Triptych Book Series
~
Rebecca Campbell
Triptych /'trɪptɪk/
noun
A set of three associated artistic, literary, or musical
works intended to be appreciated together.
⚽⚽⚽
Women disrupted many ageist and sexist expectations regarding older women’s dating lives.
They challenged the gendered double standard providing men with much more flexibility
with regard to choosing younger partners.
~ Dr Milaine Alarie
🐟 🐟 🐟
In the lexicon of the fly-fishermen, the words rise and hooked connotate
the successful and desirable climax; landing a fish is purely anticlimax.
~ Vincent C. Marinaro
▼▼▼
Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel.
Everyone sees what you appear to be, very few really know what you are.
~ Niccolo di Bernardo dei Machiavelli
WhatsApp Chat Group
Books 1-3
~
Prologue
[The Prologue is the same in all three books, apart from the point of view.]
7 MARCH
Yolanda
Hey, Annika, I was so shocked to read about
Tim’s death. How’s your sister holding up? xo
Imogen
Fuck! Harrison and I are devastated!
He’s been looking at our wedding photos all day and shaking his
head. Please pass on condolences to Ingrid and the boys when
you speak next but we’ll keep trying to get through x
Annika
Thanks xo
19 MARCH
Annika
Ingrid has organised a fundraising ball in Sydney to honour Tim.
Money goes to MSF. It was an organisation close to his heart.
Hope you can both make it. April 29. Tickets won’t be officially
available for a few days but the link I’m going to email you is for
early purchase. Get in sooner rather than later, because Daniel
Hampton is coming home for the event and once it opens to the
public, it will be a shitfight.
Yolanda
Count us in — Marcus has bought us two tickets!
I think the MSF fundraiser is a wonderful idea and
very fitting as a tribute to Tim. His death will leave
a gaping hole in the lives of many.
Imogen
Harrison has bought us two tables! The man never does anything
by halves but Tim was his best man at our wedding after all.
Annika
Thanks. It will be lovely to see you both again, as well — it’s
been too long since we’ve all been together. Wish it was under
better circumstances.
Imogen
Same. On the subject of better circumstances and our wedding,
it will be our 20th anniversary in 11 weeks! Party in Hawai‘i on
June 4. Invitations via email xo
Annika
Added to my calendar.
Yolanda
Wow! Added to my calendar too. I can’t even convince
Marcus that we should be living together after ten.
Imogen
What’s his fucking problem? Dump the fucker! You can do better.
Yolanda
If I do, it will be like I’m admitting I’ve wasted
almost a quarter of my life waiting for him.
I know it’s the sunk-cost fallacy, but still …
Annika
I’m so sorry, Yolanda. Here if you need to talk x Sorry I’ve been
a bit absent and distracted lately. Just dealing with some stuff.
Imogen
Can we help?
Annika
Mostly business, but I’ll fill you in on everything when I see you.
I can hardly wait to see you!
Yolanda
Me too!
Imogen
Yolanda, if Marcus asks you for another “break” can I give it to him?
I’ll break his nose. Haha! My boxing skills are improving each day.
He and his weekly facials deserve it. FFS! Even I don’t go that often.
Yolanda
Do all your fancy socialite friends know you talk like this?
Imogen
They’re not my friends. They’re acquaintances. And fuck no! If they
knew half of the mischief I get up to they would faint! I’m sure they
know Harrison is having an affair but they are so tight-lipped. No
doubt they gossip amongst themselves. It’s out of spite for me.
Anyway, Harrison is currently fucking a 39yo actress in LA.
She’s the lead in “Richmond”, that forensic crime drama series.
Yolanda
Amanda Stanley? Wow! She’s brilliant in that show,
but the man is 63 — how does he do it?
Imogen
The man is a fucking god in bed, I tell you! A god! I walk funny
for days after he leaves. We still can’t get enough of each other
after two decades. But I digress. Amanda is married and her
husband doesn’t know about Harrison!!!
Yolanda
That’s generally how extramarital affairs work, Imogen.
You and Harrison are the exception with your open marriage.
And I still don’t know how you make it work.
Imogen
Anyway, she’s from Hawai‘i … So while the cat’s away …
Yolanda
Oh god. I know where you’re heading with this.
You’re going after the husband, aren’t you?
Is this why your anniversary party is in Hawai‘i?
How soon are you leaving?
Imogen
Day after the MSF ball. Harrison has to fly back to LA so we’ll
go via Hawai‘i. I’ve booked the most glorious bungalow at
Mauna Lani for six weeks. I’ll send the details so you can book
the same place when you come for the anniversary party.
Yolanda
So what’s the husband’s name?
Imogen
Herd.
Yolanda
Wait, the Kīlauea artist guy? He’s hot.
Imogen
I know!
Yolanda
Amanda Stanley is married to him and she’s cheating
on him with Harrison? No offence, but …
Imogen
None taken. Maybe he’s an arsehole? I’ll know soon.
He’s got an exhibition in Hawai‘i.
Opening night is a few days after I arrive.
Let the games begin …
Yolanda
I wish I could talk you out of this …
Disrupted
Book 1
Yolanda’s Story
~
Chapter One
I wanted to kill the stupid fuck.
Or at least stab him with a drafting pencil, which was within easy reach. I wasn’t usually prone to murderous or violent thoughts. Or swearing. But the rage inside me was consuming, and I wanted to hurt him in a way he could feel physically because he clearly had no understanding of emotional pain. My heart rate was rising, and I could hear the woosh-woosh-woosh of blood coursing through my head.
‘Yolanda, are you listening to me?’ Marcus interrupted my plotting.
