When First We Practice to...Blackmail

Just as I recognised her as the young woman I'd seen playing with her kids here a previous time, she reached into her handbag and withdrew a yellow envelope. It was the same type and colour envelope all the other photos had been returned to me in. I expected her to put it back in her bag, but she just placed it prominently on her lap. It was obviously an invitation to approach, so I did. She seemed unsurprised when I came out of the bushes and even less surprised when I sat next to her. She smiled as I took her picture with my cell phone and waited patiently while I sent the photo winging to my work email address. She was silent as I put the phone away and looked at her closely for the first time. Her eyes were unreadable behind dark glasses but there was no hiding her soft smile. She was somewhere between thirty-five and forty, quite pretty, with a body I would have been happy with at her age. With no sign of her breaking the impasse, I opened.

"I was going to say hand over the photos or I'll send your picture to the police, but there's been enough blackmail here already. Instead, I want to beg something of you."

I paused as the bum from the other bench walked over and shamelessly started going through the bin metres away from us. I glowered at his back.

"I want to beg you to let me keep a little of my soul. I've disrespected my husband and myself by carrying on a seedy affair with another man. I may have lost him forever because of that and I wouldn't blame him if that was so. I have $12,324 here and I ask you to take that as full payment. To pay you the rest, I will have to compound my crimes against my husband by raiding money that is partly his. I beg you to spare him that."

I couldn't help a tear escaping my eyes, so I turned away to wipe them. Thus, I wasn't looking at her when she said softly but vehemently, "Okay, but only to prove to myself that I'm not as much of a bitch as you are."

This took me aback. There was much more emotion in that simple sentence than I expected from a money motivated blackmailer. I looked back at her. She held out her hand for my envelope and once she held it, handed me hers. It felt much heavier than a single photograph. In fact, when I saw it in detail, it bulged at the seams. With an obvious look of disapproval, she stood. Whenever her facial expression changed from that soft smile, her laughter lines became pronounced. This was a happy person, used to smiling at life's mysteries. I hate parting with anyone on bad terms, so I instinctively said, "You've got your money now, you have to tell me, what have I done to upset you?"

She'd taken two paces already, but stopped and turned. "You've broken my children's home, that's what you've done." Her face returned to impassivity before she turned and strode towards the entrance to the park, head bowed and stumbling occasionally. I realised with horror, I was looking at the back of Mrs. Michael Beaumont. Waves of self-loathing washed over me. I'd given much thought on what the discovery of my affair could do to me, and some to the effect on Dave. Never once had I spared a neuron for my lover's wife or family. Yes, I knew he had two children, I can't even use ignorance as an excuse.

A strong smell of sweat enveloped me as the bum shambled past. Bizarrely, I wished he would hit me, stab me, or just shoot me to save me from the pain I knew was coming. He went right past and I watched him regretfully. It didn't register with me that as he walked, his back straightened and the shamble turned to a stride as he headed for the same exit as the woman I'd ruined. Ten paces behind her, he shrugged off the moth-eaten coat. Five paces later, the coat joined a wig in a passing bin. With a sudden burst of speed, he caught the teetering woman up and braced her with his powerful arms.

"Dave."

I couldn't get my legs to move. All I could do was follow the retreating pair with my eyes. I waited for my husband to turn and look back at me. What would I see in his face when he did? Loathing or hope? Would I be able to tell from this distance? Both those questions became moot, as he reached a parked car and opened the door for his companion before getting in the driver's side and taking off without as much as once glancing my way. Although I couldn't accept it then, I had my answer to every question I ever had. Asked and unasked.

In a daze, I sat there for about an hour, before returning to my office like a zombie. I'd lost Dave. All of a sudden, I realised losing my reputation at work was absolutely trivial compared to that. I was in such a daze I didn't notice Michael was the only one left in the office when I returned. In fact, I was completely unaware of his presence until I passed his desk and he hissed at me, "Bitch. Are you happy now you have all my money?" With only a fraction of my attention, it took a while for me to wrest out of him he thought I'd been blackmailing him. He'd been leaving the office every Friday morning to drop a bag of money in a bin at a park at 9:30 a.m. The final payment today had cleaned out an inheritance account he'd received from the death of a grandfather. When I recounted the story of meeting his wife in the same park, he mentally collapsed. I looked at him and realised that's what I would look like soon.

