What’s the Worst?

What you can expect from WHAT’S THE WORST?

It’s a longish tale and we don’t want to give too much away, but for any swingers, move along, there’s nothing to see here. Other than that, we have strived to give the reader a unique discovery method. Our tale is a more descriptive and character driven plot than the average Van1 tale—blame CTC, she dragged me into it kicking and screaming…. Whenever I hear her speak; directly, or via her writing, I’m always reminded of my favourite line from the movie ‘Blazing Saddles’. “Why, Mr. Lamar, you use your tongue purdier than a $20 whore.”

THE PASSENGER IN SEAT 17B

WHERE THE HELL do I know her from?

I wracked my brain, going through all the women I knew. Section by section, I went through them. My neighbourhood. The gym. Friends of family. Work. One by one, I dismissed them. And yet I was one hundred percent sure I’d seen her before. Somehow, I knew her. The knowledge hung tantalisingly out of reach and it annoyed the crap out of me. I hated unsolved mysteries.

I hated them because I knew my brain would keep working to unravel the mystery and I’d do something annoying like wake at three in the morning with the answer.

I watched as she removed her coat and added it to the overhead locker where she’d already stowed her carry-on bag. She glanced in my direction, and though her lips curved in a vague sort of smile, I didn’t register any recognition in her gaze. Perhaps I was wrong about knowing her.

But I didn’t think so.

I lowered myself into my seat, cursing the faceless admin staff member who’d booked me a centre seat instead of one by the window or aisle. Mystery Lady had encountered no such issues and was seated by the window. For the umpteenth time I studied her profile, trying to tease out of my memory bank the knowledge of where and how I knew her.

I continued to study her through the gap in the seats as she rummaged in her handbag, finally removing her cell, and placing it on the empty seat beside her. She leaned forward, her dark hair falling forward and concealing her face, and carefully shoved her handbag under the seat in front of her.

She straightened, retrieving her phone from the seat beside her. I glanced away, wanting to respect her privacy as she typed in a pin, unlocking it. When I looked again, I smiled—finally I had the answer to my mystery.

Her phone background showed a smiling image of her with none other than Jonathon Carstairs, the head of our engineering department. Thanks to Jonathon I was head of installation. He was the first person to see through my façade of underplaying my intelligence. He was there for me when Sue screwed Carl, her boss, just as I was there for him when his first wife did the dirty on him. He’d told me many times in the years that followed that whenever he had dark thoughts he’d hear my signature line to Sue: ‘So why did you fuck him,’ and he’d laugh and instantly feel better.

He’d mentored me and taken me with him on his climb up the corporate ladder. Many a time I’d sat alongside him at his desk, going over a plan, and seen the photo of him with his wife, Priscilla. Priscilla Carstairs. She was a little older now, her hair a little longer, but it was definitely her.

I smiled, feeling satisfied. Mystery solved. I thought about re-introducing myself. We’d met a few times, in the early years when she still attended work Christmas functions, but her lack of recognition earlier told me she didn’t remember me. I wasn’t surprised—the Priscilla I remembered had always preferred hobnobbing with management rather than the guys at the coal face. Despite her remembered aloofness, had she been seated beside me I would have refreshed her memory, but with her in the row in front of me, I decided against it. Conversation would be too awkward, and, despite the flight not being filled to capacity, a rarity on a Friday to Brisbane, I wasn’t going to ask an attendant to be moved.

I opened my book of crosswords, and intending to only give her one final glance, reached toward my shirt pocket for my pen. I stopped mid motion, half rising from my seat, my leap to my feet only halted by the seatbelt.

There. On her screen. In full colour was a photo that was most definitely not Jonathon. For one thing the guy was black. For another he was a damn sight younger than Jonathon. And somehow, I couldn’t picture Jonathon taking a selfie with his jeans open at the zip with his other hand gripping one very erect cock.

Words leapt off the screen, searing themselves on my brain.

Hurry up, lover.

To my mind there could only be one interpretation—she was on her way to an assignation. She was just another cheating wife. I felt a wave of sympathy for Jonathon. He didn’t deserve this. Not again. If anyone knew what a devoted family man he was, it was me. One look at his office would tell the dumbest stranger he loved his wife, children, and grandkids. Her children. Christ, they weren’t even biologically his. Jonathon had adopted them and treated them as his own.

I didn’t care what her reasons were. I didn’t care if she thought him indifferent, boring, a workaholic, or inconsiderate. There was no excuse. If she was unhappy in her marriage she should have taken steps to fix the problems or leave. She should have finished one thing before she started another.

Old hurt, old rage, old disgust reared their ugly heads, taking me by surprise. Old instincts resurfaced as well, and my hand continued to my pocket, but instead of grabbing my pen, I curled my fingers around my cell.

For the briefest of moments, I hesitated, and let the possibility Jonathon knew and condoned his wife’s behaviour to roll around my brain. I shook my head at the thought. Impossible. Jonathon was too much a man to do such a wimpy thing. As if to confirm my conviction, my eyes were drawn to her left hand. I smiled grimly—she’d removed her rings and had even placed a band-aid on her ring finger to hide all evidence she wore any. Perhaps, she thought that was a mark of respect for Jonathon and their marriage. That the removal of her rings somehow made her a better person or less of an adulteress.

Not in my eyes.

Jonathon was a good guy. He deserved better than a cheating slut of a wife. He didn’t deserve a foolish one either and that she must be. That, or ignorant. Jonathon would never forgive her if he found out. Not with his history. Not after what his first wife did. Snippets of drunken rants flooded my brain. I’ll kill the bitch and her pissant boyfriend before I let her take my house and move her fucktoy in… The bitch is in for a rude shock if she thinks I’m going to roll over and let her walk away with all our assets—assets, I fucking earned us.

But she did. Thanks to a hairy-armpitted, lesbian judge who assumed all men were arseholes and deserved punishing, she took him to the cleaners and all he’d been left with was the dilapidated cottage his mother had left him. In fact, it was after seeing the way Jonathon got raped in the courts that helped me formulate my plan for seeing Sue didn’t do the same to me.

I surreptitiously snapped off a photo of her screen and then zoomed out to get one showing her profile. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the photos. On the one hand, I wanted to send them through to Jonathon immediately. On the other, I didn’t want to be the bearer of such devastating news—his first marriage break-up had nearly destroyed him. It had taken years for him to date, let alone trust a woman again.

I put my phone away—I now had a fellow passenger beside me and I didn’t want him alerting Priscilla or one of the flight attendants about my taking photos of Priscilla unawares.

The two-hour flight was torture. Every time I glimpsed Priscilla through the gap, I was filled with loathing and longed to be able to email Jonathon about her betrayal. Was it a betrayal yet? Maybe she was on her way to her first tryst. Her first step out of faithfulness to Jonathon. Or could it be I was witnessing just the latest act in a long running affair? I pondered that and what I could infer from the evidence I had; the photo of his cock; the band-aid on her finger, probably to hide the indentation and shadow cast by her wedding ring. My values interrupted my train of thought. It just didn’t matter.

I went so far as to draft an email but whenever I thought of sending it, I saw Jonathon’s face in the months following the collapse of his first marriage. I saw his proud smile when he showed me the latest photos of his adopted son and daughter, or their children. I heard his voice when he spoke of how the eldest grandchild called him Grampa for the first time on his last visit. God, he loved his adopted kids. It would kill him to lose them and their children. Did I have the right to do that to him after everything he’d done for me? Did I have the right not to tell him something as pivotal to his happiness as this? And would he lose them at all?

I’d always been a decisive man. I’d proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt in a million work and personal decisions. Why then was I struggling so much with this one? Simple. To prove my loyalty to a man I owed much to, I would destroy a big chunk of his soul. Could I do that? Could I not do that? What would I want Jonathon to do if the tables were reversed? Easy. I would want the problem to go away and never come back again.

Thus, the solution to my dilemma was born. There was, however, a missing piece of the puzzle; did Mrs. Carstairs give a shit about Jonathon or was this an exit affair? If the latter, were her preparations to ambush Jonathon complete? If I warned him now, would he be less raped when it all went down? Christ, he was only a few years away from retirement.

Uneasily, I formulated a plan that would cover every base I thought needed covering. It would minimise my intervention, thus easing my conscience, and, at the same time, protect my friend and mentor from either a straying wife or from being ambushed again. It would also leave the end result somewhat in the lap of the gods and that appealed to my aging, sanguine beliefs.

I would give the bitch a chance to show her true colours and her hand. I would give her a fighting chance to minimise the damage already done. I would give her a chance to go back to being a faithful wife. I would give her a choice which was more than I was guessing she’d given Jonathon. If she proved by her actions that’s wasn’t what she wanted, then Jonathon would be told.  