‘Why the hell should I listen to you, you stupid fuck?’ I hissed, pacing back and forth through my kitchen. A bench separated us.
‘Great. Name-calling. That’s mature.’
‘How should I react?’
‘Like an adult, Yolanda.’
‘Ten years, Marcus! I’ve wasted ten years on you—almost a quarter of my life—and you expect me to make this easy for you? I am so angry with you, Marcus, so don’t expect me to make this easy for you because it’s not easy for me!’
‘Yolanda, I am not breaking up with you … completely.’
‘What? Are you breaking up with me partially? Is that it?’ I threw my arms in the air. ‘Please explain to me how a partial break-up works, Marcus.’
He exhaled forcefully. ‘I just need some space, Yolanda. Three months. That’s all.’
‘Again? What about the space I gave you for three months last year and three months the year before that? Damn you, Marcus!’ I screamed, slamming my hand on the stone bench top. It stung. I winced. Damn you and your needs. I need things, as well. I need stability. I need answers. I need a commitment from you. I need to know that we are going somewhere, anywhere, but I have nothing, and the moment I press you on it, you tell me you need space. Again!’
‘I need time to think.’
‘You’ve had ten years!’
‘I need to sort my head out.’
‘No! No more excuses, Marcus. I’ve heard them all before. I want answers this time. Seventy-two hours ago, I suggested we live together after a decade of separate homes, and since then, you haven’t returned any of my calls or messages, and today you casually stroll in without notice—’ I gestured towards the front door, ‘—to announce you need space. For the third time in two years. I think I deserve a full explanation.’
Silence.
‘Living together should not be a big deal, but you lose it if I so much as leave my toothbrush in your bathroom.’ I rubbed my creased forehead as the anger melted away. I suddenly realised the gravity of the situation, and I couldn’t see a way forward. I couldn’t see how we’d find our way back to each other after this I-need-space break. Not this time. ‘Marcus, I am standing in front of you telling you that we should think about moving in together, and your reaction is to tell me you need space. How do you think that makes me feel?’
He placed my toothbrush on the kitchen bench. ‘My plane is leaving in a couple of hours. I have to go.’ He turned and walked away.
‘I won’t wait for you this time,’ I called out just before the door closed behind him.
I picked up my phone and opened my WhatsApp Cowper Street group chat, named after the street I lived on in a share house with two other women while we were all at university.
Yolanda
I just broke up with Marcus.
He asked for another break.
I told him I wouldn’t wait this time.
Imogen
You go girl!
Yolanda
Said he needs space. Again. Thought
he was here to pick me up for Melbourne
trip. My bag is packed and everything,
but he never intended for me to go with him.
Never even bought me a ticket. He told me so.
He knew that he was going to do this.
Imogen
Little prick.
Yolanda
Not that little…
Imogen
I wouldn’t know.
You wouldn’t take pictures for me.
Yolanda
What am I going to do?
Please come. I need you.
Imogen
Coming is my area of expertise.
I’m already in the car. I’m on my way.
Annika
That’s so shitty. Look after her, please, Imogen.
Imogen
Will do x
Less than half an hour later, my intercom buzzed.
‘He said he wasn’t breaking up with me completely,’ I wailed upon opening the front door. ‘I feel so stupid for letting him get away with this behaviour for so long.’
‘Oh, honey, what can I do?’ Imogen returned sympathetically, following me to the kitchen.
In my fury, I began to pace back and forth again, eyeing the drafting pencil once more. ‘I could have stabbed him and taken his body to the site where that new house is going up. They’re just about to lay the foundations. They’d have never found him.’
‘Yolanda, you’re a fifty-three-kilogram architect, not an assassin.’
‘But I want to be an assassin or hire one at least.’
‘Come sit down.’ She led me over to the lounge and sat down beside me. ‘Vodka?’
‘I want coffee.’
‘I thought you were trying to decrease your consumption of caffeine?’
‘I need it.’
‘You shouldn’t drink so much—’
‘I don’t drink it; I depend on it.’
‘Yolanda…’
‘Come on, Imogen, just one tiny short black poured into a martini glass and served with vodka and coffee liqueur,’ I pleaded, draping my arm around her shoulders and gazing sadly into her eyes. ‘Make me one, please? It’s an emergency.’
‘All right. But not here. We’re going out tonight.’
‘No, I’m going to wallow in self-pity.’
‘You know he’s not good enough for you.’
‘But he’s all I have…’
‘Yolanda! You are a fucking brilliant, award-winning architect, you converted this fucking brilliant warehouse into a fucking brilliant studio and home, and you have a fucking brilliant body.’
‘For a forty-four-year-old.’
‘For an any-year-old, honey. Now, get into the shower while I choose a banging hot dress to show off that banging hot bod of yours. We’ll do a little something with your hair and a little something with your face, slip on a pair of heels, and then you’ll accompany me to the bar, where we’ll find some poor, unsuspecting rebound fuck to help you forget about that douchebag.’
‘Not sure about the rebound bit, but the rest sounds tempting.’
‘Is that a yes?’
I nodded and jumped to my feet, and said, ‘Find me a dress.’
‘Fashion is my area of expertise.’
‘I thought coming was?’ I reminded as we ascended the stairs to my bedroom.
‘It’s all part of the package, honey.’ Imogen began to flick through my clothes. ‘Too boring, too black, too flowery, too long, too glittery, too desperate … a-ha! Perfect! This little number is the one.’
Imogen was waving around a mustard voile mini dress with white polka dots. It had a high neck with a ruffled hem and ruffled elbow-length cuffs. I had expected her to choose something much racier, but I could work with this.
‘With your skin tone, this pair of brown knee-high boots and this cropped brown leather jacket, you will be the centre of attention.’
