The Husband's Secret(62)

            She ran the palm of her hand across the steamed-up mirror and considered her blurry reflection behind the drops of glass. She thought of the way Jacob kissed her with both his little fat hands pressed to her cheeks, his big clear blue eyes staring straight into hers, and each time she’d feel amazed gratitude that her wrinkly face could inspire such adoration.

            For something to do, she gently nudged at the chunky candle until it reached the edge of the cabinet, toppled and crashed to the floor in a shatter of vanilla-smelling glass.





FIFTEEN


            Cecilia was having sex with her husband. Good sex. Very good sex. Extremely good sex! They were having sex again. Hooray!

            “Oh God,” said John-Paul from above her. His eyes closed.

            “Oh God,” said Cecilia agreeably.

            It was like there hadn’t been a problem at all. They’d gone to bed tonight and turned to each other as naturally as when they were first together as young lovers, back when it was inconceivable that they would ever sleep next to each other without first having sex.

            “Jesus. Christ.” John-Paul tipped his head back in ecstasy.

            Cecilia moaned to let him know she was pretty happy too.

            Very. Good. Sex. Very. Good. Sex. She repeated the words in rhythm with the movement of their bodies.

            What was that? She strained her ears. Was it one of the girls calling out for her? No. Nothing. Damn it to hell. She’d lost her concentration now. Lose focus for just a moment and that was the end of it. She was back at square one. Tantric sex was the solution, according to Miriam. Now she was thinking about Miriam. So that was the end of that.

            “Oh God, oh God.” John-Paul appeared to be having no problem maintaining focus.

            Gay! Gay, my foot.

            The girls, who should have been sound asleep but were only just going to bed (Cecilia’s mother was disobedient when it came to schedules) had been ecstatic to see their father home earlier than anticipated.

            They’d climbed all over him, talking over the top of one another, telling him about The Biggest Loser, the Berlin Wall, the really stupid thing that Harriet had said at ballet the other day, how much fish Mum had made them eat and so on.

            Cecilia had watched John-Paul telling Isabel to turn around so he could admire her new haircut and had noted nothing strange about the way he looked at her. He was exhausted, with shadows under his eyes after the long flight (he’d been stuck in Auckland for most of the day after managing to get an earlier flight home that went via New Zealand), but he seemed happy, pleased with himself for surprising them. He did not seem like a man who cried secret tears in the shower. And now they were having sex! Great sex! Everything was fine. There was nothing to worry about. He hadn’t even mentioned the letter. It couldn’t be that significant if he wasn’t even talking about it.

            “Far . . . out.”

            John-Paul shuddered and fell against her.

            “Did you just say ‘far out’?” said Cecilia. “You seventies throwback.”

            “Yes, I did,” said John-Paul. “It indicated satisfaction. Speaking of which, I sense that . . . ?”

            “I’m fine,” said Cecilia. “It was far out, man.” It certainly would be next time.

            John-Paul laughed, rolled off her and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her neck.

            “Been a while,” observed Cecilia neutrally.

            “I know,” said John-Paul. “Why is that? That’s why I came home early. I suddenly got horny as hell.”