######

PRISCILLA

I ANGLED MYSELF into the corner, pressing against the small window so I could sneak another look at Paul’s photo without risking the guy next to me seeing it. Paul looked good enough to eat. It wasn’t that his cock was any bigger than Jonathon’s—in fact, Jonathon’s probably had more girth—but the duskiness was a novelty after all my years with Jon. Paul’s abs, now those were something Jonathon had lost. Not that he wasn’t in good shape, but Paul had twenty-five years on him and there was no competing with that.

Paul knew he was good-looking; it was evident in the confidence of his pose. It was sexy and provocative, and I certainly felt provoked. I stared a little longer, giddy at the thought of what I’d be doing with that cock in a few short hours.

Later, sadly, on the flight home, I’d have to delete the image but for now I could enjoy it.

And enjoy it I did. Perhaps a little too much if the need to press my legs together to relieve the throbbing ache at the apex of my thighs was any indication.

My eyes traced the line over his washboard abs and my fingers prickled with the memory of the last time I’d been with him and I’d done just that.

As the plane levelled off, I surreptitiously glanced to the side, confirming the guy in the seat next to me already had his nose in the latest Dan Brown bestseller. Good, I wouldn’t need to discourage conversation. I stared at Paul’s beautiful cock and abs a moment longer, locking the image in my mind and then switched off my phone.

Smiling, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander back to my last interlude with Paul.

We’d organised to meet in Sydney, at a little B&B overlooking the harbour for our first all-nighter. Sydney was neutral ground where neither of us was likely to bump into anyone we knew. I’d like to say we were romantic and went through the niceties of sightseeing and having lunch or dinner prior to getting naked, but I’d be lying if I did. Driven by lust, we never left the room after checking in.

And that was the difference. The thing that made it so exciting and addictive with Paul. I loved Jonathon, and he me, but after being so long together our lovemaking wasn’t lust driven; it was gentle and considerate, every touch a declaration of love. With Paul, my animal instincts were revived. All I wanted to do was rip his clothes off and get his cock into me. There was no love or tenderness, just two people using each other’s bodies for sexual pleasure and release.

If I had thought the fact that we had two nights together would mean a slowing of pace or more tenderness, I’d have been disappointed. Paul continued to screw me as if he had a stick of dynamite tied to his arse.

My nipples tingled, remembering how Paul had repeatedly chewed and sucked on them greedily, no loving licks. Same with my pussy; he ate it as if it were his last meal on earth. It wasn’t lovemaking; it was greedy hunger. It made me feel young and sexy and desirable.

Paul’s stamina was something to behold. I squirmed in my seat as my pussy clenched and throbbed, remembering the relentless pounding it had received. He’d wrung one orgasm after another out of me until I was a limp rag beneath him, begging for mercy. Then, and only then, had he unleashed his own climax, filling me to overflowing.

Rest and a hot shower later, we’d done it again. This time with me bent over the vanity, still wet from the shower. Needless to say, we’d needed another wash.

Lunch had been forgotten, dinner ordered in, and the shower got a good workout, cleaning us up in preparation for another fuck session. In truth, that’s all we did all weekend—fucked, sucked, washed, and ate in.

By the time I returned home my pussy was so raw it hurt to pee. But I’d loved it.

Thank god, though, Jonathon had been on a rare trip to site in the Kimberleys and not due home for another five days, giving me time to rest, heal, and tighten.

Jonathon was lovemaking. Paul; raw animal sex. Jonathon left me feeling loved and cherished. Paul; sated and wrung out.

I loved and wanted both.

######

THE PASSENGER IN SEAT 17B

IF IT WEREN’T for my current situation I would have enjoyed a silent chuckle at my fellow travellers. It always amazed me, that in the instant the Fasten Seat Belt sign went off, the way there was a mass leap by all and sundry into the aisle; the mad scramble to retrieve carry-on luggage from the overhead lockers, despite the then lengthy wait to actually exit the aircraft.

Normally, I waited until the plane was almost empty before collecting my own gear, but as my plan required me to keep Priscilla within a relatively short distance ahead, I joined the rest of cattle class in the aisle. By allowing the gentleman who had been seated beside me, and the passengers across the aisle to organise themselves first, I managed to position myself four people behind Priscilla. She’d shown no signs of recognising me earlier, but I didn’t want to take any chances on that being a distracted fluke on her behalf.

I maintained my distance as we crossed the aerobridge into the terminal. As I suspected she headed for the baggage claim—women like Priscilla always took luggage.

The carousel was idle, the cargo not yet unloaded. My target scanned all the faces in the hall before turning her gaze toward the exit. She tapped her foot impatiently and looked at her wristwatch. As soon as the first bit of luggage began rolling around, her gaze alternated between the carousel and the exit. When her face lit up like a Christmas tree, and she even took one step toward the doors as she raised her arm to wave, I turned to look in the same direction. I couldn’t contain a snort of derision. How cliché—her partner looked considerably younger than I knew Priscilla to be.

I waited as he hastened toward her, hoping their greeting would give me an indication about whether this was a first meeting or one in a long line of meetings.

My stomach dropped. I closed my eyes, allowing a gust of breath to exit noisily. The lovers—and I now knew that is exactly what they were—displayed no signs of shyness, no awkwardness, no fumbling.

For a brief moment I questioned my plan—the bitch was as guilty as hell—but thoughts of Jonathon, now in his sixties, having to survive a second wife betraying his love and trust kept me on course. Decision reaffirmed, I discreetly photographed their passionate embrace.

Sliding my phone into my pocket, I strode toward the pair, and while she was still encased in his arms, their lips locked, I tapped her on the shoulder. I heard the wet slurp of their lips disengaging and shuddered in disgust. Even after the many years since Sue, and the divorces I’d witnessed due to a cheating spouse among colleagues and friends, I still couldn’t understand how one partner could so sorely betray someone they had promised to love and cherish. To me it was still the worst kind of betrayal one partner could perpetrate on the other.

“Excuse me,” I almost smiled at my banal words. “Mrs. Carstairs, you demonstrated on the plane that you don’t remember me, but, unfortunately for you, I do remember you.”

Her twirl to face me coincided with a gasp from her companion. “Mrs?”

We both ignored him.

“Who are you?” she demanded, probing my features. Then, as I watched, her eyes half-swivelled toward her beau. Was that worry he’d just learned something she wanted to remain hidden in her eyes? It was only a fraction of a second before her attention returned fully to me.

I could almost hear the cogs of her brain churning through memories, trying to place me. I suppressed a smile when no light of recognition dawned in her gaze. Sadly, for her, she was like so many born to privilege and didn’t take notice of those she felt beneath her.

“Who I am is irrelevant. Who you are, on the other hand, is most relevant. Or, should I say, who you are married to is.”

“Married? Cilla?” piped in lover-boy. “You said you were divorced and have been for years.”

“Paul, honey, please give me a moment. I can explain. I’m separated; have been for a long time. My ex just doesn’t want to accept we’re over and has stalled the divorce.”

I watched as he scanned her face; his uncertainty as clear as a neon sign. I thought about confirming his doubts, but I wanted her choice to be genuine and not decided by lover-boy storming out on her. Anything less would be unfair to Jonathon.

“Please, give me a moment with Mr…”

She paused, waiting for me to provide my name. I merely raised an eyebrow and replied, “Dave.”

“Just give me a moment with, aah, Dave, to sort this out and then we can enjoy our weekend as planned.”

She was convincing; I’d give her that. Had I not listened to Jonathon talking about their upcoming trip to Perth to visit their son as recently as earlier in the week, I’d have believed her.

Lover-boy nodded reluctantly. I could feel his eyes on my back as Priscilla grabbed my forearm and steered me out of earshot.

“Now, not that it’s any business of yours, but as I said, I’m separated. I appreciate your concern for my soon to be ex-husband, but I really must insist you leave me alone and not interfere in things that don’t concern you.”

I was tempted to applaud her—she was that good an actress—but I kept my game plan in the forefront of my mind. She had to choose free and clear, not be compelled through lack of options.

“Wow, you’re good,” I said, smiling benignly for the benefit of Lover-boy. “So, if you’re so separated, who is Jonathon taking to Perth next week to visit Jared?”

She gasped and looked at me more closely. I could feel her annoyance at herself at not being able to remember me. Regardless, she was now aware I knew Jonathon well enough to be privy to his plans.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Priscilla. I’m going to give you a choice. One you should consider carefully. Yes, a choice and a chance.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

She was impatient. Her attitude irked me and once again I questioned giving her an opportunity to save her marriage. By giving Jonathon a chance at avoiding pain I was offering his wife one I didn’t think she deserved. I steeled myself by thinking, I’m doing it for Jonathon, not her.

“I’m talking about giving you a choice between Jonathon and your lover. I’m talking about giving you a chance to save your marriage, and your husband a wealth of pain we both know he doesn’t deserve. He saved you and your children from the gutter and this is how you repay him?”

She paled and for the first time looked unsure of herself. It was then I realised I’d been seeing a façade for the last two minutes. Far from being the self-assured woman in total control, she was a terrified wife about to have her world torn apart.

