The Woman At The Door

by Daniel Hurst

  They might seem unbreakable, but I can cause them to crack.

  There is no doubt that there is a crack in their relationship now. How big that crack is remains to be seen, but like any good craftsman with his trusty tool, I will keep chipping away until I break through and get what I need.

  I will turn those cracks into deep fissures.

  I had no idea which one of the pair would answer the door when I knocked on it this evening, but I was prepared for either eventuality. If it had been Sam, I had another script to say, and it would have been very different to the one I ended up using on Rebecca. But I’m glad it was her that I spoke to.

  I find this always works best when it’s the wife who answers the door.

  Reaching my vehicle, I make a quick check behind me to make sure that I haven’t been followed before opening the door and getting in behind the wheel. Taking off my heels, I replace them with the trainers that I had waiting for me on the passenger seat, and my aching feet thank me for the change. I didn’t have to wear heels for the visit tonight, but I feel that they are more effective for what I was aiming to do. Rebecca would have been intimidated by me no matter what I was wearing after what I just said to her, but heels will have more impact than trainers, that’s for sure.

  I want her to think that I’m a maneater, not a marathon runner.

  With my comfy trainers back on, I’m in a better state to drive, so I start the engine and put my car into motion. It’s a short drive back to where I am staying tonight, and I’m already looking forward to getting changed and having a warm shower before relaxing on the bed and finding something good to watch on the TV. But I’ll find it hard to concentrate on anything else this evening other than Rebecca and Sam and what they are saying about me right now.

  Sam will be saying that I was lying but isn’t that what every man would say if their wife thought they had been cheating? He will also be saying that he has no idea who I am. Again, what else could he say? He could hardly admit to anything that might see him kicked out of the house, could he?

  Rebecca will be saying that I seemed assured and sincere when I spoke, or at least I hope she will be because I did try my best to get across how seriously I took this whole situation. I didn’t smile, or frown, or laugh. I just told her what she needed to hear and left her to decide what to do next.

  She might hate me. She might believe me. Or she might be taking Sam’s side.

  But one thing is for sure.

  She won’t be able to forget me.

  That’s the main thing. That’s all that tonight was really about. Like that first blow from the chisel on the stone pillar. It won’t bring the whole thing down. But it is a start. It will let the pillar know that it is in for a war, and that’s what Rebecca and Sam are in for now.

  A war.

  Tonight was just the opening battle, and I won that.

  I have no doubt that I am going to win the war too.

  Why wouldn’t I?

  I haven’t lost one yet.

  6

  REBECCA

  What was I saying about Saturday nights being the best nights of the week? This one has been terrible, easily the worst night of my marriage so far, but as bad as it’s been, it’s not over yet. That’s because I can’t go to sleep until I have a better understanding of what happened here a couple of hours ago with that woman at the door.

  I’m in bed, but I’m sitting up and waiting for Sam to finish what he is doing in the bathroom so that we can talk. We’ve had a little break from analysing the upsetting incident, although only verbally. Mentally, the questions are still running amok in my head, and I imagine they will be for quite some time.

  There wasn’t much I could do to forget about it. Clearing away the dirty dishes after the takeaway didn’t help. Nor was I in the mood to continue watching the film, which meant we turned the television off; that paused movie now likely to go unfinished forever because watching the rest of it at a later date will only remind me of this night again. I’ve tried browsing social media because that’s usually good for a distraction, but it only ended up making me feel worse, as social media has a tendency to do. That’s because I saw plenty of photos and statuses from married friends, many of whom were out for a meal tonight or on holiday somewhere having a great time, looking like they were very much in love without a care in the world. Normally, I would have been liking all those photos and adding a few positive comments beneath them, but not tonight. All those status updates did tonight were remind me that my relationship is far from perfect.

  Unlike those happy people online, I do have a care in the world.

  I hear the toilet flush in the bathroom and prepare myself for Sam’s arrival back into the bedroom, where we will once again pick up the conversation and try to get to the bottom of what went on here tonight. As I decided earlier, I believe my husband and will continue to trust him despite what has happened. I have to do so because it’s his word over the word of a complete stranger who offered no evidence to back up her claims, so my husband’s word carries far more weight.

  Sam has already brought up the possibility of it being somebody who was playing a prank. Perhaps the woman had enjoyed one too many drinks today and decided to have a little ‘fun’ on her way home. Maybe a friend dared her to do it, and she might have been hidden out of sight somewhere watching on and getting a good kick out of it. That is one of several possibilities, and it’s the one that I would like to be the truth, although it doesn’t explain how the woman knew our names. If it’s a prank, I can handle it because it means that my husband has not strayed and that he is still the loyal and loving man whom I married. But the problem if it is a prank is that the perpetrator of it is hardly likely to come back again and let me know that was the case. Therefore, I’ll never totally be sure.

  There will always be a doubt at the back of my mind.

  The toilet door unlocks, and I watch the bedroom doorway for Sam to appear in it. When he does, he has something else to say to me to presumably try and put my mind at ease.

