I was just numb. That's the best word to describe my state. I ran after Jonathan and he ignored every word. He walked to his car, took one last look at me, shook his head sorrowfully and drove away. I stood watching him go. I was still stood there twenty minutes later, just staring. The sheer enormity of it all came crashing down on me and I cried. I cried and I cried.
I got home. I have no idea how; bus, taxi, walked, it doesn't matter. I got home to an empty house, a hollow house. I ran up to the bedroom, saw the open drawers, the open closet. I saw the spaces that were once Jonathan, evidence of a life shared, the things that showed that life were all gone. I wept in self pity. I wept in rage and in loathing, both for myself and for the man who had done this to us. I picked up the phone, called Jonathan. There was no answer. I called time and time again, sometimes getting the busy signal, sometimes hearing it ring and ring. My fingers were numb from dialing, my mind numb from the desperation I felt. Why wasn't he answering?
He had stood outside the hotel room, hearing me urge on my lover. Lover! The word brought a blast of bitter laughter. There was no love there but Jonathan couldn't know that. He heard me saying I wanted it, he heard me beg for Frank WIlliams to fuck me. He heard that and only that. Why would he not answer me? Would I, if the tables were turned? I want to say yes but deep down I know I would not. Still, I tried, ringing his number time and time again.
I called his mother, thinking he would go to her. They were close. Barbara told me she had not heard from him or seen him and I believed her. Barbara is a good person, not a liar. I called his brother, Simon. Simon's wife answered but no, they had not seen him. I made light of it, of course, told them I had just forgotten to ask Jonathan to pick up some milk, or something, I think I said milk. Where was he?
I slept alone that night. I say slept. I tossed, I turned, the bed sheets twisted around me as I lay on our bed, our empty bed, alone and tortured. My phone chirped over on the dresser and I leaped out of bed. Jonathan! It had to be Jonathan! It wasn't.
GREAT NIGHT WHORE MUST DO AGAIN SOON
I wailed in fury, I howled in despair.
I sat in the kitchen in the morning, trying to sort my way through the tangled mess of my thoughts. I sat, nursing another cup of untouched coffee, wondering how to get through this mess when there was a knock on the door. I knew that knock. I got up, face expressionless, and walked slowly to the door, recognizing the shadow behind it. I opened the door and looked at the man.
"Took your time," he said huffily. "Turns out you didn't dry me out completely. I came to fuck your tight little ass again."
He grinned at me and took a step forward.
"No," I said, calmly, flatly.
He laughed. Of course he laughed. He didn't know that things had changed.
"Oh you are going to pay now," he sneered at me. "Remember the deal, whore? I say I want to fuck you and you say yes please. That's how this works. Now let me in and maybe I won't slap you around too much." He moved forward again.
"No!" I shouted this time, hands balled into fists, the fury radiating from my every pore. I glared at him. "DO you know what you have done? Do you even fucking care? No. I said no. NO!"
"I've had enough of this. Get out of my fucking way!" He lunged towards me and it was his turn to see stars. I hadn't really been aware of picking it up but I hit the bastard, full force, with a copy of Webster's Dictionary, A-L, sending him reeling backwards. I slammed the door on him and collapsed to the floor, crying yet again.
He hammered on that door for an age, swearing, cursing, threatening. All he got from me was an hysterical "GO AWAY!"
"You are going to pay for this, whore," was his parting shot. "Once I get through telling everyone what you are, you are going to pay big!"
Tell who? I wondered. Tell my neighbours? My Friends? So what? The only one that mattered to me was my Jonathan. I couldn't lose him over this. I just couldnt. Let the bastard tell the world, I didn't care.
I went back to my vigil, fingers dialling, ears hearing the buzz, the tone of denial.
"Please answer me," I whispered, in vain. Jonathan did not answer. He did not return my calls. He remained silent.
The day dragged on, every minute slamming slowly down on the one before. I was numb. I was desperately, painfully numb. My whole life, my whole world, ripped apart and I was so frustrated. I could do nothing to even try to fix it. Why wouldn't he just talk to me? I would have talked to him. I would have!
I woke up to a dark and empty house. I didn't even allow myself that blissful moment of delusion, between sleep and waking, where you pretend it's all a dream. This was not a dream but it was a nightmare. A waking, desolate nightmare. I checked my phone. Three missed calls and one text. I knew who it would be from.
FORGIVE YOU THIS TIME. BE ROUND LATER SO CAN MAKE IT UP TO ME
This man must be mentally ill, I thought, raising a bitter smile. Make it up to him, indeed! I closed my eyes again, drifting back to my troubled sleep.
"Samantha," the voice came through the fog of my painful dreams. "Wake up."
I looked up, saw Jonathan standing over me, his face calm, placid. This time I did allow myself the delusion; maybe it was all a dream. I croaked something at him, I have no idea what. I sat up, rubbing my eyes.
"There is someone I would like you to meet," said Jonathan, his voice clipped and tight, restrained.
I looked around, confused, bleary eyed. I tried to stand up and failed, feeling so weak. When had I last eaten, I wondered.
"What...what's going on?" I finally whispered. Jonathan stepped back and revealed a woman, stood behind him. She did not look at all happy.