“Aah, not so separated after all, I see.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I want nothing from you. In fact, it’s the other way around. I’m giving you something, something, frankly, I don’t think you deserve, but against my better judgement, I’m giving you a chance to avoid Jonathon finding out about lover-boy over there. I’m giving you a chance to save your marriage.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly, but as she was side-on to her lover I doubted he’d notice.

“What do I have to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything. Weren’t you listening? I’m giving you a choice.”

She nodded, and I smiled.

“It’s now nearly midday. I’m giving you until four-thirty Melbourne time to phone me from the 03-area code confirming you’re back in Melbourne or I’ll send Jonathon an email I’ve already prepared with these three attachments.”

I removed my phone from my pocket and quickly opened the folder containing the three photographs I’d taken of her.

“Oh god,” she moaned, closing her eyes. “Please. Please don’t. Jonathon will be devastated.”

“You really must learn to listen better, Priscilla. I said you have a chance to avoid detection. You have until four-thirty local time in Melbourne, so considering Daylight Saving, you have a little over three-and-a-half hours to get yourself back home.”

“But it’s nearly midday. That’s not enough time.”

“Oh, it will be tough, but there are a few direct flights that will get you there in plenty of time.”

And there were, as long as she abandoned lover-boy and her luggage immediately to purchase her ticket.

 “Here’s my card. Phone me on my cell no later than four-thirty and the email and attachments will never leave my draft folder. Well, unless, I suspect you’re exercising bad judgement, like you have done in recent times. You call me by the designated time and, from here on in, treat Jonathon in the manner to which he deserves as your husband and the email and photos will never see the light of day.”

She took my business card, reading my name and title, and at last I saw the penny drop. She swallowed noisily, raising her gaze to look at me fearfully. I smiled and nodded, confirming her unspoken question. Yes, I was that Dave.

As I watched, I saw the exact moment she remembered the story her husband had told her. Good, she now knew exactly how uncompromising I could be.

At that moment, out of my peripheral vision, I spied a chauffeur holding up a placard with my name on it. I quarter-turned to wave at him and when I turned back, Priscilla was deep in thought next to the baggage carousel. Her lover was walking toward her again. Glancing at my watch, I realised I didn’t have time to hang around to see what transpired. It was going to be touch and go as it was to get to my first meeting on time. From here on in, Priscilla’s fate, and the fate of my best professional friend, was in her hands and those of the gods.

######

PRISCILLA

PAUL DIDN’T EXIST for me once Dave had confronted me. I didn’t bother explaining myself. All I managed to say to him was, “I’ve got to return to Melbourne. Lose my number.”

My handling of Paul showed me there wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind I wanted to save my marriage. Present circumstances excepted, I loved Jonathon. Dave was right—Jonathon didn’t deserve what I’d been doing. All those years ago Jonathon had saved me. He’d been a knight in shining armour to both me and my children and I was repaying him with betrayal.

And all because Paul reminded me of Jerome, my first husband. Jerome, who’d left me while I was still madly in love with him. Jerome, who’d made love to me on the morning he left me, never to be seen again. I should have hated him for his abandonment. Instead, I’d always felt I needed closure, an explanation of why. Why, when I’d done nothing but love and support him emotionally and financially? Why, when I’d kept my figure and would fuck him at the drop of a hat? I’d never understood what I’d done to drive him away. Somehow, my affair with Paul was a way to get the closure denied me for close on thirty years. The fact that he also made my fifty-two-year-old arse feel young when the upcoming birth of Jared’s second child made me feel old, was merely a bonus.

For the first time since meeting Paul, I felt shame at what I’d done. Dave’s words made me acknowledge all my rationalisations for the affair were hollow.

I glanced at my wristwatch, time was ticking by way too fast. I scanned the length of the carousel—my bag was nowhere in sight—and made a snap decision. To hell with my new Victoria’s Secret underwear. To hell with the little black dress I’d bought especially for this weekend. To hell with my phone charger. I abandoned my luggage and walked as fast as my stupidly high heels allowed toward the ticketing counters.

I was born the daughter of a wealthy man, accustomed to privilege and being treated with deference. Fat lot of good that did me when a man in a three-piece suit raced by me, briefcase flying, to secure a slot ahead of me in the queue.

As I waited with barely concealed impatience, my stomach in knots at the delay, I allowed memories I usually denied to fill my mind.

Vague, barely-there images of a mother I’d never really known, she having died when I was four years old. Would things have turned out differently if she’d survived?

Had she loved my father? I struggled to believe she did. With me, he’d always been strict and aloof, never affectionate. Later, when I was a teen, I’d realised he was also racist and a snob, and they were some of his better points.

Had he been kinder, more encouraging, would I have rebelled the way I did? Would I have fallen so hard for a man I knew my father would detest? A young, half aboriginal, ex-con, ironically hired with the money my father provided to a local charity as a tax dodge. His name was Jerome and he cleaned our pool.

I fucked Jerome. I got pregnant by him, and, just to spite my wrathful father, I married him. My father’s reaction was as violent as it was predictable. As soon as I announced abortion wasn’t an option, he threw me out. Total and complete disinheritance.

I was dragged back to the present by the harrumphing of three-piece suit. It only took me a split second to realise why he was making his frustration known—the couple currently being assisted were Asian and clearly knew little English. The more I listened the more my frustration mounted. Why couldn’t they afford to employ a second person to help on the counter? Brisbane was a state capital, for Christ’s sake.

My attention was drawn back to three-piece suit. He was turning his head this way and that, checking out the other airline counters. That woke me up to my own stupidity. Why was I waiting in the Qantas queue? Just because I’d flown into Brisbane on them didn’t mean I had to fly back to Melbourne with them. Three-piece taking a step in the direction of the Virgin Australia counter decided me. I removed my heels, and, ignoring amused glances, sprinted for the Virgin counter, pipping three-piece at the post. He wasn’t happy, but I didn’t care.

“I’d like a ticket on the five-to-twelve flight to Melbourne, please.”

“Ma’am, I have a couple of seats left on that flight, but the gate is closing shortly. Do you have any luggage to check?”

“No, none.”

“I’ll need some form of ID.”

I gave her my drivers licence as well as my credit card and silently urged her to enter my information into the computer faster.

“I’ve taken the liberty of checking you in, Mrs. Carstairs, but even so, you’re going to have to run to make the gate in time. Here’s your boarding pass.”

My fingers closed around the pass and I took off in the direction of the departure gates, clutching my handbag to my side with my elbow to stop it flapping about. As I ran, I glanced down to check which gate before scanning overhead signs for the corresponding gate number. I felt like I was in a movie. An innocent woman dodging and evading the enemy. Except, I wasn’t innocent. All I could do was pray my guilt wouldn’t be punished by fate.

Seeing the line at Security made me groan. I made a judgement call and headed for what looked like the fastest moving queue and prayed it wasn’t like the queues at the supermarket where I never seemed to pick with any accuracy the quickest one.

I dumped my handbag into the plastic tray. At least, having earlier removed my shoes, which were covered in metal studs and buckles and bound to set off the metal detectors, I’d save myself a bit of time. Having pushed the tray onto the conveyor belt, I stepped toward and through the metal detector, only to hear the alarm sound.

“Please remove your belt, ma’am.”

I groaned. So much for having saved time by having already removed my shoes. Even as I walked back to the trays I was unbuckling my big fancy belt buckle, and once I’d pulled it through the loops of my jeans, I dumped it unceremoniously in a tray. Again, I walked through the metal detector, breathing a sigh in relief when the attendant gave me the nod.

It didn’t even occur to me to put my belt back on; I simply shoved it in my handbag beside my heels.

Once again, I ran, silently blessing the time my personal trainer had had me spend jogging on a treadmill.

I literally skidded the last two yards to the boarding gate, gasping for breath as I shoved my pass in the hand of the attendant.

“You’re just in time,” the attendant said with a smile, scanning my pass before handing it back to me. “Please use the back stairs as you are in seat 23B.”

I nodded, still breathless. I retrieved my heels and roughly pushed them on my feet, awkwardly adjusting the straps.

The one good thing about arriving for the flight so late was most people were in their seats, their carry-on luggage already stowed, which made finding my own seat a lot quicker and easier.

I sank into my seat, feeling a wave of relief flood through me. I’d made it! This flight would get me into Melbourne by three-fifteen. Plenty of time to contact Dave and stop the exposure of my affair.

Relaxing, I turned my head to see who was seated beside me. It was a young mum nursing a toddler. A little girl with dark brown curls. Looking at those curls made me think of my daughter, Carly. She, too, as a toddler had had curls, silky black ones, and teamed with the cream-coffee coloured skin she’d inherited from her father, had always had a Spanish look about her.

