The Other Woman
Authors: Eve Rabi
The Other Woman
A betrayed wife takes on her husband’s mistress with scandalous results.
A contemporary romance and suspense thriller with layers of drama
by
Eve Rabi
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2015 Eve Rabi. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and media used in this book are fictitious and are the product of the author's imagination. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication use of this trademark is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Sydney Australia
*****
Part One - Scarlett Smyth
I have an IQ of one hundred and sixty-six. To Forrest Gump, that would make me “awfully clever.” To others, I’d be a fucking genius!
I’m charming, easy on the eye, can boast a private school education, and I have not one, but
two
university degrees. Soon I’ll be able to add best-selling author to that list, as I am writing a book that is
guaranteed
to become a bestseller.
Impressed? You should be. It isn’t every day you find an inspiring all-rounder like me. But the above are not really my strengths. My real strength is knowing what I want, going after it, and
getting
it.
Why am I tooting my own horn? Well, I have a tale to tell that will blow that mind of yours. A tale based on my unwavering drive, my steely determination, and my ability to transcend hurdles in order to get what I want.
You will be enthralled, you will be regaled; you will want to jump out of your seat and applaud. I will be honest and up front about every single thing, and in the process, you will receive an education too. Guaranteed.
So, in the words of Eminem: sit back, kick back, relax homie, in fact, grab a six-pack.
(Or a chilled bottle of Moet. Eminem is from 8 Mile – let’s cut the trailer trash some slack, shall we? On second thought, why the fuck should we?)
My name is Scarlett Smyth, and I plan to be Australia’s first lady. I plan to be the most sexy, fashionable, charismatic first lady in the world. In fact, I will draw the world’s attention to Australia like no other person has ever been able to do. I will do to Australia what JLo did to American Idol.
And that’s Smyth with a Y. Please don’t get it wrong. It really offends me when people do.
My tale…ah, yes, back to it. The first time I laid eyes on Bradley Murdoch, I knew then and there he was mine. No ifs, no buts – just absolute certainty, because of my steely determination, remember?
****
I was at some forgettable, family-styled affair my high-powered lawyer of a daddy was hosting.
Milton Smyth, who ran one of the largest and most reputable law firms in Sydney, was out to win hearts and wallets. My sisters and I had orders from him, tacit at that, to attend.
We were to serve as props, lend him some respectability, show everyone that he had a family, and dispel all myths that Milton Smyth did not have a computer-operated, stainless-steel device lodged in his sixty-something chest instead of a heart.
Everyone around me was dull, old, or plain ugly. And then there were the brats – noisy, snot-nosed, smelly little creatures with loud voices and sticky fingers. (I liked children; as long as they were missing.)
I was busy plotting a sleek and undetected exit when my eyes fell on the man of my dreams, Bradley Murdoch. Broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, sandy-haired Bradley towered above all the men in the room and stood out of the crowd.
He was talking to an old bag with more chins than a Chinese telephone directory, lightly patting her chubby arm and nodding intently while she rambled on. Why he chose to talk to
her
, I had no idea.
When he lifted his gaze and our eyes met, it was as if I was struck by electric-blue lightening. My heart thudded so loudly, I actually heard it. That had never happened to me before.
Here’s the kicker – after our eyes met, I braced myself for that look of appreciation, that intrigue that usually follows when I catch a man’s eyes, that
well-hello-who-have-we-here?
smile. I waited for him to saunter over and hit me with a corny pick-up line, or offer to give me a ride home, all in lieu of getting into my thong. You know, usual shit “happily” married men do.
Bradley Murdoch did nothing of that sort. He simply gave me a fleeting smile and turned his eyes back to the old bat.
My thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, my mouth felt like I had just swallowed cotton wool, my hands grew clammy, and I tingled with pleasure from the top of my scalp to my toes.
Never before had that happened to Scarlett Smyth. Never before had a man I had my sights on ever given me a cursory glance. If you think I was disappointed, you are wrong; I was fascinated. Totally.
