Three Little Words by Alan Hancock

2 520 words

Back in the days when she took an interest in what I did and said, my wife gave me a book to read. I didn’t get very far with it. The bit that stuck with me was where the writer said how important it was to tell the truth. All the time. Doesn’t matter how messy things get. Tell everyone exactly what’s on your mind. If you don’t then all this bad energy builds up inside and fucks up your life. That was the message as far as I could understand it. I meant to ask her if she’d tried it out herself and what happened. But by then we weren’t talking.

To start at the beginning. Once upon a time, last year, before I made The Big Mistake, I was spending the nights alone with the internet. I was bored and lonely and pissed off. We weren’t talking; we were drifting apart. When Jason moved out Claire started sleeping in the spare room. This not talking sort of crept up on us. It was small at first, the kind of thing you can shrug off and wait for it to get better. Then it doesn’t, get better. It gets worse. It gets to be just the way things are.

I start going to bed late: lots of Netflix, then a bit of porn just to see what all the fuss is about. And then I get bored with that too. One night I tap a few words into Google and bingo. I’m on this dating site. Put in some details - a child could do it; they probably do - few white lies about age and marital status. No photo. Just click the button that says ‘Ask me if you want to see one’ and I’m off. I am dating. I’m thinking, this is nuts, but what the hell. It gives me something to do of an evening when Claire is tucked up nice and comfy in the spare bed.

Feels a bit naughty too. Like fishing out of season. Quite a lot like fishing. You cast in, tighten up the line, sit back and wait. I send out a few messages, and wait. I wait for a week and begin to think it’s all a waste of time. Then there’s this prompt in my inbox. ‘You have a Lonely Hearts message. Click to read now.’ You betcha. A month later we’re chatting every night till late. I know about chat lines. In the old days the kids were on them all the time – had to threaten confiscating their phones to get them to go to sleep before midnight. Now it’s my turn and I’m hooked. I start talking about stuff I’ve never mentioned before to anyone, IRL. I’m really talking. Telling the truth. Mostly.

There’s a little voice that keeps telling me how this is all wrong. Then I think, Claire hasn’t shown any interest in me for months. So what’s wrong with having a lady pen-pal? What’s the harm in that?

And of course all the time I know exactly what the harm is.

Kaya lives on the West Coast, about as far away as you can get from here and still be in the same country. I forgot to put in my postcode. Now I’m dating someone who lives in a different time zone. Things happen fast in cyberspace. Of course at first I’m wondering if maybe I’m talking to a three hundred pound monster with many chins, who happens to be a bloke. That used to be the cautionary tale didn’t it. Some poor sucker would have all this hot chat with a babe who turns out to be a middle-aged man, or a hacker based in Nigeria.

Time to use the webcam. Kaya looks alright. She looks really nice. Here’s something weird. The first time she says, Wanna see what I look like? I get a hard-on. I am physically, undeniably, turned on by a real person for the first time in ages. By someone who isn’t even there. So how does that work?

At this point I think I’d better fess up about the sex thing online. It’s all sex. Guess what I’m thinking of when she says, Wanna see what I look like? Right first time. It’s not the colour of her eyes. A bit later we get onto the sex stuff, but for now I’ll just say it was an idea in my head right from the start.

One morning Claire asks what I’m doing in the study till god knows what time every night. I say something like, well if you’re not waiting for me, there’s not much incentive to go to bed these days. She gives me one of those looks where she does this slow motion nod while making an ‘Oh’ with her mouth but doesn’t say anything. She knows what it means but I’m never quite sure. What I am sure of is that I’ve said something so obviously stupid that there’s no point in saying anything more about it. End of chat.

Question to the jury. Can you have sex with someone you’ve never come closer to than three thousand miles? If no, then what was going on? If yes, then please define sex. It’s a good question your honour. It’s a hum-dinger.

If you want my opinion, my humble opinion based on experience over several weeks, I’d say the answer is yes. Feels about the same. Has the same effect on the people involved. And the people who are not involved.

To start at the beginning, of the cybersex. We used to send each other those jokey emails you get forwarded to you by people at work. You know the kind of thing. Ten reasons why women rule the world. This one I sent her was about cybersex. A real hoot. Sexy too. She did lots of lol, and omg, and we had a chat about how guys and women get turned on by different things. Then there’s all these pictures popping up on my screen. She’d sent me a few photos before but these are different: bra and panties, lingerie. It’s all dead obvious and very amateur tacky. Maybe that’s why it works. It works big time. I tell her and she sends me the smiley emoticon that does a big kiss. I write, This could turn into cybersex. She writes back, OK. Why not? I lock the study door. We’re off.

Then it’s phone sex and things happen fast. She starts talking about falling in love and I make a joke out of it. But I get turned on just logging in to the chat line. I’m up till the wee small hours most nights. Madness. I’m addicted. I disappear to the study early just so I can get on line. If she’s not there I miss her. Whatever that means.

Then I get a call from Jason to say he’s split up with his girlfriend and he’s moving back in. Tonight. No more spare room. Claire decides she wants her own space and suggests I move into the study. Says I spend half my life there anyway: might as well put a bed in. She isn’t smiling. I can’t think of a good reason why not.

The move out of marital Eden and into the study is harder than I thought. Feels like I’m being excluded from something that’s mine by right. Feels like I’m making some kind of mistake that will have long term consequences. I think about making a last minute plea; I think again. There’s a lot of ammunition available to Claire. Stuff she might be holding back for a moment like this. I clear my side of the wardrobe. I take my favourite pillow – the one made of latex that she doesn’t like cos it’s too hard - and I leave.

