Everyone makes mistakes, he told himself. It had all happened without planning. A few weeks ago, if anyone had said this could happen, he would have seen it as a sick joke. Now the joke was on him, and he knew he’d made one of the worst decisions of his life. Retreating without huge complications was no longer an option. He needed to keep everything from Sandra. There was no telling what she would do if she knew the truth. Her writing details down proved one thing, though: that she knew something wasn’t right.
When his secretary told him his next client had arrived, he wasn’t sure if he could continue pretending any more. Asking her to give him a few more minutes, he cupped his face in his hands, closing his eyes, as he thought about Alice, Lori and Sandra, and the history he had clocked up with each of them. Now his wife was like a stranger. He felt guilt, knowing he had played his part in the wreckage, but it wasn’t entirely his fault, not by a long shot.
He could still recall the moment he had first seen her, really seen her, and how utterly beautiful and enchanting she was. He had been captivated. They had drunk plenty of wine, but she was the one doing most of the seducing, although there was no denying his attraction. From that first split second, he had fantasised about being inside her, feeling horny at the curves of her body, watching her legs below the hemline of her skirt, stretched out in the passenger seat, like one delightfully long temptation. Driving her home that night, he had visualised the two of them naked many times.
She told him to turn down a side road he hadn’t travelled before. At first he didn’t know where she was taking him, but he didn’t ask. He simply drove until she told him to stop.
It was late, and the street was deserted. She smiled at him, a knowing smile, then got out of the car. He remembered watching her walk around to the driver’s side, the headlights lighting her as she passed the bonnet, a ghost-like creature. At first he thought she was going to walk away without explanation. She had that kind of intrigue about her. She wasn’t like any other woman he had ever met. Instead, she opened the driver’s door, asking, ‘What are you waiting for?’ He hesitated. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ she said. ‘We won’t be disturbed here.’
All his earlier fantasies became a reality, as she took him by the hand into the house in Greystones. He could still hear the click, click of her stilettos on the pathway as she led him to the back door, taking a key from under a garden pot. Once inside, he kissed her hard on the lips, her face, down to her neck and, opening the top button of her blouse, her breasts. His excitement rose. She felt his groin, undoing his zip. He was surprised at her forwardness, but liked it. Removing her blouse and bra, she shivered, and he held her. She let out a tiny cry, then brought him upstairs. She lay on the bed. Running his hand up her inner thigh, he felt her shiver again, and he had wondered if she wanted him to stop. He pulled away, then saw the satisfied look on her face and let his hand go further, realising she wasn’t wearing any underwear below her skirt. She spread her legs, as he rolled her skirt up. She closed her eyes when he entered her, letting out the tiniest of groans. It didn’t take him long. He was far too fast the first time. Afterwards, she stroked his head, like he was a little boy. He had wanted to give her pleasure too, but she told him it didn’t matter once he was pleased. It was such a strange word to use, ‘pleased’.
Yes, she was the one who had seduced him, rather than the other way around. There were two sides to everything, Sandra often said, and she was right. Had Sandra driven him away?
Instructing his secretary to send the client through, he knew that if he could turn back the clock, he would do things very differently.
SANDRA
ALONE IN THE darkness of the attic, I realised the person walking around the house was doing so with a sense of familiarity, almost as if my home belonged to them. Every sound I heard seemed magnified, but the footsteps were moving at speed. They were light, and I was positive they weren’t a man’s. Pulling back from the attic door, I tried to get a better view of below, going further into the dark, as a scared child might. When I heard the footsteps in the kitchen, I knew that, whoever it was, they were getting closer, and they would soon see the attic ladder. I thought too late about pulling it up, hearing their feet mount the stairs.
It was her lower half I saw first, wearing tiny black ankle boots and grey leggings. They could have belonged to anyone. It was only when I caught sight of her short black hair that I realised it was Lori, and let out an enormous sigh of relief, allowing my breathing to slow down. It took me a while to call her name, almost as if I was trying to gain some elusive upper hand. The reprieve of fear was quickly followed by another rush of questions. How had she got in? And why hadn’t she called out? When she put her foot on the attic ladder, I told her to stay there, that I was coming down. If she was taken aback by my aggressive tone, her face didn’t show it. I was nervous. I felt uncomfortable with my back to her. When I reached the bottom, she asked me, coyly, what I had been doing. I didn’t answer, remembering the words in my diary: YOU’RE A FOOL. Had Lori taken me for a fool? Had Alice, Edgar, the whole lot of them?