My Revenge to Cheating Husband Novel – My husband is cheating on me. There it is, an innocuous red blot beneath the V shaped edge of his collar. Red, the colour of ripe cherry, smearing into the white of his dress shirt. Obscure, really. I wouldn’t have noticed it if that button hadn’t come undone, dangling a little on a wisp of thread. She must have moaned into his throat, yanked at the button so hard as he thrusted into her, clawed at it as she came, screaming. He must have driven to see her straight from work last night.
Slept with her with his shirt on, with her lipstick on. He came home at seven sharp. Which means it must have been a quick rutting. Against the wall, maybe. My husband likes that. “No time to shower. Lisa’s waiting,” I can imagine him saying apologetically, zipping up his pants. “We’ve been invited to that dinner at the Caulfields. Can’t be late now, can I?” I remember him side-stepping me, saying, “I’ve got to shower, baby. We need to hurry. Dinner’s at eight.” And he had disappeared into the bathroom, emerging later, sogging wet briefs drapped casually over a hand. “I dropped these on the floor. They’re soaked.” With come. But I hadn’t known it then. Obviously. “Toss them into the washing machine.” I had grimaced. And he’d done that.
So he’s cheating on me. The question is. With who? I need to look at his phone. Tonight. I only hope he hasn’t changed the pin. 4.00 p.m. Ryan texts, Meeting a business associate for dinner. Mr. Nakamoto. You remember him? You met him last year. He just flew in from Osaka an hour ago. Don’t wait up. I love you. I call his office. His fifty-four-year old secretary, Martha, picks up the phone. I’m pretty sure he’s not doing her, considering she’s a mother of three strapping six-footers and a grandma of two. “Hello, Martha. This is Lisa Matthews. Is my husband in?” “Oh, hi, Mrs. Matthews. He just left ten minutes ago.” “I thought the meeting was later this evening.” “Dinner?” She sounds surprised. “What dinner would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?” “With Mr. Nakamoto?” “Mr. Nakamoto’s arriving next Tuesday, Mrs. Matthews. I think you must have the dates confused.” “I must have. Sorry.
So he has nothing planned for tonight?” “Not as far as I know” “Thank you. No need to mention that I called, it isn’t important.” “Of course, Mrs. Matthews. Have a nice day.” “Bye.” There’s only one person I can call. “Jen?” “Lisa?” “Jen,” I take a deep breath. “Ryan is cheating on me.” A long, deep silence. Then: “Oh, God, Lisa. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but” “You knew?” My voice cracks. “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re my sister, for crying out loud” “He told Charlie he’d end it.” Charlie’s my brother-in-law. My sister, Jenny and him have been married for twelve years and have two boys. “Charlie?” “Remember the guy’s night they had last Saturday? Ryan got drunk and he told Charlie that” A pause. “That he’d been sleeping with this woman. Charlie got so mad he threatened him, said he’d tell you. Ryan swore he’d break it off. He begged Charlie not to say anything to you” I breathe in. Breathe out. “Ryan lied. He’s still shagging this woman.
Wait ” My throat has gone dry. “Do you know who she is? Did Ryan say who she is?” “Susan.” No, it can’t be. No. No. No. “Susan Wells.” “Susan Wells,” I echo numbly. “Susan Wells” — I swallow — “My best friend?” And my neighbour. Two houses down. “Yes. I’m so, so sorry — ” “How long?” My hands are sweating. “Tell me how long!” I scream. “A year.” No. No. No. It’s not possible. “He said he’d been with her for a year. I’m so, so sorry, Lisa.” Ryan’s in the shower. Again. Come to think of it, he’s in a hurry to get to the shower these days. He used to stop to hug me, peck me, the moment he came through the door. The last time he did that was —- let’s see —- last Tuesday? That’s four days ago. Which means he’s been dropping in at Susan’s first the past four evenings, before he came back home to his clueless little wifey. Or, maybe, they met up somewhere. His office. Or a hotel room. Ryan’s a rich guy, money’s no problem for him. Which reminds me —- I need to check his credit card bills. And —- I need to check his phone. Now. While his in the shower, washing off her scent. It’s crazy. It’s 1.00 a.m in the morning —- yes, that’s how late he came home —- and I’m clutching his phone, staring down at it. It’s locked.
