Chapter 6

Why do nice women fall for bastards? Why do they betray their loving, devoted husbands to have their slutty, shortlived desires satisfied?

Why is it always the sweet, dedicated lover who bites the dust? The husband who quietly works his ass off for her. The patient friend who listens to her wishes, even the silly wishes, and tries to find ways to make her life better? The man who honestly tries to polish his obnoxious ways, giving up his bar brawls and bowling buddies. The man who even lets her tell him what to wear?

Why are we always ready to call him a softie for that, or even a wimp or a loser?

We always insist on being treated with care and love. We fill glossy magazines with it. We think up TV -shows about it. Then we turn around and throw ourselves at the mercy of an uncaring, callous bastard. We give him our mouth, our cunt and our ass. We beg him to take our dignity. We even gladly give him what we deny our husbands.

And then we beg for more.

Yes, I know. I married a bastard. Don't ask me why. It seemed the thing to do at the time. What did I know? He was good looking, wealthy, popular, wealthy, witty, smooth, wealthy...

Ah, well, you get the picture.

I should have been forewarned, even before we got married. I met him in high school, he was three years my senior. I was awed. He impressed me. He hypnotized me.

He went to study law at Harvard. So law was the thing for me. I struggled in his wake at a New York law school. I have never seen him fail a test. I had to redo most of them. As a matter of fact, : I have never seen him with a book. I was never without one.

After we married we went to work. I was still gasping to keep my head above water when he was admitted to the bar. I was still slaving through hopeless briefs and pro bono cases when he was made the youngest partner in his father's firm. By then he earned exactly three times as much as I did.

I admired him. He was brilliant. Problem was, it was almost impossible to admire him more than he admired himself. It was also impossible for him to admire others. Like me, for instance. He ridiculed my pro bono cases. He made fun of my trying to get things done for kids in bad neighbourhoods.

I lapped it all up. And purred.

Of course I saw in the end who he was. A bit late, I admit. But hey, even dumbo's have to start somewhere. Problem with this dumbo, though, was that she didn't stop admiring him. Doting on him might be a better word.

I was never a girl to have many friends. Especially after I became moonstruck over damn Phil. The few girlfriends I did have I had pushed away by then, a habit I had always found disgusting in other girls.

The only friend who did not accept being pushed away, was Irene Gallaghan. We went to kindergarten together, peed on potties together. She is all I am not. Tall, uncomplicated, clever. And beautiful.

I am pretty. Cute they say. The kind of pretty you come up with if someone forces you to tell something nice about a girl. They might even have to use force on you to see me at all.

But that's enough self-pity, Mary Eckstein. Get a grip on yourself. You know better than that.

So... Irene.

I am not sure I want to talk about Irene. Phil is a bastard who fucked around on me even in our first year of marriage. I didn't know then, as I was rather blind at the period. It certainly wasn't because he was discreet about it.

I remember Irene hinting at it. She had been divorced at that time, only a year and a bit after marrying this sleaze ball Dean-somethingorother. Yes, we two girls had a great nose for perfect husbands.

She said she had seen Phil with a blonde. At the Plaza, no less. There hadn't been much space between him and her, in the lobby. And the aim of their mutual beeline was the elevators.

I lied to her that I knew about it and that it was nothing. I was dying inside. She never returned to the subject, though I am sure she had ample opportunity in the months after.

Irene. At the time I thought she cared about me. Even after she fell head over heels for this advertising guy Eric, she kept seeing me, listening to me, keeping me in her social orbit.

I tended to bury myself in work, by that time. You know, being buried excuses you from seeing things, like cheating husbands. The downside of it is that you have preciously few good times.

Did I like my work? Pro bono cases, good deeds in paupered neighborhoods? Well, I sure loved being appreciated, if even by teenaged mothers and desperate parents of juvenile delinquents.

Yes, I loved my work. Especially since the one thing I really loved wasn't available to me. I wanted a child. Now don't laugh. I wanted Phil's child. But it was not to be. The friendly doctor had had the good grace not to smile patronizingly when he told me I couldn't bear children.

I remember telling Phil, five years ago. "Well," he said, and he did smile,. "Life's a bitch. But there are compensations. Look at it this way, honey. You won't ever have to worry about getting pregnant anymore."

Did I tell you Phil is a bastard?

Did I tell you I loved him?

Irene...

I believe Irene fucked Phil from the moment they met, years and years ago. She may deny that, but I don't care. I would also deny it if I were her. I would especially deny it if I had a husband like her Eric. Then again, if I had him I would not be as stupid a cunt as I am now. Or as she is, screwing around on him.

I believe she did fuck Phil a lot, maybe she still does. But I only know for sure she did it once. This summer at the villa. She and Eric often stayed as our guests for the weekends, when New York was too hot to live in. They were great weekends, even though Phil could not keep himself from flirting with Irene in the most blatant way.

I remember a small dinner party for my birthday, right after Irene had been divorced. Phil was laying it on, buttering his charms and lame attentions, when Irene apruptly rose and walked away from the table. I followed her to the ladies room. She said she suddenly didn't feel good. I called a taxi and she left for home.

It took a month until we started seeing each other again, apart from Phil. She never really told me what happened, but I guessed. I suppose she didn't think it wise to fuck my husband right under my eyes. And maybe Phil didn't understand.

You're right. I'm bitter. Shouldn't be, but I am.

That long weekend I am referring to was the absolute pinnacle of summer. It was sweltering. A merciless sun beat down from a cloudless sky and yet there was a lovely little sea breeze. Thursday night was lovely. I sat with Irene on the terrace sipping wine. She had arrived that afternoon and had found a way to take Friday off. Eric was still in the city, he would join us the next evening.

Even being almost sure that she fucked Phil, I loved her company. Then again, I had hardly a choice, had I? My world would be definitely empty without her. I had no choice but to rejoice. No alternative but to be happy and keep my mouth shut.

I hated to go to bed and end the evening. I felt unsure about what had to be done. But as I had told Irene that I must be in Harlem the next morning to sweat through a case of juvenile drug dealing, I could not stay up late.

So I left her on the terrace. I went into the dark house and watched her from the living room. I drank in her lovely body, more displayed than covered by the sexy new bikini. She had bought it while on vacation on Aruba with Eric. Her sweet silhouette was lined out against the glimmering surface of the pool. Her full moist lips kissed the rim of her glass.

There was the auburn cloud of hair. God, how I have always envied her for that.

I watched. Then I turned and went to see Phil.

"Slut," I whispered.

"Does it make you feel horny?"

"Oh God, yes..."

"Good. Are you wet now?"

"Mmmmmm..."

"I told you not to touch yourself."

"I won't, Master."

"Good girl."

"..."

"Does it make you feel jealous?"

"..."

"Answer me."

"Yes, it does, Master."

"You can't be jealous, girl."

"I know, Master. I shall fight it."

"Good girl."

"Thank you, Master."

"Now go to sleep."

"Yes, Master."

The next morning was brilliant.

I tiptoed through the house, preparing. Irene was in a deep sleep when I checked on her. Good.

I had a very light breakfast. It would be unwise to stuff myself.