Happenstance

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This fictional, novel-length story tells the tale of a man who finds out just how complicated life can be and how chance and coincidence - happenstance, if you like - can turn that life into something that Alice of 'Through The Looking Glass' fame might understand.

While reading this tale of love, deception and betrayal, those who persevere will come to understand that love can hide a multitude of sins. They might also come to understand that perception is not reality. This is particularly true about subjects many consider to be taboo.

I have published all five chapters of this story under the 'Loving Wives' category because that's the general theme. It should be noted, however, that there are references to subjects some readers might consider should be published under other categories. But please don't go getting your tits in a tangle about it. As I hinted at earlier, all is not what it seems.

Please note that the right of Black Jack Steele to be identified as the author of this work - Happenstance - is asserted under worldwide copyright laws. All rights are reserved.

HAPPENSTANCE

Copyright © Black Jack Steele 2022

CHAPTER FIVE

The Aftermath

Matt receives the final piece of the puzzle.

Happenstance struck again when I was in New York last October.

I was walking down Seventh Avenue, hurrying to make my four o'clock appointment with my publisher, when I spotted Shelley standing on the front steps of the upmarket hotel across the street.

She and the man she was with appeared to be waiting for their car to be brought up from the hotel's garage. Or, perhaps they were waiting for a taxi. But his expensive clothing told me he wasn't a taxi person. Her arm was tucked into his, and they were talking animatedly. I imagined I could hear her melodious laughter as she reacted to something he said.

He had her full attention, so I'm sure she didn't see me. But even if she had, she probably wouldn't have recognised me. I've changed. And I don't just mean in the physical sense; although I have changed in that way too. It's amazing how much a salt and pepper beard and the greying of the temples can alter one's features. But no. I mean I've changed internally. Nobody - not even my few friends - would take me for anything other than a cynical old bastard with trust issues. That couldn't be helped, I suppose. Repeated betrayal will do that to a man.

She was as beautiful as ever and certainly looked younger than her forty-two years. She also had a glow about her that I recognised. That, and the lateness of the hour, told me that, while she and her partner might have enjoyed a sumptuous lunch together, they had also indulged in a post-luncheon nap. Well, perhaps not a nap, but they had most certainly shared a bed.

The scene was somehow familiar, reminding me of earlier times. Times when it would have been Shelley and me standing on those steps waiting for

our

car to arrive. Even her companion looked disturbingly familiar. Except for the expensive clothing, he could have been me. Although younger - closer to her age than mine - he had the same build and hair colour I'd once had. It made me wonder if she had developed a hankering for a 'type'.

'Water under the bridge,'

I told myself as I entered my publisher's building. The scene gave me an idea for an opening for my next novel. Something along the lines of, "Of all the gin joints in all the world...."

Perhaps I was wrong about Shelley not recognising me, though. I'd forgotten about the gift we'd had - proximity awareness, the psychologists called it - where we could sense each other's presence if we were nearby. As I glanced over my shoulder to take one last look at the happy couple, I saw the smile disappear from her face and her body shudder as she reached a hand up to her throat as if to grasp something that wasn't there. A necklace carrying two halves of a broken heart, perhaps?

But, whether she'd sensed my presence or she thought she had recognised me from behind, I'll never know. The doors of the building I had entered closed in that instant.

'Of course, I could be wrong,'

I told myself as I headed towards the elevators.

'The shudder I'd seen might simply have been a post-coital aftershock.'

She

was

prone to those after a good fucking. At least she had been, once upon a time.

Not wanting to bump into her in the building's foyer if she decided to follow up on her instincts and tried to track me down, I left the building through the underground carpark when I finished my business meeting. I had no interest in speaking with her. Besides, I had a plane to catch and didn't want to miss my flight out of JFK by getting caught up in a conversation I didn't want to have with someone I didn't ever want to be within striking distance of again. The wounds from her last backstabbing were still raw.

That was a lie, of course. I wished I was the man standing beside her on those steps. I wished it was me who'd put that fully satiated glow on her face. I wished it was me she'd be spending the rest of her life with. And most of all, I wished it was me she'd remained faithful to so all those other things could be true.

I was still thinking about our brief encounter as I boarded the plane that would take me to my new home. I would have plenty of time to reminisce about our lives together during the almost seven-hour flight to the British Virgin Islands. I needed to get the place ready for the arrival of my parents and the twins. They planned to fly in to spend a couple of weeks with me after Christmas.

Unfortunately, it would be a one-off trip for them as I planned to return to Australia the following year. I'd found that despite having fallen in love with BVI, the social life among the expatriate community was too demanding of my time for me to be productive. I needed to return to the solitude offered by my lakeside bungalow so I could focus on my writing.

In addition to that, my age was starting to tell. I was now in my fifty-eighth year and was having a hard time keeping up with the constant round of widows and divorcees who were enveigling themselves into my bed in the hope of snagging a new husband. I was afraid that if I didn't make a move soon, one of them would catch me at a weak moment, and I would end up married again. And I certainly didn't want that to happen; ever.