Suddenly, my plans to escape that lackluster event dissolved like Berocca in hot water.
I meandered through the dulls, the borings, and the blands over to Samson Goldmeyer, my father’s bitch, who made it his business to know just about every attorney in Sydney, so that he and my daddy could befriend, disarm, then fleece the poor fuckers out of every client they had.
“Hello, Sammie Darlin’,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder.
“What do you want?” he muttered in a surly voice as he shrugged off my hand.
Now when you hear the name
Samson
, your brain probably conjures up images of a fearless warrior, a Jason Momoa, Karl Drago look-alike, all six foot six and shirtless, with bulging biceps, protruding pecs, contoured quads, and a bulging crotch waiting to be stroked. A long-haired mortal who is feared and revered by all, right?
Nope. Not in this case.
Samson was nothing like the biblical character. He was around five foot five, about a hundred measly pounds, dark brown beady eyes, and curly black hair. His physical curses also consisted of a hawkish nose that dominated his puny face, which gave rise to the nickname
Birdman
in school – a name he absolutely despised.
So consider the name Samson a pun. Named in jest by his parents after a couple of bottles of Jewish homemade wine. Kosher, of course.
“Tell me about him,” I said, jerking my chin toward the handsome and intriguing specimen in front of us.
“Who?” his eyes followed mine to the couple in my crosshairs. “Murdoch?”
“Murdoch?” I gasped. “That his surname?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Any relation to Rupert?” I asked and held my breath.
Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.
“No!” he snapped. “I dunno. Maybe. Look, I don’t give a shit, okay?”
Maybe
…
“Bradley Murdoch’s married. Leave him alone,” he hissed before he turned his concave back to me.
With a sigh, I moved around until I faced him. “I know that. I can see the frump he’s with. What I want to know is, why isn’t Bradley Murdoch working in my daddy’s law firm?”
“Why?” he lifted and dropped his shoulders, "’Cause he’s not interested in selling his soul right now. Pro bono – that’s what he’s into in a big way. What’s it to you, anyway? He’s married to Rival. Out of bounds. Leave him the fuck—”
“Rival?” My head jerked to look at the
thing
next to Bradley. “That’s her name?”
“Yeah.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. So stay away from—”
“Chill, Birdman,” I said, squeezing his skeletal shoulder.
His eyes blazed. “Chill? How’s your luxury
car
going? Huh?”
“Beautiful.” My eyes glazed. “Just perfect. I’m the envy of just about every bitch in Sydney.” I winked at him. His eyes became as thin as his measly lips, and he started to breathe like he was participating in a threesome or something. I smiled and dropped my voice. “All thanks to you and your amazing…
generosity
.”
“Blackmail. That’s the word, not
generosity
.” He shook two skeletal fingers in the air. “Don’t confuse the two.”
“Birdman! That is such a harsh wo—”
“Don’t call me that,” he hissed, his face turning puce. “Don’t
ever
fucking call me that! How many times have I told you not to—”
“If you don’t chill, you’re gonna have another epileptic seizure,” I reminded him.
He continued glaring at me.
With a long sigh, I took a sip of my Vieux Carré (rye, cognac, Benedictine, and vermouth, along with Peychaud's and Angostura.
I’m so fancy…you already know…)
and smiled at him over my glass.
After his eyes darted a dozen or more dragon-inscribed daggers my way, Birdman stormed off on two wiry legs that could have been easily mistaken for arms.
My eyes scanned the room until they rested on Janet. Cardigan-wearing, Birkenstock-loving, booze-breath Janet had been my daddy’s secretary for almost twenty years, which explained her dependence on cheap whisky. And cheap vodka, cheap red wine, cheap white wine, cheap beer, cheap gin, and cheap methylated spirits I’m sure. As you know, alcohol is a muscle relaxant, and Janet’s tongue, it loosened at the mere whiff of a drink. Then she would sing like a nightingale with a cirrhosed liver.
