by Eva Mazza
She climbed into the tub. Why sabotage all of this for John? she thought.
John had always been fascinated by her, but the fascination had not been mutual. Frankie had initially ignored his sexual innuendos and lingering touches. But it all changed about two years ago. After visiting Clive in Cape Town, she had decided to pop by Jen’s house. It was a sweltering day and she had worn the skimpiest of dresses, showing her cleavage and her bronzed, toned legs. Jen had gone to visit her mum, who had broken her hip and had taken a turn for the worse. Frankie found herself alone with her best friend’s husband.
She had never encouraged anything untoward with him. She was used to his sexual banter and it had become a joke between them. After recently terminating a very short and steamy encounter with a French diplomat she’d met on a trip to London, Frankie was game for a new dalliance. Since she had decided to seek sexual pleasure out of her marriage, she had found it tricky to find a partner who was discreet, good looking and who would not succumb to any emotion other than lust.
“Ah,” John said as he opened the front door, “you’re just in time for afternoon sex.”
“I take it Jen’s in the bedroom waiting for me,” she joked as she ducked under his arm to get through. “Jen!” she called out. “It’s me, Frankie. Come and save me from your husband’s grubby hands.”
“She’s not here. She was called to the old age home. Her mom’s taken a turn; it seems like this is it for the old lady.”
“Oh no. Are you going too?”
“I’m on stand by; she said she’d call if she needs me. I think she wants to be alone with her. She was very close to her mom. Dad was a stinker, as you know, but her mom was a real love,” he said.
“She’s not dead yet,” Frankie reminded him.
“I know, I know. But she hasn’t been lucid for months. She’s all but technically dead. Poor Jen, it’s been tough to see her that way.”
Frankie moved towards him and gave him a long hug. “You can be very sweet sometimes, John Pearce.”
She wasn’t sure why John had misinterpreted her very innocent hug, but whatever the reason, he had brushed his lips against her ear and then her cheek, and before she knew it, they were kissing.
“Stop. Please,” she had whispered. But she couldn’t stop him because she couldn’t stop herself either.
They had just ended their first sexual encounter against the entrance hall table when the phone rang. It was Jen. Her mother had passed away peacefully. Could John please help her make the necessary arrangements with the undertakers?
“I’m sorry, Frankie,” John said, pulling up his track pants. “Jen needs me at the home. Her mom’s just passed.”
“Of course,” Frankie said, searching for her panties. “Please tell her I came by to visit just as you got the call. Send her my love. I’ll call her later.” There was a slight hesitation from John – an attempt to explain. Frankie shooed him away. “I’ll see myself out. I just need to use your loo.”
That was a ‘gentle start’ to what would become a very raunchy affair. Sure, Frankie felt guilty; she was, after all, Jen’s best friend. But this isn’t an unusual scenario, she told herself. How many people did she know of who had been having it off with their best friend’s husband? Frankie was different though. She had no intention of splitting up any marriage, especially not her own. It would be what it should be: uncomplicated but fulfilling, with the emphasis on discretion.
Sixteen
Pete made his way up to the farmhouse to check on his father. John was a creature of habit and would have been in his office in the cellar first thing on a Monday morning, organising his diary and his staff, before going back to the farmhouse for breakfast. But today, he’d never arrived.
He found John passed out drunk on the couch, the television set blaring and a half-empty bottle of scotch on the floor next to two cellphones. He was far too angry at seeing his father drunk on the sofa to question why he had more than one phone. He was about to shake him awake, when one of the phones vibrated. It was Frankie.
Before he had a chance to answer, the call dropped.
The phone beeped a message from Frankie, and the words flashed on the screen long enough for Pete to read it. “We need to cool things between us.”
At first, he didn’t quite grasp the message, but it didn’t take long for the penny to drop.
“What’s up?” Pete startled. He was holding John’s phone in his hand.
“I came to check if you alright. It’s Monday morning and you not at work.”
