The Escort Next Door (4 page)

Scowling at me, she bit a tongue that no doubt had a stream
of things to say on the matter. Rapidly she turned to the two older children,
quickly breaking up their squabble. “Hey, grandma’s here,” she announced.

Dylan quickly ran to her, knowing, as I did, that she would
have some treat for him. Sure enough, out of her Louis Vuitton purse came a
sucker.

“Can I have this now, Mom?” he excitedly screamed,
gratefully grabbing the candy.

“I don’t-” I began.

“Of course you can,” she interrupted. 

My rule was always no sweets before school. “He’s just
brushed his teeth,” I sighed, addressing Carole.

“He’s a young boy,” she smiled, relishing every opportunity
she had to undermine me. “You’ve got to bend the rules and have a little fun
now and then.” As she spoke, her hand delved back into her purse and she
retrieved another piece of candy. This time, she offered it to Lizzie.

“Thanks, grandma,” Lizzie smiled, accepting the sucker and
stuffing it into the pocket of her jeans.

“You can have yours now, too,” Carole assured her, nodding.

“I’ll save it for later, thanks,” Lizzie replied.

This seemed to rankle my mother-in-law, who quickly said
goodbye and hustled the older kids out of the house.

I followed them to the door, giving Lizzie and Dylan a hug.
“Have a good day at school,” I told them, before watching them trot down the
steps and climb eagerly into the back of Grandma’s Mercedes.

With just me and Kate in the house, things were much
quieter. However, with a mountain of housework to do, they weren’t going to be
much easier.

What A Mess

L
ater that night, after an hour and a half and
three stories, Kate finally went to sleep.  At last, the house was silent and I
breathed a sigh of relief. There was laundry to be done and dishes from dinner
still to be washed, but I couldn’t be bothered with either. Instead, I plodded
wearily to my bathroom and ran a nice, hot bath.

I couldn’t contain the long, deep sigh I exhaled as my body
slipped beneath the warm water and it seemed as if a huge weight had been
lifted from me. Under the spell of that glorious calm, my brain stopped
whirring and, for the first time in longer than I cared to recall, I was at
peace.

I made no conscious decision to move my hands. In fact, I
surprised myself when I found them slipping over the slick skin of my chest and
caressing my breasts. Quickly giving way to the pleasant sensation, I allowed
my eyes to lazily drift closed, as I continued to move my fingers in slow,
teasing circles. When I reached my nipples, I found them rigid and aching.
Gently gripping those tight pebbles between my forefingers and thumbs, I
pinched lightly. “Hmmm,” I mumbled longingly, my right hand leaving my breasts
and smoothing over my abdomen.

With my eyes shut, I imagined another hand traveling to my
navel and slowly sliding over my mound. It was Paul I thought about. It had
always been Paul; except perhaps for a short time when I was sixteen, when mind
candy for my self-exploration was the blonde-haired guy from that boy band. The
fact that Paul was, and always had been, the focus of almost all of my erotic
fantasies wasn’t due to any misplaced sense of disloyalty via thought. It was
simply a case of never having felt the need to focus on any other man. My
husband turned me on – not everything about him, of course. The sight of him
sprawled out on the bed that morning, for example, was not the stuff of my
sexual dreams. However, there were always memories that I could hang my
masturbating hat on. We’d had some really good times together, and it wasn’t
difficult for me to focus on those.

My fingers moved leisurely over the neat triangle of short
hair that covered my mound. Drawn further, they smoothed between my outer lips
finding them smooth and plump. Bending one leg and sliding my foot up to my
bottom, I offered my own roaming hand freer access. With the pad of my middle
finger, I rolled carefully over my clitoris, which instantly responded.

Often, during moments like those, I’d think of the first
time Paul touched me like that. It was several months before we went the whole
way and not long after my eighteenth birthday. He’d been so nervous that his
fingers were trembling. He didn’t know what he was doing, and truth be told,
neither did I. Sure, I knew what felt good, but I hadn’t got a name for that
small bud that sent warmth flooding through my entire body. We were both giddy
and a little scared, but we laughed together and, eventually, he asked me to
guide his fingers.

“Show me,” he’d urged. “Show me how to touch you.”

I was hesitant at first, sure that he’d much rather be in
control of the situation. I was also reluctant to give the impression that he
was doing something wrong. However, he continued to insist and, as I placed my
fingers on top of his, it wasn’t close to being as embarrassing or awkward as
I’d assumed it would be. That afternoon, I’d coaxed him into rubbing my
clitoris, until I bucked and writhed in climax. What I didn’t know then, and
would never have known had he not confessed it a couple of years later, was that
the sight and feel of my orgasm had caused Paul to come in his pants.

