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Short Story
by
Richard Hollins
THE SLIGHTEST BETRAYAL
The phone creaked in his hand. Martin relaxed his grip and pressed the handset less tightly to his ear. With more time, he would have mapped out his approach, shopped around, at least composed an opening speech for this call. His wife's imminent return had wrong-footed him. In less than seventeen hours, Audrey and his children would be home.
Just as he was about to abandon hope, the woman picked up. There was a brief delay before she said, "Hello," and her breath echoed in the mouthpiece, loud and sleep-dazed. It was five pm.
"Hello?" she said. This time it was more interrogative. As Martin started to speak, he had no firm idea how far he would go.
"Hi," he said. "Could you tell me a little about yourself? What you look like? How old you are?"
"Sure," she said. She was brighter now, businesslike. Her voice was plummy, like a second-rate American actor straining for an English accent. "I'm twenty-three," she said, "five six, slim but curvy, and a genuine blonde." Martin visualized her mouth's exaggerated shapes as she formed the words; from time to time, a south London dissonance broke through. Even so, her apparent intelligence surprised him.
"You sound nice," Martin said. He adjusted what this woman had told him - five years on her age, two inches off her height, the exact volume and placement of her body fat - and decided she was acceptable. He hoped her blondeness was not too obviously fake. "What's your availability like?" he said. "Tonight?"
There was a pause. "I can fit you in around nine," she said. "Where?"
From his window, Martin could see a stream of descending planes. He had a clear mental picture of this woman's place, an anonymous, pebble-dashed thirties semi, split into two apartments. Between here and Heathrow were street after street of these houses. Outside the flat he imagined abandoned cars, and inside, a faded gold velour sofa, on a carpet with ancient, inexplicable stains. Once, Martin had attributed a perverse glamour to these estates; they were authentic in a way his own upbringing was not. Now, he would not pretend to feel safe there. "Can you come here?" he said, and gave her the address. Martin was no fool: he would watch her every second she was in the house.
"That's fine," she said. Then almost as an afterthought, she added, "Cash only. And with a condom. No exceptions."
"Of course," Martin said, though he felt vaguely let down. Not by her demands - he expected nothing less - but by the suddenness of her puncturing their air of pretence. "Can I ask your name?" he said.
"DeeAnne," she replied.
"Tonight, then, DeeAnne," he said, and he put down the receiver.
The house around him was silent, except for the fridge and the clock counting seconds in the dining room. . Martin closed his eyes and rested his index fingers on his lips, hands together as if praying.
The call pleased him. His underarms were damp and cold but he had carried it through and not laughed at her name. DeeAnne! He doubted there was a woman in England called that. It reminded him of the topless models in the tabloids - Rebekkah from Essex, Linnzi from Manchester - teenagers hoping for something better, their ordinariness exposed by implausible spellings. Martin understood that these working girls had to disguise themselves. Four newsagents traded on the main street's half-mile, and in each of their windows, he had found the same three handwritten cards. He had rejected the Genuinely Friendly Lady, seeing her as fiftyish, motherly. He had declined the VIP Escort, with her grainy photocopy in stockings and underwear, as too open to the deal's true nature. In any case, he doubted the picture's provenance. That left the last card. Three things drew him to Luxury Discreet Massage: the notion, however spurious, that the service was deluxe; the correct spelling of discreet, suggesting the author knew its meaning; and the telephone number, the only one not a mobile. Somehow, this grounding in the physical world seemed safer. That was the number Martin had dialed when he got home.
At eight pm, he showered. It took twice as long as usual. He dried himself and slapped talc on the places he tended to sweat. A smattering of white powder outlined his curled-in toes on the bathroom floor. As he reached for his underwear, the phone rang. He took the call in the bedroom. He had not heard from Audrey in forty-two days; now she had phoned twice in four hours.
"There, are things," she said, "that I need you to know." And she talked while he stood there, naked and chilled in the October evening. She was still coming back, that hadn't changed. But if it was going to work, they had to be honest. "Don't get upset," she said. "Let's not get emotional. But your personality flaws just drive me insane. Lord knows, I've said this before, but the fear in you! You're too scared to leave that bloodsucking job, too scared to tell your mother to screw herself, too scared - my God - to take a holiday in France. My blood pressure is off the scale. And before you say anything, I never claimed to be perfect. I admit that I can do better.