John was too hungover to get up off the couch. Pete knew that the sight of him irritated his dad.
“When are you going to learn to speak properly?” John barked.
Pete loaded his “Sorry” with sarcasm. He looked around, noticing for the first time that something had run amok in the house. “Where’s Gladys? Or is she also nursing a hangover?”
John sighed. “Do me a favour? Grab me some water from the fridge.”
Pete did as he was told. The kitchen was in complete disarray. The fruit bowl lay in pieces on the floor.
“What happened to the bowl I made Ma? What’s going on? Where’s Gladys?”
“I gave her time off. She worked hard this weekend. Anyway, I don’t need another judgmental woman in my house. Like your mother, I want to be left alone.”
Pete handed John a bottle of water. “Well, Ma’s going to freak out,” he warned. “And she’s going to be upset when she sees the broken bowl. I made it for her in primary school.” He sounded like a kid.
John mocked, “Well Mommy isn’t here, so there’s nothing to worry about, is there?” He winced as he moved his head and Pete couldn’t help relishing the idea of his father in pain. Judging from the almost empty Black Label that lay beside him, he must have a mother of a headache.
“I guess Patty won’t be coming back to work after you were caught with your pants down.” There, that should teach you, you fucking asshole. John’s eyes widened. “You fucked up big time!”
“Listen, Pete, I’m not your child. No, Patty is not coming back. Brigit must’ve told you, and I’m not proud. Why do you think I’m lying here nursing a hangover?”
Pete said nothing. He felt no sympathy towards his dad and it was obvious to him John wanted to play the victim. Pete would not allow himself to be manipulated by his two-timing father. John loved to show his son who was in power and it didn’t stop him now.
“Don’t forget who pays your salary and who puts a roof over your head. Go and do what you should be doing. Go sell wine,” he ordered.
Pete had had enough of being spoken down to. His life on the farm had been pretty stress free. It was his mom who had always envisioned him working alongside his dad and eventually taking over the day-to-day running of La Vigne Sacrée, a name he found completely pretentious, particularly since they had not one drop of French blood pumping even vaguely through their veins. He didn’t want to disappoint Jen or add to her worries, but he just couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m leaving. You won’t find me here tomorrow morning. You can tell Ma we had a fight and I’ve gone. I can’t work with you, especially after what you called me.”
“Come on Pete, stop being such a girl.”
“You doing it again; you called me a cunt, remember? In front of Patty. In front of everyone. As if that’s not bad enough you cheat on Ma. I can’t keep hiding the truth about you from Ma.”
“Mom knows about Patty.” John’s eyes were brimming with tears, but his son remained unmoved.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’m not only talking about Patty, Dad!” He shoved his father’s phone into John’s hand and waited for him to read the message. While he read the text from Frankie, Pete spoke, disappointment oozing from his voice. “Of all the women, you had to screw your best business investment and your best mate’s wife. Now look who’s the cunt?”
Pete watched his father attempt to rise off the couch, maybe to punch me, he thought. His father fe
ll back and he watched, unmoved as the tears rolled from his dad’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” John said. “I’m sorry I broke your bowl. I’m sorry I disappointed you and hurt your mom. I just don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me. Please, Pete. I need you. Mom will fall apart if she hears you’ve gone. I’ll make this right, I promise.”
Too late, you old fuck, Pete thought and turned to leave the room.
Pete heard John’s phone beep. He would never know, nor did he care who it was from – not anymore. The message happened to be from Frans and it read that the money from the ceded policy would be in John’s personal account by Thursday. If Pete had been privy to this bit of information, he would certainly have been tempted to transgress all boundaries and punch him. That money belonged to the family and John had thrown it away because of a paltry blowjob. Pete had seen his father’s credit card statements, which were off the charts, and he had known the expenses were accrued because he could not keep his dick in his pants. He had studied finance at university. He had wanted to show his father that this is where he belonged in the company and not in wine sales. In so doing he had stumbled across all sorts of transactions that hadn’t added up and that had ultimately pointed to his father’s debauchery.