  ‘Look, I know this has been a horrible night, but the more I think about it, the more it has to be a prank. The problem is, that would mean it was set up by somebody who knew both of our names, and I’m not sure who would want to do that to us.’

  I shake my head, mainly because I have no idea of who that could be either but also because I still can’t believe this has happened. If it is some kind of a joke, it’s a sick one. Who has the right to go around and potentially blow up people’s marriages just for a cheap thrill? The initial anger I had for my husband is now directed at the person or persons who had the idea to do this, and I wish I could get a hold of that damn woman and give her a slap for coming to my door and telling lies. But I can’t. She walked away, and I was too stunned to go after her. If only I had chased her down the street, maybe I could have found out what all of this was about. Instead, I’m left sitting here in my bed, looking at my husband with a slightly different perspective.

  No matter how much I tell myself that I trust him and believe his side of the story, which is that there is no story, there is still that little voice telling me that the woman was speaking the truth and she was trying to help me by revealing the man I am really married to. But I don’t want to believe that, so I won’t. I’m an adult, and I can believe what I want.

  Therefore, I believe that my husband has been, is and always will be faithful to me.

  ‘I really wish you’d let me answer the door,’ Sam says as he sits on his side of the bed and pulls off his socks. ‘If only I’d have seen her.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go to sleep,’ I say, shuffling down in the bed until my head is on the pillow. But if only it was that easy. I’m going to be wide awake all night, and I know it.

  I’m going to be thinking about that woman and my husband together.

  As if reading my mind, Sam leans over and gives me a kiss on the head before telling me to try and not think about it anymore. I give him a weak smi
le before nodding my head and rolling over so that my back is turned to him. I’m not being purposefully distant. I just need to think logically, and I can’t do that by looking at him because there is too much emotion there.

  The bed shakes as Sam joins me under the duvet, and there is a little rummaging on his side before the bedside lamp goes off and we are plunged into darkness. I feel his arm go around my waist, a move that would normally make me smile and feel incredibly loved, but tonight, it makes me feel sick.

  That’s because it’s almost a reminder of what I stand to lose if this turns out to be true.

  I couldn’t stay with him if he has cheated on me. I could try, but it wouldn’t work. I know what I’m like, and I’d never be able to get that thought of the other woman out of my head. The thing is, Sam knows this because I’ve told him as much before. Not in a serious or firm way, just when we have been joking around about that kind of thing. But it always ends with Sam saying the same thing. He tells me that he would never be unfaithful because he saw what his father did to his mother and how much pain it caused. That always added an extra buffer to the trust I had for my husband as if his experiences meant there was even less of a chance he would do anything. But as I lie here now in the dark, the paranoid thoughts begin to come, as they have a nasty habit of doing when all is quiet at the end of the day. They are the thoughts that say if Sam’s old man could cheat, so could he. Maybe it’s in the genes.

  Like father, like son.

  I shake my head as if to send the horrible thoughts scurrying back to whichever dark hole they came out of, and to make sure the thoughts don’t return, I roll over and face my husband. Even though we can’t see each other in this light, I know our faces are only a few inches apart. I can feel his breath on my cheeks, and while sometimes that is annoying when I’m trying to sleep, tonight I tell myself that it is reassuring.

  It’s my bed he is in. Not hers.

  He is here with me. He is mine.

  He is a good man. I have nothing to worry about.

  Nothing at all.

  7

  SAM

  I am a good man. I don’t know what I did to deserve a woman coming to my house and making false accusations, but I can rest easy in the end because my conscience is clear. That must have been how I was able to fall asleep relatively quickly last night. Now it’s morning, and the sunlight streaming through the curtains over the window makes everything seem much better than it did a few hours ago when everything was dark, including my wife’s mood.

  I usually hate that so much light comes through our bedroom curtains because it wakes me up on sunny mornings, and I have been meaning to get a black-out blind to put over the window. But like many things in my life, including charity work and skiing holidays, I never seem to get around to doing it. That could be why I have woken up now. It’s too bright here.

  Or maybe it’s just because I have that mysterious woman on my mind again.

  Just before I drifted off to sleep, I had an idea, and it’s one that I am going to explore today. It was as I was cursing my bad luck for not knowing what this woman looked like when I remembered that our neighbour, Steve, has a camera on his driveway. That means it is possible that it captured footage of the woman arriving and leaving my house last night, and if so, there is potentially a way for me to see what she looks like and see if I can place her from anywhere. I’ll have to ask Steve, of course, but I can do that. But I will have to make up a cover story because I can hardly tell him the truth, which is that I’m trying to find the woman who accused me of cheating on my wife. I’m not sure that would go down well. It definitely wouldn’t go down well if Steve’s wife got wind of it. I’ll just have to make up something about someone playing pranks at our door last night and a need to check if any kids were hanging around. He’ll buy that.