"At the very least," she said, "we should try for the kids. They need two parents. And, for what it's worth, I love you. Every time I roll over in bed and you're not there, it hurts."
"It's been hard for me, too," Martin said, "without all of you."
"Can you change?" she said. "For me? For us?"
"I'm trying right now," he replied. And he was. Martin was being less timid and tackling life head on. And although Audrey could never know about this evening, it was sufficient that he did. He would hold it inside himself, a pearl soothing away Audrey's irritating anger. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and began to dress.
Audrey talked on. While she did, Martin thought about his other reason for phoning DeeAnne.
At nine pm, the doorbell rang.
"I have to go," Martin said. "My pizza's here. I can't wait to see you three tomorrow."
Audrey was silent. Then she said, "Are we going to be okay? Is this the right thing?"
"Of course," Martin said, "of course. I love you." Then, he hung up.
DeeAnne was not quite what he had envisaged. Her height and body were as she had claimed, and while her blade-like, slightly twisted nose left her just short of pretty, she was pleasant enough. Her hair, though, was a harsh straw yellow. The short, swept back style suggested a Hollywood star a few years before, though Martin could not remember her name. Several chemically destroyed strands leapt at bizarre angles from DeeAnne's head.
"Come in," Martin said, "please." He stepped aside and allowed DeeAnne to pass. He closed the door, then turned to face her. She smiled, displaying her gums and haphazard teeth no bigger than Tic Tacs.
"Where do you want me?" she said.
"Upstairs," Martin replied. "First door on the right." He swallowed, then coughed, failing to shift a sudden dryness in his throat. With a wave of his hand, he indicated that DeeAnne should lead the way. Her clothes - a pinstriped trouser suit and snug white t-shirt - fitted around and into her curves. Their cut was passable; their effect was brisk and professional. Her strappy black shoes had three-inch heels, tapering to a metal tip. Martin had never understood the allure of such footwear, but he had to acknowledge that she knew how to walk in them. As she climbed the stairs, DeeAnne's buttocks moved like bearings in oil, a hint of exaggeration in their lateral shift. Martin wondered why Audrey disdained these sexual tricks; women who used them appreciated their worth. DeeAnne reached the top of the stairs and Martin directed her into the bedroom. She stood by the bed, waiting for his next move. Martin yanked the curtains shut. Then he switched on the overhead light and the lamp on Audrey's side of the bed.
"Would you like me to undress?" she said. Martin nodded. DeeAnne bent and fiddled with her straps, kicking off the right shoe, then the left. Then, staring into the middle distance, she stripped. She could have been preparing for a shower after a rough day at work. But it had been such a long time since Martin had seen another woman naked, that the artlessness of DeeAnne's disrobing failed to perturb him. The fact of it was enough.
When Audrey first left, Martin had expected her back in a week. But as the house's silence closed in, he began to doubt she would return. Her mother protected her, taking her in, screening her calls, refusing Martin's entreaties. Twice he spoke to Tabitha, who was too miserable to assess her mummy's state of mind. The third Saturday, Martin planned an offensive on Audrey's bolthole. He took the train to Dorset. But in a taxi on the outskirts of Lyme Regis, unable to confront the massed female righteousness allied against him, he lost his nerve. On the trek back to Waterloo, the idea crept in that his marriage was through. And on the service out to his southwestern suburb, the train full of drunks and an air of low menace, a second idea arrived: his next sexual experience would be with someone new. This notion took root. The only problem was finding an available woman. Pubs and clubs did not suit him, and the few women he saw - strolling by the Thames on Sundays or perched on high stools in coffee shops - had an impregnable aura of self-sufficiency or damage. Anticipation became Martin's sole pleasure. Who would it be? What would she look like? How would she smell, feel, taste? He explored the permutations in his mind. He thought about this woman and how they would find each other. So when Audrey did call, beneath Martin's relief was unqualified fury: this, too, she was tugging from his grasp.
He had not allowed that to happen.
Martin examined DeeAnne, the way he might an ambiguous sculpture with no obvious way in. She stood there as if waiting for a bus, confident of her physique. Martin could not remember the last time Audrey had let him admire her.
