Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  I look at the washing machine and notice that yesterday’s washing is still in it. Its stale smell hits me as I open the door but I can’t be bothered with running the cycle again. As I start pulling the damp clothes out, flashes of last night’s shag start flooding in. It was, I must say, pretty amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such unrestrained abandon. I remember my heels digging into his tight arse as his thrusts got faster and faster, syncopating with the vibrations of the washing machine, and I suddenly go weak at the knees. I drop the laundry on the floor and slide down next to it. Damn you, Anton. It’s hard to be angry with you for a long time. And the problem is that you know it and rely on your charm to get away with murder.

  I put the washing in the dryer and look at the pile of dirty clothes Anton peeled off himself last night. Somehow they’ve lost their pheromone potency and they just stink now. As much as I resent doing the housewife chores, I’ll feel better without the smelly heap in the middle of my floor. I pick up his T-shirt, underwear, socks, his cargo pants and the light jacket. If I throw a few of my things in I’ll have another full load for the washing machine. Out of force of habit, I go through Anton’s pockets. I started doing it after I found two hundred pounds’ worth of notes rolled up in the pocket of his jeans. There were other things I used to find in his pockets too, squashed roll-ups, little chunks of Moroccan hash in tiny plastic bags, lighters, sticks of chewing gum, loose change. This time I find a boarding pass stub in his cargo pants and a folded piece of paper in the inside pocket of his jacket. Not bad for having travelled halfway across the world. I load the machine and set it on ‘Intensive Stains’ at 60 degrees. This stuff needs a good wash. I throw his boarding pass away. I’m just about to do the same with the piece of paper I found in his jacket when it crosses my mind to see what it is. It’s a hotel bill.

  I sit down on the stool by the breakfast counter, focusing on the printout in my hand. Only You Hotel, Calle Barquillo 21, 28004 Madrid, Spain. Two nights in a Deluxe Room, bed and breakfast, plus some bar charges. A total of 576 euros. Guests’ names: Mr & Mrs Sauvage. Check-out date: yesterday.

  I put the bill on the counter and flatten it with my hand. I sit motionlessly staring at the printout, listening to the washing machine going through its cycle. Chug-chug-chug. Silence. Chug-chug-chug. Silence. Chug-chug-chug. Anton didn’t just catch a connecting flight in Madrid. He’s spent the last three days there. In a Deluxe Room with Mrs Sauvage. And I don’t think it was his mother.

  In fact, I am certain Anton’s mother didn’t join him in Madrid. Madame Carinne Sauvage suffers from severe dementia and has been in an expensive care home just outside Aix-en-Provence for five years. The Sauvage family, which consists of Madame Carinne, Anton and his brother, Lionel, who works as a banker in New York, is very rich. Papa Sauvage, from what I know, used to run a successful import–export business bringing cheap goods from China and selling them for a lot of money in Europe. The fortune he accumulated he then reinvested in the most rare artefacts smuggled out of China during the Cultural Revolution. I have seen a small part of his collection in the vault of their huge house in the Quartier Mazarin of the city of a thousand fountains, called by the locals simply Aix. Papa Sauvage died of a heart attack ten years ago, leaving his riches to Lionel and Anton. So, as much as he hates to admit it, Anton is a wealthy man. A man who prides himself on surviving on the proceeds from his street-art gigs but who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at spending over five hundred euros on a two-night stay in Madrid. I have to give it to him though, he could’ve splashed out on the Ritz or Westin Palace but instead opted for a more humble four-star hotel, ‘offering great beds, a buzzing bar and excellent service, close to the Prado Museum’. It’s the ‘great beds’ I’m upset about most, for I don’t think he chose Only You Hotel for its proximity to the Prado.

  So, Anton’s playing around, shamelessly cheating on me with some bombón he probably picked up in Buenos Aires. I wonder if he’s brought her with him to London. I get up and go to the window. The loft opposite is dark and empty, my Peeping Tom probably busy doing whatever Peeping Toms do for a living. As hard as it is to believe, my boyfriend is having an affair. Anton and I have never discussed the issue of infidelity, never opted for an open relationship, a notion I find oxymoronic anyway. We walked into our coupledom bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not bothering to read the small print. But perhaps his small print has been different to mine? Perhaps having an affair is well within the boundaries of his definition of being in a relationship? Which leads on to my next question: how long has this been going on? Is it a one-off, a holiday fling, or does he have a string of bombóns in tow? And, most importantly, what am I supposed to do about it?

