Confessions of an Aging Adulterer

By Laura Rittenhouse

At some point we should be old enough to know better. But if we ignore our own advice and stumble headlong into a mess, what next?

On the surface, Vicky's a contented woman with grown children and a happy marriage. Below that surface, Vicky struggles with a dissatisfaction she can't quite put her finger on but the reason is all too obvious: she's having an affair with her boss.

Her New Year's resolution is simple, figure out why she's behaving like a fool by writing an honest account of her actions and observations in a diary. As honest as she can be, anyway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091906

Book preview

Chapter One

H APPY NEW YEAR!

In almost every home in the developed world, at least one television set was broadcasting the countdown to the new year. No one wanted to miss the exact moment of its arrival. Muffled strains of Three...Two...One! Happy New Year! seeped out from under doors, a Mexican Wave spread by the wonders of mass communication. Fireworks boomed in their staggered march around the globe as couples kissed to the applause of clinking glasses.

In an indistinguishable neighbourhood, in an indistinguishable suburban house, two couples pecked cheeks at the stroke of midnight, then set down their champagne flutes. A feeling of relief wavered in the air; maybe because they’d survived another year, or maybe for no reason more grandiose than that they’d managed to stay awake until midnight. Vicky and Allison had had their doubts about that, based on years of experience. It was common for the new year to be heralded with the women speaking in hushed voices while their husbands lounged snoring in the living room.

After the obligatory toast, Vicky and Allison excused themselves and went back to the kitchen, to their comfortable domain. They started clearing away the debris of the night, more out of habit than out of a desire for cleanliness. The routine of the entire evening was one they’d observed for many years, not just at New Year’s Eve, but also at various birthdays, anniversaries, Easter lunches and any other excuse for the two couples to get together.

Vicky and Allison were sisters and they’d been married to the same men for longer than they cared to admit. The couples were like a collection of teacups bought long ago at a best-forgotten garage sale. Though their patterns weren’t identical and their chips couldn’t be completely hidden, the pieces still managed to form a set. The four adults relished this cosy grouping, returning again and again to its comfortable reassurance, buoyed by the sameness of it all—or that’s how it would seem to anyone who bothered to look in on their lives. It would take an exacting observer to spot real differences between this New Year’s Eve and the dozens of other parties shared by the four intimates. But to Vicky, this year’s celebration couldn’t have been more different if she’d been drinking warm beer alone in a tent at the North Pole. A lump weighed in her stomach, tightness gripped her chest.

Allison stopped cleaning and sat on the bar stool watching her sister stack plates in the dishwasher. She made idle conversation, mainly to keep herself awake. Go ahead and call me a cow, but I’m glad this mess is in your kitchen, not mine.

From the back it was hard to tell, but this might have brought a smile to Vicky’s face. At least there was a smile in her voice, You won’t be so glad when you have to pour your husband into the car for the drive home.

One of them could have chuckled silently at that...it was certainly an ongoing joke between them; they were the longsuffering wives and their husbands were in constant need of shepherding. Though these kinds of comments at their husbands’ expense didn’t actually bring the sisters much real joy, the ritual of caricaturising their spouses and finding it amusing was so ingrained in them, it required less effort than original thought.

The sound on the television was loud. It mixed with the clamour of running water and plates grating against silverware to create that soothing white noise that means you hear nothing in particular yet are relieved of the burden of silence. Allison paused in her destruction of a paper towel, shifted on the stool and scanned the room in what she hoped was a casual manner. It wasn’t, but Vicky’s attention was on the dishes, so it didn’t matter. Finally Allison gathered her courage and asked, Do you think Henry drank too much tonight?

Vicky lifted the kitchen towel off the counter, wiped her hands, and turned to face her sister. Leaning back against the sink, she shook her head and said, Alli, it’s New Year’s Eve. Everyone drank too much tonight. Just be thankful your hubby’s poison is domestic beer. Carl prefers the imported stuff. Sometimes I think we could afford a villa on the Mediterranean if he switched to one of the local brands.

With no apparent trigger, or maybe because he sensed he featured in their discussion, Henry stirred on the couch. Come on, Alli, time to get home before I turn into a pumpkin. Alli was pretty sure Henry had used that exact phrase every time they’d been out past midnight since she’d known him. Which hadn’t been that many times, when you considered how long they’d been together.

