey, Dad?”

My father chuckled. “Well, I don’t like to boast…”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “I’ve got to go, Dad—I need to pack because I want to get an early start in the morning to beat the peak hour traffic. Tell Mum I love her and I’ll see you both when I get back.”

“Okay, son. Safe travels and good luck with the quote. Oh, I just remembered, show them photos off that man-cave you did for that divorced guy. That was one hell of a cool bar and games area you designed and built for him. One day I’ll convince your mum to let you build me one just like it.”

His mention of a man-cave—it was an ongoing family joke—was my cue to laugh. It sounded forced to me and I hoped my father wouldn’t pick up on it. I rang off before I gave myself away or he thought to ask for more details.

I hadn’t outright lied, just bent the truth a bit. There was a fit-out up north I’d be quoting on in the very near future, just not this coming week.

Next, I phoned my brother and best friend, Shaun, and fed him the same story I gave my father. I felt okay about my subterfuge—at least neither he nor our parents would be lying to Claire on my behalf. Soon enough I’d have to tell them the truth and draw them into my circle of hell. I dreaded it. I knew they’d feel my pain as if it were their own. I wondered if Claire or Zack had ever given thought to things like that, to how many people their affair would hurt. Probably not.

I gave careful thought as to who to leave my next message with. It had to be someone who wasn’t likely to chat to either my father or brother, but someone Claire might speak to. In the end, I couldn’t decide between two of Claire’s closest work friends—Suzie and Terri. Both were married and formed part of our larger circle of friends, and, if I were to organize a surprise party, would certainly be on the guest list. I rang both.

“Hey, Suzie. It’s Danny, here.”

“Hi, Danny. How are you? How’s Claire enjoying her weekend at the spa? The rotten cow! I’m so jealous.”

Suzie’s soft laugh belied her teasing words.

“Great, I think. At least, she hasn’t called me with any complaints.” I tried to inject some lightness and humor into my voice, but the effort left a bitter taste in my mouth. “I’ll make this quick, Suzie, as I have a heap of calls to make, but I’m planning a surprise party for Claire for our tenth wedding anniversary. I thought I’d call as many people as I could tonight to sound them out because I’m going to be out west on a job for the next week, and, as you know, Claire will be home tomorrow and it will be harder to sneak this past her.”

Not surprisingly, Suzie agreed to make her and her hubby available. I gave her some vague details—informal, two weeks away, feel free to invite others, and that I’d be in contact to confirm place and time. Of course, it was all rubbish. I had no intention of throwing a party of any way, shape, or form.

My conversation with Terri was almost identical.

Now, the hardest call of all.

Zack.

I poured myself a fortifying shot glass of brandy and threw it back in one hit. The burn to my throat elicited a hiss. While its warmth lingered in my belly, I hit the speed dial for Zack. Clearly, that was something I’d have to change. I didn’t envisage a future where I’d be exchanging calls with my traitorous cousin.

“Hey, Rat-Zack. How are they hanging?”

For the first time, I realized how apt Zack’s childhood nickname actually was. As kids he’d earned it for always getting into trouble. How many times had I seen his mother cuff him lightly in exasperation and call him a ratbag? Then, it had been in affection. Now, I said it with conviction. Zack, the arrogant bastard, was oblivious.

“Hey, Danny. What’s doing?”

I spouted off pretty much the same story as I had to Suzie and Terri with dashes of what I’d told my father and Shaun, except for his version I said I’d be on a job a few hours south.

“You sure do spoil Claire, Danny.”

It could have been my imagination but I thought I heard a hint of smugness in his tone. I clamped my mouth shut, my nostrils flaring with rage. It was lucky for Zack he was on the other end of a phone line rather than standing before me as I highly doubted I’d have been able to restrain myself were we face-to-face.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you do when you love someone. You spoil them.” That I didn’t choke on the words was a minor miracle. “You should try it sometime with all those girls you date. Maybe one would hang around if you did.”

As soon as the dig at him was out of my mouth, I regretted it. It was stupid. I held my breath, waiting for his response, hoping I hadn’t revealed my true feelings for the prick.

Zack laughed. “You’re probably right, but then you’re assuming I want them to hang around. Maybe, I prefer variety.”

