This is my first attempt at writing a Loving Wives story. It was based on or inspired by a celebrity whose life was embroiled in scandal some years back but it's not a retelling of her story, rather an active re-imagining of her life. Originally intended as a novella, life and distraction intervened, so apologies for what is likely to be a read riddled with gaps and questionable relevance.
I tried not to wince but it was near impossible. However accustomed you may be to seeing your name in the media, when it's coupled with the words "cheating slut", it's never a pleasant affair.
They had got it all wrong naturally. I suppose, after all the years of being in the business, it was to be expected. And in retrospect, it was a small price to pay for the vengeance I had exacted.
Lifestyle guru cheated on husband!
Sordid affair revealed!
I regret this betrayal of a good friend!
It was all there in the screaming headlines. And I knew the picture presented to the public was of an adulteress running away from public attention and condemnation because of her scandalous deeds. Frankly, I could give a damn but didn't. I simply drove with little in mind other than relief that my long plan for vengeance was almost over and I was finally out of it all. I looked into the rear view mirror at my teenage daughter and son and suddenly, I just felt tired. All the scheming and pretence simply to fulfil that deal Patrick had made to secure our future. The years of guilt and acting had taken their toll and I was just drained.
I was driving away from London, away from home. Fittingly, I had no real idea where I was going but for once, I could discard that perfect image and farcical role. For once, despite the "reputational damage", I'd succeeded.
And it was with the one thing I'd craved for a long time. I bested them all, even those screaming headlines...
How it all began
None of this would have happened if I hadn't cheated on my first husband. Well, technically, he gave his permission.
Patrick Henry Hays. The guy who took a dowdy, chunky plain Jane whom no one noticed in college except for her ridiculous tent-like sweaters and turned her into a celebrity food critic and lifestyle guru who was also the cable channels' resident sexpot.
Ever since he transformed me, no one doesn't not notice me anymore. Of course, they notice certain parts of me more than others. The tits once hidden behind those ridiculous tent-like sweaters I wore in college are often on full display these days. Paired invariably with pouting lips in a forward leaning pose that basically says, 'C'mon over to sexy momma' in a decorous British manner of course. No one outside of our closest friends knew that before Patrick, there was no Nichola Parsons, the sexy lifestyle goddess. Only Nichola Elizabeth Parsons, the whale of an honours student in history, whose own mother hated her and whose father barely recognised her during the obligatory family holiday gatherings.
Family issues aside, I was closest to my younger brother and sister, Thomas and Eveline. Evie died 3 years before Patrick succumbed to stomach cancer, cancer it seems, likes taking away people I loved. It took away my mother when I was just about to make peace with her at age 25. It took away my sister when she was barely 24 and I didn't even get to see Evie for the last time because I was in labour with my first child when Evie was on her deathbed. Naturally my daughter's middle name was Eveline. Isabella Eveline Hays. Honouring both my mother and my beloved sister. But I'm digressing.
It's easy to get distracted by your own stream of thoughts when you're driving alone in a car stolen from your latest husband while escaping his malicious media campaign against you. Ladies, that's why it's not a great idea to marry a media tycoon. Sure, the fame is great but so is the bonfire when they decide to make you the substitute for Guy Fawkes in the middle of a delicious summer scandal that involves sex, money and abusive husbands.
Before you're confused further by my random thoughts, I must clarify that the media tycoon I call husband at this point in time is not Patrick but Martin. Martin Ronald Sach. Media tycoon, retired fashion icon and the crazed one hell-bent on destroying me. I would never have met Martin if Patrick had not brought him home from the club that night.
Patrick had been diagnosed with stomach cancer and had just completed his second round of therapy. Knowing how much of a toll the battle with cancer took on his body and spirit, most of us, family and friends, were happy to indulge his moods and fancies. Basically, Patrick spent most of his time amusing himself with the games he played down at the old boys club while occasionally writing one of his famously acerbic and caustic opinion pieces for the newspaper he had helped make famous as chief editor some years back.
Martin owned rival newspapers and at one point had thought to poach Patrick. Patrick never seriously considered the offer and the two weren't acquainted till that spring when Patrick spent increasing amounts of time on playing games (and unknown to us at the time, gambling and losing a lot of money) down at the club.
The two, despite their different temperaments and differing social circles, hit it off quite well. And within 3 months, they seemed to have become the best of friends. One night, after a long session of games at the club, Patrick called to say he was bringing a friend home for supper. I was rather pleased since Patrick had been in one of his depressed crabby moods lately which was not uncommon among seriously ill patients. Thinking it was a great sign of his improving mood, I happily laid the table and prepared the light supper and dessert that I had intended to serve Patrick and our kids.
Patrick was uncharacteristically jovial when he introduced his new best friend to me. Martin had the relaxed air of a wealthy man who was confidently smug in his own superiority. Frankly, it was a little off putting and I'd seen enough snobs in my time because of my family and later because of college.
