Tell The Truth

I can still taste her lips, sweet like peach Chapstick and vodka. My mind returns to the hotel room, paid for by the company; the tiny bottles from the mini fridge, empty on the table. I replay the way I unzipped her dress, slowly, allowing the anticipation to build, then nudged the straps off her shoulders. The silk, so smooth that it rippled like water, cascaded off her curves and fell to the floor, revealing her soft, pale skin. She shivered when I ran my fingers down her spine. I wrapped myself in her smell as I kissed her neck. We moved to the bed. After months of restraining myself, I didn’t hold back. I’d been so good for so long. The way she touched me made my head spin.

              My phone lights up on the bedside table. Pleasure turns to panic as I read the caller ID. I unplug it from the charger and hold the screen to my chest so the light doesn’t wake Sarah. I tiptoe to the en suite and slide the door closed. Orange light from the streetlamp streams through the window. I look around for a towel and shove it into the gap under the door. I close the lid of the toilet and sit down. Finally, I answer the call. “This isn’t a great time,” I whisper.

              “Jack, I need to see you.”

              I study the artwork on the bathroom wall. It was a gift from my sister; a painting of Sarah pregnant. It’s kind of abstract; loose brush strokes and bright colours. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

              “Please, just meet me. I just want to talk.”

              I check the time. It’s only 10:30. We go to bed so early these days. “Alright, where are you?” I pull on clothes as quietly as I can and scribble a note on the back of a receipt.

Couldn’t sleep. Gone for a walk x

●

It’s less than a ten-minute drive to the bar. The street is packed. I remember suddenly that it’s a Friday night. Christ. I’d forgotten what Friday nights were like. This used to be me and Sarah: out drinking with mates without a care in the world. Before we had responsibilities.

              The bar has big, glass windows. I feel far too underdressed to be here; I grabbed whichever clothes were closest, which these days is never anything fancy. Everything inside is sleek and modern. Eddison bulbs cast warm light over glossy wooden benches.

              I spot Zara at the bar drinking a martini. Was it really only last night we were getting drunk on vodka sodas? I thumb the gold band on my ring finger. Sneaking out to come here was definitely not wise. I push open the door. Zara looks phenomenal. She’s wearing a fitted blazer over some sort of lacy top that looks like it might just be a bra. It’s fucking sexy. I slide onto the stool next to hers. The bartender comes over. “What can I get you?”

              “It’s alright, I’m not having anything.”

              “Get him a light beer,” Zara tells the bartender. She meets my eyes, and Jesus, I can’t look away.

              “I have to get back soon,” I tell her.

              She doesn’t respond for a while. We just keep holding that eye contact. Zara stirs the olive around in her martini. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

              “Uh yeah, me either.” I want to touch her. I want to put my hand on her knee and slide it under her tight pencil skirt. I’ve messed up too much already. I shouldn’t even be here.

              The bartender sets a bottle down in front of me. I pick it up but I don’t drink. “So, why’d you ask me here?”

              “I wanted to see you.” Her eyebrows rise up as she takes a sip. My eyes dart to her lips on the rim off the glass, wishing they were on me instead.

              “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

              She bites her lip. “But you want to?” It’s like there’s a rope pulled taut between our chests. Every little tug she makes draws me closer.

              “When you called, I was lying in bed next to my wife, thinking about you. My eight-month-old daughter was in the next room for god’s sake. What kind of person does that make me?”

              “You’re a man. With needs.”

              “I have a wife.”

              She shrugs. “And I have a boyfriend. It doesn’t mean we picked the right people first go.”

              “Would you leave your boyfriend for me?” I can protest all I want, but I know who is going to win this game of tug-of-war.

              Zara lets the question hang there, playing with the tension that’s pulling us together. “Would you leave your wife?”

              I sip my drink, buying myself time. “I made vows,” I say, knowing it’s not really a yes or no.

              Zara puts the olive in her mouth and pulls the toothpick out through her teeth. She chews slowly before swallowing. “I’m going to the loo,” she says as she stands. She leans in and whispers in my ear. I melt like putty in her incredibly sexy hands. I feel her fingers on my forearm even as she walks away. I take a breath and guzzle the rest of the beer. I follow Zara into the disabled toilet and turn the lock. This is one fancy restroom; it’s dimly lit and the walls are lined with a dark, jungle-print wall paper. A scent diffuser fills the air with vanilla caramel and there’s a massive plant in the corner. That’s all incidental with Zara in the room, though. She pushes me against the door, her hands going straight to my waistband. I groan with pleasure.

●

When I get home, Sarah is up breastfeeding Elsie. I’m aware I probably look sweaty. “Walk turned into a run; I’m going to jump in the shower.” I feel Sarah’s eyes follow me as I cross to the en suite. I wash off Zara’s lingering scent, knowing I don’t feel as ashamed as I should.

●

I’m taking Elsie for a walk when my phone rings; I stop pushing the pram to fish it out of my pocket. I haven’t spoken to Zara in over a month. We both knew the affair had gone on too long. I decline the call, but she’s persistent.

              “I thought we weren’t going to contact each other again.” I’m glad I can’t see her face.

