I heard the noise of the party from across the park. I was just out walking, trying to unwind after a nightmare week and at a loose end on a Saturday night, just passing through the area between jobs, and on my own. The sounds of seventies music wafted on the warm breeze and I could see cabs dispatching partygoers in fancy dress. I had nothing better to do. Sometimes it just starts like that, and then serendipity takes you along for the ride.
Fancy dress is hard if you're a girl, seventies in particular. Fluro party dresses, micro-skirts, white knee high boots, outrageous wigs, it's all quite an affair. For men, it's a lot easier: a coloured shirt, outrageous shades, and a dubious hairstyle. I had the raw materials in the car in my suitcase: I'm not a stranger to these sorts of things.
When you find a party of a certain size, you're pretty much guaranteed that no-one knows everyone and with the appropriate clothing you can blend in and mingle without too many questions asked. Crashing a party is a risky business, but I like the challenge. I've been told that my brain works differently to other people, though I like to think of that as a good thing, rather than being somewhere on some spectrum. Anyway, I had nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
I got changed quickly, keeping the jeans but slipping on some dress shoes and running styling wax through my hair into a particularly seventies side parting. The purple shirt was creased but would probably do. By the time we were dancing, no-one would care. I checked my look in the car wing mirror and slipped on some funky shades. I was unrecognisable.
The steady stream of arrivals began to slacken off around eight o'clock and I could hear the party really pumping. I parked the car across the park and strolled up to the front of the house, tail-gating a couple dressed in matching white his'n'hers jumpsuits. Inside, it was already a riot, the entire back of the house packed with bodies and the huge bi-fold doors opened onto the garden where more people were mingling. I spotted helium balloons by the drinks table: a four and a zero. Okay, a fortieth birthday. That fitted with the crowd: over a hundred people, all in their thirties and forties, wives dressed to impress in short skirts and platform heels, husbands with shirts unbuttoned to mid-chest and sporting hippie hair. This would be fun.
The secret to crashing this kind of party is to work out very quickly who to avoid: generally, the host and his or her spouse. I struck up a few conversations with guys standing around the edges of the crowd, asking them who they knew and how they fitted in. Within about twenty minutes, I realised that I'd hit the jackpot: the birthday boy was a pilot for a well-known airline and over half of the people here were either pilots or crew themselves. They clearly knew how to party, and there was no chance that everyone would know each other.
Armed with enough background information, I got a drink from the bar and began to study the crowd. A pretty blonde woman in her thirties was talking to a much taller man, having to tilt her head back to speak into his ear. She was wearing a shocking pink blouse over a tight, white mini-skirt that showed off her pert, shapely bottom. The outfit was completed by a pair of white patent-leather boots that came all the way up to her knees, showing off her toned legs in shiny hose, overlaid with beige fishnets. Her hand brushed her hair from her face as she talked and I was drawn to a small scar on her jawline just below her ear. I realised I was staring and looked away.
Around the room, I began to pick out other women dressed the same: white knee-length boots but with the same arrangement of fishnets over sleek, shiny nylon. It seemed odd, and as I worked my way through the crowd I began to sense that there was something else at play here. Like I said, my brain works a little differently.
Some of the women were clearly throwing themselves into the party, while a few of the others were more reserved, nursing glasses of white wine as they stood next to men who I assumed were their husbands. One woman in particular seemed especially nervous. Her husband was deep in conversation with another man while a strikingly-beautiful, taller woman with straight blonde hair and long, supple legs was standing next to them, scanning the room in the same way that I was. I noticed that both women wore the same white boots and fishnet hosiery. The second woman tapped her husband on the shoulder and whispered into his ear. I was surprised when she downed the rest of her wine in one go and made her way to a bar table against a wall.
The table was otherwise empty and acting on intuition I angled through the crowd in the same direction. I was working out how I was going to open a conversation with her when I saw another man separate from the crowd and approach her. I hung around nearby, not too close but within earshot.
"Nice fishnets," the man said.
It seemed a strange opening line, but the woman's posture changed immediately. She drew herself up straighter, her eyes locked on the newcomer.
"They're still new," she replied.
The man nodded and to my surprise, both of them headed away from the table without another word and further into the house. I tailed them at a distance, but stopped when I saw them go upstairs, the man's hand resting lightly on the woman's bottom. Glancing back into the throng, I noticed her husband watching as the stranger took his wife upstairs.