She shouted over her shoulder, I’ll be there in two secs. To Vicky she offered a shrug as she stood. Time to go.

Vicky smiled at Alli and dropped the towel back on the counter. The women walked into the lounge room together.

Carl and Henry both sat holding a beer, staring at the television. Grabbing her bag and fishing for the car keys, Allison urged Henry into action. Come on, Henry, your designated driver is ready. Alli wouldn’t believe this if she were told, but this is what she’d said to muster Henry into the car almost every time they’d been out past midnight together.

Henry’s response was immediate. He set his beer on the side table and rocked himself out of his chair with a groan that signalled his ascension. Several years ago, he had prematurely and voluntarily left his youth behind. He didn’t let people’s shock about his bulk or lethargy trouble him; he was comfortable in his own skin, no matter how slowly it moved.

Unsteady on his feet, Henry smiled at Carl then pivoted towards his wife. Alli slid her arm through his to help him to the car. Seeing the two of them this way, you would be forgiven for thinking that she was a young woman in love, cuddling up next to her man.

THAT WAS A SUPER EVENING, Vick. You put on a delicious spread and the bourbon that Henry brought was fantastic. Carl slurred his words as he undressed and got ready for bed. Or maybe it was Vicky’s hearing that was slurred. Vicky, on autopilot, gave impassive responses as she went through her nightly ritual. By twelve-thirty, Carl snored gently and Vicky stared at the ceiling, trying to still her thoughts.

IN THE MORNING, VICKY woke with the expected headache. Carl was lying on his back with his mouth hanging open. She slid out of bed, leaving him undisturbed. Through the blankets she could see his strong muscular form. He hadn’t given up on his youth like Henry. Yet though she saw his body and acknowledged it was attractive, some might even describe it as desirable, it left her unaffected.

As Vicky made her way to the kitchen, a clatter arose from the doggie door. Wally, the family mutt, clambered through and nuzzled her hand, demanding his morning greeting. Without looking down, she bent over and scratched him behind his ears. This morning it seemed to Vicky that Wally was the only thing that hadn’t changed in her world. Of course if she had looked, she would have seen the white whiskers covering Wally’s normally black and brown muzzle, but she wasn’t the sort to notice such details. At least not any more.

The enthusiasm Wally showed while Vicky walked from counter to sink to fridge, filling the kettle and making her small breakfast, exhausted Vicky to witness. Even though he was slowing down these days—something else she hadn’t noticed—it would take more than the breakfast preparation to burn through his energy. Watching Wally weave to avoid the cupboard door she opened, Vicky resolved to take him for a long walk before lunch; she’d been neglecting him lately and she felt guilty.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, an unacknowledged voice complained about the upswing in frequency of her feelings of guilt.

Pushing aside pangs about what she should be doing, Vicky decided to enjoy a bracing cup of tea while she built up the courage she needed to tackle her secret New Year’s Resolution: she had purchased a diary and she was going to start writing in it. Maybe not every day, not nearly enough happened in her life for that, but there were things she hoped she could see more clearly and deal with more maturely if she forced herself to put them into words.

January 1

Dear Diary,

Here it is (or should I say here you are), my very first diary and my very first diary entry. I’m stumped—where does someone start on such a project? I’ll resist the urge to write about the weather and what I’m baking this week.

I just got back from walking Wally. Yes, it’s 2 hours later. I thought the fresh air might help. Not sure it did. Here goes.

Last night’s party was awful. I really would rather have been in bed with a good book. Or maybe mowing the lawn. Anything rather than listening to Carl go on about work and watching Henry get sloppily drunk. Henry brings out the worst in Carl. C ends up boasting and getting drunk—probably not in that order. I told Alli that H didn’t drink too much because what else could I say? Anyone who knows H knows he’s a drunk. Poor A, she’s living with a lush. I have no idea why she doesn’t leave him. Some sort of denial, I suppose.

But I’m not writing to solve A & H’s problems, I’m writing to solve my own.

Me again – I thought I heard someone at the door. Must have been the neighbours. Started a load of laundry since I was up. Then C wanted lunch. And it was time to put dinner in the oven. The day is getting away from me...I’d better get started on this thing. Here goes.

Yesterday and last night might have been awful, but they would have been a lot more bearable if I hadn’t spent them thinking constantly about D. Oh hell, the last few MONTHS would have been a lot more bearable if I hadn’t spent them thinking constantly about D. Or if I’d only been thinking about him and not sleeping with him. What a confession, eh?