  The flash of anger I felt a moment ago has gone, replaced by a cheerless heaviness of heart. I so wish this wasn’t happening. I hate confrontations and usually go out of my way to avoid them. But I can’t bury my head in the sand and pretend everything is all right. Can I? No, I can’t. I have to react, to do something. I hate myself for it, but the only thing I feel like doing right now is retreating. I pick up my phone and press one of the speed-dial buttons.

  ‘Are you still at Bridget and Midget’s?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Aunt Vero answers diplomatically. ‘But it could be easily rectified.’

  ‘Great. I’m coming over to pick you up then. I’ll stay with you for a couple of days if that’s OK.’

  ‘I think I can manage that.’ Aunt Vero is careful not to show too much enthusiasm and I can just imagine Bridget and Midget hanging on her every word while she’s on the phone to me.

  I grab my overnight bag and throw a handful of essentials in. I dish out an extra-large portion of Pixel’s lamb dinner and check if his water bowl is full. I pack my Mac Air, pick up the car key and head for the door. I stop, then go back to the kitchen counter to fetch a vital piece of evidence. Anton’s hotel bill. I fold it carefully and slide it into the side pocket of my bag.

  It takes Anton until nine at night to send me a text message.

  Where are you?

  He obviously hasn’t got a clue what has happened.

  At Aunt Vero’s. She’s had a fall. Will stay with her for a couple of days.

  Followed by Anton’s succinct

  OK.

  Not even ‘How is she?’ or ‘Give her my regards’. He is digging himself deeper and deeper into my bad books.

  Aunt Vero assures me she feels better than she looks. The bruise on her face has turned yellowy-blue but the swelling has gone down. She’s annoyed she won’t be able to have fun with her bell-ringing society for a while, but otherwise she seems fine. We’ve had a takeaway pizza for dinner and have retired to her living room with a cup of tea and Bridget’s lemon drizzle cake, which Vero calls ‘saccharine squidgy’. It sounds like she’s had enough of Bridget’s baking for a while. She’s unusually quiet when I tell her about Anton’s fling and show her the hotel bill.

  ‘Were you and Stella ever unfaithful to each other?’ Something in her pensive look prompts me to ask this impudent question.

  ‘Well . . .’ She takes a sip of her tea. ‘We were together for thirty years. That’s an awfully long time.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ Her evasiveness is telling.

  ‘We were a very good couple. A match made in heaven. The sex at the beginning was amazing. She was my first lover, you know. I was this naive, starry-eyed Portuguese girl, transplanted from tiny Monsaraz to mind-blowing London, head full of women’s lib ideas, Spare Rib under my arm . . . And Stella . . . she was much older, sophisticated, with a bit of a reputation . . . Suave Stella they used to call her. She was a real charmer.’

  ‘Where did you two meet?’ I can’t contain my curiosity. Stella and Vero rarely talked about their early years together, so this is an opportunity I can’t miss.

  ‘At Gateways – you must have heard of it.’

  I nod, vaguely recalling reading somewhere about the iconic gay club.

  ‘Actually, I’m lying, we didn’t meet at
the club, we met outside of it. I was quite radical in those days. So there I was, protesting outside Gateways . . . We were shouting at the women going in to “come out”. And suddenly this gorgeous, tall woman approached me and kissed me on the lips.’

  ‘Aunt Stella? She didn’t!’

  ‘Oh yes, she did . . .’ Vero falls silent, immersed in her memories.

  ‘And that was it?’ I prompt her again, because I want to know more.

  ‘Well, not quite. She gave me her phone number and asked me to call her. It took me weeks to pluck up the courage. I lived in Brixton at the time and I kept hovering around the phone box in my street for so long the locals thought I was a prostitute. Eventually I call her and she answers the phone and says, “Please call me later, I’m having sex now.”’

  ‘No!’ I nearly drop my cup of tea on the floor.

  She laughs and for a moment I see the young Vero, happy and in love.

