“Well yes, fucking obviously,” he replied. “Why wouldn’t you put down our joint account details?”
She climbed down from the treadmill and looked him straight in the eyes. She was almost as tall as him, something he’d said he liked when they first met twenty years ago.
“Because it’s my inheritance,” she replied simply. He gripped the paper harder in his fist, crumpling it.
“What kind of a marriage is this?” he said as she brushed by him. She went to the nearest bathroom, plucked a towel from the holder, dabbed her damp chest. “What happened to ‘what’s mine is yours’?”
She remembered what it had been like when they had first met. They’d been the golden couple of Queen’s University. She, the ethereal heiress, possessor of a sophistication the other girls could only envy. He, the aspiring entrepreneur, the boy who could get any girl apart from her… at least at first. When she’d eventually relented to his repeated requests for a date, he’d told her about his parents. They were wealthy, like hers. His father was a surgeon, his mother a beautiful former model. Unlike Aoife’s family, however, they didn’t believe in financially supporting their children beyond the age of eighteen.
‘Well, that doesn’t matter,’ Aoife had told him. ‘I have enough money for the both of us.”
She’d been the tender age of twenty. How she wished she could go back and tell her young self not to be so careless with her words. You never knew how they could come back to you, their meaning warped over time.
“Why would you need to access my inheritance?” Aoife replied. “Our joint account is healthy. Our house is paid off.”
“That’s not the point,” he snapped, throwing the paper down onto the floor in disgust. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not. This is not about the money. It’s about the principle of the thing.”
“It’s my family’s money,” Aoife said simply. “It goes to me.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” he said. She watched as he stormed downstairs and grabbed his car keys. She heard the front door slam and his car roar away.
Aoife exhaled, relieved. Frankly, she’d anticipated that the fight would be worse. She fished her phone out of the pocket of her leggings and brought up her online banking app. She looked with reassurance at the number of zeroes that were tacked onto the end of her balance. She was protected now. Whatever happened, she would be ok.
Sunday 16th September 2012
7.07pm
Flat B, Dean Court
He had answered the phone whilst driving, still fuming over he and Aoife’s fight. Emilia had told him she missed him, that she couldn’t stand the distance between them. She’d asked him to come round to her flat.
He didn’t know why he had come. There was no use in rehashing the affair with Emilia. It wouldn’t help him in his cause to win back Aoife. But here he was nonetheless, because Aoife had betrayed him and he felt furious with her. Mainly, though, he felt furious with himself, for allowing all of this to happen to him.
He pressed Emilia’s buzzer and she let him in. Climbing the stairs, he realised she was waiting at her front door. Not just that, though; she was completely naked apart from a pair of sheer stockings. His face contorted into a smile, his mood suddenly and irresistibly lifted.
“Never mind the neighbours, eh?” he said to her. He loved her spontaneity, her devil-may-care attitude. This was what was missing in relationship with Aoife.
He started to kiss her, pushed her back against the wall of her hallway and made to travel down her body towards her waiting pussy. She pulled back, looked down at him.
“No, in the bedroom,” she said, taking his hand and tugging him in the direction she wanted. For the first time, he let her take charge. He was surprised by this change in their dynamic, but not upset. He was vulnerable today. He would let her take the lead, just this once.
She pushed him down onto the bed, pulled his cock out of his trousers and sat on it, facing away from him. She rode him enthusiastically in reverse cowgirl. He watched her ass bounce up and down and he suddenly felt as though he was about to cum. He never usually came this quickly, but Emilia was putting on a hell of a good show. He unleashed it inside of her and watched as it dripped back down onto his crotch from her pussy.
“Wow, you liked that, huh?” she said with a smile as she climbed off him. He smiled back, but he didn’t know quite what to say. He felt confused by what had happened, by the fact that he felt like something had flipped between them, something that would never, ever go back to how it was before.
“I always like it, darling,” he said, kissing her on the lips, but he was zipping up his fly, a little embarrassed.
“Do you want to stay for a drink?” she said. “I’ve got wine.”
“Sure, sweetheart,” he replied. He followed her to the kitchen, feeling like a lapdog at her heels. He took a glass of wine from her and drank a large swig.
Sunday 16th September 2012
9.01pm
Flat B, Dean’s Court
Once Piers had left, I’d gone into my bedroom and changed into a rose-hued silk negligee. retrieving my secret treasure from a shelf of ornaments opposite my bed, I went to sit at my desk. Curling up in the pink velvet shell chair, I picked up her glass of
rosé and took a sip. This was going to be fun.
