Chapter 1
I lie motionless as he groans and rolls off me. For the
second time this week I am left to soak in his wet patch in the
middle of the bed, feeling completely unsatisfied. At first glance,
this doesn’t seem so bad. After all, it’s
only the second time this week, right? But
considering that my husband, David, has only been home for two out
of the seven nights this week, I must admit that I’m less than
thrilled.
Within minutes he’s snoring, and as usual I’m left alone with
my own destructive thoughts. What am I
doing? How did I even get here? And most
importantly, why the hell am I still
here?
His
phone vibrates quietly from under his pillow. A text message.
Probably from another one of his whores. Part of me wants to reach
out and grab it, but the other part of me is too scared of what I
might find.
I know
he’s cheating on me. We’ve been together for about five years, for
three of those we have been married. But after the first year of
our marriage, things began to dwindle. At first it started out
small — he would go to the pub at night and return in the early
hours of the morning smelling like liquor and women’s perfume. And
then one night, he just didn’t return at all until a few days
later. Since then, he’s been going away for days, even weeks at a
time, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve asked him about
it frequently, but he always denies everything — says that he’s
going for ‘business meetings’. One night I even came home to find
him fucking another woman in our bed.
I want
to leave him, I really do, but I have nobody else. When we married
I moved all the way from Minnesota to Arizona to be with him, and I
haven’t spoken to my family since. My only friends are the
colleagues from my dead-end office job, and they all have families
and problems of their own. So for now, it looks like I’m
stuck.
I scoot over to the other side of the bed to get away from
him and squeeze my eyes shut to try and get some sleep. I can’t be
sure, but I think it’s just after 3am when my eyes close for the
last time to the sound of his snoring.
I’m
awaken the next morning to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight
poking through the curtains. It’s like a scene from a romantic
movie — except that my husband is nowhere to be seen, and has
probably sauntered off to another woman’s house for sex because one
woman alone is not satisfying enough, of course. A quick glance
around the room tells me that he’s taken his briefcase. This means
he could be away for a while. How long, exactly? I only wish I
knew.
I swing
my legs over the side of the bed and pull on my silk nightgown. It
feels good against my skin, and I shiver slightly as it rubs
against my bare legs. Then I commence my morning routine: brush my
teeth, brush my hair, get a (large) cup of filter coffee, and cook
breakfast. I’m not very hungry this morning, so I settle for a
slice of melon while I’m checking my emails.
I’m
right in the middle of replying to an email about next week’s
meeting, when suddenly there is a loud rattle at the door. I don’t
recognise the knock, but whoever is responsible must be banging the
door pretty hard, so I’m almost hesitant as I walk to open it. My
husband’s job means that we can afford to live in quite an upper
class area in the nice side of town, but I can’t help being
cautious. My fears are heightened when I open the door and peer out
to find a tall, muscular man standing in front of me, a shovel
swung over his shoulder.
“ Good morning, ma’am,” he says. His husky Italian accent
immediately grabs my attention. “How are you this morning?” He
sweeps a hand through his sandy brown hair as he speaks.
“ Very well, thank you,” I mutter. “How can I help
you?”
“ I’m Matteo. I just moved here a few weeks ago — well, I don’t
live on this estate, of course, but somewhere nearby.” He begins to laugh
to himself, but stops when he notices my raised
I lie motionless as he groans and rolls off me. For the
second time this week I am left to soak in his wet patch in the
middle of the bed, feeling completely unsatisfied. At first glance,
this doesn’t seem so bad. After all, it’s
only the second time this week, right? But
considering that my husband, David, has only been home for two out
of the seven nights this week, I must admit that I’m less than
thrilled.
Within minutes he’s snoring, and as usual I’m left alone with
my own destructive thoughts. What am I
doing? How did I even get here? And most
importantly, why the hell am I still
here?
His
phone vibrates quietly from under his pillow. A text message.
Probably from another one of his whores. Part of me wants to reach
out and grab it, but the other part of me is too scared of what I
might find.
I know
he’s cheating on me. We’ve been together for about five years, for
three of those we have been married. But after the first year of
our marriage, things began to dwindle. At first it started out
small — he would go to the pub at night and return in the early
hours of the morning smelling like liquor and women’s perfume. And
then one night, he just didn’t return at all until a few days
later. Since then, he’s been going away for days, even weeks at a
time, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve asked him about
it frequently, but he always denies everything — says that he’s
going for ‘business meetings’. One night I even came home to find
him fucking another woman in our bed.
I want
to leave him, I really do, but I have nobody else. When we married
I moved all the way from Minnesota to Arizona to be with him, and I
haven’t spoken to my family since. My only friends are the
colleagues from my dead-end office job, and they all have families
and problems of their own. So for now, it looks like I’m
stuck.
I scoot over to the other side of the bed to get away from
him and squeeze my eyes shut to try and get some sleep. I can’t be
sure, but I think it’s just after 3am when my eyes close for the
last time to the sound of his snoring.
I’m
awaken the next morning to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight
poking through the curtains. It’s like a scene from a romantic
movie — except that my husband is nowhere to be seen, and has
probably sauntered off to another woman’s house for sex because one
woman alone is not satisfying enough, of course. A quick glance
around the room tells me that he’s taken his briefcase. This means
he could be away for a while. How long, exactly? I only wish I
knew.
I swing
my legs over the side of the bed and pull on my silk nightgown. It
feels good against my skin, and I shiver slightly as it rubs
against my bare legs. Then I commence my morning routine: brush my
teeth, brush my hair, get a (large) cup of filter coffee, and cook
breakfast. I’m not very hungry this morning, so I settle for a
slice of melon while I’m checking my emails.
I’m
right in the middle of replying to an email about next week’s
meeting, when suddenly there is a loud rattle at the door. I don’t
recognise the knock, but whoever is responsible must be banging the
door pretty hard, so I’m almost hesitant as I walk to open it. My
husband’s job means that we can afford to live in quite an upper
class area in the nice side of town, but I can’t help being
cautious. My fears are heightened when I open the door and peer out
to find a tall, muscular man standing in front of me, a shovel
swung over his shoulder.
“ Good morning, ma’am,” he says. His husky Italian accent
immediately grabs my attention. “How are you this morning?” He
sweeps a hand through his sandy brown hair as he speaks.
“ Very well, thank you,” I mutter. “How can I help
you?”
“ I’m Matteo. I just moved here a few weeks ago — well, I don’t
live on this estate, of course, but somewhere nearby.” He begins to laugh
to himself, but stops when he notices my raised
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