7 Tales of Sex and Betrayal Read online

  Seven Tales of Love and Betrayal

  — by —

  Zita Weber

  Copyright 2013 Zita Weber

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

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  eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

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  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Between the sheets

  But he says he loves me

  Chloe

  Dear Ted, Dear Tina

  Reflections

  Suspicion: 1978 style

  Suspicion: 2008 style

  Author’s Note

  In this collection of short stories, love and betrayal are the main themes. What happens when love goes wrong? What does betrayal mean? Can you forgive an infidelity?

  These stories explore ideas about being human and in love – the temptations of lust and the consequences of betrayal. It’s never an easy formula. It’s always much more complicated than people think. Enjoy reading about how these characters navigated through their love and what they did about betrayal.

  Between the sheets

  He was snoring as he always did after drinking too much. Joanne listened from the verandah and thanked her lucky stars. She could enjoy the warm balmy night without his demands. The overwhelming fragrance of exotic orchids and bougainvillea soothed her and she began to hum a favourite tune. It was an old tune now, of course. She smiled as she recalled being told by her mother that identifying with particular music dates you. Well, she didn’t mind being dated, she was in her prime.

  She had never had an issue with her age. The local women wore their age with pride. With age, they told her, came wisdom and respect. Had she been living in a western context, she would be getting a very different message. The times she’d visited her family back in Australia she’d felt distressed and disoriented and couldn’t wait to get away. On her return to what she now considered home, she felt exhilarated to be back in a culture that valued the basic things in life. Yes, she’d decided, the modern world was not for her. That culture had lost its way and she no longer felt comfortable there.

  She felt good here. She loved the country, its climate and its people. Before they’d arrived, she’d been warned about the creepy-crawlies. At first, she’d been apprehensive, but now she felt at home and she loved every little thing about the place. Everything had been exciting when they arrived. Dave had been warm and generous and they had explored the new culture together. They clung together for support, each reminding the other of home and security.

  Joanne smiled as she remembered how they had made love on the dark wood bed. Its intricately carved fruit and flowers headboard was the dark contrast against the snowy white of the pillows and sheets. It had been such a novelty. Back in Australia they had thought that their futon was as exotic as they were going to get.

  In their new surroundings their lovemaking had matured to the point where Dave would observe the preamble and even pleasure her beyond her own expectations. When they had met, his lovemaking was abrupt and unsatisfactory, but she’d encouraged him to become more adventurous and to be a considerate lover. He owed his technique to her tutelage.

  With time, they both began to feel comfortable in their new home and Dave’s interest in her had diminished. As the plantation manager, he was an important man. With increasing annoyance, she watched his ego grow and his habits change. He was no longer the man she had married. He began to swagger, just a little at first, but within a few short years, he had reinvented himself as master of all he surveyed. At first, this transformation was amusing, but lately, she’d caught herself being irritated by his manner. Although still a physically attractive man, she found him an unattractive human being.

  Rumours of his affairs reached her. Dismissing these as malice or at best, sensational stories about the boss, she believed they had a charmed life. But the rumours became louder and she couldn’t close her ears to the possibility that he was unfaithful to her. Stories were circulating about his dalliances with servant girls and even some of the women from their social set. His denials were vehement and she had too much pride to pry any further. Their everyday life was smooth enough to not bother too much about the small detail.

  It wasn’t until she caught him with one of her friends that everything changed. Coming home unexpectedly, she found Dave in bed with Frances. She found them in the marital bed, he was stroking a curious, proprietorial finger around the centre of her left breast and she was making soft, cooing sounds. For a moment, Joanne had stood stock-still and taken in the scene. Then she laughed. It was too much of a cliché to be taken seriously. For years, she’d recall that image, the two of them huddled together, not knowing what to make of her laughing her head off. It still had the power to bring a smile to her face.

  Practical to the core, she didn’t make a scene and decided that her life wasn’t to be disturbed for the sake of her husband’s folly. She threw her considerable energy into befriending the local workers and learning from them. Their local knowledge was fascinating and she admired their strength and resilience. She began teaching English to those workers who were interested. She threw herself into her activities and got much satisfaction from learning as well as teaching.

