You spend five years getting a master’s in meteorology and what do you have to show for yourself? Semi-fame as the pretty weather-girl on tv and the right to be the long-legged adornment at your husband’s side at social functions. Don’t forget the right to pay half the mortgage on the house, half the bank-loan on John’s Audi and your Smurf blue VW Up. Then there are the Wednesday evening and Sunday morning make-out sessions, unless, of-course, John isn’t too tired or too hung-over.

I sighed to myself in the mirror. The world is about to fall apart on us, and I’m putting make-up on in front of the bathroom mirror. I’m in a funk and I know it. Somehow, I need to find my game face.

John poked his head around the door, his newly ironed, courtesy of yours truly, white dress shirt still unbuttoned. At least my breasts haven’t sagged the way John’s chest has. He used to have nice chest muscles, but now they’ve begun their slow move downwards to his belly. We’re getting old. He holds up a blue and red striped tie. “I thought you’d wear your red dress.”

How could he not have noticed the green and orange dress I’d laid out on the bed? I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t have the tan for that dress.”

“I think you look great in that dress. We need to put our best foot forwards.”

That is John code for wear the red dress or I’ll piss and moan about it for a week. The red dress it is then. I’ll look like the danish flag. Brushing a little rouge on my cheeks, my green eyes lock on to John’s eyes. A little revenge for him dictating what I should wear seems in place, besides I needed to get this out. “How did we pay for the pool in the backyard?”

John stepped into the room. “I told you! I did.”

“All of it?”

He tilted his head slightly to the side. “What have you heard?”

“Keith, from the news desk, stopped by my office. He was really interested in the pool and how we could afford it.”

John got that faraway look of confusion, then his eyes opened wide. “Geez, talk about political spin. There is nothing to it.”

“Keith hinted at shady deals in the city council.”

“It’s nothing. They might spin the story that way, but really it’s nothing. There is nothing there.”

Did he think I was stupid? This was my life too, and he was about to fuck it all up. I threw the rouge brush into the sink with a plink, spun and placed my hands on my hips, “I need to know, I have a right to know.”

I stared daggers at John.

John stared sullenly back at me. Silence engulfing the bathroom.

I needed to know, if I was to function today, couldn’t he see that? Maybe another approach. By sheer force of will, I opened my arms slightly out. “If I’m going to field questions from the news desk, I need to know how to spin it the right way.”

John took a step back and unfolded his arms. “Okay, I can see that. All I did was try to keep some poor construction workers employed.”

This was like pulling teeth. How did that explain anything? “That will not answer Keith’s questions next time he drops by my office.”

He raised his hands in a warding off gesture. “I can see that. You know Anderson & Co.?”

Everybody knew them, “Yeah...”

“Well, I had a meeting with Hans, their CEO, about the permits for the new housing development. There was a hitch ... a delay, just a technicality, really. The delays meant they had to layoff one of their crack Polish construction gangs, and you know ... once they go back to Poland, it is impossible to get them all back once the permits for the new project got through. So Hans suggested I should use them to build the pool. He’d pay for the labor provided I pay for the materials. Everybody wins. He keeps a crack construction gang. They get to keep their jobs and we get a pool in the backyard. Win, win, win.”

Damn, no wonder Keith had been curious, “and you being the head of the building committee...” I let the implication just hang in the air.

John sighed. “That’s how the opposition will try to spin it.”

I could just imagine Keith’s face on the news, ‘And now onto our headline story, corruption and backroom dealings in the City Council... ‘ “And you took care of the technicality?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

No, he’d damn well only hinted, but it didn’t take a science degree to connect the dots. That arrogant bastard. With great responsibility comes great privilege. Ya-da, ya-da, “if Keith has heard the rumors, so will a lot of newsies. What now?”

“Rory says not to worry. He has a handle on it.”

“Rory? The mayor? The man who you are working to replace? The one you are at loggerheads with at every political meeting? Why would he want to help you?”

“Because it will blow back on the party. It’s in his interests to keep a lid on things as well.”

“There is no need to worry he says. He’s got almost all the ducks lined up. He only needs one more favor.”

“And if things fall through?”

“There might be some bad headlines, but I should be able to pull through.”

“And me? What about me?”

“You’re just the wife. I’ll be the one who will be in the storm’s eye.”

Just the wife? What century did he live in? I might not be a big celebrity, but people recognized me in the streets. The gossip magazines would drag me through the gutter if this came out. The station would have to let me go. What the fuck happened to the bright law student I met at Uni?

I could, no! I should go on a tirade about the ‘just the wife’ comment, but what would be the point? It was better to swallow my pride than start a big argument, especially now. I took a deep breath and let it all flow out of my body in a big exhale, “okay dear.”

John frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

I turned back to the mirror, “that it’s okay. There is nothing I can do about it, so I have to let it go, and hope for the best.”

John stepped up to me and kissed me behind the ear.

A shiver ran down my spine, “we haven’t got time.”

“You are the most practical woman I know. So wise, so serene, so courageous.”

The serenity prayer? Yes, that seemed to be the mantra of my life.

I sat in the dark living room, staring at Rory’s business card. John had already gone to gone to bed.

The party had gone mostly the way I’d expected, mostly.

Before I met John, I always thought political parties were where like-minded people met and laid plans to change the world. Now I knew better. It was all about building and destroying power bases within the party. Without a firm power base, you didn’t have the backing for your policies, and the right policies could change the world. See, politics really is about making the world a better place. I’m sure Brutus and Cassius thought the same.