‘I’d settle for somewhere on the periphery as long as there’s an espresso martini in my hand.’
It was nine o’clock on a Saturday night in late April. In more recent months, given Marcus’ increasing absences, this would mean I’d have already eaten dinner, probably something from the slow cooker thrown together in the morning or leftovers from the freezer from last week’s slow cooker meal, and settled in front of SBS On Demand World Movies with a pot of rooibos tea. Instead, I stepped into Bar Code, a providore-inspired establishment three streets away from where I had lived for the past four years, since buying and converting the former warehouse that I now called my home.
Imogen’s nimble fingers had earlier exquisitely tousled my chestnut bobbed hair and skilfully contoured my makeup with smoky eyes and nude lips. I had no intention of using my appearance to lure a rebound fuck, as she had put it. Still, I did hope to get tipsy enough to temporarily numb the fact that I had most probably just ended my relationship, and I wanted to feel confident while doing it. Marcus would not break me.
I was stroking the stem of my glass and contemplating the past, present and future when a young man approached the counter beside me and ordered a whisky and soda and a glass of pink Moscato. Imogen was flirting with someone in a dark corner.
‘Hey, my shirt matches the colour of your dress,’ he observed with a light-hearted grin, his voice deep and smooth.
I corrected my posture and swivelled my stool to face him. He held out his linen shirt. He was so tall he had to crouch to be able to press the fabric against my dress, which had ridden up my thigh. His skin was soft, and his warm touch sent a tingle of delight from head to toe.
I smiled and, as our eyes met, concurred, ‘It does match.’
The cheerfulness fell away from his expression, and he stared at me in silence for a few seconds, holding his breath.
‘My god, you are beautiful,’ he finally exhaled, stepping closer, his thigh between mine. ‘Who are you, and why haven’t I seen you here before tonight?’
I felt myself blush as I thanked him for his compliment before adding, ‘I don’t normally frequent bars at this time on a Saturday night. I’m usually in bed.’
His full lips parted to reveal a striking smile.
‘That works for me.’
I raised my eyebrows.
He extended his hand towards me and said, ‘Jacob.’
I shook it firmly and replied, ‘Yolanda.’
‘Yolanda,’ he repeated softly, ‘I would like to get to know you better.’
My eyes narrowed.
‘How old are you, Jacob?’
‘Twenty-four.’
Unable to stifle my amusement, I replied through laughter, ‘I am almost twice your age.’
At that precise moment, the bartender placed the whisky and wine on the counter in front of us and announced, ‘Age doesn’t matter, unless you’re a bottle of wine.’
‘Jacob?’ A petite blonde girl appeared next to us and motioned for the glass of pink Moscato, which Jacob picked up and passed to her without breaking eye contact with me.
‘Until we meet again, Yolanda.’
Imogen sighed behind me as Jacob walked away and re-joined a group of pretty young things, including the petite blonde girl.
‘You could have had him,’ she said with conviction.
‘He was just flirting,’ I countered.
‘Oh, honey, you can try to talk yourself out of it, but I was watching his body language.’
‘How can I compete with a teenager whose breasts haven’t been affected by gravity?’ I posed, motioning towards the group of pretty young things.
‘The brain is the biggest erogenous zone, Yolanda.’
‘He commented on my looks. He wasn’t interested in my brain.’
‘How would you know when you didn’t give him a chance?’
‘Point taken.’
‘Now, go and get him.’
‘Not yet,’ I said before finishing my espresso martini and motioning for another. ‘I need a little more reinforcement.’
Imogen shrugged and then flitted off again.
I sat at the counter, sipping my third cocktail of the evening and practising a selection of casual opening lines in my head with which to greet Jacob. Then, to my dismay, I watched the young blonde approach him, stretch up on the tips of her toes, and whisper something in his ear before they walked out of the bar together.
My shoulders dropped, and I dealt with the remainder of my drink in one gulp.
‘Oh, honey, you snooze, you lose,’ Imogen said.
‘This is not who I am, anyway. I mean, could I be any more desperate, sitting here in a dress that’s four inches too short and actually succumbing to the male gaze? The first male gaze at that.’ I sighed reproachfully at my vanity and eagerness for attention. ‘This is not who I am.’ I picked up my jacket and slipped it on.
‘Calling it a night?’
I nodded.
‘You?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m having too much fun. How are you getting home?’
‘I’ll walk.’
‘Don’t you dare! Get a taxi out front.’
‘It’s literally six hundred metres to my door from here. On foot.’
‘It’s not safe.’
‘Fine,’ I huffed.
‘Love you.’ She air-kissed both my cheeks.
‘Love you, too.’
After negotiating the front seven steps, I sighed impatiently as I watched a taxi pull away carrying a passenger I wished was me. I’d have to wait for the next one. I was considering returning to the bar when I noticed Jacob walking away from the taxi rank and towards me. As he closed the distance between us, I studied his upright posture, broad shoulders, and tall physique. He was alone and smiling as he approached, hands in pockets, and before I could control it, a rush of excitement surged through my body, increasing my heartbeat and intensifying my breathing.
Setting the Hook
Book 2
Annika’s Story
~
Chapter One
Grief can bring people together in a variety of ways.
But I’d been secretly grieving the loss of Tim Hampton for so long that his death eight weeks ago seemed like a mere formality. For eight weeks, I grieved like a lover, even though I never was. Not in the physical sense, anyway. But we had always loved one another. Just platonically, I thought, until a week before his death, when he gave me a necklace and pendant as a parting gift before his ill-fated helicopter fly-fishing adventure in New Zealand.