He thought of his wife. He thought of Tabitha and Toby. He thought of how he had felt when he knew they were coming home. He told himself this was a small thing, the slightest betrayal.
"How would you like me?" DeeAnne said. And though Martin knew instinctively what she should do next, he was still amazed when the words came out of his mouth. In his experience, there was nothing harder than asking for what you desired.
"On the bed," he said, "please. On your hands and knees."
"That," DeeAnne said, "costs extra."
Martin counted out twenties until DeeAnne nodded. Then he overturned the wastebasket and sat on it, opposite the bed.
DeeAnne fished a condom from her bag and dropped it on the bed. Then she arranged herself. Martin suggested she put her weight on her elbows. From directly behind, he could not see her head. The woman on the bed could be anyone: a mistress, a girlfriend from Martin's pre-Audrey days, even his wife, if he squinted.
Martin leaned forward. He slipped from his seat and knelt at the bed's foot. It was incredible, he thought, what was available if you reached out and took.
"What are you doing?" DeeAnne said. The pillows muffled her voice. She lifted her head.
"Get down," Martin said. "Don't move."
DeeAnne hesitated, then pressed her face into the pillows. Martin saw her breathing accelerate. He held his breath, then exhaled slowly through his nose. The condom sat in front of him. He moved his hand towards it and ran his finger along the rough-edged square packet. He gripped one corner of the packet in his teeth and ripped it open. A bitter drop of lubricant hit his tongue. He ran the taste round his mouth, as he regarded the woman with her face buried in his wife's pillows, on the bedding his wife had chosen, in the room his wife had decorated.
"What are you doing?" DeeAnne said.
The pillows did not disguise the bright edge of concern in her voice. Martin noted the tremor in her thighs, as the bitterness filled his mouth completely. He turned away from DeeAnne and slumped back on the carpet.
"Thank you," he said. "That's enough."
DeeAnne bounced from the bed and crouched to retrieve her clothes from the floor. She tugged on her underwear; while her t-shirt was still half way over her head, she began edging to the door.
Martin handed over an extra five twenties.
"I'm sorry," he said, "if I scared you." DeeAnne snatched up the money. But she did not glance at him as she strode down the stairs and across the hall to the front door. She slammed the door behind her.
* * *
From the living room window, Martin watched his wife parking the car in the street. She maneuvered the vehicle in small, precise increments, though she had plenty of space. He opened the front door. Tabitha was already out of the car and had her arms spread wide as she ran down the path, childish joy on her face.
"Daddy!" she said, and she wrapped herself round him. Her foalish limbs dug into his sides and Martin cupped her face in his palms.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said. "I missed you. Did you miss me?"
Tabitha released him and took a step back.
"I hated it at Grandma's," she said.
"I know what you mean," Martin replied. He glanced up and saw his wife at the gate. Toby, their three year-old, was slung on her hip. The boy seemed bemused.
"Come on you two," Audrey said. "Grandma does her best." Her tone was mock serious but she was smiling with one side of her face.
"Hi," Martin said.
Audrey stepped up to him and Martin took Toby from her. He hugged his son and smelled his hair. Then he lowered Toby to the ground. Martin and Audrey embraced. Then they kissed, and the contented noise she made at the back of her throat told Martin that they were all right. He was glad that nothing had happened. He was the world's worst liar, the most inept deceiver. Audrey would have pried it out of him in five seconds flat.
They let go.
The children had already entered the house and Audrey looked past Martin into the hallway. Her eyes narrowed. Then she said, "Darling, what on earth have you done to the floor?"
"Where?" Martin said. He turned round and saw the floor's glossy maple surface, the crescent dent where he had dropped a coffee mug when the floor was one week old, and the six-foot groove where Tabitha had dragged a box of old baby toys. And he saw something he had not previously noticed, to do with the angle at which the light hit the floor and the damage's newness: punched into the maple were two distinct trails of half-moons. One trail meandered from the door to the hall's edge, then led straight to the stairs. The second ran from the stairs to the door, the impressions in the wood like craters.
"Oh," Martin said. "That." There were words, somewhere, that would extract him from this mess. He did not know what they were. He looked at his wife, an enquiring smile turning up the corner of her mouth, and began to speak.
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