So Lucky

by Dawn O'Porter

  He holds up my left hand, he’s referring to my wedding ring.

  ‘Oh that,’ I say, looking at my ring like it’s a scumbag ex-boyfriend. ‘This is what I think to that.’ I take it off and throw it into my bag. ‘Does that bother you, because it doesn’t bother me?’

  ‘No. I understand that feeling,’ he says.

  ‘Take me to your house,’ I demand.

  He looks both ways and puts his arm under mine to help me. We’re at his front door within a few minutes.

  ‘Wow, you’re really rich,’ I say, as we walk in. Which is rude. I’m drunk and behaving like a student. It’s a house in Highgate. The entrance is beautiful, ivy growing up the front of the building. The living room he leads me into doesn’t feel like a bachelor pad. ‘You have great taste for a man.’

  ‘My ex-wife did most of this. She didn’t want the house when we split. She wanted all my money though.’

  ‘What a bitch,’ I say, smiling. It’s a joke, and thankfully he gets it. This is OK.

  He is at a little bar pouring us some drinks. He hands one to me and I drink it quickly before reality dares to remind me who I really am.

  ‘Look at us, two strangers alone in a house together. I’ve had enough booze to pretend to be someone else for a bit, have you?’ I say, wiggling around flirtatiously.

  ‘I don’t know if I need to pretend to be someone else, but I’m certainly happy you’re here,’ he says, with all the assurance of a man in his fifties who doesn’t have personal or intimacy issues. I put my drink down and sit on the sofa. He does the same. I channel Risky and throw myself at him.

  His hands are stroking me and squeezing me. Touching me more passionately than my husband ever has. It feels unreal, like it’s someone else’s body, but it isn’t, it’s mine. This is what I want and need. It’s what I deserve. It feels good. I feel good.

  I take off my jeans and lie on the sofa. He goes down on me. Michael hasn’t gone down on me since before we were married. The last time he did it, he stopped before I came and said he just couldn’t stand the taste. Why am I just realising how cruel that was? I have a gorgeous vagina. This man is reminding me of that. It’s like I’m a bowl of warm chocolate and he’s eating his way out of me. He’s so good at it. I have my hands on his head. I want this to be filthy. I come very quickly. I’m not done.

  I bring his head back up to my face and lick and kiss his lips. He starts to undo his jeans. I don’t want a quick fuck on a sofa in the missionary position. If he comes quickly and that’s all that happens, it will have been for nothing. I need more from this. I pull away from him and reach for my bag. I almost fall off the sofa but he catches me. He must think I am getting a condom, but I’m not. I have a little pot of Vaseline lip balm. I tell him to take off his jeans, and I smother his penis with the Vaseline. He tells me I’m ‘so hot, so sexy’. I look him in the eye and ask him if he’s feeling naughty. He tells me he is.

  I am a sexual woman and he is so lucky to have me on his sofa. But I am getting what I want out of this. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.

  I turn myself around, and when he tries to enter me I guide him upwards. I think of Risky. I want to be more Risky. ‘I want you in my arse,’ I tell him over my shoulder. He hesitates, but not for long. He undoes my bra. It’s a nursing bra and it falls to the sofa. My breasts full of milk, my baby at home, Michael. I get those thoughts out of my head. I deserve this. He gently pushes his penis into my bottom at my request. I’ve never had anal sex before, I don’t know what brought me to it in this moment. The need to feel dirty? In control? Desired? Or just that my vagina belongs to someone else? If I do it this way, maybe it isn’t so bad? Or maybe I just need to reclaim my slutty side.

  The man is gentle but passionate. He pulls my hair and scratches his nails down my back. As he starts to ramp up, and I know this will end soon, I tell him to go harder. ‘Harder, harder,’ I say, and he slams into me. Air popping from my anus, making fart sounds that I don’t allow to bother me. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t hurt. I thought it might. He is so turned on, and that makes me feel so good. This is as much for my head as my body, I need to be ravished. He pulls out and comes all over my bottom. He falls back onto the sofa and pulls his shirt over his penis. Why did he do that, was there poo on it? I look down on the sofa, there are huge wet patches underneath me from where my breasts have leaked. I’m trying to stay in the moment and keep reality at bay, but it’s hitting me now. What am I doing? This is not OK.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what that was about.’

