Kate
I was puttingon mascara when he came in.
I met my husband’s blue eyes in the mirror. Those eyes ran over me with hunger. Appreciation.
My skin tingled.
I wasn’t wearing anything particularly revealing. A tailored dress, white with little flowers all over it. It showed off my figure, trim because my husband liked me that way. I was religious about my diet, about my morning Pilates class. The same with my Botox appointments, expensive facials and a standing appointment with my hair stylist to add honey highlights and keep my naturally midnight black hair a softer chocolatey color so I never had roots.
We had an image to maintain after all.
Preston swept my hair aside and kissed my neck. “You look good enough to eat, babe.”
My stomach clenched as his hands went down to my hips, his front pressing into my back, his intention clear. My heartbeat thrummed as my body responded to his, attuned after all these years.
“I’m already late,” I sighed.
Preston’s hand at my hip tightened, and he whirled me around.
His fist plowed into my stomach in one smooth move.
I doubled over, wheezing as my breath was sucked out of me.
“Manage your time better,” he said coldly. “And don’t ever refuse me again.”
His shoes echoed on our heated bathroom tiles.
I stared at the pattern, frowning at a speck I must’ve missed when I was cleaning the floors earlier this morning.
Once the pain subsided, I straightened, stared at myself in the mirror for a second, then resumed putting on my mascara.
“I fantasize about cheating on my husband with the neighbor when I’m masturbating,” Luanne said.
The women laughed, and I merely smiled tightly.
“I don’t come to the thought of cheating,” she continued with a sly grin. “It’s the thought of the pillow talk after, being able to complain about my idiot husband that sends me over the edge.”
More shrieks of laughter.
I sipped my iced tea.
Luanne drained her rosé. It was her second, and she lifted her hand to the waiter in a way that was patronizing and dismissive, signaling another.
Her eyes zeroed in on me. Luanne didn’t like me. Of course, she never came right out and said it. No one in this little group of wives were honest about how they felt—beyond their fantasies about the neighbor. It was just pointed comments, backhanded compliments, whispers behind each other’s backs.
She didn’t like me. For many reasons. Mostly because I was younger than her, and she was threatened by that. And also because she wanted my husband. She didn’t try to hide it. Not even a little. She was always stroking his arm when we had parties, standing a little too close, laughing at his jokes, rubbing her fake tits on his arms.
If only she knew what being married to Preston was like, she wouldn’t be so eager to rub up against him.
“What about you, Kate?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “We’ve all shared. Who do you fantasize about when you use your battery-operated friend? Even though your husband is a man made of fantasy.”
I smiled tightly at her. “He defies fantasy,” I said smoothly.
They all waited with bated breath. All the ladies who lunched. The group of women Preston had urged me to befriend once Violet went to school and I had ‘nothing’ to do with my time.
Despite the fact that I cleaned our entire house daily because he could see any speck of dirt. That I made everything in our home from scratch because he didn’t want processed food. That I took his shirts and suits to the drycleaners, also daily because he wanted everything ‘fresh.’ That I spent hours on dinner because he expected me to serve him gourmet meals.
Then there were our gardens that he needed to be impeccable. He didn’t hire anyone. Except to do the grass and the pool, but they came on an exact day at an exact time. Otherwise, he didn’t want strangers in our home. Didn’t want them snooping. Seeing things they shouldn’t.