Chapter 4
When Opal got back from her late luncheon, she decided that what she needed was to feel sexy. Deborah had knocked some sense into her. Pulled her out of her well of self-pity and into a flattering sundress she hadn’t worn in years. Her curls were looking flat from where the rollers had been dislodged, but a few precisely placed hairpins and a strike of inspiration from Deborah and she’d ended up with an elegant sort of half-up half-down style that sat delicately on her collarbones.
They’d had one too many Harvey Wallbangers and Agnes had been out, so Opal dared to imagine that her luck might be changing. She’d opted for a walk home. It was around six o’clock and the early summer day was bright but heavy with the promise of dusk. It sobered her up a bit and by the time she walked through the side door into the kitchen, she felt as though she’d gained some clarity on the whole situation.
Maybe all she needed to do was be sexier. It certainly wasn’t an enlightened view of her role as a wife. She’d always considered herself as forward-thinking, but she also liked tradition. In another’s mind that might sound like a contradiction, but Opal reasoned that life was about adaptabilityand that some situations called for different approaches. There was a reason traditions existed; they were tried and tested methods of doing things. So that is what she’d do. It was her role as a wife to maintain her desirability to her husband, and though she’d always kept herself trim and fit, maybe it was time that she made an effort to show her husband that she desired him.
Hurrying up the mahogany staircase, she mentally ran through her lingerie options. They were contained away in a large silk-lined basket that she’d moved to the top shelf of her wardrobe some time ago. In the early years of their marriage, Opal remembered how she would try on a few different options in the scarce sundown hours or minutes before Martin came home from work. That had been back in London, when she could expect him back promptly around six. The ritual itself would get her all worked up; she’d felt devious as she drank in her own reflection and felt the thrum of desire begin to sing. As she pulled the basket down and ruffled through her options now, though, that hot anticipation had been replaced by something cooler: determined resignation.We’re not in our twenties anymore.
Thinking back, she was struck by just how young she had been then, prancing to the door of their newly decorated home in deep crimson suspenders and a sheer, feather-collared robe. Only a couple of years older than Agnes was now.
She sighed and settled on a classic black set. There was no point trying to compete; she had to show Martin that when it came to sensuality, maturity was an asset. She slipped off her dress and stepped into the lacy briefs. Stockings were eased over her legs, a garter shimmied into place and a bra clasped. She left her hair as it was and wiped the deep red lipstick from her mouth.
And then she tiptoed back down and positioned herself on the chaise in the entryway, nestled under the bough of the grand staircase. She waited.
At some point around seven, she picked up a book and began to read. It wasn’t until the clock in the hall struck eight that she considered abandoning her post, but just then, she heard footsteps on the gravel outside. Even before he made it through the door, she could tell he was drunk. The sound of the key scratching erratically around the keyhole was evidence enough.
When he finally did make it in, he almost lost his balance from the sudden giving way, recovering himself just in time.
Before she could register her own actions, Opal was on her feet and offering herself up to him for support. Momentarily she forgot what she was wearing.
‘Woooahhhh,’ he slurred, one eyebrow exaggeratedly raised. ‘Who’s this smoking-hot woman in my house and what have you done with my wife?’ He began to giggle, and Opal focused her energies on guiding him up the stairs. When she felt the fine nylon of her stocking snag on the banister, she ignored it and trudged on.
‘How much did you have to drink, Martin?’ She didn’t know why she was bothering; maybe it was habit.
‘Oh I don’t know. You know how Neil is – the man’s a lush!’
Opal didn’t bother to remind him that she in fact had no idea who Neil Montgomery even was.
‘Right. And did you drive back?’ Despite her annoyance, concern crept into her question.
‘Oh, Pol, don’t be like that; it’s barely ten miles, and you know I’m a great driver …’
That was a yes then. For a split second Opal found herself imagining the scene of his bloody crash, his body torn apart by the impact and beginning to singe in the inferno of the burning engine.
She shook the image, as vivid as it was, from her mind.
They made it to the bedroom, and in that moment, Opal was pleased that he would be too out of it to notice the subtle clues of her harebrained day. The hastily discarded rollers, the mascara-smudged tissues in the bin, the basket of lingerie unreturned to its hiding place and sitting on top of her dresser chair.
He collapsed onto the bed and Opal began to unlace his shoes, no longer as shiny as they had looked that morning. When she reached to unbuckle his belt and pull down his trousers, he grabbed for her waist and she fell on top of him. His eyes were liquid with drink, but there was tenderness there too, and maybe … lust?
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and then pulled her face towards his.
The overwhelming taste was gin. Opal leant into him. His lips were soft, and the shape of him confronting in its familiarity. His fingers wound into the waves of her hair, and he let out a soft moan. Opal felt her pulse quicken as his other hand travelled down her back. She pressed herself into him and arched her head back to give him access to her neck. Instead he nibbled at her ear.
Opal felt a sudden sense of being outside of herself again, just as she had earlier in that very same room with Deborah.From her position above, surveying the scene below, she wondered what he was doing to her earlobe. He’d never done that before.
Just as the word murmured straight into her ear escaped his mouth, it struck her that she was playing the part of the stand-in. She was the understudy for the intended recipient of this passionate performance.
‘Agnes.’
Finally then she knew; there was no good wifeing her way out of this. The traditional wisdom had failed, and now she would have to try something a bit more radical.
Martin was too drunk to register his mistake, so when Opal pulled away and mumbled something about being tired and sleeping in the guest room, he just smiled dozily, planted a peck on her forehead and wished her a good night’s sleep.
And in fact, she slept like a baby that night, black lace strewn over the floor and cosied by her bare skin against the cool sheets – unbothered by another body next to her.
Chapter 5