I held together long enough to get home and put a very large dent in our, sorry, my liquor collection, drinking hard and fast. It didn't work. First, I lost control of my legs, then my arms, then my stomach. Throughout it all, my brain continued to function. Even after I staggered to bed, my head was spinning but still working. My biggest mistake that night was when I automatically used the technique I'd relied on to get to sleep when Dave wasn't there; wrapping my own arms around myself and imagining they were his. That night, my arms were numb. I couldn't feel them. As a metaphor of what the rest of my life was going to be like, it was complete. A picture of Mrs. Beaumont with my husband's arms wrapped around her at the park wouldn't leave my head. Was the younger, prettier, softer woman even now being comforted by those arms? Bizarrely, I hoped so. She'd done nothing wrong. Dave had done nothing wrong. They both deserved comforting.

As I lay awake, with the last of the alcohol going from my stomach to my bloodstream, I entered that strange calm state beyond dead drunk. If you've never been there, it feels like sobriety. In fact, you would swear you are sober. Don't worry about drink driving at this stage, you won't be able to stand upright. My mind flitted from one topic to another, always avoiding the biggest elephant in the room; what would happen to me. Instead, I wondered about trivial shit as a distraction. Had Dave found out and told Mrs. Beaumont? Or had she found out and told him? I still had enough residual pride left to think it was the latter. After the effort I'd gone to in preventing discovery, I couldn't accept that Dave had seen through me. It just goes to prove that cheaters, yes, I was a cheater, could be as smart as anyone, but if the other party is a moron, you're exposed.

My mind then flitted from questions about how and when I was discovered, to how Dave must be feeling. You'll notice I hadn't tried to contact him at this point. Knowing him, I knew that was a waste of time. The whole exercise of him draining the bank account I'd thought was secret, and the timing, was so obviously him absolutely ruining me. Just like I'd ruined him... no, my mind couldn't afford to go there yet. Just like it couldn't yet start berating itself for ever assuming he would forgive my transgression. That way madness lay. I'm not so selfish that I would seek solace in madness or suicide, however strong the temptation was.

I remembered back to my confession to him. He must have known already, and I may have spotted that if I'd been strong enough to have made eye contact. In fact, he must have known for at least a month. I should be able to pick when I was outed from his interactions with me over the last month or so. At that, an all body shiver wracked me. Shortly after his announcement of selling the business and the joyful few days that followed, my memory went blank. For a long time, I'd been so preoccupied being blackmailed by Michael, blackmailing him right back, blowing unwashed nerds in the office, and being held to ransom by persons then unknown, I'd missed one critical fact. My soulmate and I had become flatmates, no, worse than that; two ghosts inhabiting the same space. He'd suffered the worst nightmare of his life and had nowhere to turn to for comfort. I cried. I only stopped when exhaustion finally claimed me.

Waking the next day with a massive headache, I stumbled on auto pilot to get ready for work. I was an hour late because I saw Dave's things had disappeared from his closet. A quick check revealed that everything Dave had disappeared. It took me an hour to put on five minutes of makeup. It's hard to apply lipstick when your lips are constantly quivering. It was a day I'd been anticipating for a long time and should have been huge. Dave should have been there, and, ideally, one or two of our children at least. Instead, I drifted through the day in a daze.

Just after lunch, I made a coffee and returned to my office. As I sat, I experienced a flashback. A few weeks ago, when I'd sat in this very chair and found someone had adjusted it.... The only person who'd ever done that in the past was Dave when he'd visited and I wasn't there. Harmless teasing of a fussy person. How long ago was that? About the time... oh no. I read my diary and pinpointed a day. I went to reception and saw Dave had signed in at 4:45 p.m. that day. Being allowed in unescorted was not unusual for the husband of the boss. I imagined him sitting in the chair, awaiting my return, possibly to take me out for an impromptu dinner to further discuss our retirement plan. Him idly looking around for some amusement, adjusting my chair with a smile. Looking for something else to keep his active brain occupied. Him opening my drawer, maybe to plant a rubber spider or some such other gag, like we'd done to each other so many times before. Instead, finding an envelope full of shocking photographs and the letter. The bottom dropping out of his world. The sudden biting knowledge that his soulmate, best friend and emotional support system, had betrayed him in almost the worst way possible. Not once in a drunken mistake, but in a cold, calculated, continuing way. I couldn't even begin the grasp the enormity of his feelings at that precise moment in time.