Armed with a triple Jim Beam straight up, I weaved my way through the crowd to her. “Hey Janet, you look thirsty,” I said, thrusting the triple Bourbon at her.
Her eyes blazed and her lips trembled with gratitude. “Bless you, Scarlett!” she said, wiping the sides of her mouth with a beige handkerchief that was once white.
“My pleasure, Janet.”
Within minutes I had the scoop on the Murdochs.
Bradley was thirty-three and had been married to Rival for seven years. His two girls, Holly and Phoebe, were five and three and they all lived in Wahroonga, a leafy suburb in Sydney.
“Got his sights on Kirribilli House,” she said, her salt-and-pepper eyebrows wriggling, admiration dripping from her voice.
“Is that a fact?”
Janet took a gulp of her drink, licked her thin lips and looked at me. “Played squash for Australia when he was younger. Very fit.” Her eyes shone with admiration for Bradley. “Wonderful young man, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,
wonderful
,” I muttered as I slowly drank in hunky Bradley’s six-foot-something frame, his broad shoulders, his twinkling blue eyes, his earnest smile, and his hearty laugh. I just knew that somewhere under the blue striped shirt and charcoal pants lurked a six-pack waiting to be stroked or licked, both of which I was game to do.
As I continued observing my mark, I knew three things (in no particular order):
a) I was going to enjoy fucking Bradley Murdoch.
b) I was going to be Mrs. Bradley Murdoch.
c) His wife – that nondescript, full-figured, plus-size thing occupying space next to him with a complacent smile on her fleshy face and a string of pearls around her stubby neck – was history.
Actually, it was in that particular order.
Exactly
in that order.
The other problem I had with Bradley, besides him having a wife, was his two brats. As I said before, if they’re on the back of a milk carton, I love children.
But as I eyed his two girls, I realized they weren’t like the other brats. They were cute and well behaved and different from the other kids.
Both had liquid-blue eyes and looked sweet in their pink, lacy dresses. They wore white pumps and sparkly headbands with tiny pink hearts that nestled on blonde curls.
The older one held on to her mother’s hand, while the younger one sucked her thumb and stood in front of her mother, her back burrowing into her mother’s legs. Both of them peeped shyly at people from underneath long, dark lashes. I had to admit, grudgingly at that, Rival and Bradley Murdoch were the whole picture – the often Photoshopped photo
and
the gilded frame.
That was the picture I desired and dreamt of my whole life. How could I possibly pass on it? Me let a simple thing like a
wife
come between me and my dream? No way. There was no question about it, Bradley Murdoch was mine and Rival was history.
By the way, isn’t Rival just an apt name? Her parents had to be thinking of me when they named her.
****
Rival was older than me – twenty-nine. I was twenty-eight, so that made me the Younger Woman. (Hey, a year difference is a year difference.) People would say, Bradley Murdoch left his wife for a
younger
woman! I liked that, it made me feel powerful and young.
Now, at the risk of sounding like I have a superiority complex, I have to say outright and in no uncertain terms…I
am
superior to Rival in just about every way. That is a fact, I’m not coy about it, and I see no reason to be.
I mean, I’m thinner than her. I’m a size six in Australia. That would make me a size four in the U.S., a five in Japan, a two in Canada, a four in the UK, and a mere thirty-two in Italy, making me an
extra
-
small
everywhere
in the world, get it? It’s important that you do, because a figure like mine deserves recognition.
I’m hotter than her. I turn heads when I enter a room, the heads of both envious women and appreciative men.
I’m smarter than her. I’m gainfully employed, while she’s a mere housewife, probably a bored one at that. But then again, aren’t all housewives bored?
My level of academic education is higher than hers. I have a degree in psychology
and
political science. Make a note of that. It’s impressive. Seriously, it is. See how overall I’m superior to Rival?
Now, if you’re pitying her, don’t. Because Rival deserved to lose Bradley on one point alone – her figure. She was a size twelve.
Twelve
! That’s a whopping size forty-two in Italy and an embarrassing eight in the U.S! A body for a Dove commercial for sure.