What more can I say? This time last year I was a happily married woman with two grown children and not a care in the world. Now I’m sneaking around behind my husband’s back, lying to my children and sister—to everyone I know and some I don’t, with no trace of happiness to be found but plenty of cares all too keen to fill the void. Surely there must be some reason for this, some underlying fault in my character or maybe some deep longing I’ve suppressed for decades. If I could just understand the reason, maybe I could do the right thing.

The right thing, which is to go back to the woman I was 1 short year ago, is, for now anyway, an impossibility. I can’t even imagine what the first step might be. When I try to think of it I only see blackness—everywhere blackness.

And then I see D.

D—my boss, my lover, my sin—has taken his beautiful wife to a beautiful resort for 2 weeks of fun in the sun and my stomach cramps every time I think about it—which is ALL THE TIME. At least today there’s no risk of me weakening and calling him since he’s out of town. That should help me stop obsessing about him—but it doesn’t. Oh Christ! What am I doing?

What I’m doing is getting up to fix myself a drink, eat my dinner and not think about anything until at least until 9 am. Since I hardly slept last night, I might just find myself passing out for the whole night. God, I hope so. Blissful oblivion is what I most crave.

Chapter Two

The phone rang, causing Vicky to abandon the book she was reading and run for the receiver. Hello? Wally bounced around her feet like he always did if she moved at any speed above a slow ramble. Leaning down to rub his belly, Vicky held the receiver between shoulder and ear.

Mum, can I please come over? It was Mary, Vicky’s daughter. She didn’t bother with a friendly greeting or idle chit-chat. When Mary was in a state, she abandoned all niceties.

Vicky stood, holding the phone properly against her ear. Of course you can. I was going grocery shopping but that’s hardly urgent. What’s wrong, pumpkin? Vicky was concerned, but not overly so. Her daughter had always been the melodramatic one in the family. Those painful teenage years where hormones rampaged wildly had taught Vicky a thing or two about perspective when dealing with her youngest child.

I can’t talk about it over the phone. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Thanks Mum.

Vicky put down the receiver and stood in the middle of her kitchen rallying the reserves she’d need to cope with Mary. That’s possibly being too judgemental of both mother and daughter. Since she’d moved out, Mary didn’t often show up placing demands on her mother and Vicky felt proud of their relationship on those times Mary chose to come home for support in a crisis. But more often lately, there were days when Vicky barely had the motivation to put on lipstick, much less listen to anyone’s problems. This was verging on just such a day.

After staring into the distance for a fraction too long, Vicky exhaled a sigh, then went to the freezer and pulled out some goodies she’d baked the previous week. It would be nice to have someone to share them with. Vicky had always believed that muffins and a cup of tea held the potential to heal most of the world’s ills, though her faith in this cure-all had lately been shaken.

By the time Mary opened the front door, the tea was steeping and the defrosted muffins were sitting prominently on the kitchen table on one of Vicky’s favourite serving plates. A box of tissues waited in a discreet corner in anticipation of the flood of tears to come. Mary dumped her bag in the same spot she always did and ran into Vicky’s waiting arms. Wally’s tail kept time to Vicky’s hand patting Mary’s back. Mary crouched to give her old dog a good hug and he licked her ear to return the favour.

Once Wally calmed enough, Mary dropped into a chair at her mother’s kitchen table and placed the biggest muffin onto the tiny plate in front of her, her eyes never leaving the tabletop. Vicky poured their first cups of tea with a quiet calmness while examining Mary with furtive side glances. She felt no compulsion to rush her daughter; she would wait until Mary felt composed enough to talk.

Vicky was a very good listener. Or that’s what she deduced from the fact that everyone told her so when they paraded through her kitchen to share their woes. Now it was Mary’s turn to benefit from this trait of her mother’s. It didn’t take long for Mary to start talking.

As she unburdened herself of her story, Mary’s emotions played up the scale from distressed to destroyed. Through the heart-wrenching tale, Vicky nodded and occasionally reached across the table to squeeze Mary’s hands. In her role as listener, Vicky made no comment and had no reason to top-up the untouched tea, which she thought would have been a welcomed distraction.