“Spice of life and all that, hey?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Except for Claire. Except for my wife. Her, you’ve been dipping your dick into for twelve years.

I needed to end the call before I gave myself away.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your skirt chasing. I kind of like a guaranteed sex life. Hell of a lot less work to get into their knickers once you’ve put a ring on their finger. Cheaper too.”

“I don’t know about that. A few dinners seems a heck of a lot less than what I see some married dudes coughing up to please their wives.”

“Maybe.” I forced a laugh, unable to resist one last dig. “But, then again, Claire has always been easy to please. Bring her home a bunch of flowers and I get my cock sucked just the way I like. More than once, in fact, and just the way I taught her. I won’t even go into what she does when presented with a new handbag for her ever-expanding collection. Let’s just say when I do I have a good week. More than good and worth every penny.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone and I wondered if I’d gone too far—I never spoke crudely about Claire.

“Damn, I’d best get off the turps. I’ve obviously been drinking too much while making these calls. It’s loosened my tongue way too much.”

“No worries, Danny. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Hopefully, safer than the way you respected our family ties and Claire’s marriage vows, asshole. 

“Yeah, thanks. Talk soon.”

My thoughts flitted across the surface of my mind like the stones I’d so often skimmed across the still surface of the lake of my childhood. I thought of stupid things. Things I hadn’t thought of in years. Zack and I scampering off into the bush behind his house to try the cigarettes Zack had nicked from his father, the pair of us coughing and spluttering. Shaun, Zack, and I playing touch footy with the other neighborhood kids. Sleepovers where the three of us whispered long into the night. Zack and I on a double date at the drive-in. Both of us virgins and nervous as hell. The three of us trying to outdo each other playing Pokémon on our Gameboys. Fishing. Swimming. Surfing. Camping. So many thoughts. So many memories.

All sullied.

When had Zack forgotten our friendship? Our shared childhood? Our kinship? When had he decided betraying me was a price he was willing to pay to slip his cock into my girl? My wife. How could he look at himself in the mirror knowing what he’d done to me? To our family? How had he rationalized it to himself?

I clenched my jaw, forcing a halt to my thoughts. They wouldn’t help me, only hurt me and drive me crazy with lack of answers.

Sad, but satisfied I’d achieved my aim of concealing my whereabouts for the next week—depending on who or how many people Claire spoke to, she’d think I was north, south, or west of our home—I headed for the shower.

# # #

Another night of tossing and turning. Another night haunted by questions I wasn’t likely to ever have answers to. At least, not an honest answer. Not one I could accept without reservation or doubt. By their actions, both Claire and Zack had shown themselves to be deceitful, untrustworthy, and self-serving. Anything they said in their own defense would be suspect.

That rankled. I wanted the truth. I couldn’t stop the questions streaming through my mind. I wanted to know why. I wanted to know how they could do such a terrible thing. I wanted there to be something. Something I could put my finger on. Something I could point at and say; ‘Yes, that’s why she betrayed me. That’s why she didn’t love me.’ The situation would be easier to bear if there were something specific I could blame. Some simple explanation that would make sense of it all and protect me from the torture of not knowing why.

If, for her, there’d never been the spark, the connection, why marry me? If she wanted Zack, why hadn’t she married him? If she wanted to screw around, why marry at all? Why the betrayal? The cruelty? Why all lies, the years and years of deceit? Why the careless indifference to my feelings?

And him? I wanted to know how he was able to look me in the eyes all these years and blatantly lie to me again and again and again. I wanted to know how he could so deny our shared history. How was he able to stand by me in the church knowing what he’d done? How could he take pleasure in it?

I wanted the same truths from Claire. How? How could she? Why? She had a good life. She was loved and cherished. So why? What did I do wrong? For fuck’s sake,what did I do wrong?

And deep down, I knew nothing I’d done could ever justify their actions, but even knowing that, it still tore me apart to realize I’d never know the full truth.

You’re going to have to find a way to come to terms with that, Danny, old man. You’re never going to know. Torturing yourself over it only gives them more power and you’ve already given them too much.