I think I was rescued from complete mental collapse at that point by my cell ringing. It was my middle child, my eldest daughter. In a rather sad voice she asked me how I was, instantly making me realise she knew. We had a short, stilted conversation, at the end of which I knew one more thing and she knew another. I knew I shouldn't expect to hear from the other two children until they'd processed what their father had told them. She knew suicide wasn't on the cards. I intended to live to suffer my justifiable punishment.

Locking my office door, I spent an hour typing up my confession. I pulled no punches, made no excuses, and sincerely apologised for both my disgusting actions and my destruction of our family, making sure, at the end, that I accepted any punishment Dave wished to dole out. I reassured them, or maybe disappointed them, by telling them I was in no danger of ending my life, I'd already done that. Without know what Dave told them, I wanted all three of my children to know it was all my fault. After emailing the letter to them, I printed out one copy, sealed it in an envelope, and put it in my handbag. I was just about to indulge in the luxury of having a damned good cry, when my boss opened my door with his master key. I put on a brave face and joined him to attend my going away celebration. It was completely hollow and I have absolutely no memory of it.

Afterwards, I cleared my desk of all personal effects and left the office for the last time. Another triumphal moment lost forever. Outside, I rang Dave's cell and was totally unsurprised when the number was no longer in service. I went to his old office and was greeted by Dave's old PA of many years. She told me, rather coldly, that my husband's farewell party had been two days before and he was gone. No, she didn't have an address for my letter. Just before I left, Dave's old office door opened and what must have been the new manager came out to put something in her in-tray. I wandered off.

The next two days were a haze of alcohol, while I slowly built up the courage to think of the full extent of my loss. No friends rang. Between Dave, children, and career, I didn't have any. Day three, I had the courage to open the envelope Mrs. Beaumont had given me. I read the divorce paperwork and signed it immediately putting my letter to Dave in the return envelope to his lawyer. I also wrote a long letter of apology to Mrs. Beaumont to include, but that was returned three days later with, 'Not known at this address', written on the front.

I burned the last photograph with hardly a glance. I completed the paperwork transferring the ownership of the house to solely my name. A quick calculation of the money Dave had left me indicated I could lead a comfortable, but no way luxurious, lifestyle for the rest of my days. I didn't even consider fighting for more, it was part of my deserved punishment.

What was conspicuously missing from the envelope was anything personal from Dave. I guess he'd said all he was going to say when he totally failed to look back at me as he was leaving the park.

The statement from one of my new accounts bugged the shit out of me. It had a balance of $72,324, which I recognised as the amount I'd paid to the blackmailers. I knew why I'd paid that specific amount, but their final demand for $18,453 still confused the crap out of me. Why the $6,129 difference between what I had in my bank account and that final demand? I was still musing that when I opened the bag containing the contents of my desk drawers at work. Idly, I totalled up the receipts from hotels, room service, and all the other minutia of my affair. Even before I finished, I knew what the total would be. Dave was making a point. Even using that account, I was stealing from communal funds. He'd been very generous giving it all back.

Until that point, I'd never wondered why Dave and Mrs. Beaumont had blackmailed Michael and I. By getting his inheritance money, she'd grabbed an amount that would have been unavailable in a divorce, normally. That told me Michael's marriage was doomed. The same could be said about the amounts Dave had extorted from me, but why return it? Why the whole charade? The answer was obvious when I thought of it. My darling husband, devastated by personal tragedy, thought of the only thing he could to distract me enough not to notice him finalising the preparations to get the fuck out of my life without me even noticing. Proof, as if I needed it, he knew me a damned sight better than I knew him.

It was only then I allowed myself the luxury of crying properly. I cried for Dave's loss and pain. I cried for the damage I'd done to my children's memories. After I'd finished mourning those, I cried for my own loss.