He kissed me deeply, hungrily, passionately and said goodbye.
‘We’ll talk about our future when I get back next week,’ he had said.
That was two months ago.
Earlier today, I had sat between Tim’s younger brother, Daniel, and my older sister, Ingrid, while we farewelled him in a private family service at the Hampton’s sprawling family estate on Scotland Island, north of Sydney, before scattering his ashes in Pittwater. Tomorrow night, at a one-thousand-dollar-per-person fundraising ball, others would have the opportunity to pay public tribute to his memory and acknowledge his tireless and honourable work with refugees and asylum seekers. The proceeds of which would be donated in his name to Médecins Sans Frontières.
Daniel’s smooth, unhurried voice during the private eulogy had lulled me into a moment of deep reflection and then even deeper guilt. His eyes were awash with tears, and his voice cracked more than once. Ingrid dabbed at her perfect waterproof eye makeup with a crisp white tissue. Beside her, Alexander and Isaac, on the cusp of adulthood, gripped each other as their shoulders quaked in silent sobs, faces streaked with hot tears.
Ingrid was Tim’s widow; Alexander and Isaac were their twin sons.
And I had been prepared to break their hearts and their trust to finally have Tim to myself after more than two decades. My cheeks burned with shame.
Twenty-two years ago, when I was a foolish twenty-two-year-old, I introduced my handsome, clever and funny friend, Tim Hampton, to my thin, beautiful, extroverted sister, Ingrid Smith.
Ingrid had always been the thin, beautiful, extroverted one, while I was the fat, smart, introverted one. I may have shed more than forty kilograms over the years, but I was still smart and introverted.
Tim and Ingrid inevitably fell in love, inevitably married, and once Ingrid’s semi-successful modelling career wound up and she was prepared to ‘lose her figure’, as she put it, and she was content to ‘be a socialite’, as she also put it, they inevitably had children.
She never did lose her figure, though. Which was also inevitable.
We couldn’t have been more dissimilar.
Ingrid took after our mother with her petite figure, brown hair, brown eyes, and preference for the dramatic. I took after our father with my tall frame, strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and preference for peace.
She was elegant. I was plain.
When her health allowed it, she attended barre and pilates classes with lots of other people. I swam alone.
She liked crime novels and true crime podcasts. I liked romance books with happy ever afters and comedy podcasts.
She was a stay-at-home mother and wife with a busy social life. I was the founder and president of a software company about to float on the Nasdaq.
She hated living on Scotland Island in the five-bedroom, five-bathroom mansion with a detached two-bedroom guest house, two jetties and two boatsheds – passed onto Tim by his parents – and preferred their seventeenth-floor, four-bedroom, three-bathroom innercity apartment overlooking Hyde Park, where she and Tim slept in separate bedrooms from Monday to Thursday. From Friday to Sunday, they slept in separate houses when he returned to his island home. I loved living on Scotland Island, where I had moved six years ago after building a deceptively modest home with only three bedrooms, two bathrooms, one jetty, one boatshed and a pool, valuing the isolation and quietude.
I especially loved Friday evenings on the island.
Tim would drive straight from his office in the city to Church Point, where he would park his car and catch the seven o’clock ferry across to the Eastern Wharf, and then be at my house for dinner fifteen minutes later. We’d eat outside on the deck overlooking Pittwater and the boats moored in Crystal Bay across the way.
Four years ago, Ingrid based herself almost exclusively at the apartment when the twins started attending a private school in the city, but Tim still returned to the island – and me – every Friday night after his working week. Over those few years, our feelings for each other only deepened. Our respect for Ingrid and the children, however, meant we never acted on them.
Until he kissed me.
And now he was dead, and the grief was consuming, but I could never confess it, even though I was sure Ingrid suspected the love her husband felt for me. Our sisterly bond had always been strained, our relationship had always been fractious, but never more so than in those last few years, when she must have known that Tim was choosing a celibate weekend with me over the apartment’s spare room.
🐟 🐟 🐟
I’d not spent a lot of time with Daniel – or Dan as he was more often called – in the years before his brother’s death. In early March, Tim, his fly-fishing guide and the pilot were all killed when their helicopter crashed in remote wilderness. It had taken the recovery team more than a week to locate and recover the bodies. An investigation followed before Tim’s body could be repatriated to his family in Australia, where he was cremated.
The memorial service in late April had brought Daniel back into my life and his arrival in Australia had featured in numerous headlines. My brother-in-law’s younger brother was a celebrity, and even though we hadn’t ever actually spent more than a few hours in each other’s company since we had become related by marriage, I knew him by reputation. A talented musician, writer, actor and director, Daniel Hampton’s Wikipedia page stated he divided his time between his main family home in Bondi, as well as his satellite homes in London and New York. Currently, he was directing a Broadway rock opera, so he had flown from New York.
The wake was a small, subdued affair, organised by Ingrid, professionally catered and held at the family estate on Scotland Island, where Daniel was staying in the guest cottage. From there, it was a fifteen-minute walk around the north and down the eastern side of the island to my home, and I made this journey alone at ten o’clock that night.
I sat where Tim and I used to eat dinner on Friday nights and cried. From beneath my blouse, I retrieved the pendant hanging from the necklace and squeezed it. My fingertips caressed the engraving: IT’S FRIDAY, in honour of our love and a nod to his favourite song, ‘Friday I’m In Love’.
Hot and suffocating, I stripped down to my bra and briefs. Daniel found me in my state of undress, with my tear-streaked red face, about an hour later. He was holding a bottle of bourbon. He looked defeated. And then flustered.
‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’ He took a step back. ‘I thought … you … you might … be keen for … for a nightcap.’ His accent was a mixture of Australian and English.