Despite my internal pep talk I continued to churn on all I didn’t understand. Unable to remain lying in bed, I climbed out and switched on the light. In two steps I was standing before the antique cheval mirror Claire had sweet talked me into buying only a week earlier. I dropped my boxer shorts and studied myself. I even turned and examined the view of my ass and back.

I was in good shape. Even if I didn’t meet up with Shaun a few times a week at the gym, my work as a carpenter would guarantee that. Flaccid, my penis wasn’t that impressive, but my package had always been more of the grow than a show variety. Erect, I was at least seven inches with plenty of girth, so no porn star, but no slouch either. I’d certainly never had any complaints prior to going exclusive with Claire. I even man-scaped for her, though I’d drawn the line at having the bit of hair on my chest waxed.

Facially, I didn’t have movie star looks. Definitely, no Brad Pitt or Henry Cavill. I was more a young Bill Pullman, but Zack wasn’t likely to have them swooning in the aisles either. We were similar in height and build; if I was to get picky, Zack was softer around the gut, with the beginning of love handles, but, all in all, neither of us was markedly better looking or in better shape. So if appearance wasn’t a motivating factor for Claire’s betrayal; what was it then?

Was I a mediocre lover? A dud in bed? Claire had always seemed satisfied, enthusiastic even, during sex, but perhaps she’d been faking it all these years. She’d so thoroughly fooled me about everything else I no longer trusted my beliefs about our lovemaking.

I felt cast adrift; anchorless in a fast flowing river. Everything I’d believed about Claire and I was false. Nothing about our life was as I’d thought it to be. With no truth to hang onto I felt lost.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror and cursed Claire and Zack for the droop in my shoulders and bow to my head. Watching my reflection, I remembered my resolution of the previous evening to not beat myself up for Clair and Zack’s actions. I wasn’t responsible for their actions—they were.

I deliberately straightened and squared my shoulders, lifting my chin. My look was defiant. They wouldn’t defeat me. I refused to give them that. They wouldn’t break me. I wouldn’t let them. They’d taken enough from me. I’d give them no more.

# # #

I grinned. It was more malicious than happy, but it was a start. It was 5:00AM and Claire was not a morning person. Even at seven, the time I usually woke her, I just about needed a crowbar to lever her out of bed.

HEY ÉCLAIR. SORRY 2 MESSAGE SO EARLY BUT 4GOT LAST NITE. BLAME THE BEER! WILL BE OUT ON A JOB TILL L8 FRI. WILL CALL WHEN I CAN. LUV U.

Using my nickname for Claire made me bristle with distaste, even more than did signing off with ‘luv you.’ Never again would I think of her as something deliciously sweet and light.

Awake or not, I doubted she’d reply. More than likely, she’d read it and roll over and try to go back to sleep, probably cursing me.

My grin remained in place as I rinsed my coffee cup and placed it on the draining rack. I reached down and grabbed my duffle, heading for the front door. I was going away for a few days, making more of a truth of the story I’d told my father and brother.

After my alibi-setting calls of the previous evening I made a decision that prompted one more. I called Ray who worked for me as my foreman and told him the same story I gave my Dad and Shaun. We chatted for a bit about our current job and I rang off knowing I could trust him to carry on while I was gone.

Closing the front door, I marveled at the quiet; no barking dogs, not even the birds had begun their morning song. I breathed in the cool autumn air appreciatively. It was sweet, heavy with the perfume from the profusion of jasmine cascading along the entire length of trellis fence separating the cottage from our neighbors, the McDonalds, on the left.

I threw my duffle onto the passenger seat of my pride and joy—my Toyota Hilux work ute. I guess you could say it showed I truly am a man with simple tastes. Porsches and Lamborghinis didn’t do it for me, but a souped up work truck, well, that got my motor running, pardon the pun. Mine was a highly polished, non-standard blood-red with a custom designed tray jam-packed full of built-in toolboxes, drawers, and shelving that helped keep my work life organized.

I backed down the driveway and headed in the direction of the highway. It felt good to be on the road. With every mile I put between myself and the cottage my head became clearer, my thoughts more focused. Being away from everything ‘Claire’ made it easier to think. And I needed to think.

And plan.

TO BE CONTINUED