              “I have to talk to you.”

              I park the pram under a shady tree. “We can’t do this again. We have to stay away from each other.” I rub my forehead. I know how I get when I’m around her; I might not be able to control myself. The only way to quit is cold turkey.

              “It’s not that. Look, it’s really going to be better to tell you this in person.”

              My stomach drops. “Okay?”

              An hour later she’s sitting next to me on a park bench wearing a grey hoody, and her unwashed hair in a messy bun on top of her head. And she’s still not ugly. I look straight ahead and sip the coffee she brought me. “What did you have to tell me?”

              There’s a weird silence. “I’m pregnant.”

              That pit in my stomach gets bigger. “Oh.”

              “I don’t know whose it is.”

              Shit. This is not good. This is really very not good. “How pregnant are you?”

              “Six weeks.”

              It could be mine then. “I thought you were on the pill.”

              “It’s not a hundred percent effective. I might have missed a day, I dunno.”

              We sit in silence for a while. I rock the pram gently.

              Zara gets to her feet. “I think we should come clean,” she blurts out.

              “No way.” I can’t believe she would be this stupid. “I’m married.”

              “And I’m engaged.”

              “What? You are?”

              Zara holds up her left hand. There’s a massive diamond on her ring finger. How did I not notice that before? “Femi proposed two weeks ago, before I knew.”

              “Even more reason to say nothing. It’s over, we didn’t get caught. All we have to do is stay away from each other.”

              “If this baby comes out whiter than­­­­­­­­­ a vanilla milkshake, Femi will know it’s not his.”

              “But it’s like a fifty-fifty shot, right? If we say something and it’s not mine, we’ve ruined our lives over nothing.”

              “If we keep quiet and it turns out to be yours? Lying for nine months will only make it worse.”

              “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” I watch Elsie sleeping. She gets more and more perfect all the time. “I can’t mess up my marriage. Sometimes mixed-race kids pass for white; he might get suspicious, but you can talk him round.”

              Zara crouches at my knees, clutching my hand. “Femi will forgive me, but only if I tell the truth now.”

              “If you do this, you’re on your own. If that baby is mine– if you tell him it’s mine, I won’t help you. I won’t pay for it.”

              Zara looks like I’ve slapped her. “Are you blackmailing me?”

              “Blackmail-ees aren’t usually so keen to have their secrets told. I might be bribing you, at a stretch. If anything, you’re blackmailing me.”

              She gets to her feet again and paces in a little circle. I’ve never seen her look this stressed. I never should have invited her to go to that conference with me; I would have saved myself a lot of trouble. She turns on me and her eyes are red. “I did love you, you know. For a bit there, in the middle. Before I realised what a colossal mistake it would have been to spend my life with you.” Her nostrils are flaring.

              I stand slowly, using my height to full advantage. “Do whatever you want, I don’t care if you ruin your own life, but don’t ever contact me again. If Sarah finds out about us, I will kill you.”

●

What the–

              I get home from dropping Elsie off at school to find a suitcase on the doorstep. I go to unlock the door but my key won’t turn. I try jiggling the handle. Nothing. I bang on the door. “Sarah! Are you there? My key’s not working!” I try the handle again. Fuck. My phone rings. “Are you home? I can’t get the door open. I’m working from home today; I’m supposed to be on a conference call in twenty minutes.”

              “I’ve changed the locks.”

              “What? Why!” This is insane.

              “It’s over. I packed you a suitcase.”

              I step back from the door, trying to see if any windows are open. “What are you talking about? Please open the door so we can talk.”

              Her voice trembles. “You need to leave.”

               “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!” I climb on the wheelie bin and pull myself on top of the verandah.

              “I know about the affair, Jack!”

              Shit. That fucking bitch. “What affair? You’re imagining things.” The bedroom window is open just a fraction. I use my keys to pop off the fly-screen. I get my fingers into the gap and pull the window open.

              “I found the receipt in your jacket; the one for the restaurant you took her to when you were supposed to be at a conference. I’m not stupid.”

              I cross the bedroom and yank open the door. “Why were you looking through my clothes?” I scramble down the stairs.

              “I was emptying the pockets so I could put it in the washing machine because you never wash your own damn clothes!”

              I start checking rooms. “You found a receipt for a restaurant and you assumed I was having an affair? Do you know how crazy that makes you sound? I take clients out for meals all the time.” She’s not in the lounge.

              “Two meals. One dessert. I can do the bloody maths.”

              I follow her voice to the kitchen. “That’s not proof of anything.” I hang up the phone.

              Sarah is on the other side of the kitchen island. “Do you really think I didn’t do my research? I dug around; I talked to Nicole. She admitted everything. An affair with your secretary? That’s so unoriginal. She said she’s been sleeping with you for six months. Did you really think you’d get away with it for ever?”

              “I’ve gotten away with it before.” The look on her face is priceless. “Years ago, when Elsie was little. You never knew.”

              Sarah goes silent. I know I’m right; she never suspected a thing. “Go to hell,” she spits.

              I pick up a glass and smash it against the wall. If I go to hell, I’m taking her with me.