  ‘What that was about? You being so sexy?’

  ‘Yes, that. Me asking you to do that, that isn’t who I am.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘It’s not OK. Oh God.’ I realise the milk is pouring from my nipples down my tummy.

  ‘Wait, are you lactating?’ he says, throwing his t-shirt at me to catch the drips. ‘How old did you say your kid was again?’

  I don’t remember what I told him.

  ‘Oh God. Please, I need to go, I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  Another small but audible air pocket pops out of my bum. They are not actual farts, but still. This is not ideal.

  ‘Here,’ the man says, passing me my soaking wet, heavy nursing bra.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, as I turn around and put it on. I get dressed. He politely doesn’t watch me. I suddenly don’t feel sexy. I feel flabby, pale, and like I want to hide.

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’ he asks me, kindly. ‘I wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t asked.’

  ‘Will I be OK? I don’t know. I just need to go home. I’m sorry for all of this. I have a baby and a husband, and I don’t know what I’m doing.’

  He stands up. He puts his hands on my arms. ‘It’s OK. OK? Everyone has the right to act out of character sometimes. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re OK, and this is between us. It doesn’t have to collapse your world.’

  He’s a really nice person.

  ‘My husband and I are having problems,’ I tell him. ‘I have a baby. He is four months old. I work full time. I’m not sure I’m coping with everything as well as I thought I was.’

  ‘Being a parent is hard. Don’t beat yourself up, OK? We can only do the best we can.’

  ‘I’m not sure this is me doing my best, do you?’ I look down at my boobs and laugh. He does too.

  Thank God this happened with him.

  ‘Maybe not. But rather than give yourself a hard time for what you did, try and fix the reason you did it.’

  ‘Your daughter is a lucky girl,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Maybe not. Here.’ He hands me my trousers and starts straightening the cushions on the couch. I wonder what happened with him and his wife. I know people can’t be judged on one encounter, but right now I feel like if I was married to someone like him, I’d never let him go.

  ‘Thank you for not making this worse,’ I say, sincerely.

  ‘Thank you allowing me to fulfil a fantasy I never thought I would.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yup, never gone there before. Big box ticked here so please leave feeling charitable.’ He smiles again. ‘Can I get you a car?’

  ‘No, I’ll be OK. Thank you.’ I kiss him on the cheek and leave.

  I’ve done it now. I’ve cheated on my husband. I am that wife.

  Lauren Pearce – Instagram post

  @OfficialLP

  The image is of Lauren’s left hand, a diamond glistening in the light. It is laid over a man’s hand, presumably Gavin’s.

  The caption reads:

  Days to go. I love this man. Feeling so so lucky. Commitment, together … bring on forever!! I dedicated my life to you, my love. Is it Saturday yet??? #LOVE

  @genedder: You deserve happiness, you bring nothing but light.

  @happyguuuuuu: You help me get through my day. You bring such joy. Keep being you!

  @nailedforeveryours: The DR
EAM

  @yellagain: More pictures of Gavin please!!!! Can’t wait to see your dress

  @unitednotabit: Excuse me while I vomit into my shoe.

  Beth

  ‘What happened to you, you look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards,’ Michael says to me as I walk into the house. The word ‘backwards’ rebounds in my head. All I hear is ‘anal, anal, anal’. It’s like he knows.

  I feel like I just murdered someone and buried their body. This secret will kill me. I cheated. I never thought I would actually do it, but I did. I am that person.

  ‘Lauren wouldn’t stop talking so I couldn’t pump. Look, I’m leaking everywhere. I have to go and shower,’ I say, calmly.

  Michael looks at my soaking chest when I open my jacket and looks suitably horrified by the mess of it.

  ‘You’re drenched.’

  ‘I know. I missed Tommy so much today, I think it sent my milk supply into turbo speed and I had no time to pump.’

  ‘OK, well go and have a shower and I’ll bring the pump to the bedroom and leave it out for you, OK?’