Now that the study is my territory I’m free to live my internet life without any fear of interruption. And guess what. I don’t want it any more. I’m well aware that I’m turning into a walking talking cliché, but hell, it’s the truth. I don’t want the internet. What I want is to be back with Claire. In our bed, which through some clever tactical move on her part, has become her bed. She now occupies the high ground, moral and emotional, while I’m camped outside the city gates with my laptop and phone. I can feel this thing called marriage slipping through my fingers like sand on the beach.

I’m still asking myself the big question. How much does she know? Has she maybe got someone to show her how to trace my moves on the internet? Would she stoop to something like that? I begin to realise I don’t know my wife of twenty-five years quite as well as I thought I did. Maybe not at all.

About this time Claire gets a new iPad Pro: state of the art, all the bells and whistles, must have cost a bit. I notice it on the kitchen table one day with the packaging all round and I say something stupid like, Oh, I didn’t know you were into tech. She gives me a look and carries on unpacking it. She says something about how she’s getting a broadband connection and wifi router put in. I want to protest that she didn’t ask me about it before she made the decision, but her attention is elsewhere.

I think about her. A lot. I imagine Claire trying out internet dating. Claire doing cybersex. Claire with someone else. I’m losing interest in Kaya. The less I email and call her the more attentive she gets. Of course, of course, yes. I should have known. She starts using the l-word, as a verb. First person. I decide to tell her that I don’t feel like that any more but it’s always easier to let it slide. I’m backing away. It’s all very predictable.

Out of nowhere comes The Terrible Thought. Kaya finds my home phone number - amazing stuff these internet search engines - and she calls the house. Or, Nightmare on Elm Street, she gets my address and turns up on the doorstep. Shit. What have I done? I decide to tell Claire. Everything, i.e. nothing. I’ll tell her how I’ve done nothing. I decide to do it that very night. After all, she’s read the book. She’ll understand.

We sit down and she says, Well? I say, I’ve got something to tell you Claire. She gives me the look. I panic. I know I cannot possibly do it. Claire will take a carving knife and stick it in my heart. She’d know where to aim. She was a nurse. Claire will walk out and I’ll never see her again. Claire will divorce me taking every cent I have.

I cannot do it. I say, I have to tell you . . . I’m treading water now and I’m in dangerous territory. I can feel Claire’s radar scanning me back and forth searching for clues. I’d always put away my noise cancelling earbuds after each session with Kaya, to hide the tools of my guilty pass-time. One day they’d been moved from the back of the drawer to the front. Nothing said, but they have been noticed.

There’s a long pause. About me living in the study.

What about it?

It’s not what I want.

And?

Erm. I just wanted to let you know.

I feel utterly pathetic. She doesn’t bother to say anything. Shakes her head and walks out. I know right then that I can never ever tell her. Never. Like in never in a thousand years. Goodbye clear conscience. Hello instant karma.

I do another crazy thing. I’m getting used to it by now. I make a deal with god or someone like that. I won’t go to see Kaya while I’m on my business trip to the West Coast. In return I don’t have to tell Claire. About what amounts to nothing anyway. It’s a deal. Okay? Like I said, I am most definitely losing it.

One Sunday at breakfast – we still share a conjugal breakfast if not a bed - as I reach for a croissant, I ask Claire if she uses the messaging app that I run on my devices. Just in case. I’m trying to sound off-hand and casual. She gives me her quizzical look. Just in case what? Just in case I need to get a message to you when I’m away. She asks where I’m going and I say they want me to do a week at the head office. I wait for her to react. I brace myself for the worst. She says ok and I get a little smile. I want to hug her. But I don’t. We swap id’s.

And you know what. Straight away I start to feel better. The woman I’ve lived with half my life. Now one smile and it feels like I’ve been given a second chance; it feels like I’m on my way back to a happy married life.

That night I wait till we’re in our separate rooms then I send her a message: So how are things in the big bed these days? I wait. Nervous. Like a kid on their first date. A new conversation box opens up on my screen. It’s Kaya. She wants to talk. I think maybe I shouldn’t be having these two conversations at the same time, but what the hell. I write, OK. And then at last – which makes me ridiculously happy – there’s a reply from Claire, I’m fine. I take a breath then I type it in. I miss you. Her reply is there straight away. Really? I write back, Yes. Really.

There’s a pause while the screen shows me those little dancing dots that tell me both Claire75 and Kayagirl are writing. The next line of text comes up on my screen. I look at it for a long time. Are you seeing someone else? There’s something long and meaningful from Kaya but I don’t bother reading it.

I have this moment when everything is crystal clear and simple. I don’t need to think about it: it’s the truth. I write, I love you, and press send. No hesitation, no time for second thoughts. I bang off a quick reply to Kaya that tells her I don’t want to talk to her any more cos I’m in love with someone else. It's over. Click.

For a moment I am truly deeply happy. I’m at peace for the first time in ages. It doesn’t last long. The screen tells me Claire75 has logged off. A new line of chat from Kaya pops up. It starts, You have made me so so happy.

Oh.

Shit.

At the week-end I bump into Steve and a couple of his mates down at The English Pub and in the spirit of honesty and open-ness I tell them the whole sorry tale. They all have a good laugh. Us blokes need our male friends. That was in the book too.

End