Besides, having seen Shelley in New York, I assumed it was a safe bet that she'd managed to get over any lingering desire she might have had about finding me and that I could expect her to lodge our divorce papers as soon as she possibly could.

The man whose arm she was hanging off while standing on the steps of that New York hotel looked like ideal husband material. I just hoped he had the good sense to avoid putting too much trust in her.

'I wonder if I should do a bit of digging to find out who he is,'

I asked myself as I stepped off the Britten-Norman Islander after landing at Tortola.

'At least then, I could warn him about what to expect if things become serious between them.'

'It would be a far kinder thing to do,'

I reasoned,

'than letting happenstance run its convoluted and complicated course.'

---oooBJSooo---

The day after my parents and children arrived to spend their holidays with me on my island hideaway, my son handed me an envelope. It had been addressed to me via my lawyer's office. As it was fairly thick and had been addressed in Shelley's hand, I knew it would probably make for an emotional reading session. Not wanting to spoil everyone's holiday, I put off opening it until they'd returned to Australia.

After pouring myself a large Scotch on the evening of the day they flew out, I made myself comfortable on my settee and broke the letter's seal. I had been right. After reading the first few paragraphs, I knew I was in for an emotional ride.

My Darling Matthew (I can't bring myself to use either Matt or your love name, Daddy, as I no longer feel I have the right to do so),

It's abundantly clear from both your disappearance and your parting letter to me that you somehow learned of my other, duplicitous life and that you became aware of the extent of my betrayal. I am writing this letter, not in the hope of forgiveness but to tell you how very sorry I am for destroying everything we held so dear - our marriage, our family, our past and our future - turning all the love we shared during our time together to ashes.

The first thing you need to know is that none of what I did resulted from anything you did or didn't do during our years together. You were the perfect partner, the perfect lover, the perfect husband and the perfect father to our children. The destruction of our lives rests solely on my shoulders, and I accept that responsibility. The guilt I carry for my disloyalty to you and our children will follow me to my grave; perhaps even beyond.

While speaking of our children, I have to say that my infidelity didn't go back that far - as you said you suspected it might have - but had been limited to the past six years and started due to my own stupidity and naivety. That I could keep my treachery from you for so long only shows how adept I'd become at hiding my true self from you.

What I find surprising is that you didn't pick up on my betrayal long before you did. In fact, I thought you had done so after the first time it happened, which. as it appears you've since worked out, occurred during my Mount Isa trip in August of 2015; the trip that Charlie invited herself on after returning to live on the east coast.

But that was only when I made the momentous decision that would destroy our lives. I had already taken the first steps down that path before then. As you had pointed out to me very early in our relationship, slow dancing was a dangerous slope to walk on. I don't know whether you had guessed it or it had got past your radar, but that night at the station's 2015 Christmas function wasn't the first time I had slow danced with Dan; or with Harry or other dance partners, for that matter.

It was a common occurrence whenever we danced after dinner while we were away. And it was often a lot more ungentlemanly than when Dan danced with me at the function that night. I suppose the way I danced while on the road would more appropriately - or less appropriately - be referred to as dirty dancing. Our slow dance on the night of the function was a one-off, however. We had agreed that we would never dance to slow tunes when you were in attendance, and we would never meet, either clandestinely or socially, when not on the road.

Those two rules were set in stone. No matter what happened during our away-from-home trips, you were never to be spoken of disparagingly while we were on assignment. And you were never to be humiliated by our words or actions when at home. Just to make it clear, all my sexual adventures took place while I was away. I never interacted in anything other than a professional way with Dan or Harry - or anyone other than you - when working out of our Brisbane base.

There was only ever one exception to that rule. That occurred when we were in quarantine after the Fiji trip. And it resulted in all of us being infected with Covid, which I suspect was transmitted to us by the security guard we stupidly invited to join us a couple of times, forcing us to be isolated - and I do mean isolated - for a second two-week quarantine period.

I admit I did consider breaking the rule a couple of times after eventually arriving home from the Fiji trip to find you were suffering from the after-effects of your own Covid infection, but I managed to engineer a couple of road trips so I could get the satisfaction you weren't providing. The trip to Cairns - the one we undertook while you were performing your disappearing act - was a real assignment, although the additional couple of days we tacked on at the end were added for our own carnal pleasure.

But let me get back on track. Dirty dancing was as far as I went with anyone before that Mount Isa trip. There was no kissing and no feeling. And as soon as I felt a hand on my backside, the dance ended. Bumping and grinding was as far as I would allow things to go.

Unlike some of the young ladies at those affairs, I wasn't into handing out my panties to the partner who gave me the best dirty dancing orgasm of the night, but I have to say some of them were very deserving of such a reward. And as the stains on the front of their trousers attested, so was I.

That's not to say I wasn't tempted to take things to the next level. I was. Some of those with whom I danced showed a great deal of promise, and what I felt rubbing up against me made me wonder what a 'knife' other than yours would feel like in my 'sheath'. But, as much as I had taken a big step outside our agreed boundaries, that was the one line I wasn't going to cross.