I couldn’t believe he’d cum so quickly. He must have missed me. He was so silly. He knew he couldn’t live without me, without the sex craze I induce in him. Aoife may have money, but I’m fun. Spontaneous. Sexually adventurous. And at the end of the day, as much as they may protest otherwise, the thing men most cared about was sex. Good sex or bad sex, it could make or break a relationship.
I keyed my password into her computer, sat back and fingered the stem of my wine glass as it powered up. I’m playing with fire, I know that. If you were the mistress and the man pulled away from you, you were supposed to accept your defeat with dignity. You were supposed to understand that ‘true love’ was cyclical, and if ‘your man’ returned to his wife, that was ‘the universe’ healing everything back to the way it should be. You certainly weren’t supposed to be a home wrecker. You were meant to fade into the background. Get back to where you came from.
Well, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to take a risk. If it paid off, it would pay off fabulously. If it all blew up in my face and I lost my job… well, the strip club would still have me. I earned more there than I would earn in any other job, anyway.
Once my internet had loaded up, I logged into my email; my work email, not my personal one. Then I opened up Google and searched Aoife Bell. Time to get the plan in motion.
Aoife had arrived at her office in a thoroughly bad mood. She’d had an early morning meeting with a prominent menswear designer, who’d been apoplectic with rage over the disorganisation of his upcoming Fashion Week show. He’d almost cancelled his contract with Johanssen Bell Communications; Aoife had pulled it back round at the last minute by the skin of her teeth.
Slamming her handbag and Starbucks down on her desk and chucking her damp umbrella aside, she sat with a thud and began to scroll through her email inbox. Junk mail, deleted. Inquiry from an up-and-coming womenswear designer, flagged. Mail from her accountant asking about their expenses this quarter, replied to.
A message caught her eye, one that she’d initially dismissed as spam. There was no subject line, but she recognised the address it had been sent from.
ehart.bichardsupplies
‘E Hart’ must surely be Piers’ secretary. What did she possibly have to be emailing about? With a feeling of slight apprehension she double clicked the message. It contained no text, just a video attachment. She clicked to view it, nausea rising inside of her.
Aoife couldn’t tell what the video was at first; she thought she’d been sent porn. All she could make out was a couple, the girl blonde, the man dark, her on top of him, riding his cock. The secretary must have chosen an easy password for her email and been hacked. Silly bitch.
But then he moved, the man in the video, and there was something so familiar about the it, the languid way he moved his hand to grab the girl’s stocking-clad thigh, and it suddenly dawned on Aoife; this wasn’t amateur porn. She was watching her husband fuck the blonde slut from his office.
Her blood cold, she picked up her phone and called his mobile. He took his time to pick up.
“Aoife, I’m a bit busy right now,” he said, shortly. “My secretary hasn’t come in for God knows what reason, and I’ve a ton of stuff…”
“How long?” she asked, cutting him off.
“How long what?”
“How long have you been fucking the bitch?”
The length of his pause said everything. Finally, he gave a light little laugh.
“Aoife, I’ve no idea what you’re…”
“How… long… have… you… been… fucking… her?!” she raged into the phone, pausing for emphasis after every word. She was glad her office door was closed. “And don’t you dare lie to me again, Piers, because I’ve seen the tape.”
After another pause, he spoke again. “What tape?” he replied. This, at least, seemed genuine.
“You couldn’t stand me being more successful than you, so you decided to fuck a twenty-year-old, is that what it is?” she said, her voice laden with venom. He didn’t reply.
“We’re done,” she said. “You’re moving out. This is over,” she said, surprising herself with the lack of emotion in her voice. She heard muffled noises, as though he was about to hang up on her. “Oh, and, Piers?” she said into the phone.
“What?” he replied, the apprehension palpable in his voice.
“I would talk to her about filming you without your consent,” Aoife said to him, sweetly. “It seems as though it could cause problems for your… reputation.”
He put the phone down on her. The subsequent silence rang in her ears. To her it sounded like freedom.
Monday 17th September 2012
10.10am
Bichard’s Building Supplies
Piers sat for a while, the phone pressed to his ear, then he abruptly slammed it down, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Glenfidditch and a diamond-cut tumbler.
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