Brought back to my present surroundings by the stirring of
electricity between my legs, I started to increase the pressure of my touch. It
had been several weeks since I’d pleasured myself and even longer since Paul
had driven me to orgasm, so the speed of its climb caught me off guard.
Usually, after long dry spells, my body is slow to reach boiling point.

I was close; so close. My mouth fell open and I began suck
in shallow panted breaths. My hips were moving of their own volition, my
backside swaying on the bottom of the tub in rhythm to the movement of my
fingers. Sparks were triggering a restless warmth in my belly. And then, as I
began to reach the summit, the phone’s harsh ringing ripped me from the high
and yanked me back down. I tried to ignore it, I kept my eyes tightly shut and
strummed my body with renewed vigor. However, as the beep of the answer machine
cut in and my mother-in-law’s voice drifted to the bathroom from the phone on
Paul’s bedside table, I removed my hand from between my legs with a muttered,
“Shit.”

“Julia, it’s Carole,” she began in her hash, nasal tone. “I
just wanted to make sure everything’s okay. I know you said you can cope, but I
really think that things are becoming too much for you right now. It’s
understandable,” she quickly added. “It’s hard for an inexperienced mother to
care for three children on her own.”

The bath was suddenly no longer relaxing. My jaw had
tightened and I felt my shoulders begin to rise to my neck. What she meant by
‘inexperienced mother’ I didn’t know. I’d been a mom for nearly eight years and
certainly didn’t consider myself new to the job.

“All I mean is, there’s nothing wrong with asking for help.
And I’m always here if you need me,” she announced, a smile clear in her voice.
“Anyway,” she added briskly. “Call me, because it’s really quite late and I’m
concerned about where you are.”

“Argh,” I growled, my hands gripping the edges of the
bathtub and imagined it was her neck beneath my fingers. With the firm click of
her phone being put down, I gave up all hope of a soothing soak in the tub, let
alone any prospect of sexual release. Yanking myself up, I reached for a big,
fluffy towel with one hand and held it loosely to my chest, not bothering to
wrap it around me. After quickly tugging the plug out of the bath, I wandered
bare foot and dripping into the bedroom.

Once there, I stared at the phone, with a red light blinking
on its base, for several seconds. Should I call her? If I did, she’d jabber on
and on for ages. If I didn’t, she’d just keeping calling all night long. Making
a sudden decision, I lunged forwards and edged the bedside table out slightly.
Then, I grabbed the cable at the back of the phone and pulled until I felt the
mains pop out of the wall socket.

With a satisfied nod and a naughty grin, I flopped down onto
the bed. Knowing exactly what Carole would think if she could see me making the
bed wet with the outline of my buttocks, I dropped onto my back. Sprawling out,
I let my soaking wet hair drench the sheets. However, my delight in doing
something that seemed so rebellious was short-lived. Eventually, I sat up and,
when I did, I was met with my first real acknowledgment of the car crash that
was my bedroom.

Up until that time, I hadn’t been back in the room since
leaving it that morning. And as I’d strolled to the bath, I’d failed to really
take it in. Carole’s opinion that I was a lazy wife and mother came back to
haunt me. Our bedroom certainly was a mess, not of my making but, apparently,
it was my ‘job’ to clean up after my husband.

There were clothes everywhere. The ones Paul had worn the
night before were strewn on the floor from where he’d stripped them off that
morning. His damp towel had been tossed at the foot of the bed and now just a
tiny corner clung to the mattress while the rest draped slovenly on the floor.
A sports bag sat beside the wardrobe. It was open with a creased shirt spilling
out of it. This was the bag he’d taken on his last trip and must have been
placed in the closet when he got home. Paul appeared to have pulled it out and
been rummaging for something. Thoughtfully, he’d left it in disarray for me to
deal with.

I considered leaving it; just watching TV and putting all
that mess off until the morning. However, I couldn’t take my eyes off the state
of the room and was bombarded by the thought that I wasn’t being a good enough
wife to Paul. I was supposed to
want
to take care of him, it wasn’t
meant to seem like a chore. Perhaps he felt, like his mom, that I wasn’t doing
a very good job – was that why we’d been so disconnected?

Pushing myself up from the bed, I quickly strode back into
the bathroom, tossed the towel in the laundry hamper and grabbed a robe. It was
a silk one that reached my calves; a present from Paul for my birthday.
Carefully drawing the tie around my middle and securing it in place, I didn’t
care that my damp hair was already soaking through the material at my
shoulders.

