Eva Mazza - Sex, Lies & Stellenbosch

“I saw two plates on the counter. Did you have a visitor?” she asked as he combed his fingers through her hair.

“In fact, I did,” John said. “You asked me to get rid of Patty, so I had to negotiate a…”

Jen jumped up before he could finish.

“Tell me Patty was not in my house! I can’t believe that you would invite her here.”

“Relax, Jen,” John said, getting up off the bed. “Frans came over. I have to pay Patty a substantial amount to stop her taking me to the labour court. I asked Frans to cede one of my insurance policies,” he said, searching for his jocks.

Jen was enraged. “Don’t tell me to relax! Look at the cost of your philandering! You let this whore into your life and now she has you by the balls. And who does it affect? Me! It affects me, John, and our children.” She threw his scants at him. They landed on his head and then fell to the floor. “And then you tell me to relax?”

John scooped them up off the floor. “I’m sorry. You’re right, but I’m trying to make it go away.”

“Really! At a financial cost. And let’s not mention the cost to our happiness and to our marriage! Why should money from our policy go to Patty, for God’s sake? Why should Patty benefit from your…” She had become flustered. “Your… fuck up?” Jen started whipping on her clothes, not caring that her t-shirt was inside out.

“Look, Jen, I did what you asked me to do. I got rid of her, and it wasn’t easy. She threatened to take me to court and to make a huge hoo-ha about it. Do you want that?”

At that moment she could have punched him. Her fists were at the ready, but she screamed at him instead, “I didn’t want any of this! If you had kept your fucking pants on you wouldn’t have to ask me this stupid, stupid question!”

This is why you left him in the first place! Jen chastised herself. His inability to genuinely see the shit he’s caused. And don’t forget the so-called poker nights. Are you going to allow these debauched evenings to continue now you know the truth?

Overcome by exhaustion, she longed to crawl into bed. She could not face the mess, literally or figuratively. “I’m going to lie down in the spare room.” He moved towards her, but her hand came up in a gesture to stop him. “Please don’t disturb me. I want to be alone, to think.”

“But you’ve been alone thinking since Sunday,” he protested.

“Do me a favour, John, clean up the house and the rest of the mess you’ve made. And, John, just because we had sex, all is not forgiven or forgotten. We have a lot to talk about.”

“So, let’s talk, Jen, please.”

“I just can’t face it right now.” She turned her back on him and walked out of their bedroom.

The spare room was on the other side of the house, and sometimes, if they had had a fight, John was usually relegated to the spare bed. Jen opened the French doors leading to the rose garden and the neighbouring farm’s vineyards beyond. She pulled back the duvet and crawled into the double bed still clothed. Suppressing the urge to cry, she told herself this was no time to turn into an emotional wreck. She breathed in deeply and exhaled, trying to release the tension in her body. Soon she felt her eyes become heavy, and after a short while, she was asleep.

She didn’t hear John tiptoe into the room or feel his kiss on her forehead.

Jen woke up just after four in the afternoon to an immaculately clean house. It was obvious that John had asked Gladys to tidy the mess, as everything was spotless◦– something he was unable to accomplish alone. He wasn’t home, but he had left a message on the fridge door saying he was in the cellar if she needed him.

The sheets in their bedroom had been changed and Gladys had sprayed vanilla room mist and had opened the curtains and the windows, allowing the hot summer sunshine to stream through. Jen’s parcels had been placed neatly on her bed. She unpacked and hung up her unworn purchases and threw the worn ones in the wash basket. She kept aside a stone linen shirt dress, imported from Italy, to wear to her appointments the next day. She certainly did not want to look like a woman who was falling apart. No matter how she felt inside, from now on she would project a strong and confident persona.

A warm, relaxing bath was what she needed. That’s one thing she’d missed when she went away: her own bath. She never bathed in hotels◦– even in upmarket places like the lodge.

After she had undressed, she studied her naked body in the mirror. Two days of stress had made her shed some unwanted weight. Well, at least something good has come from this fiasco . She climbed into the warm water and submerged herself to just under her chin and lay soaking. She washed her hair and she took the time to exfoliate her tired body.

Jen didn’t usually spend long in the bath, but she had resolved to indulge herself from now on. She remembered the body butter Pete had bought her for Christmas, which she had packed away in her bathroom cupboard with her fragrances and toiletries. Today was as good a day as any other to use it. She opened the cupboard to search for it and as she did, an unfamiliar perfume bottle caught her eye. Tom Ford. Maybe Brigit had left it behind. Her hands shook as she pulled off the lid and put her nose to it. Instantly she knew to whom the distinct fragrance belonged. It was her best friend’s signature smell!

The room whirled and, crouching, she held onto the cupboard door to steady herself. “Gladys,” she called out, “could you come in here, please.”

Jen was on the bathroom floor, towel wrapped around her wet body, holding the bottle of perfume in her one hand and the cupboard door in the other. She stood up and pulled her towel firmly around her when she saw Gladys standing in the doorway.

“Gladys, did you pack this perfume away?” she whispered.

“Yes, Jen. Sorry, were you looking for it?”

Jen ignored the question. “When? When did you pack it away?” Her voice was louder now, more demanding.

“When I… cleaned the bathroom?”

“Today?”

“Yes, today.”

The truth: a singular, well-aimed blow to her stomach. And instead of feeling rage and anger, calm descended upon her◦– a calm that comes with clarity. She sat down heavily on the tiled floor.

My husband is screwing Frankie. John is cheating on me with his best friend’s wife. With my best friend. Oh my God! Of course! It all makes perfect sense now.

It wasn’t as if the perfume was proof beyond a reasonable doubt. It had acted more as a catalyst: a stimulus to wake her up to the possibilities and suspicions that lay dormant within her subconscious.

“I know you were off yesterday and today, Gladys, but do you know if John was alone last night?”

“Yes, Madam. I saw no one.” Gladys had worked for the family since Brigit was born and she hardly ever called Jen Madam. It was obvious she felt unnerved.

Gladys, like many of the workers on La Vigne Sacrée, lived in a cottage on the farm. Her cottage was close to the main house and Jen knew that she missed nothing.

“And Sunday night?” Her eyes searched Gladys’s for the truth.

“Sunday? I’m not sure, Madam. You left and then…”

Jen interrupted her. “So, you’re not sure. Okay. So, who was here last night?”

“Boss was alone last nght.”

“But he wasn’t alone on Sunday?”

Gladys’s eyes danced around. “I saw Frankie’s car. She came late morning, now I remember. Soon after you left.” Jen knew she was holding back the truth.

“Don’t hide things from me, Gladys. I’m asking you a question. What’s going on?”