I key in the pin with shaking fingers. 2292. 2 February 1992. My birthday. It unlocks, just as a text pings through. Susan. Hey, babe. You back home? You drilled me so hard I’m still sore. The bimbo. A new text pings. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night. I need a good workout to keep me going till next Monday. The study. 8.00 pm. Make an excuse to L. I’ll be waiting. Night. Love you. Silence from the bathroom. Ryan’s finished showering. I slide his phone back quietly on the side table. Climb back onto the bed. Turn to the side. Close my eyes. I hear the bathroom door open, the pad of his feet approaching the bed. The mattress dips a little as he climbs in. I feel his body warmth as he spoons me, pecking me softly, tenderly, on the side of my neck. His shaft is soft, flacid, as he pulls me against his length. How many times did he sleep with her? It hasn’t seemed to stop him wanting me, though. Yesterday, he mounted me while I was asleep in bed, and woke me up with his thrusting. “Nothing like a good old morning to start the day,” he had grinned, flipped me over on my hands and knees, and drove into me again. And again. And then he went to work, I decided to do the laundry, and my life turned upside down.
In the blink of an eye, everything has changed. Yesterday, I loved him. Today, I hate him. “I love you, Lisa,” he murmurs, stroking my cheeks softly. I keep my eyes closed. Breathe deep, evenly. I can feel the weight of his gaze. “My beautiful Lisa,” he whispers. And then, so low it comes out a sigh: “Forgive me.” “Zip me up, baby.” I arch my back as Ryan saunters into our bedroom, only to freeze, his mouth falling open. “God, Lisa. You look so hot.” He swallows. Crosses the room, and is on me in two beats. He tugs the silk straps down, cups my exposed breasts. “I need to taste these beauties….” he licks my left papilla, sucking it into his mouth, while his other hand palms my right papilla. “I want to slept with you so bad, baby,” he moans, switching to my right papilla, his hot mouth latching onto it. “I’m so hard for you right now.” “We’re going to be late,” I say, staring down at his face, wild with passion, his tongue, flicking out so expertly. Ryan has the most erotic tongue. The way he dips and licks and teases could bring me to orgasmic heaven in a minute. On the benefit of hindsight, maybe, it was because he’d had a lot of practice with Susan. I imagine him swirling his tongue around Susan’s more modest cups, and instantly, a red-hot coil of rage unfurls. I shove him away, more violently than I should, and he stumbles two steps back.
He looks at me, stunned. I have never shoved him before. Never denied him. Not once, not ever, in the twelve years we have been together. We got together at sixteen, lived for two years after I graduated from uni, and got married soon after. I was 24 while he was 25. That was four years ago, so, yes, we have been married for four years. No kids, but we were thinking of trying for a baby this year. I guess the plan is on hold for now —- maybe, forever. Right now, I don’t want to think about divorce. The only thought that consumes my mind now is this: I want to hurt Susan and him. All I want is revenge on my best friend and my cheating, lying husband. Which is why I’m dressed to the nines in this pretty little black backless dress. I bought it two weeks ago in a trendy boutique, laughingly giving in to Jen’s plea to “liven up your life, you can’t get too complacent with a hot husband like Ryan.” On hindsight, she was warning me about Ryan, but I was too dumb —- and too complacent, she was right —- to contemplate the idea of my husband cheating on me. “Lisa, what’s the matter?” Ryan is staring at me. He looks bewildered. Lost. Scumbag. I hate him so much at this instant. I want to scream at him, slap that handsome face, spit into it. I inhale. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Stay calm. Deep breaths. In. Out. In.
Out. “Lisa — ” is that flicker of alarm —- or guilt —- in his eyes? Is he thinking, Does she know? Does stupid, trusting Lisa suspect that I was balls deep in her best friend’s private part last night? Did someone tip her off? I plaster a fake smile on my face. “We’re late. Susan” —- ah, definitely a flash of guilt in those soft blue lying eyes —- ” and Maxim will be waiting. You know how Susan loves her meals on time.” Ryan flinches, the merest twitch, but the new, clever me picks it up at once. “She can be so bossy, sometimes. Honestly, I wonder how Maxim can stand her.” Another twitch. I giggle a little. “I wonder if she’s that controlling in bed. Ride me, Max! Ride me! ” I mimic, feigning a breathy moan, and Ryan freezes for an imperceptible second, before he clears his throat. He turns away to zip me up. He is clearly uncomfortable. Oh, Ryan darling, I haven’t even started yet. “You guys are early,” Susan gushes, beaming. “Come in. Max will be out in a minute. He popped upstairs to change.” “This is for you.” I pass her a bottle of vintage red spirits. “Your favorite.” “Thank you.
Lisa, you look beautiful — and Ryan, gosh, you look positively dashing!” Ryan laughs, a little too loud, a little too long, and I wonder why I was so blind this whole time. It’s so obvious from the way her eyes linger on him, tilting her face flirtatiously toward him, that she is besotted with him. Standing too close to him, her hip brushing his, her little finger trailing down his palm. Blink, and you’d miss it. Two days ago, I wouldn’t have noticed them, these miniscule gestures, these quaint little tokens of intimacy. But tonight, I am primed, a she-wolf, nostrils flaring, heckles quivering at fever-pitch; a raw, bleeding creature, watchful and ready, hungry for the evidence of the affair, readying my heart to be ripped asunder. I see everything. I question everything. I suspect everything. It is as I have woken up from a long, deep slumber. She’s batting her eyes at him now, holding his gaze, slapping his arm, her laughter rumbling, shaking her head, giggling, Oh, God, that’s so lame, you silly man, you, as he makes a joke. I watch her, watch him, his face filled with pleasure; hers flustered, animated, alive.