He was staring at me.
‘It’s OK, Dan.’ I hastily slipped on my blue silk blouse and fastened a couple of buttons. ‘I was just having a moment.’ I wiped away the tears and pushed my hair away from my ruddy, clammy face. My hand shot out towards the bottle and he passed it to me. ‘Glasses are in the kitchen in the top drawer to the right of the sink. There’s an ice dispenser, but I’ll have mine neat.’
He returned with two heavy tumblers and asked, ‘Are you sure this is OK?’
‘You have no idea.’ I patted the space beside me on the outdoor sofa. ‘Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.’ I picked up my phone and tapped the screen a few times and from the built-in speakers located both inside and outside my home came The Cure’s 1989 album, Disintegration.
‘I didn’t mean to intrude on your solitude. I know it’s late, sorry,’ he apologised again before handing me a half-filled glass, ‘but I just couldn’t unwind, even after a joint, and even though we don’t really know each other Tim always sang your praises and I figured you wouldn’t mind. It’s been a shit day, after all.’
‘It’s been a shit couple of months,’ I corrected, referring to the time that had passed since the actual accident.
It’s been a shit couple of decades, actually.
Daniel nodded slowly four times, swallowed half of his bourbon in one gulp and then without warning confessed, ‘I was supposed to be with him in New Zealand but bailed because of the show. It was his birthday present from me. He wasn’t even upset when I told him I couldn’t go. He said he understood and that he was happy to go by himself and have some alone time. We’d been talking a lot in the lead up. He was facing a life-changing decision. Things weren’t good between him and Ingrid. I’m sorry, I know she’s …’ his voice faded to silence as he stared into the tumbler.
He gently set it down on the table, his mouth forming a crooked smile, and he let out a short puff of air. Then he covered his face with his hands and leaned forward but didn’t cry. He scratched his stubbly beard. Instinctively, I reached out and rubbed his back and was about to say something soothing when he suddenly fell against me, his head landing in my lap as he curled himself into a foetal position.
‘It’s not public knowledge yet, but Tara left me,’ he continued his confessions, his voice wavering. ‘Well, perhaps left isn’t the most accurate word since she’s still in the house in Bondi and told me not to bother coming back. It’s not like she kicked me out, either, because I’ve hardly been there. We’ve been separated for well over a year, really, but now she’s made it official. Just before I left New York I received the papers, which really upset me. I mean, I knew the divorce was coming and I’m not going to contest it, but she could have at least waited until after I’d properly farewelled my brother.’
‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ I offered quietly. ‘I wish there was something I could say or do.’
‘I’m not looking for pity,’ he quickly replied, sitting up, ‘just a bit of privacy somewhere that doesn’t feel like a starched, styled magazine spread where I can have a mini breakdown. I haven’t told anyone else. I just needed to say it out loud. Tim always said how steady and reasonable you were.’
He had meant it as a compliment, but the words stung and then my eyes stung and then I wept. I leapt from the sofa and gripped the top of the glass panel that stopped me from plummeting four metres to the ground below.
Why is there no air?
‘Annika?’
‘Steady and reasonable,’ I repeated through wet sobs. ‘Steady and fucking reasonable.’ The tears were coming fast and freely but there was still no air. I wanted to scream. I needed to scream. But to do that I needed air and there was none.
It was Daniel’s turn to rub my back.
‘Annika, what’s happened?’
I sucked at the air and it came into my lungs slowly but at least they were filling.
‘Oh god, Tim was going to leave Ingrid?’
‘I don’t know that for certain, of course, but we talked about it at length. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you would have already known since you see it first hand.’
‘No, no, no, that’s not it,’ I cried out. ‘Don’t you see? He didn’t tell you?’
‘See what? Tell me what?’
‘It was for me. We were in love. We have been in love for years. He was going to leave Ingrid to be with me. He gave me this.’ I held out the pendant. ‘It’s Friday. It’s Friday when he comes here. When he used to come here. I didn’t understand at first when he gave it to me just before he left. But I do now. Fridays were ours. And now they’re gone. He’s gone.’
Daniel stepped back and said, ‘I don’t understand. Were you and Tim having an affair?’
‘No,’ I wailed, turning to face him, ‘because we didn’t want to hurt Ingrid or the boys, so we hurt ourselves instead and denied ourselves the love we felt for each other for all these years. And now he’s gone and I miss him so much. I’ve endured eight Fridays without him. Tomorrow will be nine. And it hurts. It hurts so much.’
I closed my eyes. Daniel’s hands gripped my upper arms and he pulled me closer. Our foreheads pressed together and he held me like that, breathing in and out slowly until my rhythm synced with his. I don’t know who kissed who first, but when our lips touched there was no hesitation.
Salty tears and peaty whisky.
Daniel nuzzled my neck and I grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pushed it down his arms. He undid the two buttons keeping my blouse closed and slipped it off my shoulders. It billowed to the floor and we stepped over it as we made our way into the house. His arms encircled my body, his warm fingertips splayed across my lower back, pulling me close.
‘Yes?’ he posed, his gaze locking with mine.
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
Soon naked, we found our way to the sofa and fucked the anguish away. Years of fidelity to a man who was never mine, who could never be mine, produced an intense eruption of overwhelming desire and unrestrained sensuality. My orgasms came fast and one after the other. Three or four maybe. I’d forgot how sticky, noisy and chaotic sex with an actual person was. The deeper I kissed him, the deeper I tasted him; bourbon and the smoky, musty hints of cannabis. The feel of his skin against mine, the hardness of his chest, his wiry hair, the scent of his aftershave mixed with sweat and saliva, the sound of our individual bodies moving at the same time but coming together from different directions, the translucent skin and wrinkles around his bloodshot blue eyes, his ginger eyelashes and beard flecked with grey.