I became somewhat of a recluse from then on. My eldest daughter came regularly from the start. Relations were strained, but improving. She never asked and I never volunteered anything about my affair. She refused to talk about her father except to reassure me he was okay.

The next to forgive me was my youngest daughter. She visited and let slip Dave had left the country and was living the dream we once shared on a Caribbean island. After that she refused to add more detail. I asked her to pass on to Dave that I hoped he'd be very happy with Mrs. Beaumont. My daughter looked confused at that, which made me think I'd guessed wrong and the two crime victims weren't consoling each other. She also let slip my eldest child was helping his father set up his new house. We discussed whether I was going to keep the house or not. When I heard her preference was for me to keep their childhood home, I agreed immediately. Keeping the huge house and garden clean and maintained was giving me my only distraction anyway.

I did see Mrs. Beaumont one more time. Walking through another park, I saw her and her children sitting in the sun, with a man who definitely wasn't Michael. As her children jumped up to play, the adults moved very close to each other. I had the letter I'd written to her, still in my handbag, but realised she'd moved on and didn't need it anymore.

In the next eight months, all three children visited and our relationship improved. We never spoke of Dave except for their continued reassurance he was fine. I asked two of them if Dave had read my letter and both said it was prominently displayed, unopened, in his study. The children of both my daughters couldn't help excitedly telling me about their visits to see Poppa on his tropical island, so I gathered they'd all been there.

The nights alone were the worst. Learning to live with going to sleep, lonely and afraid of the future, with no strong arms to lull me to oblivion. I actually made an attempt to get closer to the couple next door, but when it became obvious the wife was afraid to leave me alone with her husband, I saw how that was going to work. Bad news has a way of getting out. The divorce became final and for the first time since those first few days, I allowed myself to self-stupefy with alcohol.

With our first separated Christmas approaching, I thought I'd do the decent thing and relieve my children of the agony of choosing who to spend it with. I told them to spend it with their father. They all responded that Dave had beaten me to it and wanted them to spend it at the old family home. That was totally in line with the decent man I knew.

Everyone turned up Christmas Eve and the house was bedlam. It was obvious there'd been more trips to the Caribbean. A hush came over the room when I couldn't help myself and asked how Dave was travelling. Everyone said he was well. I'd had enough muscle relaxant to tentatively ask if he was all alone down there or whether he had a new woman in his life. All three of my offspring looked at each other before looking at my eldest to be the spokesman.

"Um, Mum, when we were there, he had a lady he introduced us to. Her name is Wendy and they seemed to be, er, getting on very well together. She was certainly, er, staying over at night."

I couldn't interpret the funny looks that shot around the table. My eldest daughter solved that one when she addressed her brother.

"What are you talking about? When we were there he had some woman called Susan staying with him. I had to ask him to tone it down a little, she was a bit of a screamer, if you know what I mean."

Both the first children looked at my youngest daughter, who looked down at the table and simply said, "Mary. I told him off for being a cradle snatcher. She was only in her thirties."

Overwhelming jealousy momentarily overcame me and I must have looked sick enough that my son stood to come to my assistance. I had some lousy hotel trysts with Michael, riddled with guilt. Dave was porking his way steadily through the available skirt in the Caribbean. I felt sick. The evening abruptly ended when I went to bed to cry.

The next day was long and exhausting. Kids up at 6:00 a.m., screams of delight, lunch to cook, you know the drill. We stuck with tradition and the adults didn't exchange presents until late in the afternoon, when the youngsters were almost comatose with exhaustion and over-consumption of rich food. After everyone had opened and thanked, all three of my children exchanged looks before my eldest handed me an envelope. On the front was written, 'Sarah', in Dave's bold handwriting. With shaking hands, I opened it. Unexpectedly it didn't contain a hand written letter, but three stapled sheets of type. It was an itinerary for travel to a Caribbean island, the day after tomorrow. My spirits soared, as I checked out the return date. Would I have to get mail diverted? Find a house-sitter? And a million other details. I felt my spirits sinking again as I saw the return day was only two days after arrival. I looked at my children for clues as to what that could mean. One after the other they all shrugged their shoulders.