  He is being nice. Which is confusing. I need him to remain horrible now, because of what I just did. I rebelled against a husband who was mean. I need him to stay mean.

  In the shower, I let the warm water wash away the milk on my body and the sperm from my back. I have an uncomfortable sensation in my bum. It’s a little sore.

  I keep trying to think of the man’s name. Robert? Peter? I wish I could remember.

  ‘The pump is ready for you, I screwed the bottles on,’ says Michael, opening the door a little but not coming in. He feels like a stranger.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, turning the shower off. I could have stayed in it for days, washing away what I did. It’s a shame you can’t shower away your feelings.

  In the bedroom, Michael has plugged in the pump and left it all ready for me, along with a glass of water and a biscuit on the bedside table. I tie the towel around my waist and hold the funnels in place. Sitting on the bed, in front of a full-length mirror, I watch the bottles fill with milk. It feels so good to get it out. My boobs decrease in size. I put the full bottles on the bedside table and then lie back, putting my hands over my face as I start to sob.

  ‘Beth, are you OK?’ Michael says, coming in to check on me. He takes a towel off the back of the bedroom door and lays it over my chest. I’m too tired to rip it off and tell him I have the right to bare my breasts in my own house.

  ‘I’m just tired. It’s been a big few weeks,’ I say, wanting him to go away. I need to be alone. Why am I never alone?

  ‘I’m sure you are. Well, the wedding is at the weekend, and then you can take some time off, and be with Tommy. You’re doing great, OK? I’m proud of you.’

  What is happening? He was supposed to be cruel to make this easier.

  ‘You’re proud of me?’ I say, looking at him through my fingers.

  ‘Yes, I’m proud of you. It takes a lot to have a baby and then get right back to work. But you’ve done it, and Tommy and I are proud of you. And I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry for what I said, I know how painful that must have been.’

  He smiles and lays his hand across my belly. He kisses me on the face. I’m so confused.

  ‘Kiss me,’ I ask him. I get a peck on the lips. ‘No, kiss me,’ I say again, pulling his face towards mine. He is trying to get away, but I am holding his head so hard he can’t. I keep kissing him, regardless of him not wanting to. Eventually he breaks away from me and stands up.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ he says, a look of disgust on his face. ‘I just said sorry. I hoped we could talk and you turned it into that again. It’s like you’re a sex addict, it’s all you think about. And have you been drinking? I can smell it on you.’

  There isn’t much point in saying anything. I just lie still, allowing his words to thump down onto me, like I’m a pavement in the rain. I’m a cheating ex-whore, married to a man who finds me repulsive. Craving sex from strangers and demanding sodomy in nice houses. All the while selling the concept of love and matrimony to a woman who, if rumour has it right, is being cheated on. I am the worst.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been drinking,’ I tell him, rolling my head to the side. He can pour his judgement all over me. I don’t care anymore.

  ‘It seems like such a waste, but I’ll throw this down the sink,’ says Michael, holding the bottles of breast milk, looking very cross. ‘Drink your water, eat your biscuit and get some sleep.’

  He leaves. When the door closes, I throw the glass of water at it and scream.

  10

  Ruby

  I stop by the park on my way to my wax appointment. Ross is sitting solemnly on the bench. It isn’t clean. He has his top off and is sweating. He looks sadder than usual.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I ask him as I sit down.

  ‘I forgot the wipes. I’m so stupid,’ he says, looking at the bench with disgust, like the pigeons made their mess to spite him. I check my bag, but I don’t have any either.

  ‘Bloody pigeons, they have no respect,’ I say, smiling at him. He manages a little one back. ‘You look like you have more on your mind than usual?’

  ‘Yeah, I have a big weekend coming up. Family stuff, I always get anxious. But I’ll be alright. Where’s Bonnie today?’

  ‘Oh, she’s at nursery this morning. I was actually hoping that I would see you. I wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me? What on earth for?’

  ‘For saying all the right things.’

  He laughs to himself. ‘Well that would be a first.’

  ‘I needed to meet someone like you. You’ve given me a perspective that I think I needed.’

  ‘All problems are relative. You can’t compare everything to the death of a child.’