  ‘I never rang her back. But we bumped into each other at Foyles some time later. I moved in with her two weeks after that.’

  Vero gets up slowly from her armchair and goes to the drinks cabinet.

  ‘Eighteen-year-old Macallan, Stella’s favourite. Fancy a wee dram?’

  I’m not a great whisky enthusiast but I know the stuff Aunt Stella used to drink is good. Vero pours two generous glasses and adds a splash of water to both. She settles back in her chair and raises her dram, as she calls it.

  ‘Here’s to Stella, the light of my life.’

  As the whisky burns my throat, its delicately smoky toffee taste brings back memories of our evenings together back at the loft.

  ‘I cheated on her once.’ Vero holds her glass in both hands, as if trying to warm herself on it. ‘We’d been together for years and we were going through a rough patch. I lost my job, her business was suffering because of the recession, and on top of that, she started an early menopause. Her hot flushes became so bad we had to stop sharing the bed. She couldn’t sleep, was always tired and irritable. To be honest, I began avoiding her, hung around with a crowd of younger women, one of whom I knew fancied me. One night I got home really late and Stella was waiting for me, drunk but lucid. She told me to go and have an affair. “Go and do it,” she said, “just don’t tell me about it.” And so a few days later, I went and did it.’ Vero takes a sip of her whisky. ‘So, that’s my story.’

  ‘Did she know?’

  ‘Of course she did. I told her about it as soon as it happened. And begged her forgiveness.’

  ‘Did she forgive you?’

  ‘Yes. But I have never been able to forgive myself.’

  ‘But you stayed together . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, and we had many happy years after that. You see, life is never black and white. It’s monochromatic, with occasional splashes of colour.’

  As we sip Aunt Stella’s favourite whisky in silence, I’m beginning to think rationally about Anton’s infidelity.

  ‘Do you think I should forgive him?’

  Aunt Vero produces a silver E-cig out of the breast pocket of her loose shirt and takes a couple of puffs.

  ‘I think it’s up to him to come clean.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t? Should I confront him?’

  ‘Do you feel like pretending you don’t know he’s been unfaithful to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you two should talk.’

  13

  The next day, after lunch with Vero at Wheelers, I’m heading back to London. Vero has convinced me I should stop dodging the issue and confront Anton. There’s no point in delaying the inevitable, whatever it may be, she said.

  As soon as I get onto the M2, my phone rings. I fumble with my headphones, but manage to answer it before it goes to voicemail. It’s Heather, asking when she could send someone over with the next box of toys to be photographed.

  ‘I’ll pop round tonight before you close to pick up the next batch. I should’ve done it earlier but Anton, my boyfriend, is back and I got a bit distracted . . .’

  ‘No worries, tonight is perfect. It’s good you have your man back. I thought I saw you two on my spycam last night. You must bring him over next Saturday for drinks. We’re doing a couples’ evening, Bubbles and Browse.’ I thank her for the invitation and disconnect.

  She saw us last night on her CCTV? Last night I was at Vero’s. So unless she was mistaken . . . No, he wouldn’t dare bring his floozie to my loft. I notice I’m doing ninety and take my foot off the accelerator. No, that’s impossible. Heather probably mistook someone else for us, or saw us together in the morning and got her times mixed up. There must be an innocent explanation for this. My phone rings again. It’s Sophie and I let it go to voicemail. I know I’d have to tell her about Anton and I simply have no energy to get worked up about it again. Take it easy, said Vero when I was leaving, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.

  My resolve lasts as far as the Blackwall Tunnel. As I hit the East London traffic on the other side of it, my nerves begin to jangle. Why is this happening to me? The Violinist picture, the Serpens sabotage and the Fugitives, and now Anton’s screwing around. What on earth is going on? I haven’t had any job offers apart from the sex toys gig and it’s beginning to worry me too. It seems that every part of my life has been infected with a malicious virus. I feel I’m slipping into a full-blown panic. I leave my car on a meter off Roman Road and trot to Victoria Park, hoping I won’t bump into Sophie and Marcus. I’m sure I’ll need Sophie’s shoulder to cry on later, but at the moment I have to deal with my shit on my own. I head straight for the Pavilion cafe but it’s too crowded, buzzing with mums and kids. Clutching my takeaway cup, I find a secluded bench away from all the noise and sip my latte, planning my next move. Being in the park helps, and by the time I finish my coffee a half-baked plan is beginning to form in my head and I feel calmer.