If it had been possible, Vicky would have traded places with Mary to spare her from the obvious pain, but that’s one of the many things mothers can’t do. All they can do is raise their children to be strong enough to survive. Over the years, Vicky had tried to boost her daughter’s self-esteem, hoping this would protect her against life’s upsets. Unfortunately, there is no protection against a broken heart, especially one where the source is a betrayal which was just the type Mary was enduring.

Mary’s white-knuckled fist landed too forcefully on the table as she said, What am I supposed to do now? For weeks Brian’s been telling me my insecurities are ridiculous and I need to pull my head in. And now Gwen confesses to sleeping with him for the past three months. Some friend she turned out to be! And some boyfriend he turned out to be. What a nightmare!

There was a short pause which seemed to signify that Mary had run out of steam. Vicky really didn’t know how to soothe her daughter’s pain, but she instinctively knew that any support would be welcomed, so she reached across and held Mary’s fist in both her hands. Oh pumpkin, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me you and Brian were having problems? I feel like such an idiot for not seeing you were unhappy. In the back of her mind, Vicky wondered if she would have seen the warning signs of the break-up if she hadn’t been so self-absorbed lately.

For God’s sake, Mother, would you stop calling me pumpkin? I’m not twelve any more. I’m a grown woman. And I’m glad you didn’t see Brian and I were having troubles. I’m old enough to deal with some jerk without running home in tears.

Both ignored all evidence to the contrary.

The welling in her red eyes forced Mary to break free of her mother’s comforting grasp to reach for another tissue. While wiping her eyes and mopping up her sniffles, the pain of her broken heart was suddenly overshadowed by a strong craving for a cigarette. As an adult Mary could clearly smoke if she wanted to. But being mature when you’re in your own flat is very different than behaving like a grownup at your mother’s kitchen table. Mary had never been an overly confident girl and she wasn’t at all sure she could take any criticism by her mother on top of Brian’s deception. But leaving without getting a bit more solace from her mother just to light up in the privacy of her own car was beyond her at this point. So she pulled a rumpled packet out of her handbag and slid it quietly onto the table. Never raising her eyes to judge her mother’s reaction, Mary played for time, keeping her head buried in her handbag while hunting for her lighter.

When the cigarette pack landed on her tabletop, Vicky took a moment to register what it was. She sat taller in her seat, pondering the shift in the room. Of course she’d known for a while her daughter smoked; nothing could hide the smell of it on her clothes, but Vicky was happy that Mary had never confronted her with it. Now, however, was not the time to get all high and mighty. A lifetime of maternal instinct kicked in and Vicky simply wanted to keep Mary safe. Mary looked so vulnerable with her squeaky clean hair parted straight down the middle, just like she had worn it on the morning Vicky dropped her off on her first day of school. All those years ago, Vicky had fought the urge to place a hat on Mary’s head—Mary’s scalp was far too unprotected then and it still was. But Mary was no longer a child.

Vicky quietly got up and took the one ashtray she owned from the top of the refrigerator. When Carl quit smoking not long after their marriage, she threw all of the ashtrays away. That had proven to be a bit overzealous, because even with the pariah status smokers face daily, many cling to their vice tighter than an oyster to its pearl.

When Vicky returned and set the ashtray on the table, Mary lifted her head to return her mother’s gaze. Their eyes met as two women, no longer as mother and daughter. This was possibly the first time they had seen each other this way. Mary lit up and Vicky reached for the packet.

Mum, don’t tell me you’re a closet smoker. I thought you hated cigarettes.

I absolutely hate them and it’s hard to imagine anything more stupid than spending handfuls of your hard-earned money on something so bad for you, but today I don’t care. Vicky clamped her lips over the end of the cigarette and glared down her nose at the lighter.

Mary watched her mother hold the lighter to the end of her cigarette and draw inexpertly on it. The smoke exhaled by Vicky hadn’t touched her throat, much less her lungs. This gave Mary a moment of relief—she would never forgive herself if her mother became hooked on this poison.

I think I could get the hang of this with a little more practice. Vicky waved her cigarette around, getting smoke in her eyes and ash on her plate.

Mum, no offence, but I think it might take more than a little more practice. You look like a four year old with a bread stick pretending to be all grown up. It just doesn’t suit you—or your lungs. How about if we stamp these out and get fresh cup of tea?

You go ahead. I think I’ll enjoy this one down to the filter if you don’t mind.

For the moment anyway, Vicky did feel all grown up. A life of doing the right thing had landed her