At one point, Rory, a distinguished gentleman of about fifty, had pulled me aside, his bushy eyebrows wrinkled in concern. “Ah Emma, I wanted a quiet word with you,” he had said.

I had looked up at the man towering above me. This was it, the talk about the looming scandal. I had tried to smile even wider, despite the sucking void in my stomach. “What about?”

His face had suddenly gone very stern, “don’t get coy with me. We both know the pickle John finds himself in.”

Ruefully, I had nodded, “yes.”

“I have a way to make it all go away. All I need is your cooperation.”

“How so?”

He had then handed me a business-card, “Meet me there,” he raised his eyebrows, “I like nice lingerie.”

Lingerie? Did he want me to sleep with him? I looked at the card. The front had his contact information, the back, in obvious male handwriting, said, ‘Hotel Clarion, Room 314, Thursday 19:30.’ How dare he? I wasn’t about to soil myself. “If you for one moment think I’ll cheat on John, you can forget it.”

“Think about it. We all win. I get a little fun. John keeps his career and you won’t get dragged into John’s mess. Win, win, win.”

I had just stared at him. Win, win, win. The same word John had used earlier.

“Think about it. Let me know what you decide,” he had said, and then spun around on his heels.

And that was what I was doing. No matter what I did, life as I knew it was over. Our marriage wouldn’t survive the political scandal, that much I knew. I couldn’t face the shame of being implicated in corruption and losing my job. The gossip magazines would have a field day. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I whored myself out. The last choice was to leave the sinking ship. A divorce.

Except I was 31, and the biological clock was ticking. We’d been trying for a baby for months now. I’d invested seven years in this relationship. Poof, gone. Sure, the passion had cooled, but our relationship was stable, known, comfortable. Even if I found a new partner, how old would I be when we were ready for a baby? How long until I was too old?

Which was the least of the evils? Divorce, never having a baby or the shame and loss of self-respect of whoring myself out. I’d never thought it could happen to me, but #MeToo proved that plenty of women had been pressured into sex. They went on with their lives.

Provided John never learned about it, laying back, spreading my legs and thinking of my husband seemed to be the least worst thing. If John found out, he would leave me, and I’d be back in the divorce scenario.

Would Rory setup hidden cameras to get blackmail material? If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said no. Now? Yeah, he just might.

I grabbed my phone. It was late, too late to call someone on the phone, but I didn’t care. If Rory wanted to fuck me, he’d have to accept a minor discomfort.

“Rory,” a voice croaked out on the phone.

“Emma, I’m in.”

His voice sounded brighter, stronger. “Great, I knew you’d see reason.”

“No cameras. I’ll rent a room and wait for you there.”

“That’s fine. That way, there won’t be a record of me renting a room.”

Damn, I should have thought about that. Too late now.

“See you there.”

I hung up before he could even answer me.

All hotel rooms, at least in the price range I can afford, are identical. A small hallway with a bathroom off to the side and a room with a double bed, an armchair, and a small desk. All in bland design and color, mustn’t anger anybody.

I had worked hard to calm my jitters and nerves by obsessing about what constituted nice lingerie. I knew what I thought was nice, but what would Rory like? In the end I’d splurged on a nice balcony bra with a matching g-string, all in sheer white see through laced silk.

I usually keep myself nice and tidy down there, but the underwear required something extra. I was as hairless and smooth as the day I was born all over my body. Waxing between my legs had been excruciatingly painful. I had poured every whimper, every jab of pain into that bottomless pit of anger that was Rory. Someday, someday he would pay.

Just to stress my unhappiness with his request for nice lingerie, I’d settled for a simple white camisole, distressed levis, and plain white flats. No makeup and my shoulder long blonde hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. No jewelry, not even, or especially not, my wedding band. He wasn’t getting anything more than plain old me. The only concession to my vanity was white lacquered finger and toe nails.

White, the color of innocence. I hoped he got the implied message, but somehow I doubted he would get it. I stripped the bed and put the duvets and blanket in a cupboard. The white pillows and bedsheets strengthened my message.

My body was tight with anxiety and jitters. I sat down on the edge of the bed. My clammy hands fidgeted with the phone. 19:28. Two minutes. In disgust, I dropped my phone on the side table. And waited. Every little noise startled me and made me jump.

I had to pee. I got up, did the deed, and checked the time. 19:31. He was late. Maybe he wasn’t coming. I could hope. My throat constricted. I felt like crying, but couldn’t. I was about to sell my body, a filthy whore. Maybe not for money, but still. Easy, deep breaths. With luck, it would only last ten minutes, then I could go. Pretend this had never happened.

19:34. No, I couldn’t go through with this. This was not who I wanted to be.

There was a knock on the door.

Startled, I let out an eeep and jumped off the bed and rushed to the door. I’d just have to explain to him that the deal was off.

Out in the hallway stood Rory with a young man, no! a boy, in front of him. The boy reached Rory to his chin. Rory held a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders.

The boy was gaping wide eyed at me. What was this? I’d agreed on sex, not a ménage à trois, especially not involving a minor. I was about to open my mouth when Rory pushed the boy forward into the room.

Their movement forward forced me to go back into the room.

Rory pushed the boy forward. “This is Luca. It is his birthday, and I promised him something special.”

The boy, Luca, was about my height, maybe a few centimeters shorter. Most prominent was a pair of wide rimmed black glasses. Brown hair, cut short, narrow shoulders. His eyes roamed over my body in obvious admiration. He was in his early teens, fourteen, fifteen at the most. Less than half my age. There was a striking family resemblance between Luca and Rory. Did Rory expect a father/son gang bang? I looked at Rory. “I didn’t agree with this.”