‘I don’t want to talk about my marriage,’ he says, eventually. ‘I don’t want to think about my marriage.’ He touches my hair then, a loose strand wrapping itself around his finger, and I feel as if someone has set me on fire. The wine, Adam leaving, the loneliness, and the awful feeling of victory that he’s in my house are all touch paper to my lust. I want him. I can’t help it. And he wants me too. He leans forward, and then his lips are drifting across mine, butterfly light in their exquisite teasing, and I can no longer breathe.
‘I need to …’ I nod, embarrassed, towards the corridor, and then get up and go to the bathroom.
I use the toilet and splash water on my face. I can’t do this. I can’t. Even as I’m thinking that, I quickly wash myself and thank God that I shaved my legs and waxed my bikini line before the gym trip with Adele. I’m drunk. I’m not thinking straight. I will hate myself in the morning. I’m thinking all these things, but there’s a rush of white noise and drunken lust drowning them out. Adam’s gone for a month. Lisa’s pregnant. Why can’t I have this one thing? My face is flushed in the mirror.
Just tonight, I tell myself. It will never happen again. He might even have gone home already. Realised the error of coming here and gone back to his perfect house and perfect wife. That would be good, I think, even as my body calls that thought out as a lie. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this.
When I open the door he’s standing outside waiting for me, and before I can say anything, he’s pulling me close and his mouth is on mine and electricity rushes from my toes to my scalp. I think I mutter that we should stop, but at the same time I’m tugging at his clothes and we’re stumbling, drunk, towards the bedroom. I need to do this once. And then it’ll be out of my system. It has to be.
Afterwards, when we’ve got our breath back and we don’t know quite how to be with each other, he goes for a quick shower while I pull on my tatty dressing gown and go and clear up the wine glasses and bottles in the sitting room. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how I should feel. My head hurts, and the sex and wine have combined to make me drunker than I should be. He’s washing me off.
I try not to think of Adele waiting for him at home with something home-cooked in the oven. My skin still tingles with the feel of him even though my heart feels hollow. It’s been so long it’s as if my body’s just woken up. It wasn’t great sex – we were both too drunk for that – but it was close and warm, and he watched me while we fucked, really looked at me, and he was the man-from-the-bar, not my-boss-Adele’s-husband, and I didn’t let my eyes or hands linger on the scars he got saving his wife from a fire.
When he comes into the kitchen, he’s dressed and he can’t quite meet my eyes. I feel cheap. I deserve to. He’s showered without getting his hair wet, the condom flushed down my toilet, all evidence of infidelity washed away.
‘I should go,’ he says. I nod and try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace.
‘I’ll see you at work tomorrow.’ I expect him to open the door and rush out, and for a moment it looks like he will, and then he turns back and kisses me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I know this is shit.’
I think of Adele’s sweet smile and I want to tell him I’m as guilty as he is of betraying her, but I can’t.
‘Forget about it. It’s done. We can’t undo it.’
‘I don’t want to undo it. But things are …’ He hesitates. ‘Difficult. I can’t explain.’
It’s not that difficult, I want to say. People cheat all the time. The reasons are always selfish and base, it’s the excuses we make that are complicated. I stay quiet though. My head is throbbing and my feelings are all over the place.
‘You need to go,’ I say, giving him a shove towards the door. I don’t want him to say anything else that’s going to make me feel worse than I already do. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t bring this to work.’
He looks relieved. ‘Good. Sometimes she … I don’t know how …’ He’s not making any sense, but I let him carry on. ‘I don’t like to … things should stay out of the office.’
He compartmentalises. That’s what Adele had said. If only she knew how much.
‘Go,’ I repeat, and this time he does.
Well, I think as the door closes leaving me suddenly alone and terribly lonely, that’s that then. A new low reached. Even Sophie wouldn’t have done this. After all my concerns for how he treats Adele I’ve still had sex with him the first chance I’ve had.
I pour a glass of water and get some ibuprofen and shuffle back to my bed. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about them. I don’t want to think about me. I just want to sleep it away.