Marching back into the bedroom, I pushed the sleeves of the
robe up to my elbows and was ready for business. I moved quickly around the
room, first picking up Paul’s towel and scooping that over my arm as I bent for
his clothes. While I walked purposefully to the large bathroom hamper, I
slipped my hands into his pants pockets, turning them inside out. True to form,
a handful of change clattered onto the bathroom tiles.

“Paul,” I groaned, realizing that after a decade of begging
him, he was never going to empty the pockets of his dirty clothes.

After tossing my armful into the laundry basket, I crouched
and picked up each coin one by one. Two quarters, three dimes and five pennies.
With a huff of weariness, I pushed myself upright and took the fistful of money
to Paul’s bedside table. Right next to the phone was a sterling silver tray
with ‘change is good’ engraved in the center. It had once belonged to Paul’s
grandfather and, although he treasured it, he didn’t see fit to use it. With a
satisfying clatter, I placed the coins onto the tray and spun on the balls of
my feet.

The sports bag was the one remaining eyesore. I would have
felt that I was on the home stretch, but the worst thing about being a
housewife is that there’s never a home stretch. There’s always something to do;
always more mess, because while you’re cleaning someone’s making some more.
But, for the time being at least, I was on the verge of having a clean bedroom.

I moved for the bag, gripping the thick shoulder strap and
half lifted, half dragged it into the bathroom. Setting it down by the still
open hamper, I crouched down and began tugging each item of clothing from the
bag. Two dress shirts went straight into the basket. A white T-shirt followed
and then there were three boxer shorts. Black dress pants and a pair of jeans
dwelt at the bottom and, sure enough, both had change and receipts stuffed in
every available pocket.

“For God’s sake,” I muttered pulling out all the junk and
chucking it temporarily in the bottom of the bag. As I did that, my eyes
flashed down at the black polyester lining that was speckled with tiny balls of
white fluff. My gaze caught something shiny. Releasing their grip on Paul’s
jeans, my fingers delved into the bag. I tried to tell myself that it was just
a little scrap of foil; it couldn’t possibly be what it looked like; what I
thought it was. Grasping it with my forefinger and thumb, I slowly pulled it
free from its hiding place. It wasn’t just the tiny edge I had been able to
see. It was a full square with a clear circular indent. The shiny, blue wrapper
had been ripped at the top and its contents removed.

The hand holding the condom wrapper began to tremble, as the
implications of it settled painfully in my chest. My mouth and throat went
instantly dry, while palpitations caused my eardrums to throb with each deep,
pound of my heart. Paul and I hadn’t used condoms since our engagement; he’d
never liked them, we both wanted a family anyway and, shortly after Lizzie was
born, I’d started taking the pill. There was no need for any other form of
contraception.

The object in my hand could mean only one thing. God knows I
tried to find other explanations. Most of them were wild, nonsensical excuses;
anything to avoid the truth that was staring me in the face. But there was no
way to avoid it. Paul had an affair while he’d been away.

 Dropping the wrapper and swiveling toward the tub, bile
suddenly rose in my throat. I dry heaved, nothing more than saliva dribbling
from my bottom lip while my throat burned. I remained that way for several
minutes, my empty stomach continuing to retch.

Eventually, my insides stopped trying to turn themselves
inside out, but my heart still raced and my fingers tingled with a lack of
circulation. My knees beginning to feel numb, I forced myself up, regretting it
almost instantly when my head pounded and I felt a wave of dizziness. 
Nevertheless, I pulled myself around to the sink and turned the cold faucet on
full. I let the stream flow noisily for a second, while I looked at myself in
the mirror. My usually bright complexion was deathly pale and my blue eyes
gazed blankly ahead. Unable to bear the sight of myself, I stuck my head
beneath the water’s stream, vigorously rinsing my face before filling my mouth
with several large gulps.

When the feeling of nausea returned with a vengeance, I quickly
turned off the water and slipped down onto the cold tiles, my legs collapsing
beneath me. My back propped up against the edge of the tub was the only thing
keeping me sitting upright. Never, either before or since, have I experienced
such a sudden and debilitating sense of loss and disorientation.

It was an hour or more before I was finally able to drag
myself up from the bathroom floor. By that point, I was still trembling, but it
was no longer with fear. The victim mentality had been replaced with anger; a
seething rage. Questions swirled around my frenzied brain, and I was determined
to get answers.