I loved another man but he was gone forever. Instead, I found solace, understanding and sweet, sweet relief in the arms of his brother. He wasn’t Tim. But he was close.
By the Eye, By the Hand
Book 3
Imogen’s Story
~
Chapter One
To others, it may have seemed unorthodox that I encouraged my husband to have extramarital affairs.
The intricacies of our arrangement would likely be challenging for an outsider to grasp. For sixty-three-year-old Harrison, a respected executive producer, it meant he could freely pursue as much sex as he could procure when working in Los Angeles or New York. For me, twenty years his junior, it meant I was free to pursue my award-winning writing career unhindered. For Harrison, it meant he could entertain his mistresses in either of his American penthouses. For me, it meant our waterfront mansion in Sydney’s eastern suburbs was my domain, and he financially supported my preferred lifestyle without question—and I had always preferred quality over quantity. For Harrison, it meant he would always have an escape route should one of his companions become overly attached because, ‘I love my wife and I am never going to leave her’.
It also meant I could have extramarital affairs.
My husband’s current mistress, Amanda Stanley, was in her late thirties, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, petite, and gorgeous. On the surface, not unlike me. She followed me on Instagram not long after the affair began. No doubt checking out her perceived competition. I followed her back.
She was an in-demand actress whom Harrison met through her agent six months ago. Perky and carefree, flirty, fun, talented and ambitious. In other circumstances, we might have been friends. But, unlike me, she wasn’t in an open marriage and was cheating on her Native Hawaiian husband.
And the former investigative journalist in me took issue with that. Even though I now preferred writing fiction—feminist revenge thrillers, to be precise—I still loved a good story, and more than that, I still loved pursuing and uncovering the truth.
Amanda Stanley’s infidelity would be my next exposé, but the intended audience was only her husband. I’d have a little fun with him first, though, and tip the scales in his favour.
‘I’d like to lift up your dress, bend you over and fuck you right now.’
Harrison always preferred the direct approach, whether it was sex or business. I studied his naked reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was still a fit man with solid arms, a defined chest, and a trim stomach. His freshly shaved scalp was smooth, but his face modelled a permanent five o’clock shadow, drawing attention to his strong chin. Black, heavy-framed glasses accentuated his dark features and brown eyes, adding tangible weight to his natural dominance.
‘And here I was thinking you’d never ask,’ I said while applying mascara. When I was done, I slid the wand back into the gold cylinder and clicked it shut before scrunching my choppy, platinum-blonde bob and reaching for the tissue box. ‘Don’t get any cum on my dress. I bought it especially for tonight.’
I observed my husband’s smug, closed-lipped smile in the bathroom mirror. He raised the back of my eight-thousand-dollar Erdem midi dress, and I carefully pulled the silk-organza fabric forward and scooped it up in front of me. Two of his fingertips slipped beneath my thong and moved it aside. Those same fingertips then found and teased my clitoris with their usual expert technique before inching backwards.
‘You’re already so fucking wet,’ he murmured, circling my entrance.
‘It’s a permanent state when you’re home,’ I replied, even though he already knew the effect he had on me. I had it on him, too. ‘Now fuck me until I come.’
The size of his cock never failed to leave me gasping whenever he first entered me. Long and thick, it filled me up, always feeling bigger from behind. I spread my legs wider and tilted my arse to adjust the angle of his penetration. With one hand gripping my hip to drive himself deeper and his other hand working my clitoris like only he knew how, we watched each other in the mirror with an intensity that always brought me closer to orgasm.
I was in love with this man, and he was in love with me.
His thrusts were relentless, and the rhythm and pressure with which he stroked my clitoris made me climax in a few minutes. No one and nothing had ever made me orgasm as hard as he did. Seconds later, his load shot into me.
As his pace slowed but before he pulled out, Harrison took his hand from my hip, cradled my throat and chin in his palm, and curved his torso forward over mine. We caught our breath, gazing at the flushed faces reflected at us.
‘Look!’ he said, almost demanded. ‘Just look at how fucking beautiful you are after you come.’
I smiled. I felt beautiful.
But there was an expression of seriousness etched across his face that hadn’t been there earlier.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. He was still inside me.
‘I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you, Ginny.’
He reached for the tissues and withdrew, catching his cum before it dribbled out of me.
‘You’re not going to lose me,’ I assured him, replacing his hand with mine and reaching for more tissues to avoid a spill. I straightened up and pressed my thighs together to keep the tissues in place but didn’t lower my dress. We were facing one another now. No mirrors.
‘He was a good and decent man,’ Harrison said.
Clearly, the sudden death of Tim Hampton in a helicopter crash had affected him even more than I realised.
‘And we’re paying tribute to him and his work at the fundraising ball tonight,’ I reminded him.
Standing in the middle of the bathroom, Harrison’s flaccid cock glistened with our combined fluids while tissues soaked up what was running out of me, and the notion of losing each other weighed heavily in our hearts. We glanced over our shoulders at the mirror and smiled.
We were an exquisitely pathetic sight.
▼▼▼
Tim Hampton’s ash-scattering ceremony the morning before had been a private event, open to family and close friends only, so the Médecins Sans Frontières fundraising ball was an opportunity for the wider community to farewell the man and pay tribute to all the excellent work he had done for refugees and asylum seekers. MSF was an organisation close to his heart, and his family thought a banquet should be held in his honour to raise money for the cause. At ten thousand dollars per table, it wasn’t cheap, but neither was my cocktail dress, and even I, granting myself only the thinnest sliver of guilt, knew which was far more worthy.
