Page 9

I could feel my hands rocking back and forth against the bark, my muddy heels sinking into the ground.

‘Just keep going,’ I called back, trying to glance behind me and see what was going on with my arsehole.

Adam was moaning, ‘Jesus! Fuck. Oh, fucking hell.’

‘Ssshh!’ I warned him. ‘And take your thumb out of my arse!’

‘I’m going to . . . Harri, I’m sorry . . . I’m going to—’ I felt him pull out, and a surge of hot slime landed on my bum cheek then trickled down to my legs.

I cleared my throat, feeling him take a step back.

There was a brief silence.

Then I stood up straight, pulling my coat tighter around me, my hands clumsily fumbling with the belt. I was waiting for something inside me to happen. Relief? Satisfaction? Anything, but nothing came.

‘Well . . . eh . . . Apologies. That was quicker than I anticipated.’ He held his hands up sheepishly. ‘I haven’t had a shag out in the open like this since I was fifteen.’ He laughed, then glanced at me.

I managed a small smile back, still unsure how I felt.

‘Harriette?’ His voice snapped me from my thoughts.

‘Yes, sorry. That’s OK. I’ll head out first, if you don’t mind holding back for a few minutes,’ I said.

‘Already?’ He sounded surprised.

I wiped my hands on the inside of my jacket and picked up my umbrella.

‘Yes, my husband might be home by now.’ I paused. ‘Adam, what were you doing to my arsehole?’ I asked.

He chuckled under his breath. ‘I was stroking it with my thumb, it makes you go tighter. Did you like it?’

My face dropped. Tighter? How much tighter did he want? ‘I don’t think I did actually.’ I paused again. ‘Thanks for meeting up, Adam. I guess I’ll see you around.’ I stepped past him, legs slightly unsteady. I knew it certainly wasn’t from the shagging. Maybe the weather, I thought.

‘Harriette,’ Adam called after me.

I turned with a sigh.

‘Will we do this again, or . . .?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll message you. See you around.’

I marched out of the woods, glancing left and right, head down, coat fastened. The thought of my pelvic floor was consuming my thoughts. Is that why Rupert doesn’t want me? Harriette, heavy hole! Oh God, no, surely not? I was practically a Master Black Belt at Pilates, for fuck sake.

When I returned home, I opened the front door and immediately noticed the quiet. I pushed the door shut behind me and stood for a second, just listening, half hoping that the TV would be on, or I’d hear movement. But nothing. He was still with her. I slipped off my shoes, wincing as I noticed the mud clinging to the heels, and carried them through to the kitchen, setting them in the sink with a half-arsed attempt at stain remover. I really didn’t care.

Upstairs, I went straight to my dressing room, running a towel over my legs, which felt icy cold from being outside and still a little damp. My hands slowed as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. The lingerie was still perfect. Untouched, really. Which felt ironic.

I let out a small, humourless laugh. So that was it. All of that – for what? Two pumps, a squirt and a sore arsehole – and I didn’t even feel good.

I shoved the other phone back in my drawer a bit too quickly, like I could bury the whole incident with it, then reached for my actual one. Notifications, endless comments and likes. But absolutely nothing from my husband.

It was well after nine now, and I wondered when Rupert would come home. He was never one for staying out late, so I knew it would be soon. He wasn’t stupid enough to stay out so late that I asked questions. I switched on the shower in the ensuite, watched the water flow, then I switched it off again. What had I just done? I felt numb. I couldn’t do this, any of it. I wiped away a stray tear and flopped down on the bathroom floor, lying there until eventually I summoned the energy to drag myself to bed.

It was past ten when I heard the front door unlock and recognised Rupert’s footsteps padding around downstairs. I lifted my head, wondering when he’d come to check on me; after all, I was faking a sickie. But after a few minutes of quiet, I realised he wasn’t. His laugh echoed throughout the house. He was on the phone, probably telling Pen he’d gotten away with it, again. I stared at the bedroom ceiling. Then, eventually, twenty minutes later, I heard him heading towards our bedroom. He pushed open the door and gave me a nod. ‘Feeling better, darling?’ he asked.

I sat up, letting the covers drop slightly, exposing my bra. ‘Come to bed,’ I said, pulling back the sheets.

His dark eyes dropped to the floor. ‘I have to shower. Won’t be long.’