Seventeen
Frankie had tried several times throughout the day to reach John, but he had not returned any of her calls or her messages. Nor had Lee for that matter. After deleting very personal and lewd pictures, texts and emails from her phone and her computer, she had little else to do. She recalled having read in some magazine, years ago, about a woman who had caught her husband cheating. He had been caught out because he was obsessed with keeping mementos: restaurant bills and pictures of his lover – even her underwear. The suspicious wife had also found a drawer full of love letters. Frankie had laughed at the man’s stupidity. But after going through her own little ‘collection’, she had to admit that she was just as foolish and reckless. She had made it very easy for Lee to find damning evidence if he wanted to.
Frankie’s phone vibrated, and, thinking it was John, she answered immediately. It was Shelley.
“Why weren’t you at Zumba today? And where was Jen? Is something going on?” Shelley asked.
“Why should anything be going on, Shelley? I’ve been busy and Jen’s at Delaire,” Frankie said without hesitation.
“Oh, that’s very nice! While poor John is asking Frans to cede one of his policies because of financial problems, Jen is languishing at the spa. No wonder the poor guy was so belligerent on the phone to Frans the other night. I read a text John sent Frans. He’s even pulled out of poker nights!”
Frankie, despite being Jen’s biggest traitor, was her biggest ally too. “Shelley, you should be very careful what you say about people. Firstly, I’m sure John’s financial worries are confidential, so I don’t know how happy your husband would be about you disclosing classified information to everyone.”
“Not everyone. You,” Shelley interrupted.
Faith had come into the lounge with mid-morning tea and some fruit for Frankie. She set it down on the coffee table. Frankie mouthed a “thank you”, and indicated to her to open the patio doors. February in Stellenbosch could be stiflingly hot. She continued with her conversation. “You know what I’m trying to say. It makes me wonder whether Lee can trust Frans with his business.” Frankie was earnest. She really wondered at Frans’s professionalism. Why would he be so open about business matters?
She heard Shelley scoff . “Frans didn’t tell me. Are you daft? The two of us hardly greet each other let alone speak to one another. I was eavesdropping, and I sometimes read his messages.”
Frankie poured herself some rooibos as she spoke, phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder. “Even more reason to shut your mouth. You’ll lose business for him, so be careful. That business keeps you in the lifestyle to which you’re accustomed.”
Shelley conceded that Frankie was right. But being an incorrigible snoop, she wanted to know why Jen had not told the group she was going to the spa.
“It has something to do with that embarrassing speech she made at the party, doesn’t it? Poor John, he felt like such a tool! And I know Anne’s husband is fuming too.” Frankie sipped her tea listening to Shelley go on about her friend without any encouragement. “Jen needs to thank God for John every single day, I tell you. He’s a great-looking man, he’s a good husband and provider. She doesn’t know what a gem she has.”
Frankie knew that, given half a chance, Shelley would be in John’s bed. Shelley still believed Jen was the reason John hadn’t married her and not the other way around.
Frankie sighed. “You’re still sore that John dumped you for her,” she joked.
“I am not,” Shelley protested. “Although I wouldn’t mind waking up next to him rather than next to Frans, I must confess.”
“Shelley!” Frankie shrieked. “You’re incorrigible. And, you’re such a bitch, too.” She wondered at the same time how Shelley would react if she ever found out about her affair with John.
“I know. I know. We all missed you today, Frankie, but we’ll see you on Friday at book club. Don’t forget, we have to make up for the one we cancelled ’cause of the party of the year. Don’t forget to remind Jen, please, if she’s not still being rubbed and scrubbed while poor John is pressing grapes with his bare feet to pay for it.”
They both cackled like witches. “Sometimes I love you. Only sometimes,” Frankie said.