"Samantha," Jonathan continued, making me wince when he used my full name like that. "I want you to meet Sandra. Sandra Williams."
It took a moment for this to sink in. I looked up sharply.
"Yes," Jonathan nodded. "Mrs Sandra Williams. I thought you should meet the other person whose life you have ruined."
I looked at Jonathan in horror. I knew he was cool, calculating, precise, but this was too much. This was way too much.
"I hope you are satisfied," Sandra hissed at me. "I hope you got what you wanted, you little slut. I hope you..."
She stepped up to me, slapping me hard across the face. I barely felt it although I heard the slap ringing loudly.
"Slut!" she screamed into my face. I was dimly aware that Jonathan pulled her back from me.
"You clearly do not care about my feelings," Jonathan went on in his calm voice. "You clearly do not care that I am your husband or the vows you made to me. I thought meeting Sandra would get the message home. It's not just the life you clearly do not care about that you have ruined here."
I looked at them both, first one then the other. I looked at them and I emerged from the fog of my mind. I screamed in rage. I screamed with such fury that they both stepped back. I didn't raise my hands, I did not threaten. I just screamed until I was hoarse.
"Don't you dare tell me what I care about! Don't you fucking dare! I care about YOU. I care about US! I love you!" I turned to Sandra. "I don't know you but I care about you. And I feel for you, I truly do. I feel so much for you."
They both spoke at once. They both had similar expressions of disbelieving disgust on their angry faces.
"How can you say you love me?"
"You didn't care enough to stop fucking my husband..."
I held up my hands.
"Wait here!"
I ran up the stairs, to our bedroom, collected what I went up for and ran back down, my heart hammering. I threw the money onto the sofa in much the same way as Frank had thrown it onto our bed. That first £20 and the others that followed. I threw it all down in front of them.
"I can say I love you because I do!" I yelled. "And I never fucked Frank WIlliams. He fucked me!"
"What's this?" Jonathan asked, his voice rising at last.
And I told them both everything. I told them every sordid detail of my life, my past, of what happened with Frank. I told them about university, about the agency, about clients, about Bruce. I told them about moving on, putting Terri behind me, meeting Jonathan. I told them about the torment, the torture, of this past few weeks. I told them everything.
"I didn't want to," I sobbed. "I never wanted to. I do love you Jonathan. I had no choice. Believe me, please, I love you. I had to. I had to... I had no choice."
Sandra remained tight-lipped throughout, her eyes occasionally widening at some of the details and I could see. I could see she recognized her husband by the actions I described.
"And is all of this the truth, Sam?" Jonathan asked. I noted he called me Sam and my heart surged. "Look me in the eye and tell me this is true."
"Every word," I stared into his eyes. "I promise you. Every single word is the truth."
Jonathan looked into my eyes for long moments then nodded, turning to look at Sandra. She nodded resignedly.
"I believe her," she sighed. "Oh you poor thing. I am so sorry!"
She started to cry, moving towards me, taking me into a deep hug. I hugged her back. She was as much a victim as I was, in my mind. Jonathan joined us, Sandra stepping away for him. He kissed me then. It felt like my first ever true kiss. I burst into tears; tears of joy at my Jonathan. Tears of relief. It was over.
It wasn't.
Jonathan was all set to kill Frank Williams. Sandra had a look in her eye that said killing was too kind. It was me, of all people, who was the voice of reason. As far as I saw things, we were all victims of that man. Why make us the villains? They reluctantly agreed.
"But it has to stop," Jonathan declared. "We cannot let him go on like this."
"Absolutely," agreed Sandra. "Then can I cut his balls off?"
I laughed at that. Jonathan joined in, uncertainly at first. We all laughed.
We talked for hours, the three of us. There was disagreement, there were painful moments of disclosure. There were agreements too. Sandra left at around ten, hugging me again. You know, if we had met under different circumstances, I am sure she and I would have been good friends. The way we did meet, however, negated any possibility of that.
"You should have told me," Jonathan said in bed that night, holding me tightly to him. We had made love and I was in heaven. Nothing kinky, nothing weird. Just a husband and wife, sharing a moment of joyous intimacy. I felt good for the first time in ages. I felt loved and right and whole. Until then.
"I know," I sobbed. He held me tighter. "It got out of hand and I should have been strong enough to tell you. That first time... I thought that, maybe, that would be enough and he would go away. I prayed it would be. I felt terrible doing it but I thought it would solve everything. I was so wrong but by then, how could I tell you? I couldn't think of a way. I thought he would get bored with me, move on, leave me alone and we could go back to our life. I never wanted to hurt you and I know doing this behind your back was just a horrendous thing to do but telling you seemed so much worse. What you don't know doesn't hurt you. Ha!"
"But you could have told me about Terri," he said calmly. "About your former life. I would not have thought worse of you. Why didn't you tell me?"
I sighed and sat up, turning to face him.
"It's not shame, I want you to know that straight away. I am still not really ashamed of what I did in the past. I know I should be but I am not. That being said, I was too frightened to tell you. Jonathan, you are the most honest, decent man I have ever met. How could I tell you that you married a whore?"
Jonathan sat up too, taking my hands in his.