For the occasion, the three ballrooms on level five of the convention centre had been combined, allowing for one hundred sixty-five tables, ten times that number of guests and, by extension, one thousand times that in ticket sales. An anonymous philanthropist was footing the function bill, so all those funds would find their way directly to the charity. Of course, we would have attended the event, philanthropy or not. Tim had been the best man at our wedding almost twenty years earlier, so it was less about the prestige and more about honouring a good and decent man.
Harrison had paid for two tables, and we had no trouble finding nine couples among our circle of acquaintances to give the tickets to. I regularly hosted cocktail parties at home, so we asked those acquaintances to attend the ball. The downside was having to greet the male halves of those couples with their clammy, wandering hands and wet, lecherous lips that always lingered too long for my comfort.
On a slightly raised stage, a concert grand piano with an attached microphone was positioned in the centre of the ballroom, illuminated by a warm white spotlight. Daniel Hampton, Tim’s younger brother, went to the piano between the main course and dessert. Even in his palpable grief, he exuded a sexual presence that had London’s West End, New York’s Broadway, and Hollywood all vying for the talents of one of Australia’s favourite sons.
With his left hand, he raised the fallboard and struck at the keys with his fingertips. His right hand set down a tumbler of whisky on a coaster on top of the piano. He tapped the microphone three times and, upon hearing the expected muffled thuds reverberate back at him from the speakers around the room, leaned down and spoke.
‘Folks,’ he said, ‘if I could have your attention for a few minutes, Ingrid has asked me to play my brother’s favourite song for you all tonight.’ He sat. ‘For anyone who knew him, you’ll know Tim’s musical taste was stuck firmly in the late eighties and early nineties, and you won’t be surprised that his favourite song is—was—by The Cure. Predictable, I know, but I suppose it was that predictability, that steadfastness, that reliability, and his unwavering and unapologetic commitment to social justice that made us love Tim so much.’
He finished the whisky in one mouthful.
I recognised the first few bars of ‘Friday I’m in Love’. But my keen sense of observation drew my gaze away from the handsome performer and to my friend, Annika, whose sister, Ingrid, was Tim’s widow. Annika stood near the entrance, one arm pressed across her stomach, her hand clenching her electric blue jumpsuit and crushing the silk-crepe fabric in a tortured grip. The fingertips of the other hand clutched at a pendant on a chain around her neck.
I rose from my chair and went to her.
▼▼▼
Harrison cleared his throat, which was a well-established method to engage my attention. I did not turn to face him. He then let out a long, agitated sigh, which was not part of his standard procedure. I had spent the last ten minutes in silent solitude, studying the pair of two-by-two-metre oil paintings that had pride of place on a wall in our home’s formal living room. Dark and sombre, the artworks were in stark contrast to the floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall sheets of glass that allowed us an unobstructed view of Sydney Harbour.
They were called The Kīlauea Fields I and The Kīlauea Fields II. Two black lava landscapes by a Hawaiian artist who signed his work Herd. Real name, Shep Stanley. Amanda’s husband. I purchased them in LA five months earlier, at the beginning of December. When I bought them, the gallery shared a celebratory post to its Instagram account and Herd commented. We exchanged some public pleasantries, followed each other, and chatted sporadically via private messages for the next few months as I laid the foundation for my plan without arousing his suspicion.
‘Are you ready?’
‘My luggage is at the door,’ I replied absentmindedly, finally turning around.
‘No, I mean, are you ready for this? For him?’ Harrison pointed to the artworks and sighed again. ‘I just hope you’re not digging yourself too deep a hole.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I assured him. ‘It’s only a bit of fun.’
‘I don’t know …’ He hesitated. ‘It seems like this one is different. I’ve never seen you put so much thought into the details and lay so much groundwork as you have with this one.’
I loved how he emphasised the words this one, as though the others before him were all nameless, faceless, interchangeable victims of seduction. But he was right. Shep Stanley was none of these. His face was engraved in my memory with such fine detail that I knew every crease around his eyes, every lash fringing his lids, every furrow in his forehead, every pore in his skin, every shade of green in his irises.
‘Well, my love, I have you to pull me out of the hole if it is, indeed, too deep.’
A third sigh. ‘I wish I could talk you out of this.’
‘That’s exactly what Yolanda said.’
‘I like Yolanda. Why don’t we see more of her?’ He inclined his head and smiled.
I cocked an eyebrow and laughed. ‘For that very reason—you like her.’
‘I would never fuck any of your friends,’ Harrison said, clutching his chest as though wounded. His features sobered. ‘The ball was a fitting send-off for Tim, don’t you think? Seeing Dan there last night reminded me of how alike he and Tim are. Were.’ He exhaled. ‘I’m looking forward to working with him.’
‘Dan’s wife is divorcing him, did you know? He told Annika.’
We moved towards the front door.
‘I did not know that.’ He paused. ‘Does he need consoling? You’ve always fancied him.’
I shook my head. ‘Not by me. Annika was there first.’
Harrison’s eyebrows came together in contemplation. ‘Really? I thought she was gay.’
‘Straight,’ I corrected, ‘and it transpires that she was very much in love with Tim Hampton for quite a few years. And while it was reciprocated, they never pursued it. Now that he’s dead, Annika is forced to grieve for him privately. She and Dan have found temporary comfort with each other.’
‘Hmmm. Annika and Tim were in love this whole time?’
I nodded. ‘Do you think we’re the exception?’
‘In what way?’