Thinking of Carly as a baby made me remember other things. Things like the cleaning job I’d found within weeks of bringing her home from the hospital. I looked down at my hands. They showed no signs of the rigours of that job. Many manicures and pots of hand cream had seen to that.

I hadn’t minded having to do such menial work. With my father black-banning Jerome, we’d had little choice, and though my meagre earnings didn’t afford us much comfort, I’d thought us happy. I’d certainly been happy. Even going from a mansion to a tiny trailer hadn’t mattered to me. For me that tiny trailer held more love than the whole of my father’s huge house. So much love, I fell pregnant again and Jared joined our happy family a month early after a difficult pregnancy.

Things had been even tighter than usual the last month or two of the pregnancy as I couldn’t work, and the unemployment benefit we received barely covered the rent. Despite the difficulties, I’d still been happy and made sure Jerome knew I had no regrets. I never complained, even when trying to juggle two kids with working.

But, as it turned out, my happy family was but an illusion. Jerome, true to his aboriginal heritage, was restless from being tied to the one place. He spoke longingly of the outback and told me stories of his grandfather going walkabout. Still, I never thought he’d actually leave me, leave us. How wrong I was. One day I came home from work, after a long bus ride, to find five-year old Carly looking after Jared. The car, Jerome, and anything of value, including my grandmother’s brooch, were gone. Later, I discovered the meagre contents of our bank account was also gone. Worse, he’d left me in debt, not having paid the last month’s rent for the trailer.

The manager of the trailer park had been deaf to my pleas. No amount of tears had moved him. The kids and I had gone from having a happy, if humble, home, to being homeless.

That was how Jonathon found us.

The sound of a voice over the intercom drew me back from the past. I groaned. Instead of the expected seatbelt warnings we were notified of an estimated thirty-minute delay due to the need to remove luggage from the hold for a passenger who hadn’t turned up for the flight. Having heard the reason for the delay, I couldn’t contain my venomous thoughts. Fuck the airline rule that stated if a dickhead fellow passenger fell asleep in the terminal and didn’t report to the gate after check-in, everyone else got screwed around while their luggage was removed from the aircraft. I hoped the prick died in his or her sleep.  

Looking down, I saw my knuckles were white as I clutched my handbag. Taking a few deep breaths, I made a conscious effort to ease my grip.

“Relax,” I told myself. “What’s the worst that can happen? You arrive at three-forty-five instead of three-fifteen. You’ll still have plenty of time to contact Dave and avert disaster.”

More to distract myself than anything else, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to meeting Jonathon. The thing I remembered most from that first meeting was his kindness and concern. He’d looked at me with his gentle grey eyes and I’d known immediately I could trust him.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” he’d asked me.

Those seven words were all it took to open the floodgate and for me to blubber my way through my story. Of course, my blubbering had sparked the equivalent in Carly and Jared. Poor Jonathon. Not that he’d been fazed. Somehow, he’d calmed us all, calmed us and inspired me with enough trust I’d not protested when he bustled us into his car. Nor had I protested when he drove us to the trailer park and helped me pack the remainder of our belongings which hadn’t fit into the only suitcase I’d owned. Tears welled in my eyes when I recalled him squatting down before Carly and Jared, offering them each an ice-cream. Gently, but firmly, he’d instructed them to sit beneath the big elm tree while he and I filled the trunk of his car with the little I owned in kitchenware and linen.

And it hadn’t stopped there. He’d taken us to his home, which had a small, two-bedroom granny flat situated in the rear corner of the property. After dropping us off and urging us to unpack and make ourselves at home, he’d gone and done a week’s worth of shopping. Not since leaving my father’s house had I seen a refrigerator and pantry so full of food. It felt like Christmas.

It was quite a bit later, when I finally felt sure the kids and I wouldn’t be turfed out onto the street, that I felt brave enough to ask Jonathon what he’d been doing in the park that day. By then I’d been his housekeeper for a few weeks and knew he worked on the other side of town to the park.

“I was on my way to list the granny flat for rent with the real estate agency with an office opposite the park.”

He must have seen the look of panic on my face—I certainly remembered the feeling clamping my chest until I could barely breathe.

“Don’t worry, Priscilla,” he’d said, patting my hand reassuringly. “Having you and the kids in the flat has worked out much better for me. Now I come home to a clean house and a homecooked meal.”

“And freshly laundered and ironed clothes,” I added, needing him to know exactly how much I did.

“Yes, and that, too.”

A lump formed in my throat at the memory. Not once had he ever made me feel like I was a beggar he’d taken mercy on. He never made it feel like charity. He’d never been anything but generous and supportive. He’d trusted me with the keys to his house, set up accounts for me to do shopping for both households, and even paid me a small stipend. I could have robbed him. Run off with his money. Hell, I could have snuck up on him in the middle of the night and stabbed him while he slept.

And I guess, in a way, that’s exactly what I’d done. I’d stabbed him in the back. Only I’d waited nearly thirty years to do it.

Facing the truth of what I’d done was too much. My mind shied away from it.

I only hooked up with Paul four times. It wasn’t love. It was closure. It was a last wave to youth. Jonathon doesn’t know, and, god willing, he’ll never know. I’ll make it up to him.

The simultaneous movement of the plane coupled with an announcement from the pilot interrupted my thoughts. I checked my watch—forty minutes late in taking off. I frowned and prayed for no further delays.

Once the plane had levelled off, I retrieved my phone and checked the weather forecast for Melbourne. As a city she had a reputation for experiencing all four seasons in one day and the last thing I needed was for some freak storm to delay the flight further. I relaxed—sunny with possible showers.

Reassured, I went back to my thoughts. I was certain Jonathon was clueless as to my brief affair. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. I just had to keep him unaware.

Really, what harm had I done? After nearly thirty years I’d had a little fling. A fling that was in no way a threat to Jonathon or our marriage. At no point in my time with Paul had the thought even occurred to me to leave Jonathon. In fact, in some ways Jonathon had benefited. Being with Paul made me feel young and sexy. Jonathon had been the recipient of my renewed libido.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked myself. “If Jonathon finds out I will have to throw myself on his mercy and beg forgiveness. He loves me. He won’t want to lose me and the kids. It may take time, and it may be hard, but he’ll forgive me.”

I mulled over that for a while. What if he didn’t forgive me? What if he kicked me out? We had a prenup. Infidelity by either party meant leaving the marriage with next to nothing. Even as I worried about the infidelity clause, I dismissed it. The agreement had been drawn up and signed nearly thirty years ago and there’d been a few cases in the news of late of prenups being turned over by the courts. Besides, I just couldn’t envision Jonathon wanting to see me penniless and homeless. After all, he’d saved me from such a plight once already. He was a knight in shining armour type of guy, not an avenging devil.

And then there’s Carly and Jared and their children. If he dumps me for one little indiscretion, leaving me with no money to support myself, the kids will disown him. He’d be devastated if he lost them. He won’t risk that no matter how upset he is with me.

Again, my thoughts drifted to the past. I closed my eyes and saw Carly and Jared’s face when we came home from doing the grocery shop to find Jonathon had set up a small playground, compete with swing, slippery dip, and climbing frame for them in the back yard. How many times had I looked out the window to see Jonathon pushing one or the other of them on the swing? Too many to count.

Same with the pool he’d had put in when they were a little older. How many times had I watched him play and splash around with them? So many that one blended into the other.

He’d been a wonderful father; patient but firm, and always giving of his time. He’d never missed a soccer game, school event, or birthday. He loved my children, always had and always would, of that I was sure. And now we had grandchildren and I knew for a fact he loved being a grandfather as much as he loved being a father.

He’d be heartbroken if Carly and Jared cut him out of their lives and that of their children, and that’s probably what would happen if he divorced me and left me penniless. Blood, after all, being thicker than water. He wouldn’t risk it.

The more I thought about it the more certain I became. I may have to eat crow and suck up to Jonathon to win him over and restore his pride, but I wouldn’t lose him.”

And if by some fluke of the universe I was wrong? Well, then I’d fight it out with Jonathon in the courts. I’d live with Carly and her husband Jack, and I’d plead my youth and situation as a young single mother as having left me no choice but to sign the prenup. I’d been a good and loving wife to him for nearly thirty years. The courts wouldn’t let him turf me out with nothing.

Again, the tinny voice of the pilot over the intercom system returned me to reality. With his words, my chest felt empty, as if my heart had dropped into my stomach. More delays. A medical emergency flight heading for Melbourne meant all other incoming flights had to maintain a holding pattern. Christ, how long would that take? Please God, no longer than twenty minutes. That will leave me twenty to disembark and find a landline to call Dave from.

Each minute with no update was excruciating. The time seemed to pass far too quickly. In my mind, I saw an hour glass with the sand racing through the slender funnel, making an ever-growing pyramid in the base.

I checked my watch; fifteen minutes had passed. I didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

“Miss, when the hell is the pilot going to land this flying bucket?” I asked the young flight attendant testily, grabbing her arm to make her stop.