“Bullshit. You love me always, because I shoot from the hip.”
Frankie hung up. Can you imagine the scandal if my friends found out about John and me? It wasn’t a pleasant thought. But she knew Lee; he would go to great pains to avoid a scandal, even if it meant staying in an unhappy marriage to an adulterous wife.
At 05:00 am, John awoke with a start. He hadn’t slept this long since he’d been at university. To be fair, he’d had no sleep on Saturday night, and Sunday had been an interminably long and taxing day. He reminded himself that he had also spent Friday night with the boys at the club. It had been a tiring weekend with too much alcohol.
He struggled to get up off the couch. His back ached and he had a stiff neck from lying in the same position for almost the whole of Sunday night and all of Monday. He also had a pounding headache and his tongue stuck to his palate. It was a matter of urgency; he had to have water and he had to find painkillers.
John went to the kitchen as fast as his body would allow, turned on the tap and stuck his mouth directly under the stream of water until his thirst was quenched. And now: painkillers. As he moved towards the first-aid cupboard, he stepped on a piece of broken fruit bowl. “Fuck!” he shouted out, pulling a ceramic chip from his bare foot. After popping three aspirins, he decided to take a shower; he felt rancid.
He stood shivering under a stream of ice-cold water, hoping the cold would energise him. It was also a way to punish himself for his recklessness.
He didn’t often feel guilty about his sexual exploits. Maybe because he had, until Saturday, compartmentalised them so that there was never an overlap. He was a happily married man and father of two grown-up children, a successful wine farmer and a respected businessman in the community. He was also a man who enjoyed sexual encounters with different women and regular illicit sex. If he had to be honest, sex with Jen was like smoking weed after mainlining heroin. He knew that being married was a very effective smokescreen for his addiction. It was only when the one started affecting the other that he had to face the truth about himself, and the guilt that seemed to follow.
Eighteen
It was Tuesday mid-morning when Jen arrived back home. Turning into La Vigne Sacrée, she found herself appreciating the beauty of her surroundings in a new way, despite the knot in her stomach. Summer was always a glorious time, and the tree-lined driveway of dappled shade made the approach to the farmhouse a spectacular one.
The option of leaving her home and beautiful Stellenbosch and moving into an apartment
in the city had seemed exciting at first, but Jen had decided to go back and face John head on. There were so many reasons she couldn’t just move out – her children, for one. Although they weren’t children any more, she felt that if she did leave their father, she would owe them an explanation first.
Fear was another one. “To be completely honest,” Jen had confided to Claudia as they sipped vodka tonics at the lodge’s main pool, “I’m afraid. I can’t muster up the courage or the energy I’d need to move out.” She had been married to John for twenty-odd years. She was comfortable, and she enjoyed her lifestyle. It wasn’t just the money; Jen was afraid of being alone. What would it be like to be a divorcée at this stage of her life? Would she be able to keep up her friendships if she were single? Couples’ dinners and functions would be awkward. She wondered if she would be the one invited, or whether John would crack the nod. She was, after all, friends with the girls through her husband. No, she could guarantee that except for Frankie, she would be the one excluded.
“And the thought of dating again,” she continued. “Sex with a stranger!” she laughed. “As if any men are interested in women my age, anyway.”
What Frankie had said to her about marriage seemed to make sense when faced with the decision to leave. She did love John. He wasn’t the first man to cheat on his wife, and he wouldn’t be the last.
“I need to confront the issues with him and work on fixing what’s been broken,” she’d told Claudia when she gave her a goodbye hug.
Claudia had left her with three numbers: hers, her boyfriend Leonard’s and Sharon’s, a relationship specialist. She had, in fact, made an appointment for Jen to see both Leonard and Sharon the next day. “Just go see them, even if you haven’t made any decisions.” She warned her that Sharon was no “run-of-the-mill” psychologist. “Be warned, your appointment will be long and emotional. She spends at least half a day in consultation with first-time clients.”
