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“Think I’m coming down with something!”
He launches off the bed and dashes for the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it.
Great!
I reach for his abandoned phone and notice his unclean fingers have left a bit of a trace on his phone screen.
I try a couple of combinations of codes while estimating where his fingers often touch the screen, and before I know it, I’m in.
Jesus, I hear him through the door, exploding with diarrhoea. “Sorry, sorry!” he yells. “It must’ve been something at lunch!”
If I had to guess, it’s nerves at potentially being found out, and at having to eat several meals a day to appease all his various women—then, also, no doubt—that high metabolism of his from having so much bloody sex all the time!
I’m scrolling as fast as I can through his phone, but something tells me he will be in there a while, and part of that might be embarrassment as he gets to grips with what I’ve heard through the door.
There are so many WhatsApp messages and all of his women have codenames. We’ve got Wifey, Big Tits, Fat Fanny, Tight Fanny, Anytime Fanny, Legs… the list goes on. When I find myself in his list, I’m just Mirabelle.
Oh, so I get called Mirabelle. Really?
Most of the messages are full of seedy sex talk, while the messages with Wifey are mostly,Did u put the bins out?orCan u grab milk on the way home?and then,I have that appt 2mo and u need to be with me. I notice he only ever replies with one-word answers to his wife. Some of his messages to other women are lengthy and littered with foul language.
If I had to guess his nickname for Stacie, I reckon it’s Butt ‘n’ Teeth. His messages to her stopped ages ago, so he must have ended it around that time… but she never figured it out. Until now. Scrolling quickly, I see she begged him not to end it, but he seems to have been cold and clinical about it.
I guess the other day when she saw that ring on his finger, she must’ve realised nobody gets married a few months later, not just like that. Not usually. He’d been doing at least two women at once. He’d had another one on the boil already before her.
I’ve seen enough and set his phone back down where he left it. The bathroom has gone quiet so I leave the room, head into the kitchen to scrape the plates and tidy up a bit. The dishwasher is set to run its program and my wineglass is refilled when I emerge into the bedroom and find him clutching his guts as he sits on the edge of the bed, head bowed.
“What did you read on my phone?” he demands weakly.
I almost feel sorry for him. “Don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play daft. You closed all the tabs.”
Damn it, Mira.
Although, maybe this is for the best.
I place my own phone down on top of a tall chest of drawers, then take a seat on the ottoman at the foot of the bed.
Sipping, I watch him carefully as he begins to ask, “Was it Stacie, or…?”
“Hmm. Now let me see. Was it her, or… was it Boxing Day in Buckinghamshire?”
He turns his head and truly appears mortified. “Fuck.”
I’m not going to dignify his revolting naming system by saying out loud who in the office I think he’s screwed over the years, but I’m pretty sure even long-married Daisie can be included in that roll call of women who’ve fallen foul of his good looks and talented tongue.
“Why do you do it?” I ask.
“Because I can.” He shrugs, then his eyes darken. “But I actually do like you. You’re different.”
“Don’t flatter me. I’m immune.”
“It got worse over the holiday. All I could think about was you.”
I’m struck by how he actually does seem in pain at the thought of wanting and needing me, and yet, he still went and married someone else.
“She’s pregnant,” I state. “Does Chrissy know that?”