  I even manage to remain calm when I get back to the car and see that someone has scratched it. A long gash of scraped paint along the driver’s side door and the front-wheel panel. Well, that’s driving in London for you. I’ll have to take it to my car mechanic, Elvis (yes, he’s alive and he’s Croatian). He’ll probably say it’s not worth fixing. Strangely, the fact that someone’s keyed my car has a cathartic effect on my mood. I have probably subconsciously decided that the car damage is the ultimate bad news for today, and as it’s already happened, there’s no point in continuing to feel anxious.

  He’s in and he’s surprised to see me.

  ‘Hey, I thought you were staying with your aunt a bit longer. How is she?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s made of sturdy stuff, Aunt Vero. So I decided to come back early and spend some quality time with you.’ I drop my bag on the floor.

  ‘That’s great, babe.’ It doesn’t sound convincing.

  He hasn’t moved from his computer, so I walk over to him and push the chair round so he’s facing me. I straddle him, put my arms round his neck and kiss him hard on the lips. As expected, he responds immediately, kissing me back. He is a good kisser and I’m getting turned on, even though that’s not part of the plan. I can also feel his arousal, which is something I’ve been counting on. I place the palms of my hands on his chest and push him away gently, interrupting our kiss.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, maybe we could go away for a few days somewhere nice . . . to celebrate you being back?’

  He grunts amicably because he doesn’t want this to stop.

  ‘How about Spain? Some nice hotel in Madrid . . . perhaps this one?’

  I reach to the back pocket of my jeans and pull out his hotel bill. I slap it on his chest. As I get up from his lap, I let my knee graze his crotch. Not too hard but enough for him to wince in pain.

  ‘What’s this?’ He looks at the bill and I swear I can see him lose colour under his tan.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me what it is.’ I’m controlling my anger well, sounding cool and matter-of-fact.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ He’s up on his feet, reaching for my
hand, but I move back. ‘It’s not what you think. I can explain.’

  ‘Please do.’

  I turn my back to him, go to the kitchen counter and switch the kettle on. Let’s deal with the whole thing as civilized people would do, over a cup of tea.

  ‘Babe, it’s nothing . . . It meant nothing . . .’

  He is smart enough not to deny it.

  ‘It was a really stupid thing to do . . .’ His French accent gets more pronounced when he’s nervous.

  ‘You want me to believe it was nothing?’

  ‘It wasn’t even a fling! It was just . . . un coup d’un soir!’

  The kettle has boiled but I don’t fancy tea any more.

  ‘For a one-night stand it lasted a long time.’ I’m desperately trying to keep my conversational tone up. ‘Two nights? Were there any interruptions or did you fuck her non-stop for forty-eight hours?’

  ‘Babe, please, stop.’ Anton pulls me towards him but I push him away.

  ‘You cheated on me! And you lied to me!’ My composure is slipping but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ He puts his arms round me and holds me tightly.

  ‘Let me go!’ I struggle to free myself but he’s stronger. I can feel his muscles tensing up as he locks me in his embrace. Bloody hell, and he dares to have a hard-on! Fuming, I reach behind with my free arm and grab the first thing off the kitchen counter that comes to hand. With all my strength, I whack him with it on the side of his head. He yelps and releases me. I drop my weapon and it clatters onto the floor. I move away from Anton, who is kneeling down, holding his head in his hands. The object on the floor keeps moving, rattling on the kitchen tiles. It’s a big, black, vibrating dildo. My anger gone, I keep watching it doing its strange dance on the floor. I’d find it funny if I didn’t feel like crying.

  Anton is by the sink, a paper towel by the side of his face. It looks like my blow has managed to split the skin just below his eyebrow. He is actually bleeding. I pick up the dancing dildo, turn it off and put it back on the kitchen counter. I wonder what it was doing there in the first place. I switch the kettle on again, wait for it to boil and make two mugs of tea, a milky one for me and a black, sweet one for Anton. I carry the mugs to the table.