MARCUS
When the girls are safely dropped to school, I watch Shelly curl into Ben Battle’s ridiculously waxed chest for the twentieth time on RTE playback. Last week’s rumba was bad enough, but the ease in the way they executed the foxtrot almost broke me.
The increasingly familiar manner in which they touch each other is too much. The fact she chose to go out drinking with her co-stars the last two Saturday nights instead of coming home to me is a dangerous development.
At least we’re approaching the semi-final of the show – the end is in sight. Though if they win, she and Ben will be spending the next few months promoting the show, touring the country. The prospect doesn’t bear thinking about.
It used to be me she leaned on, literally and figuratively. Now it’s him. And it’s entirely my own fault. Not only did I break the promise I made regarding the property, but I pushed her away physically, and somehow befriended a woman who oddly enough has a daughter who happens to be my spitting image.
Stupidly, I preferred Shelly to view me as a moody bastard than allow her to see how much I’ve been struggling with my own insecurities.
On the screen in front of me, her hand rests on Ben’s chest. I do a double take, rewind, and pause it to be certain.
Her left hand is utterly bare. She’s taken off her wedding ring. Fuck. The air whooshes dizzyingly from my chest. Slumping back in the chair, I feel physically faint. What a statement. And so public too. Holy fuck. I never imagined we could fall so far from where we belong. Because we belong with each other. I’ve known it from the day I first laid eyes on her.
After weeks of wallowing, questioning myself and my relationship, this is the rocket up the backside that I need. That is one statement that cannot be ignored.
Adrenaline pulses through me, fight or flight, and suddenly I’m ready to do what I should have done weeks ago – I’m ready to fight for her.
Our marriage needs a lifesaving injection of something, before the spark goes out of it for good. Shelly’s always relied on physical touch for reassurance. And that bollocks is giving it to her daily.
If I can get her into my arms again, maybe she’ll believe me when I tell her Zoe isn’t mine, that I’ve never ever strayed. That I never would. If we could lie together like we used to, go somewhere only we know, she’d remember what we have is real. Realise I’d never jeopardise that.
It’s as if the sun has risen on a brand-new day, casting a blinding light on what an arsehole I’ve been the past few weeks, pushing Shelly away. Tonight, I’m determined to let down the wall, to explain everything. To apologise for letting things slip so badly between us. And I just need to hope it’s enough. Because there’s no way I can ask Maddy, a woman I barely know, if I can have a DNA sample from her daughter because my wife thinks she’s the carbon copy of me.
Given Shelly’s own family history, her father leaving her mother for a woman ten years younger – on some level I understand it. But it still hurts like fuck that she thinks I’m capable of inflicting that kind of pain on her. Of cheating on not only her, but our entire family. No woman in the world could persuade me to stray because until lately, I already had everything I ever wanted and so much more.
How did we become so distant? It’s not just the show. For the last couple of years I’ve been so tormented with my upcoming retirement, I’ve let our relationship slip. Shit, when was the last time I even bought my wife flowers? When did I stop buying her lingerie? And why did it take watching Ben Battle schmoozing all over her to remind me?
This weekend is our tenth wedding anniversary and the need to buy her something special is overwhelming. It’s a chance to remind her how much I love her, remind her what we have. I hop in the Jeep and drive to the city in search of something thoughtful enough to show my wife how I feel about her.
It seems only fitting I start at the same jeweller’s that I bought her engagement ring. After deliberating between another ring and a pair of diamond droplet earrings, I settle on a platinum necklace boasting a diamond big enough to scratch Ben’s pecs next time he presses her against his chest.
Next, I head for an expensive boutique underwear shop, nestled in a tiny side street adjacent to Grafton Street, which specialises in bridal lingerie. Shelly used to love this place. I literally spent thousands here. Each Valentine’s Day, anniversary, or birthday, we’d come here. She used to say she felt like Julia Roberts inPretty Woman. In the rags to riches kind of way. Each time we made a purchase, the assistants used to bring out a glass of champagne, like they apparently do when women buy wedding dresses. Wedding dresses are probably cheaper, but I like my wife in white underwear. There’s something alluringly virginal about it.
The changing rooms are spacious, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a crushed velvet chaise longue in the centre. A hotness creeps up my neck as a memory of that chaise longue bursts to the forefront of my brain.
Watching Shelly parade around the room in the most exquisite revealing garments, knowing there were an untold amount of people behind a thin sliding door did something for both of us. Even walking through the door brings back a tidal wave of memories that send blood rushing to my dick. The décor hasn’t changed a bit. A pang of longing for my wife, for simpler times, pains me. Vilamoura seems like a lifetime ago.
When the owner glances up to see me strutting through store, her bright-green eyes light with recognition and she ushers her assistant aside to help me personally.
‘Mr Williams. How nice to see you again.’ Inching up onto her tiptoes, she looks over my shoulder, presumably in search of Shelly.
‘It’s just me today. Unfortunately.’ I shrug. ‘It’s been a while. I’d like to buy my wife something special though. Do you think you can help me with her sizing?’
‘Absolutely. Follow me.’ She gestures for me to head through to the changing rooms with her. I appreciate her consideration for my privacy. Shelly’s plastered all over the tabloids. I’d prefer her underwear wasn’t plastered over them too.
‘Would you like a glass?’ She motions to a bottle chilling in a chrome cooler.
‘Oh, no thank you. If you could just box up something nice. Several pieces actually, I’d be very grateful.’
‘Give me two minutes and I’ll be straight back with something. I think I remember what you like.’
As good as her word, she returns less than two minutes later, her arms loaded with brilliant-white silk and lace. When she’s finished spreading them out across the chaise longue in matching sets, she takes a step closer. Swallowing hard, her eyes narrow, gazing up at me with a new interest. Her voice is low and sultry when she speaks.
‘Do you want me to try any of them on for you, sir?’ Her hand runs to the front of her blouse where she fingers the top button like she’s considering undoing it.
Jesus fucking Christ, how had I not seen this one coming? Women have been throwing themselves at me for years. I’m not daft enough to think it’s because I’m irresistible. It’s simply the fame. The sport. Perhaps she thinks it’s fair game because Shelly’s plastered all over the TV with Ben. Either way, I’m in enough trouble as it is.