  I’m eager to get up and get on with my plan, but Rebecca is still asleep, and I don’t want to disturb her, so I lie still and occupy myself with my mobile phone. That’s when I have the idea of scrolling through my friends online and making a shortlist of all the blonde women I have on there. I could show them to my wife to see if she identifies any of them as the woman at the door last night. It’s highly unlikely that she would. These people are supposed to be friends of mine, not foes, but it might be worth a shot, and at least it will show her that I am serious about trying to get to the bottom of this. I think the worst thing I could do when it comes to this situation is to try and sweep it under the rug because that might look suspicious. Instead, I’m going to tackle it head-on and hopefully get to the bottom of it.

  If somebody was playing a game with us then they are going to wish that they hadn’t.

  Tapping my thumb on the app that I do all my social networking on, I go to my list of friends and start scrolling, looking out for any and all blondes on there. I feel like I’m some seedy guy hunting around for a specific type of woman on a seedy website, but my intentions are pure.

  I just want to know who that bloody woman was at the door.

  It doesn’t take long for me to find a few blondes, and I screenshot their images for later use. It seems silly to do this because many of these women are either good friends or have been in my real-world life for years, but I can’t discriminate. I don’t have much to go off other than hair colour, so that is what I will work on.

  After ten minutes of scrolling and screenshotting, I’m a little surprised at how many blonde women I have on my friends list. It’s not exactly a harem, but there’s a few. Five more minutes go by before I reach the bottom of the list and feel satisfied that I have done all I can there. I will wait for Rebecca to wake up and then show her the images if she wants to see them, and perhaps we get lucky and find the culprit. Or maybe it would be unlucky because if the woman is on my friends list, she is no longer a friend of mine.

  Returning my phone to the bedside table, I long to stand up and stretch out, but Rebecca seems so peaceful beside me that I don’t want to cause her to stir. I’m just glad she is sleeping because I had been worried that she would be up all night thinking about all sorts of things regarding that damn woman. But the gentle sounds of her soft snoring let me know that she must have enough peace of mind to get some rest, and I’m happy for her to stay that way for as long as possible. Besides, it’s Sunday morning, and if a person can’t have a lie-in on a Sunday morning, when can they?

  I’ve always liked Sundays, sometimes more than Saturdays. Some people don’t like them because it’s the day before another working week begins, but that doesn’t bother me. Unlike most people, I don’t hate my job and spend half the weekend dreading going back to it. I know Rebecca dislikes Sunday nights with a passion and is very much a Saturday girl, but I’m a Sunday guy all the way. Newspapers in the morning, a good roast dinner in a pub in the afternoon, and an entertaining couple of episodes of a British boxset in the evening. It’s hard to beat that.

  Let’s just hope today goes better than yesterday.

  It’s a couple of minutes later when I feel Rebecca moving beside me in the bed, and I look over to see her opening her eyes and squinting in the bright light penetrating that pathetic excuse for a curtain.

  Maybe today will be the day when I go and buy that black-out blind.

  Or maybe not.

  As Rebecca’s eyesight adjusts, I smile at her, and she gives me a smile back, although it’s not as warm as it usually is. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it. She’s just woken up, after all. I need to give her a chance. But to make sure that things really are still okay between us, I reach out an arm and put it over her waist, letting her know that she is to snuggle in closer to me, and she takes the invitation, which is a good sign. As we kiss, I feel like everything is okay, and I’m almost tempted not to bring up the screenshots on my phone for her to look at. But then she speaks, and it lets me know that the awkward situation last night is still very much on her mind.

  ‘I dreamt about giving that woman a slap,’ she says, and I laugh when I realise t
hat she is joking.

  ‘I wish I’d seen her so I could visualise that too. She definitely deserves it.’

  ‘I’m not sure that a man beating up a woman is okay, even in a dream,’ Rebecca replies, and she might have a point.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say before reaching over and picking up my phone from the bedside table.

  ‘I’ve had a couple of ideas while you were sleeping about possibly figuring out who this woman might be,’ I say before running her through my two ideas which consist of the screenshots and asking Steve for a look at his camera footage.

  She tells me that they’re both worth a shot, so I give her my phone, and she starts looking at the images.

  I let her go through them in silence so as not to distract her, but it seems we have no luck.

  ‘No, it’s not any of them,’ she tells me after a couple of minutes, and I feel disappointed, although this was hardly a fool-proof plan.

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a try,’ I say, taking back my phone. ‘I’ll get dressed and call around at Steve’s later then.’

  ‘Can I come?’ she asks me, and I’m a little surprised that she wants to considering that I know she doesn’t like Steve, or rather, she doesn’t like his attitude towards women. It’s not that Steve is a total chauvinist, but he has made some dodgy remarks over the years about the fairer sex, whether it’s been at neighbourhood barbecues or sometimes just when we pass on our driveways. But if Rebecca wants to come with me then I guess she can.

  ‘Sure,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Let’s go do some detective work.’

  8

  REBECCA

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and fiddle with the neckline on my blouse as Sam and I wait for Steve or his wife to come and answer the front door. I’m not sure why I feel nervous about going into this house, but it might have something to do with the fact that I know Steve can be a bit of a male chauvinist, so I guess I feel like he is going to judge me and my appearance as soon as he sees me. But I shouldn’t care what he thinks. If he has a problem with women then it is his problem, not mine.