  ‘True, but it certainly made me assess what is important. Like I said, I needed it, so thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I guess it’s good that something positive can come from all this,’ he says, dropping his head again. He is so heavy today. Of course he has days like this. I’m not sure I would ever get out of bed. ‘My wife doesn’t know about this bench,’ he tells me, as if that bothers him.

  ‘Really, why?’ I ask, quite shocked by that. The bench should be for everyone who misses Verity, surely?

  ‘She brushed her death under the carpet. She didn’t want to talk about it. All I wanted to do was talk about it, I couldn’t stop. I’ve seen a therapist twice a week since it happened, just so I can go on and on. I don’t understand how she couldn’t. She didn’t want a bench. She thought it would be a place to wallow, rather than a place to feel connected to Verity. This bench feels like my lifeline some days.’

  ‘It’s a lovely thing to have,’ I say, feeling a need to reassure him that she was wrong.

  ‘I used to bring the girls to the park. You see it a lot, don’t you? Dads on Saturdays with their kids. That was me. This was our favourite spot. I went ahead and organised the bench without telling my wife. It’s my special place where I can be with my daughter. I find it so peaceful here.’

  ‘It is.’

  We sit for a moment looking out. I notice the time and realise I better get going.

  ‘I have to get to an appointment,’ I say, standing up. ‘Thanks. Again. I hope your weekend is OK and not too stressful. Families are hard.’

  ‘They are. Bye Ruby.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Something tells me he’ll be there a while today.

  I have a wax appointment at ten a.m. I travel across London on the underground at rush hour to get there, I am now very hot. I underestimated the weather and wore velvet instead of cotton. The waiting room is packed, everyone is young and, to my self-deprecating eye, extremely beautiful. I walk purposefully to the receptionist. She is young, too.

  ‘Yes, I have an appointment at ten,’ I say, feeling like an old hag.

  ‘Great, and your name?’

  ‘Ruby.’

  ‘Ruby … yup, there you are
. OK, you’re in for a full body today?’

  I can’t believe she just did that. Any number of these people could have heard. I can’t speak. I just stand still, like a pillock.

  ‘Is that right, Ruby? A full-body wax?’

  Oh my God, she did it again. Is this woman thick?

  She needs an answer from me. There are two women in the queue behind me, why is this place so busy?

  I am so desperate for this wax. I have to be brave. I nod.

  ‘OK great, you’ll be with Pete today, he’ll be right out.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I ask, I must have misheard her.

  ‘Pete, he will be your technician today.’

  ‘Pete? Is that short for Petra?’

  ‘No, Peter. He does our full-body waxes. You’ll love him, he’s very quick.’

  ‘He’s a bloody man!’

  ‘Oh, God yeah, sorry. Don’t worry, he’s gay.’

  She looks at me as if she just solved all my problems.

  ‘I can’t do that, is there a woman available?’ I ask. I have done an enormous amount of mental preparation to come here today and I have found peace with using a new technician, but not Pete.

  ‘No, sorry,’ she says, getting impatient. ‘Will you take a seat?’

  I sit on the sofa next to a young woman in a short skirt. I look at her legs – not a single hair in sight. Why is she even here? If she knew what was going on underneath my dress, she would be sick. I might be sick.

  ‘Ruby,’ says a man who I presume is Pete. He is about five foot six, blond, also not hairy. I can’t put myself through this.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve changed my mind,’ I say, getting up. ‘I don’t need it after all.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Pete asks, confused. I tell him I am very sure. Instead, he calls for a Hannah. Hannah jumps up and says ‘Yay’ and they kiss on each cheek and disappear into the back. To wax her perfect fanny, no doubt.

  This is not the salon for me.

  I’ve been waxing like clockwork for more than twenty years and have never missed a cycle, but it’s like the universe is conspiring against me.

  Due to the failed wax attempt, I pick Bonnie up at nursery after two hours, just as Maria insisted. It gives me a little spring in my step, to do something that suggests I am actually a reasonable parent. Maria said she didn’t cry as much this time, but she refused to play with the other kids, saying they were babies and that she wanted more three-year-olds. Maria said there are other three-year-olds who come to the school, but they are all on holiday.