“Excuse me?” she asked, smiling.

“I asked when will we be landing? These delays are just too much. What kind of airline are you running? I have an important, aah, appointment to keep and if we don’t land soon I will be late.”

“Ma’am, it’s a Royal Flying Doctor flight we’re waiting on. That means a patient with a critical injury or illness, probably a life or death situation. I’m sorry, but aviation rules dictate that to be more important than passengers’ meetings, appointments, connecting flights, sense of entitlement, or any other reason they may be traveling. The pilot’s hands are tied. We cannot land without permission from Melbourne air traffic control. We appreciate your patience.”

“Bitch,” I thought, manipulating my mouth into what I hoped passed as a smile.

The minutes seemed to rocket by as if jet propelled and yet each second seemed to hold a thousand and one thoughts and feelings, too many for such a short time span.

“Hello. This is John Smith, your captain. I have good news and bad news. The good news is the Flying Doctor flight has landed. The bad news is, as we fuelled up in Brisbane, we’re being asked to maintain our holding pattern until flights low on fuel land. We estimate a further twenty or so minute delay. We thank you for your patience.”

“Fuck! No!”

The words burst from me unfiltered, loud enough to draw the attention of surrounding passengers. The looks directed at me ranged from amused to disgusted. I ducked my head, embarrassed, staring at my wristwatch, doing the numbers. At best, the delay meant I’d only have fifteen minutes to disembark and find a phone. At worst, five minutes.

It was cutting it too fine.

I had to contact Dave. I had to let him know of the delays.

I bent over and retrieved my handbag from under the seat in front of me. Fighting panic, I groped for my cell. I’d text Dave. He’d understand. He had to. Of course, my phone had made its way to the bottom; I had to dig it out from under my wallet, belt, and notebook.

The screen was black. I frowned. Had I switched it off earlier? I couldn’t remember. I knew the battery was low; I’d noticed that fact when I received Paul’s text messages prior to take-off in what seemed a lifetime ago. I pressed the on-button. Nothing.

No. No. No. No. It can’t be flat.

But it was.

Why, oh why, hadn’t I charged it prior to leaving? Why had I packed my secondary charger, leaving the main one at home, in my suitcase instead of my handbag?

Because you wanted to be able to semi-truthfully say to Jonathon you’d forgotten to charge it and that’s why you missed his calls.

A whimper escaped me as I pressed the on-switch again, praying for a miracle.

None was forthcoming.

What am I going to do? Please let us land in time for me to get to a public phone in the terminal.

I clock-watched, silently begging time to stand still until we landed. I searched each flight attendant’s face, searching for a clue as to when we would land. I mutely urged to pilots to announce we were next in line.

The wait was unbearable; my nerves were stretched to their limit. One more delay and I felt sure they’d snap.

4:05

4:09

4:12

With each minute that passed with no word from the airline staff, I fought harder to contain my panic.

I don’t want to lose my husband. I don’t want to have to fight him in court. I don’t want to have to explain to my children why their father and I are at odds. I want my old life back. The one where Jonathon looks at me indulgently; his eyes full of love and affection.

4:17

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now making our final approach. We thank you for your patience during these unforeseen delays and—”

I didn’t hear the rest of the announcement. All that mattered to me was we were landing. Finally.

I slipped the strap of my handbag over my shoulder—I fully intended to be the first person off the plane, even if I had to push and shove the other passengers out of the way to do so.

The feeling of pressure as we angled for landing was beyond welcome. The sound of the wheels hitting the tarmac music to my ears; the roar of the reverse thrusters a veritable symphony.

As soon as the Fasten Seat Belts sign blinked off I bolted from my seat, forcing my way to the back entrance.

They better be embarking from the rear of the plane.

I could feel the waves of anxiety rolling off me. The other passengers, and even the attendants, avoided looking directly at me. They probably thought I was a nutcase. They weren’t far wrong.

The opening of the rear doors was like the opening of a floodgate and just like a flood, I flowed violently down the stairs, hitting the tarmac at a run.

I entered the terminal at speed, my gaze darting left and right seeking a public phone. I sprinted, ignoring the looks of other commuters, scanning ahead, searching frantically for a phone.

As I approached the main terminal where all the shops and eateries were located, I spied one. Relief gave me a final burst of speed and I only just stopped short of colliding with the phone booth.

A quick glance at the phone informed me it took both credit card and coins—thank heavens as I wasn’t sure how much small change I had in my purse. I dug my wallet from my bag, cursing myself for not having thought ahead and having it ready in my hand.

4:29

I slotted in my visa, holding Dave’s card at eye level, and began dialling.

“Credit card payments are temporarily unavailable from this phone. Please use coins.”

The recorded message made me want to scream. As it was, I groaned. I grappled with my purse. All I had was a fifty, twenty, and ten cent. I prayed it would be enough to connect to Dave’s mobile.

Again, I balanced the receiver between my ear and shoulder while holding Dave’s business card in one hand and pushing the buttons with the other.

The call went direct to voicemail.

“Dave, I’m in Melbourne. There were—”

My time ran out.

No! God in heaven; no!

I glanced at my watch.

4:32

My legs turned to jelly. I sank to the floor still clutching the receiver.

My life as I knew it was over.

Dave was at this very moment communicating with Jonathon, informing him of my betrayal.

Possible words and phrases that would populate his email, skimmed across my mind; a mind too shocked to hang on and grasp any of them. I saw again Dave’s photos of Paul, of my kissing Paul. Jonathon would be devastated. Heartbroken. Destroyed. And it was all my fault.

As clear as if he were standing before me, I saw Jonathon’s face. His broken, grief-stricken face, tears streaking down his cheeks. I’d only seen that expression on his face once before—the time we nearly lost Carly to cerebral meningitis.

It was at that moment it hit me just how precious he was to me; how very much I loved and needed him. Guilt made me dry reach. I had wronged him in the worst possible way, and to add to my crimes I’d spent every moment since Dave confronted me rationalising what I’d done. Minimising my actions. Excusing myself.

What the hell had I been telling myself? Closure? Why would I need closure for a relationship where my children and I had not only been abandoned, but left penniless and in debt?

Worse, was I so vain and shallow, so pathetic, I needed a younger man fancying me to feel attractive and desirable? It would seem so.

How could I have contemplated fighting Jonathon in court? How damn selfish could I be? How self-centred had I become? The thought of being on the opposing side of anything to Jonathon was just plain wrong.

Had I, despite myself, turned into my father? My stomach clenched violently again, so deep was my shame.

######

DAVE

FOUR O’CLOCK it said at the bottom corner of my laptop screen. I sighed, not knowing if it was a blessing or a curse that my afternoon meeting ended early, giving me time to think.

“Come on, Priscilla. Ring, damn you, woman, ring.”

I read over my email to Jonathon, tweaking it here and there, wishing that I could be deleting instead of editing.

4:07

I checked the volume and charge on my phone; I knew both were fine, but I needed something to do with my hands. I stared at the screen, willing it to light up with an incoming call. She should have well and truly landed by now.

I wasn’t used to regret but really cursed myself for being distracted and losing sight of the bitch at the airport. Some indication that she’d returned to her lover outside or sprinted for the check-in counter would have eased my decision making. I killed some time by writing down all the possible flight numbers she could be on. That done, I crossed off all those that had already landed. The remaining list was mighty small.

“Please,” I silently begged her. “Please don’t make me the instrument that destroys my friend and mentor. Please don’t make me the messenger of such crushing information. Please love him enough to want to protect him from such pain. Please want to save your marriage.”

4:14

I growled with frustration. With measured movements, I raised my coffee cup to my lips. I’d have preferred to throw it against the opposite wall, hence my excessively controlled actions.

“Ring, you fucking selfish, arrogant bitch.”

4:19

I rolled my neck from side to side in an effort to ease the tension. It didn’t work. I stood and paced. No cure, but better.

4:23

As I watched, the status of the last unlanded flight from Brisbane to Melbourne before 4.30, changed from ‘delayed’ to ‘landed’. All others had been on the ground for at least half an hour.

“Ring. Damn you. Ring. That man is the best thing that ever happened to your ungrateful entitled arse. Ring.”

The pacing was no longer working—the temp office I’d been allocated while in Brisbane wasn’t big enough to contain my tension.

Push-ups it was.

One. Should I do what I intended doing?

Two. It came down to this. If she wanted to save her marriage and prevent Jonathon being devastated, she would be in Melbourne right now.

Three. If she rang NOW, I would keep my silence and not devastate my friend. Not be responsible, indirectly, for wrecking his life.

Four. If she didn’t ring, that meant she’d stayed in Brisbane. She had no interest in saving her marriage. She’d already decided to leave Jonathon and maybe even had begun actions to come out best in the divorce.

I’d gotten to fifteen when a horrible thought occurred to me. Shit! Had I made a huge error of judgement? Had she used the time since I left her in the airport further advancing her plans to screw over my friend?