How dare she? How dare she have the
audacity
to value bread and pasta and rice and noodles and potatoes and chocolate mousse over someone like Bradley Murdoch?
On that point alone, unequivocally, she deserved to lose him.
I mean, look at Posh – she’s a size zero. Why? Because she appreciates David. She does not in any way jeopardize her position as Almost Royalty by allowing herself to become fatter than Fergie.
And Angelina, clearly she forgoes carbs because those hip bones, they could put out Brad’s eyes when he goes down on her, let me tell you.
These women, they sacrifice to keep their men, to keep predators away, and
that’s
how it ought to be.
What? You don’t think so?
Well, then…fuck you! Like I care what you think.
Kidding, kidding! You should see your face. Of course I care what you think. Your opinion is really, really important to me. (Smiley face.)
****
It was time for another drink. I sauntered over to the bar and was surprised to find a slab of beefcake in black behind the bar. He was around nineteen, hazel eyes, broad shoulders, with hands large enough to fit around my double Ds. Probably a university student with loads of stamina. (Stamina in a guy is of paramount importance to me. I am a forty-five-minute-and-over girl in the sack.)
“What can I get you?” he asked as his eyes raked over my white skinny jeans, navy cropped blazer, white net singlet that covered my cleavage (yet showcased it at the same time), and my tan stilettos. Awe and appreciation danced in his eyes.
“Can you give me an orgasm?” I purred, leaning on the counter and resting my double Ds on it, my arse high in the air.
“Eh…um…eh…”
Having achieved the desired effect, I smiled at his discomfort and in a coy voice asked, “
Pussy
…cat got your tongue?”
His face turned as red as the bottle of pomegranate mixer on the shelf behind him. “Eh…um…eh…”
“Let me tell you how to give me a
Rosy
Orgasm,” I said with a chuckle. “Two parts TyKu liqueur, pomegranate, Patron, and rose essence.
Toss
…it together and give it to me…
long
…and…
hard
.”
He looked like he was going to come in his pants.
“That means it’s served in a long, tall glass,” I explained, taking great delight in his sexual torture.
“Y…yes, ma’am,” he said, when he eventually got his voice back.
Had it not been for Bradley Murdoch, the young bartender would have discovered a Rosy Orgasm in more ways than one in the back seat of my Beamer.
****
The question that hovered – how exactly do I get rid of Rival Murdoch?
Various scenarios presented themselves, some gruesome, some mundane and obvious. Cordially, I entertained them all.
Murder the wife. I could do that. Murder is always the
easiest
solution in a triangle. A blow to the head with a blunt object, steal her Marc Jacobson purse (she appears to have a penchant for Marc Jacobson handbags), and her filigree gold jewelry. (Filigree? Seriously? Are you kidding me? That’s like paying full price for Swiss cheese even though it is riddled with holes!)
A carjacking! Now that was an awesome idea. I could lure her into a rough neighborhood and hire someone to blow out her brains. Unfortunately, Sydney didn’t have that many rough neighborhoods, and being robbed at gunpoint was so rare, every cunt of a cop in Sydney would drop their donut to pursue the perpetrator of such a
heinous
crime. (They would call it
heinous
because without that word, cops, detectives and journalists would be lost.)
I could take her to South Africa. Somehow lure her there just like that British guy with a girl’s name did to his Swedish bride. And there, I could orchestrate a hit with some of the impoverished locals.
But I had to get real; the cops, Australian and South African, they’d get their man in the end, and I didn’t think I’d look fetching in prison stripes.
So, murder was my least favorite way to rid myself of Rival Murdoch. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t
totally
off the agenda, it was just my
least
favorite way.
I had to try to find a cunning and foolproof way. If my conquests were going to be documented in my upcoming book – which teaches women my tried and tested seduction secrets, among other things – I had to ensure I won this game. This game where charming, smoldering Bradley Murdoch was the prize, and sexy, sassy, crafty Scarlett was the winner.