I kept an eye on the table for the next half an hour and saw the same scene repeated. The second time, I recognised the husband of the woman who had gone upstairs, talking briefly with a brunette in the same white boots and fishnets before leading her away, up the stairs. After a while I saw the woman with long blonde hair emerge from upstairs, now on her own and buzzing with excitement. There was something about the way she moved through the crowd, long legs accentuated by the fishnets, a faint flush to her cheeks and a radiant smile, as she rejoined the couple I'd noticed earlier. After chatting for a few moments, the nervous-looking woman's husband took his leave and ambled over to the bar table where a petite, curvaceous brunette was waiting, dressed in the same outfit.
I didn't pay attention to him: it was the lost look on his wife's face that captivated me. Her friend procured two glasses of bubbly and launched into conversation, but the nervous eyes tracked her husband as he led the brunette into the back of the house and disappeared from view up the stairs. Beneath the façade of the fortieth birthday, there was a secret party playing out in plain sight. Her husband had just gone upstairs with another woman, leaving her behind watching helplessly as she was deserted.
There were nearly a dozen women dressed in the same way, all with partners, taking turns to approach the meeting point. I was amazed how fluidly they manoeuvred through the rest of the guests, discreetly pairing up and disappearing into the bedrooms of the large house. The rest of the partygoers didn't seem to have noticed.
I could see that the conversation between the two women had stalled. The taller one appeared to have asked a question and was waiting for a response, assessing the other woman critically. As if in answer, she handed the taller woman her untouched glass and began to make her way towards the table. I was already in motion, feeling the flutter of nerves in my stomach. Maybe I was pushing my luck here. She reached the table just before I did. I could see another man heading our way but he stalled as I struck up conversation.
"Great party," I said.
The woman eyed me uncertainly and forced a smile. Up close, she was beautiful in an understated way. She had thick seventies eyeshadow on, framing lovely jade-green eyes. Her face tapered to the delicate point of her chin. My eyes were drawn to her full, soft lips, glossed in shocking pink, sparkling in the light, begging to be kissed. I couldn't imagine why her husband would have left her behind, let alone open to the approach of other men.
"I'm Adam," I added.
"Abby," she responded.
I steeled myself.
"Nice fishnets."
Abby stared at me, eyes wide. I tracked back through the last few moments, trying to work out where I'd messed up, what signal I'd missed. The I realised the look on her face wasn't hostility, it was anxiety.
"Do you not usually wear fishnets?"
Abby's face softened a little. "No," she said, "This is my first time."
"Ah. I get it," I replied, finally understanding her nervous expression, "Do you maybe just want to get a drink or something? Talk? We don't have to stand here if you don't want to."
She seemed to relax, and I felt relieved. Abby raised her chin and fixed me with a look. She seemed to make a decision.
"No," she said, "My fishnets are still new."
I nodded as if the phrase made perfect sense to me and made a small gesture towards the hallway. I hoped she would know what was supposed to happen next. Abby turned and I followed her through the crowd, admiring the way the high-heeled boots made her bottom wiggle in the tight white mini skirt. It seemed surreal that after only the briefest of conversation, I was about to see a lot more of what was underneath.
Having made her decision, she led me to the stairs, and we climbed up to the first-floor landing. There were several doors leading off the hallway and she stopped in front of the only one that was closed. With the din of the party behind us, it was easy to make out the sounds of passion from within the bedroom, and I understood why she'd stopped. Her husband was inside, fucking another woman. Abby's hands curled into fists and I could see her struggling with the urge to open the door and burst into the room. I put a hand gently on her arm.
"I never thought it would be this hard," she breathed.
"I'm guessing this was all his idea?"
Abby nodded, eyes still on the door.
"Yeah. His friends were doing it and he's been on at me for months to give it a try. Said it would spice up our marriage."
We could hear a giggle from within the room, then a muffled female voice.
"I can't believe he's going through with it," she whispered.
"What do you want to do? Go back downstairs? You could tell your friend you did it, no-one would know."
At this, Abby looked at me, the tempting pink lips pursed softly together.
"I would know. I'd know I stood meekly in front of the door waiting for him to finish, while he fucked Toby's wife. I stood here while he put his dick in her the same way that he does into me. And I didn't do anything to stop it."
She gritted her teeth.
"Then screw that," I said as I took her flawless face in my hands. I kissed her, brushing my lips against hers, feeling those soft, pink lips part under my gentle pressure.
Abby took my hand and led me quietly into the next room and closed the door. The silence was punctuated by the rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall in the next room. Abby stood by the bed, a vision in her tight micro-skirt and white patent-leather boots, hands clasped tightly together.
"How does this work?" she asked.