Still, he seemed sufficiently amused with meeting a celebrity to deign kissing my hand which he held a tad too long. Patrick seemed oblivious to the fact that his friend wasn't much of a nice person but then again he was ill.
Supper went off quite well despite Martin's off putting manner. I was determined to ignore the man and concentrated on making Patrick happy. He had rarely laughed so happily in the last few months and if this obnoxious man could help bring my husband back from the horrible emotional dumps he was in, I could tolerate him.
In fact, Patrick was in such a good mood that it carried over to the bedroom where we had sex for the first time in months. Patrick was his usual gentle loving self as he ate me to an orgasm and I gently brought him to sufficient hardness with my mouth for him to slip inside me when I rode him.
The treatment had so exhausted him that he often was too ill or tired to sustain an erection for very long and we hadn't had sex in some time. In fact, he was so kind and aware of the building frustration of unfulfilled desire in me that he discreetly bought a vibrator and dildo for me when he had first started going to the club. I was pink with embarrassment when he presented me with the gifts and more than a little mortified when Patrick suggested that I relieve myself with them regularly. Of course, I hadn't noticed that I was rather irritable and prone to being snappish in those months where I was getting no satisfaction at all.
What made it kinkier was Patrick's request to watch me satisfy myself in bed. He was apologetic at first saying he was to blame for not being able to provide me the sexual satisfaction I needed. Then he asked if he could watch when I relieved myself because it would in a way make him feel less culpable.
I'd agreed since I adored the man and was secretly shocked that he was so considerate of my needs.
It was strange to have your husband watch you pleasing yourself on your marriage bed and while I had some measure of satisfaction, it was nothing like having your loving husband's hard cock in you.
I was riding him fast and hard, afraid that he would fade before I could climax. Fortunately, he remained hard enough to stay in me when I came and gushed all over him. He came with a little shout, not as loud as he usually was but definitely better than the complete absence of activity in the last few months. I cuddled with Patrick as we drifted off to sleep, grateful for having my husband back again.
Then it all began to crumble. Two months later, Patrick's doctor told him the cancer was spreading. Patrick became weaker and weaker and along with his health went the wonderful man I had married. He was alternately morose and bitter. I understood his mood swings and the need for him to lash out. That's why I tried to explain to the kids why Daddy was acting this way. Patrick tried never to cry in front of me whatever the pain and rage he was feeling. However, his bitterness often showed itself in the caustic poison that poured from his lips. In all of this time, only our closest friends were ever guests in our house. Everyone else either stayed away out of politeness or was eager to avoid Patrick's scathing comments.
Surprisingly, Martin was one of those frequent visitors. He had become increasingly friendly with Patrick and was unexpectedly affable in the months since we first met. For some inexplicable reason, I began to see him as a friend and confidante. He was sympathetic and often urged me to be patient and forgiving of Patrick when he behaved poorly.
"Think of how much pain he must be going through", "You know he's a great guy, it's the illness speaking, not him" and "You must be strong enough for the both of you at such a time". All this while patting and holding my hand as I tried to hold back tears or drank too much red wine after one of Patrick's tantrums.
It was perhaps unfortunate that as Patrick's health declined and he became an effective recluse trapped in our house that I exploded across screens in Britain and later around the world.
It all started before Patrick was diagnosed when he jokingly suggested that I go on TV to give my opinions about certain restaurants that I had done menu tastings and samplings for. It was a one-off interview on a morning show. They had a sample of a chocolate lava cake that I was to taste and comment on. Though I had done similar stuff for the paper I wrote for, I'd never been on TV before and was so nervous I'd considered refusing.
Patrick was like "don't be silly, you'll be just fine". He did however take me out shopping and had my hair done nicely at a top salon before the TV appearance. I wasn't sure about the dress I was to wear, it looked more like a dress you'd wear to a date at the bar at the Ritz rather than a morning TV segment but Patrick insisted. As did he on the glossy red lipstick.
The TV station production team were surprised but had little alternative since we arrived just in time for standby before the segment. The production assistant had heated the cake just a minute before the segment and the molten chocolate lava was just right in its flow. When a tiny bit came out the side of my mouth, I was embarrassed to be seen on national TV behaving like a kid and reacted before I thought. My tongue slid out and quickly licked off the tiny bit of chocolate lava that had flowed out onto my lip. "That was delicious." I moaned.
Without thinking too much of it, I'd picked up the spoon and stuck it in my mouth, licking the chocolate off before pulling it slowly out. "Something so deliciously wicked should never be wasted, it should be savoured to the last drop." I moaned as I put the spoon down. There was utter silence in the studio. Then I noticed the studio assistants and production hands staring, the men in particular were looking at me oddly with their mouths open.
The male host broke the silence with the words that were later repeated in the papers and online sites. "That was the most stimulating show we've ever had on our morning show. Thank you for making it a good morning for 98% of all men across the UK Nichola!"
The nervous fake twittering giggle of his female co-host made me instantly afraid that I'd made a faux pas on national TV. I maintained a calm facade till they broke for a commercial a minute later.