‘Our love. The depth of it. Do you think it’s unusual, especially given our lifestyle? I mean, Tim and Ingrid didn’t have the best marriage, Yolanda has finally given that douchebag Marcus the flick after ten years, Annika and Tim hid their love, Dan and his wife are getting a divorce, and Amanda Stanley is cheating on her husband with you. Then there’s the rest of our circle of friends … and I use that word loosely. I’m sure most of them hate their spouses—the body language and words between them were rather antagonistic last night—but they either stay for convenience or to avoid expensive settlements.’ My eyes returned to the paintings one last time. ‘Do you think what we have is exceptional?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything truer than our love.’ He rubbed the small of my back. ‘Others would probably disagree because of our arrangement, but I think that’s what makes it exceptional. Our love for each other is steadfast, even though we fuck other people, and that’s because I fucking love you the most and always have and always will, and I love fucking you the most and always have and always will.’
▼▼▼
Our charter jet’s travel time from Sydney direct to Ellison Onizuka Kona International Airport was almost nine hours, traversing eight thousand two hundred kilometres and twenty time zones. Aside from some turbulence on the ascent to cruising altitude and our descent to the Island of Hawai‘i—the Big Island—the flight was smooth. We arrived at one o’clock local time and were greeted with plumeria leis by our driver who then transferred us to the resort where I had booked accommodation for the next six weeks. Harrison was staying one night before continuing to LAX. He would return for our twentieth wedding anniversary party at the beginning of June.
‘Well, this is lovely,’ Harrison remarked, taking in the decor of the two-bedroom luxury residence.
It was positioned ocean-front and set apart from the main resort, boasting a private pool, hot tub and outdoor showers, expansive lānai, open plan living space, wet bar and full kitchen. But there was … something else. I sensed the exact moment my brain made the connection and triggered that all-too-familiar fight-or-flight response.
My adrenaline swirled.
My heart pounded.
My lungs constricted.
That something else was an aroma: pine-scented disinfectant.
A cleaner’s storeroom.
Wrists bound by cable ties.
A filthy, bitter rag that smelled like fake pine.
I took a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth and repeated this three more times without Harrison even noticing.
‘It is lovely,’ I concurred.
After dinner at the resort’s most exclusive restaurant, we ambled arm-in-arm the short distance back to our bungalow, where we bathed and then worshipped each other’s naked bodies on the crisp white linen of the koa timber four-poster bed. It would be another month until we could make love again, so we took our time, Harrison exploring my body as though it was the first time.
His index finger traced the curve of my forehead, down the bridge of my nose, across my lips and chin, down my throat to my breasts and then around both areolae before pinching each nipple. In response, I spread my thighs and arched towards him, urging his fingers between my legs. He ignored my invitation. His touch was like fire against my skin, igniting every inch it passed over, the burn searing through every layer of my skin, down to my muscles, causing them to quiver with anticipation. The feeling was both agonising and pleasurable in equal measure.
Unable to bear it any longer, I moved my hand between my legs and rubbed my swollen clitoris. Harrison gripped my wrist and pulled it away. I struggled against him, desperate for release from his sensual torment, so I moved my other hand down, but he caught that, too. He pinned both arms over my head. I was strong, but even against his modest five-eight frame, he still outweighed me by more than twenty kilograms and gravity increased his advantage. My breath caught in my tightening throat. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, exhaling with deliberate slowness. My gaze locked on his and awareness registered on his face. A split second before I whispered our safe word—Enough—he released his grip. He kissed both my wrists and then my lips.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. It crept up on me, too.’
‘Do you want to stop?’
‘No, I want to make love with you.’
He slid inside me, eliciting a sigh from us both, a combination of relief and delight. Deep, slow penetrations that collided with my cervix were alternated with shallower, faster pumps that aroused my G-spot. I focused on the sensations that accompanied it: my increased breathing rate, the blood rushing to my clitoris, causing it to swell and throb with pleasant pain, the aroma of the bed linen, the acidic sweetness of fresh pineapple in my mouth, the view of my husband watching me from above and scrutinising every twitch in my facial muscles for signs of an approaching orgasm. Our bodies were synchronised in their undulation and our hearts were matched in their adoration.
My cries of ecstasy were uninhibited. The bungalow was far enough away from the other four that I didn’t need to muffle my rapture as the climax exploded between my legs, gripping my body from head to toe. My hips bucked upwards, grinding against Harrison and causing convulsion after convulsion until the spasms subsided. Harrison withdrew, shuffled backwards, and placed his face between my thighs. With his usual tenderness, his fingers stretched my labia apart while his tongue teased my still-sensitive clitoris. His lips closed around the swollen bud and sucked. The sound, wet and greedy, heightened my arousal. I swallowed, my mouth dry from panting. As another orgasm began to build, I raised, lowered and swivelled my hips side-to-side to control the pressure and angle. Harrison slipped two fingers inside me and massaged my G-spot. My glutes were aching from constant contraction, then, all at once, they relaxed as another climax flooded through me, pulsing outwards from the epicentre, wave upon wave. Goosebumps shot across my skin.
And then it was Harrison’s turn. He thrust back inside me; my vagina pulsed around him as the remnants of my second orgasm drained out of my body. He manoeuvred my legs over his shoulders and dropped forward as he drove himself deep.
‘Fuck me,’ I begged, even though he was already doing it. ‘Fuck me harder.’
This was enough to send him over the edge. I felt the subtle throb of his ejaculation, followed by the familiar groan marking his climax.
Afterwards, while Harrison was showering, I dialled the number of my dedicated guest experience team.
‘Aloha, this is Imogen Banks. I’d like to ask that, while I’m staying here, pine-scented disinfectant not be used in my suite, as the smell causes me …’ I faltered. ‘Headaches. Mahalo.’