Sixteen. If that was the case, what sort of friend was I to aid and abet a good man being done over… again?

I managed twenty push-ups altogether, vowing that if Jonathon was screwed I would help him out any way I could. Emotional support. Financial support. Hitman.

4:29

“God damn you, you heartless whore.”

I logged back into my laptop which had gone dormant. I was immediately taken to my drafted email. My finger hovered over the send icon.

I groaned.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t give him such news in such an impersonal way.

4:30

Time slowed. I stared at the ghastly implement for what seemed an age.

4:31

I reached for the phone, Jonathon’s number, one of the most recent in my call list.

“Hey, Dave. How’s Brisbane going?”

Hearing Jonathon’s voice almost robbed me of my own.

“Jonathon, I have some bad news, some information I really wish I didn’t know.”

Silence met my ears.

“You still there?”

“Yes. Okay, lay it on me. Have we lost the contract?”

I closed my eyes. Of course, he would assume it was work related. He trusted Priscilla. She and the kids were the centre of his world.

“No, mate. All is great on the work front. This is about Priscilla. She was on the same flight as me this morning; sat in the row in front of me, actually.”

I then laid it out for him. Seeing the photo on her phone, watching her kiss her lover, guessing it wasn’t the first time. The confrontation. The choice I gave her. Her apparent decision. Throughout it all, Jonathon remained silent.

At the end, I asked if he wanted copies of the photos and pleaded with him to endorse my choice of action. To the former question he simply said, “Yes please”, in a voice obviously struggling to remain controlled. The answer to the latter was preceded by a few seconds of silence, “Thanks, mate, you did well. I’ve gotta go.” The dial tone told me he’d hung up.

My conscience soared before the fundamental sadness of my friend’s plight reined it in. Finally, I hit send on my email. It worried the piss out of me that I was two states away from him with no way to offer comfort, or at least make sure he didn’t do something silly.

Then, I cursed myself. Belinda, the other half of me since Sue left the picture, was sitting at home, not ten blocks from where my friend was hurting. I picked up the phone again and rang her, grinning. Belinda actually was as smart as Sue had thought she was.

She listened to the story and was already walking to her car by the time I was finished. After asking for the address, she rang off. 

######

PRISCILLA

“ARE YOU OKAY?”

The kind words from an elderly woman brought me back to the present.

“Um, yes. Thank you for your concern.”

I struggled to my feet, doing my best to smile reassuringly at the old woman who was still looking at me with concerned eyes.

I turned toward the central terminal, willing my brain to think clearly and not slide back into panic.

A phone. I had to find another phone; one that actually did accept a credit card and call Jonathon. Hopefully, my call would reach him before Dave’s email. A confession from me would have to be better than hearing it from someone else.

It took two attempts to find a fully functional public phone. Had I not been so focused on reaching Jonathon, I’d have been disgusted at the slack maintenance from Telstra.

I tried his cell first, but it went to voicemail. I considered leaving a message but decided against it. I wanted to speak to him directly.

I knew Jonathon would be home—he often worked from home on Fridays—and so I called the landline. I fought back tears when it too went to the answering machine. When, oh when, would I catch a break? Desperate to have him hear it first from me, I decided to confess all—I could go into more detail in person once we were face-to-face.

“Jonathon, it’s me, Pris. Sweetheart, I’ve done the most terrible thing and I am so sorry I’ve done it. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t anything you did or didn’t do. Oh, god, I’m getting this all arse about. This is so hard to tell you. I feel so ashamed. I-I, oh god, I’ve been having an affair. A fling, really. I was foolish and vain enough to let things get out of hand with a younger man. His name is Paul and I’ve only met up with him four times. I swear that’s the truth, sweetheart. Please believe me when I say I love you and only you. I was stupid. A stupid, selfish cow. I know that. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I was meeting him this weekend in Brisbane, but I bumped into your colleague, Dave—I can’t remember his surname—and he made me realise how utterly awful and wrong I’ve been, and I wish I could take back what I’ve done. I wish I could go back in time and make a different choice. Please forgive me. Please don’t leave—”

I heard the beep of being cut off. I’d run out of time. I groped in my handbag for a tissue to mop up the tears my confession had sparked.

“What’s next, Pris?” I quietly asked myself. “Home,” I answered. “Get a taxi home and throw yourself on your knees and beg like you never have before.”

Decision made, I headed for one of the many exits out of the terminal. Just my luck there was a queue at the taxi rank. Of course, there was; it was late Friday afternoon and every man and his dog wanted to get home.

Finally, it was my turn. I glanced at the driver and bit back a moan; he was a Sikh.

Please let him speak passable English.

I gave my address in Carlton, receiving a nod in reply. The Friday afternoon traffic was abominable and as is usually the case when one is in a hurry, every light seemed to turn red as we approached. At times, I felt as if I could walk faster than the speed we managed.

The whole time, I stared out the window, forcing the tears back, and prayed. Prayed like never before. Going over things repeatedly. Had the worst that could happen changed with my confession, and/or Dave’s revelation? I, better than anyone, knew how deeply scarred Jonathon was from his first wife’s betrayal. After all our years together, would he give me another chance, or would I too be kicked to the kerb? If kicked, would he be generous in the settlement or show no mercy? If it came to having to fight for my share of our assets, I no longer knew whether I would have the will to or not.

At last, we pulled over beside the letterbox to my house.

Jonathon’s car was in the driveway. At least, he was home. I walked along the path like a condemned man to the hangman’s noose. I steeled myself for Jonathon’s fury, for the vitriol I was sure was headed my way. I deserved every angry word, every insult. All I could do was hope by venting the poison my actions had injected into his heart it would seep out and allow me to make amends for what I’d done.

Do I ring the bell, or just let myself in?

Taking a deep breath, I opted to use my key, letting myself in—until Jonathon said otherwise this was still my home.

The house was silent. I called out but received no reply. Was he ignoring me? Confused, I checked the kitchen, and then the master bedroom and bathroom. No sign of Jonathon. My heart rate escalated. Where was he? His car was here. Had one of our friends come and collected him? I walked to the formal dining and checked the backyard from the bank of windows. No sign.

There was really only one more room where he might be; his study.

I frowned as I stood in the doorway. He’d definitely been in the room recently, but it was a mess which was out of character—Jonathon was ordinarily a neat man.

His chair was pushed back and to the side and the small coffee table had also been moved. Paperwork was scattered in what Jonathon had always called organised chaos across his desk, but also underneath and that was unusual.

Following the line of documents, I noticed the phone was off the hook. I frowned; that was odd. And then the open answering machine, empty of its usual cassette, registered.

Panic clawed at my heart. I had a bad feeling.

I dropped my head to my chest, attempting to regulate my breathing which had become low and shallow. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something sticking out from under the castor of Jonathon’s office chair. I bent and retrieved it, struggling as it fought to stick to the carpet. A sticker? What would Jonathon need a sticker for?

Laerdal HS1.

What the hell is Laerdal HS1?

I lowered myself into Jonathon’s chair and rolled myself to a comfortable position in front of the PC. One tap of the keyboard informed me Jonathon hadn’t logged off. I went to Google and typed in the name on the label.

Oh god, Heart Start One Defibrillator. I swallowed my panic again and again, scared to let my mind go where it wanted to go. I leaned forward, accidentally nudging the mouse and opened Outlook. He’d emailed the kids. I scanned a couple of lines but the only word that registered was, ‘prenup’.

I shook my head—time later to worry about the kids knowing what a fool I’d been. Right now, I needed to get to Jonathon. Needed him to know how terribly sorry I was, how much I loved him and needed him to fight to live.

I opened a new Google page, searching for the nearest hospital. With shaking hands, I called and asked if Jonathon had been admitted. My first fears were realised—Jonathon was in ER. He’d had a heart attack.

I rushed to the kitchen, grabbing my car keys from the hook before racing into the garage. Waiting for the garage door to rise far enough to allow me to back out was excruciating. I typed in the hospital’s address in my on-board navigation as I drove, praying for Jonathon’s survival the whole time.

Please don’t die. Please don’t let him die. What the hell happened? Jonathon was as fit and as strong as a bull elephant. He always passed the bi-annual medicals for his company with results like he was fifteen years younger than his chronological age.

I didn’t know who I was praying to. God? Jonathon? All I knew was the hope that if I prayed and begged hard enough Jonathon would be spared. Shit, this could even be a good thing. I could be his nurse. He would be in no fit state to take care of himself and I would have what? One, maybe two weeks of him needing me? If I can’t talk some forgiveness into him in that time, then things are irreparable.

The journey seemed to take a long time. How I got there in one piece with tears blinding me, I’d never know. As usual, parking anywhere near the hospital was a nightmare. Luckily, the ER was well signposted.