I remember you asking whether my coworkers and dance partners knew I was married and if not, why not. Despite my feigning ignorance at the time, the answer should have been 'yes'. Dan and Harry both knew I was married and to whom. My other dance partners would also have known of my marital status because I always wore my rings. They were my protection - my shield if you like - preventing me from stepping over that final line and preventing my highly-aroused dance partners from pushing me to do so.

Knowing that he knew you were my husband, Dan's 'regular partner' comment at that Christmas function was - as had been Charlie's appearance as his partner - as much a surprise to me as it was to you. When I fronted him about it the following Monday - telling him that, as he couldn't stick to our agreement about not humiliating you (which, in light of what I've already said about breaking agreements, seems grossly hypocritical), I was going to ask to have him replaced as my producer. During the heated discussion that ensued, I discovered that the comment was made at Charlie's suggestion. It later became evident that she was using Dan to drive a wedge between you and me.

But she was merely rubbing salt into a wound she had already opened when she'd talked me into removing my rings - my protection - before we went out for dinner on our first night in Mount Isa that year.

"You fucking bitch!" I yelled to the world at large upon reading those words. They weren't aimed at Shelley - although she was just as deserving of them - I was aiming my anger at Charlie. "You weren't happy stealing Shelley from me once, you fucking slut! You had to do it a second time!"

It took a few minutes to recover from the shock of what I'd just learned before returning to her letter.

So, yes, as you predicted, it was the slow dancing that brought me undone. I was dancing with an extremely handsome rodeo star - and yes, it was Jason Burke, as you surmised - on that first night when the music changed to a slow tune. That was when he changed from being the shy, gentlemanly cowboy he had been up to that point and became the alpha male he really was. He pulled me into a tight embrace and took control of my body and my emotions.

As the first slow song ended and a second began, I could feel his erection growing. And by the end of that second song, he was fully engorged, and I was soaking wet. His cock was bigger than anything I'd ever felt rubbing against my groin and stomach, and I had to know how it would feel inside me. I don't know how we managed to finish the session, but as soon as it ended, he escorted me back to our table to collect my things, and we made a beeline for my room. I knew we wouldn't be interrupted as Mum had told me she would be sleeping elsewhere that night - I assumed with Dan - and Harry had already made other sleeping arrangements.

I won't go into detail, but let's just say my first experience with someone other than you since we'd first made love fifteen years earlier was like being on one of those theme park rides where the people are lifted to great heights and spun and twisted as if they were in a washing machine and then, after being given the greatest thrill of their lives, they'd plummet back to earth. For the four nights he and I were together, he would bring me to peaks of ecstasy, each of which would be followed by a descent into a deep, guilt-filled valley.

He left immediately after the final event on the last day of the rodeo, so I slept alone that night. Well, I say alone, but that's not quite true. What I should say is that I slept alone in my bed that night. Harry slept in Mum's bed because the girl he had been spending his nights with - the cameraperson from another network - had flown out that afternoon, meaning her room was no longer available to him.

I didn't get much sleep that night as I was wracked with guilt at what I had done to you. He must have tired of my constant crying because, at some point, he went to the fridge and poured us both a drink. After handing one of them to me, he read me the riot act... or, more to the point, he told me the facts of life. By the time he'd finished, I understood the meaning of the 'What happens in Vegas...' dictum and how it applied to our activities while on that assignment.

His talk did nothing to assuage my guilt, however, and I promised myself that I'd come clean with you as soon as I arrived home and throw myself on your mercies. Obviously, I reneged on that promise. Instead, I compartmentalised it, putting it in the box in which I kept the secrets about my dirty dancing.

I realised that that had been a mistake when, during our discussion after the network's Christmas function, you started talking about Mum being a slut and said something about a cheater never changing her spots (it's leopard, by the way, not cheater... unless you mean cheetah... oh, now I get it). When you followed that with, "Any woman who could do to her husband what she did to me will always be a slut in my eyes" - words I will never forget - all my hidden guilt rose to the surface, and I burst into uncontrollable tears.

"He knows," I told myself. "He knows, and he's toying with me. Just like a cat toys with a mouse before killing it." But you weren't toying with me. Subsequent events - the most gentle and passionate lovemaking I have ever experienced - showed me that you were unaware of my betrayal.

However, I took your warning to heart and vowed never to repeat my infidelity.

And I had every intention of adhering to that vow; right up until Dan, Harry and I were sent to New Zealand the following April. During that trip, I learned that the gloves were off and that Dan was anything but the gentleman I'd thought him to be; dirty dancing notwithstanding.

After dinner and a bit of dancing, he came to my room on the pretext of wanting to talk about the following day's schedule. But it wasn't the schedule he wanted to discuss. He professed to be more interested in my welfare.

"Charlie and I were wondering whether you've told Matthew about your Mount Isa tryst," he said after I'd poured him a drink. "And if so, how he took it? We note that you're still together, so assume he either handled it well and has forgiven you, or you haven't told him."

Foolishly, I told him that I'd decided to fall back on the Vegas Amendment and that I hadn't told you. I wondered why Mum's name had been mentioned, though, and why he was asking me about it after more than six months had elapsed.