Susan is the last woman I would have expected my husband to have an affair with. Plain, my mother used used to say pityingly. So different from you, darling. She never stood out, not in high school, not in uni. Guys weren’t interested in her. Unlike me. Moths to a flame, my grandmother used to chuckle, watching the procession of boys who came to my doorstep with presents —- chocolates, flowers, tickets to the movies, soft toys for my birthday. I was beautiful then, and I am beautiful now. Five foot five, blonde, and slender. Blue eyes. Red lips and perfect, white teeth to match. And it’s all me, all authentic. You were born beautiful, my mum used to say. Beauty runs in the family. My mum was a Miss Yorkshire runner-up back in her heydays, and my aunt Helen, my mum’s elder sister, was a finalist in the World Miss Pageant back in ’72. I have never joined any beauty contests, but was voted Prom Queen in high school. Guys would stutter and turn red when I smiled at them.
Grown men still blush when I talk to them. Susan is my polar opposite in looks. Height-wise, she is shorter than me by a head. She comes up to my shoulders. She is curvier than me, with bigger hips, even though her boobs are smaller than mine, surprisingly. My hair is long and blonde, hers is short and auburn. My eyes are blue, hers are brown. I wonder if Ryan started an affair with her because she’s so different from me. Or perhaps, he just craves adoration. Susan has always worshipped Ryan. She was his best friend in high school. They hung out together until the day a new girl transferred to the school. Me. He told me he fell in love with me at first sight. We hung out together, the three of us, until one day, it became just the two of us. That was the day he asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes, we told Susan, and she smiled, even though her eyes were sad, and said she was happy for us. But eventually, she stopped hanging out with us, she said it was awkward, and she didn’t want to be the unwanted third. And so, Ryan and I became exclusive. We were immersed in our own little bubble.
We didn’t want her to tag along. We were exploring our new giddy feelings for each other. And not too long after, our bodies, too, became a wondrous source of delight and mytery and pleasure. Susan was our friend, but Ryan and I — we were a couple. And so, she was left behind. “Ryan, I want to show you that orchid plant we got last week,” Susan says, her face filled with suppressed excitement. Orchid plant? Probably wants him to give her a quick pleasuring session in the garden. “Oh, okay. Lisa, baby, you coming?” Ryan looks guiltily at me. “Oh, you go ahead. I’ll just stay here for a bit.” My cheating husband and his mistress stroll past sliding glass doors into the garden. Good riddance. I hope a bee stings your shaft. “Lisa.” A deep voice, low in my ear. “What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in my sitting room all alone?” I smell him before I see him. Cedar and spice. “Maxim.” I breathe. Turn around. And there he is. Maxim Chamberlain. Max, for short. Everybody calls him Max.
Except me. I prefer Maxim. It’s assured, calm, confident. It exudes control, elegance. He steps once, twice, toward me. Pulls me in for a hug. He does this every time he sees me. And every time, he does it, my heart beats a little faster, and that secret nub between my legs clenches, the teeniest weeniest bit. I used to feel guilty, but today, I feel a delicious thrill of excitement. I press myself against him, allow myself to sink into the length of him —- every ridge, every dip, every slope of that tall, lean, hard, delicious physique. I have never reciprocated this way before: a perfunctory hug, and a swift separation — those have been all I have permitted myself to indulge in in the past two years, ever since they moved into their mansion, two doors away from us, to the right, down the lane. I wind my arms around the back of his neck. He looks down at me, puzzled.
But he makes no attempt to pull away. Instead, his arms tighten around my waist. I stand on my tiptoes, and press a buss on his cheek, dangerously close to the corner of that hard, masculine mouth. “You smell divine,” I whisper. I see his strong, hard throat bob. Hear the hitch in his breath. I glide my fingers down his strong neck. “You’re damp. Did you just shower?” “I did.” His mouth curves a little. His long, elegant fingers press a little harder, and I swallow. “You have to let me go,” I say a little breathlessly. I feel my cheeks crease. I am smiling. “Ryan and Susan are watching.” They are. I can see them through the glass doors. Ryan is staring, his jaw slack. Susan’s mouth has fallen open. Whatever was going on between them has been nipped in the bud. I feel my smile widen. His arms fall — reluctantly, that wicked little imp in me whispers naughtily in my head — to his sides. I take a step back. Toss my hair, look up at him. “What was that all about?” Maxim is eyeing me quizzically.