The bored looking triage nurse took her sweet time getting the details off a mother and her kid. Why bother? The snot-nosed kid only had a grazed knee. That was obvious by the way he was kicking the leg of the chair he was sitting in. When it was finally my turn, the nurse took my name, made a quick phone call, then told me to wait with the rest. I must have sat there for almost an hour, guessing they were busy admitting Jonathon, after having stabilised him.

Luckily, I’d grabbed a spare phone charger on the way out of the house and there was a handy wall socket in the ER. I distracted myself by googling post heart attack care and some other stuff I wasn’t particularly proud of at the time, but I firmly believe in covering all bases. I read about stents and bypasses. All seemed to require two-plus weeks of bed rest.  

The triage nurse herself came and roused me. I was taken through the doors between the waiting room and the ER itself. She didn’t say much as I was led into a small office, just inside the doors. There sat a tired looking guy in a white coat. Must be a doctor. He got on his feet when I came in, so, old-fashioned type. The mid-fifties woman with him remained seated. Once I was seated, I settled in to hear the prognosis, armed with all my new-found knowledge.

 Memory of the next events are hazy, at best. Somewhere, in the first sentence was the expression, ‘dead on arrival’. I have no idea whether or not I actually hit the floor. Strangely, I seemed to be falling for an inordinately long time. All my totally inadequate, ‘What’s the worsts’ from earlier in the day, screamed into my brain with a huge rushing noise.

######

DAVE

I WAS ABSOLUTELY buggered when the phone call roused me from dozing. It was just after 9:00a.m. and it was Carly, Jonathon’s daughter, confirming I’d heard the news and asking me to come to their dad’s house.

Oh, yes, I’d heard the news all right. That’s why I’d hardly slept a wink. Yet, as the first glimmer of dawn turned the world pink, I knew I wasn’t responsible for my friend’s death. How? Jonathon told me. Not being able to sleep, I’d gotten up quietly, to avoid waking Belinda. As was my routine, I checked my emails and phone for messages. I’d been too busy the previous night to look. There was a voice message, which turned out to be from Jon, time stamped 4:55 the previous afternoon. Feeling like I was contacting the dead, I pushed the button to listen to what he’d left. It was short, simple, and came from a body obviously in pain.

“Thanks for being a true friend, mate. Bye.”

I went back to bed, crawled into Belinda’s arms and she held me while I mourned a great man.

Belinda accompanied me to Jonathon’s house and we were almost correct in our guesses as to what they wanted. I said they. Yes, Jared had caught the midnight horror from Perth and joined Carly at their old family home. They wanted to know what had killed their father and, like many of the recently bereaved, know who to blame. After establishing Jonathon had sent them an email before the hospital contacted them to say their father had died, and their mother was still there, sedated, Belinda and I built a timeline for them.

Belinda had made good time to Jon’s house, noticed his car was there but no one answered the door bell. She took the liberty of walking around the house, looking through windows. That’s how she saw him lying on the floor.

Luckily, the back door was open, so she sprinted inside. Jonathon was on the floor, clutching the house phone in one hand and, rather incongruously, the answering machine in the other. He had no pulse that Belinda could find.  She rolled him onto his back with one hand while calling 000 with the other. Under the emergency operator’s tutelage, she commenced CPR. She was nearing exhaustion, at what she guessed was around the ten-minute mark, when the ambulance arrived. They’d pushed all the furniture to the walls and connected an AED. At that point, Belinda left the room to call me.

By the time we’d settled each other, the ambos had Jonathon on a stretcher and were headed for the ambulance. I asked Belinda to go back into Jon’s study and describe the scene. The result of that description meant she ended up following the ambulance to the hospital with the back seat of her car was covered with Jon’s cell phone, the tape from the answering machine, an envelope containing a legal document, my email to Jonathon, with attachments and a signed email she found lying right next to the keyboard on the desk. Me, I was on the way back to Brisbane airport and the next flight home.

Belinda met me at the airport with news that wasn’t a huge surprise. While sitting in the ER, a woman she recognised as Priscilla came in and sat playing with her phone. After almost an hour, Priscilla had been led away and never re -appeared. Belinda pressed the ER nurse for news. Only after revealing she was the one who had applied CPR and called it in was she told anything at all. Even then, it was limited to, “The lady has been admitted and sedated after some devastating news.”

The timeline we built showed Jonathon was busy in the last half an hour of his life. Some, through necessity, was educated guesswork.

I’d called him at 4:31, then he would have read my email. There, on the desk were the printed photos. After that, he probably looked in the filing cabinet for his prenup with Priscilla—that was the legal document in the envelope. We read it together and it spelled out, among other things, that a cheating party in the marriage left with nothing but their personal possessions. Not surprising, when you consider how his first marriage exploded.

From there, he’d written a one-page email to his kids, in which he expressed his love for them and the grandchildren, born and unborn. He then detailed my call and email—that’s how they’d come across my name. He apologised for the impending divorce and how ruthlessly he intended to treat their mother. Their mother, he told them, knew his views on infidelity and so she shouldn’t be surprised he was going to enforce the prenup rigorously.

The counterpoint was he intended to look after them and leave all his worldly goods to them instead of her.  All through the text shone his love for them but a growing bitterness toward their mother. The evidence of loathing staggered his kids. They understood a lot better after I related the untold story of their father’s first wife and my own experience of love being shunted to hate. The dread introspection as a person realises that all they’d taken as gospel for years was a lie. That their memories were sullied; their dreams shattered.

Bizarrely, a signed and dated copy of the email had been among the documents Belinda grabbed. Beside the clear signature was some illegible scrawl. We guessed he was in severe pain from his heart as he wrote it. The bizarreness reduced after my lawyer, who answered his phone on a Saturday, responded to some questions from me.

The only time reference we could use to estimate the timeline was the message Jonathon left on my voicemail.

We estimated his heart stopped during, or shortly after, Priscilla’s confession, which we all listened to. We might have missed this bit of evidence had his clutching of the recorder not alerted Belinda to its existence.

Once we had an approximation of the order of events, I felt it was time for Belinda and me to leave the siblings. They probably had things they wanted to discuss in private. Just as I turned to signal Belinda, we all heard a car pull up outside. As one, our heads turned to the window. Priscilla was exiting her BMW.

######

PRISCILLA

SAME AS IN the hospital, I delayed opening my eyes. When would the nightmare end? The sound of the front door opening and closing made me cringe and I scrunched my eyes even tighter shut. I’d never felt so alone and isolated in my life.

The nightmare started when I woke to the cleaner in my hospital room, clattering away and making a racket. I winced from the jarring noise. I cautiously opened my eyes, squinting at the bright glare bouncing off the ultra-white ceiling. Turning my head to the side, I blinked repeatedly in an effort to speed up my adjustment to the light. I groaned, my head ached. It felt fuzzy, like I was trying to think through a wad of cotton wool. Why was I in hospital?

And then it all flooded back.

Jonathon was gone. Dead. I’d never feel his arms around me again. Never see his smile or hear him laugh. The love of my life gone. I couldn’t bear it. Hot tears spilled over.

I felt the panic start in the small of my back, growing and gathering momentum as it moved up my spine. The sound of an animal in pain pierced my brain. It took a moment for me to realise it was me, I was the animal shrieking in agony. I thrashed, fighting the bedcovers. Arms restrained me.

“Here, take these, Mrs. Carstairs.”

I turned my head back and forth, avoiding the rim of the plastic cup, at the same time as I pushed the proffered hand away. Escape. I had to escape my new reality.

“Ssh, calm down. Take these and you’ll feel better.”

Like a puppet whose strings are cut, I sagged, unable to support my own weight.

The nurse held the cup and tablets out to me again and I obediently sipped and swallowed. Within a matter of minutes calm washed over me.

Seeing I was no longer a threat to myself or anyone else, the nurse patted my arm, encouraging me to recline against the multitude of pillows she’d stacked behind my back.

“Someone will be in shortly to make sure you’re okay. Just rest until then.”

I did as instructed, calm but desolate.

Jonathon was gone.

Forever.

My mind shied away from why.

How long I waited to be released, I wasn’t sure. Time had no meaning. Everything I did was done on auto-pilot. My only aim was to get myself home, somewhere familiar, somewhere where I could cry.

I knew I needed to cry myself out before I tried again to phone Carly and Jared. Perhaps it was just as well they hadn’t answered their phones when I’d attempted earlier.

Seeing Carly’s car in the driveway gave me pause. I realised the hospital must have phoned her. My emotions were mixed; relief I wasn’t the one who would have to break the devastating news, and dread at having to face her, knowing she knew something of my affair.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, I walked the path to my front door like a condemned man. I let myself in and did a double-take; not only was Carly sitting in the living room, but Jared also. The biggest surprise, though, was the presence of Dave and a blonde woman, I didn’t recognise and could only surmise was his wife. I waited for my children to come and give me a hug and was confused when they remained seated. Both just stared at me, condemningly. I was struck mute. Skewered to where I stood.  Without a glance at me, Dave and his wife rose and said their goodbyes, his wife hugging both my children. Dave hugged Carly but shook Jared’s hand. Carly went as far as to thank Dave for what he’d done for her father. What? Thank him for what? For killing him?

After closing the front door behind them, Jared returned to the lounge and sat where he’d been before. Carly avoided my gaze the whole time he was away. I was just confused. Jared exchanged a look with Carly. She nodded, indicating her younger brother was to be the spokesman.

“Mother. As you know, I’m the executor of father’s will, and I have to tell you that after discussing things with my sister and others, I intend to act on Dad’s last wish and enforce the terms of the pre-nuptial agreement you both signed all those years ago. Particularly the part of it that says YOU leave with nothing.”

Jared was waving the prenup. His speech was mostly dispassionate, and he only looked at me when he said, with emphasis, the word, ‘YOU.’ His eyes blazed. I was bewildered. Yes, I’d cheated on their dad; it happened to the best of us. Why the hate? What did they know? It couldn’t be much. I’d gone to Brisbane and they held photos of me kissing Paul. I responded automatically. I hadn’t been mentally idle in the last half day.

“Forget the prenup. It’s only relevant if I committed adultery. So, I went to Brisbane and was caught kissing another man. What does that prove?”

Carly leaned over to the coffee table, picked something up and waved it at me. Damn, it was the tape from the answering machine. The one with my confession almost certainly on it. Things were spiralling out of control. I had to rein them in.

“Look, children. Not that it has anything to do with you, but you should know I’ve done my research. Even if I can’t get that ancient prenup overturned, then the law is clear. Unless specifically excluded, everything of your father’s comes to me as per the terms of his last will and testament.”

Carly leapt to her feet, eyes bulging in anger. “Nothing to do with us? Nothing to do with us? You evil bi…”

Jared interrupted his sister by the simple expedient of rising and wrapping her in his arms. I envied her that human contact. He made ssshhhing noises until her sobbing abated, then returned his attention to me.

“Maybe you’re referring to the will we found in the filing cabinet. Updated about five years ago. That the one? Let me read you something.”

He picked up what I recognised as the email Jonathon sent the kids the previous afternoon. I stood there, head bowed, as he outlined what Jonathon knew and how he’d found out. I cringed as it degenerated into a diatribe of hate, all aimed at me. My mind flashed back to the pain Jonathon had been in when I first met him. How wary and reluctant to trust. How the hell had I managed to forget that? My mind kept trying to make a connection, but my self-preservation continually stopped it. I forced myself to listen to Jared. He’d put the horrible email down again.

“This email outlines Dad’s final wishes. As you can see, he took the time to print and sign it. There, see? That confused us until Dave rang his lawyer. By signing it, it became a new last will and testament. Yes, Mother, you could fight it and the prenup in court, but I’ll give you fair warning; Carly and I will fight you every step of the way.”

In disbelief, I looked at Carly. She nodded agreement. This couldn’t be true. Couldn’t be happening.

“Why?”

Carly disengaged herself from her brother and stepped into my face.

“Mum, we were raised with the story of how you met Dad. How he took us in when we were on the streets. In a way, that made us love him even more than if he were our natural dad. He chose to do it all with and for us rather than treat raising us as an obligation. I have more childhood memories of Dad playing with me, of helping me with my homework, of teaching me to ride a bike, swim, and drive a car than I do you. I am the person I am today, and I think Jared would say the same, because of him, not you. You were always too busy with your friends. You never wanted to get your clothes rumpled, or your hair messed. We owe everything to him. And so do you. He loved us all with everything he had. Even you can’t deny that. Dave told us about Dad’s first marriage and how it almost destroyed him. You were there. You knew exactly what cheating on him would do, yet you did it anyway.”

“But, I didn’t think… I never thought… It just happened. You’re talking like I’m an evil witch that destroyed your father deliberately. Yet you talk to that prick, Dave, like he’s your new best buddy. He killed your father. “

Jared stepped right next to his sister and glared at me with a malevolence that was like a physical push.

“No, Mother. Dave didn’t kill dad. You did. Your sticking a knife in his guts and twisting it was what did it.”

The truth of this resonated with my soul but before complete acceptance of its truth took over my very being, my automatic defence mechanisms cut in. Much like a corpse will twitch for many seconds after life is extinguished.

“You can’t take any notice of what he wrote in that damn email. He was freshly hurt, speaking in anger. Your father loved me.”

Jared got even closer.

“Yes, he did. And, yes, he spoke in anger. Imagine you’re sitting there, knowing you’re having a heart attack. How much passionate hatred does it take to write an email, print it, and even sign it when you could be ringing an ambulance for yourself? That’s how important his final words were to him. He risked his life for them—”

“That’s what I don’t understand. How could he die from a heart attack? He was as strong as an ox. God, he only had a medical four months ago, and the doctor told him he was as fit as a man in his forties.”

“Funny you should mention that, Mother. We asked the hospital that very question. You know what they told us?”

The hateful sarcasm in Carly’s voice made me wince as I shook my head.

“Shock, Mother. Shock. Your betrayal shook him to his core and his poor broken heart shattered. Your selfishness, your vanity, your damn stupidity, as you so eloquently put it in your confession, broke him completely. Mine and Jared’s children will never know their Grampa because of you and I for one can never forgive you for that.”

I stepped back as if pushed. Jared as if tied to me stepped forward.

“I will believe till my dying breath that Dad’s final words to us were more important to him than his survival. I have to believe that because the alternative is just too horrible.”

Carly turned to him quizzically.

“Yes. The alternative, that he knew what pain from betrayal was about to hit him from a quarter that should have been protected by our loyal mother here. Knew the level of agony coming and deliberately chose not to call an ambulance for himself. If I believed that for a second, I might never sleep again. That he would choose to never know his grandchildren or have them know him. It’s just too ghastly to contemplate.”

Carly whimpered, falling back into the armchair, her face white. Jared stepped beside her and placed his hand upon her shoulder, giving it a squeeze before returning his attention to me.

“So, Mother, it is with the passion of our father that we will be enforcing his final wishes.”

And that is all I remember for a very, very long time.

######

EPILOGUE

PRISCILLA

SEATED ON THE lounge, surrounded by packing crates, my gaze landed on the small plastic container that held a small portion of Jonathon’s ashes. I couldn’t look at it for long; it was too painful. And surreal. How could something so small, so mediocre, hold the remains of someone so great as Jonathon?

I needed movement. I stood and stretched my legs, then wandered aimlessly from one packed box to the next, running my fingertips over their edges. So little, really, from such a long, rich, and full life together. I guess I should consider myself lucky the kids were letting me take as much as they were. They could have made me leave with only my clothing and toiletries.

Having done a circuit of the room, I stopped in front of the wall where once a beautiful antique sideboard resided and studied the ghostly outline of where we’d hung a print of our wedding. The one with Carly nestled in the crook of Jonathon’s arm, his other around my waist, while Jared stood proudly in front of us. All of us smiling, aglow with happiness. Now the blank wall, with its ghostlike empty frame, spoke to me more eloquently than words of the emptiness of my future.

I sighed; weary and sad.

I was between a rock and a hard place. I had an impossible decision to make.

I could accede to Jonathon’s last wishes and leave without a fight and by doing so keep the flame of hope alive that one day my children would forgive me and allow me to be part of their lives. That option meant poverty. My work skills, other than homemaking, were non-existent. I wasn’t old enough to receive the aged pension but too old to be truly competitive in the job seeking market when I lacked qualifications.

My other option was to fight my own children in open court, knowing that to do so would mean the loss of Carly and Jared and their families forever. And, of course, I’d be denying Jonathon’s dying wish.

Both choices were abhorrent.

I could blame Dave for telling Jonathon. I could blame Jerome, my first husband, for abandoning me with no reason. I could blame hormones or aging or Paul for taking advantage of a vulnerable older woman. Hell, many a psychologist would tell me I could blame my mother for dying when I was so young or my father for being aloof and uncaring, but the truth was—yes, I could finally face it—I had only myself to blame. No one made me respond to Paul’s flattery. No one made me jump into bed with him. No one made me lie and cheat and betray someone I had vowed to love exclusively for the rest of my life. I made those choices.

And now I had to live with the consequences.

######

n.b. The more observant amongst you may have noticed that the Dave in the above story was kindly loaned to us by Vandemonium1 from ‘Frustration’.

######

NOW, TO EASE YOUR JOURNEY FROM FICTION BACK TO COLD, HARD REALITY…

Why does it take a million sperm to fertilize one egg?

They really are too damn proud to stop and ask for directions.

###

As an airplane is about to crash, a female passenger jumps up frantically and announces, “If I’m going to die, I want to die feeling like a woman.” She removes all her clothing and asks, “Is there someone on this plane who is man enough to make me feel like a woman?”

A man stands up, removes his shirt, holding it toward her and says, “Here, iron this!”