  Occasionally, she’d find their wedding photo turned around to face the wall. She never got to the bottom of which of the servants was responsible, although she had her suspicions. It was both touching and amusing that someone was making a protest on her behalf. Once Dave had found his favourite jacket had inexplicably developed burn holes that were so obvious he had to throw the jacket away. He was livid because he’d been so attached to the jacket and although he interrogated all the servants, no-one was able to say who had done such a loathsome thing.

  Meanwhile Dave started to drink, moderately at first, then regularly, and now almost constantly. The more he drank the coarser he became with his staff and with her. More than anything else, it was his attitude to the servants that upset her the most. He was particularly cruel towards Pepie, their general houseboy.

  Pepie was friendly, eager to help and did a good job of overseeing the other servants in the house. It was Pepie who had taught her about the country. He had taught her which insects to admire and which to be wary of. She owed her beautiful garden to Pepie’s knowledge of native plants and when to plant them. She smiled as she now watched him watering the garden.

  “Joanne!” It was a barely audible whisper. “Joanne, come quickly!”

  The voice was hoarse, but soft, as if to keep it from screaming. It was Dave’s voice coming from the bedroom.

  Joanne walked quickly to the bedroom where she found Dave lying still, his sweating body covered only by a cotton sheet. He stared at her with desperate eyes.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “A spider,” he whispered.

  “A spider? Where?”

  “With me. Here, between the sheets,” Dave’s voice was shaking.

  She made a move as if to lift the sheet, but his terrified whisper stopped her.

  “No! Don’t touch it. Don’t move anything at all.”

  “Why? Dave, take a hold of yourself, it’s probably nothing.
”

  “A tarantula.”

  “A tarantula? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  Gone was his normal bellow. It was replaced by a muted desperation.

  “I saw it crawl under the sheet.”

  Joanne took the edge of the sheet in her hand and said, “If I just lift this end of the sheet carefully...”

  But his panicky voice interrupted her. “No, don’t. I can feel it...it’s crawling up my leg.”

  Looking down, sure enough, Joanne saw movement beneath the sheet. A small white mound was inching its way along his body.

  “Yes, I can see it. It does seem big enough for a tarantula Dave.”

  She got no reply. Dave’s whole body was rigid with terror and his face purple as he strained to hold his breath.

  “Now, just relax. Try breathing very gently.”

  His eyes were screwed up tight in an effort to avoid moving, but he acknowledged her suggestion by visibly releasing his breath, slowly, breathing deeply in and out.

  “That’s good. The spider seems to have stopped moving.”

  He nodded slightly. “It’s on my stomach. It’s not moving...can’t you do something?”

  “What can I do? You won’t let me lift the sheet.” She thought for a moment and said, “I know. I’ll get Pepie, he’ll know how to handle spiders.”

  “No!” he snapped and stopped suddenly for fear of upsetting the spider. In a calmer voice he added, “I don’t want the servants to see me like this.”

  “Don’t be silly Dave. This is a matter of life and...”

  She stopped just in time, but saw the fear in his eyes at the thought of what she hadn’t said. Suddenly he jerked. His body stiffened. The spider was on the move again, circling his stomach. Dave’s contorted face gave away his agony.

  “Has the spider bitten you?” asked Joanne anxiously.

  “No,” he replied hesitantly. “At least I don’t think so. But there’s a burning sensation.”

  “That’s probably from the hair on its legs. I think that happens when the spider is frightened. Whatever happens, you mustn’t move. Keep still. It mustn’t bite near your heart.”

  Although he wanted to ask why, he was frightened to hear the answer. The only thing to do was to lie back in his sweat and wait.

  Joanne sat and watched the small white mound resting on his stomach for ten minutes. She noted his increasing desperation, his eyelids, though closed were flickering strangely.

  “Dave? Dave, I’ve got to do something. I’ve thought of a plan.”

  He opened his eyes and she saw the mixture of hope and desperation. “What is it?”

  She bit her lip and answered nervously, “I’m going to try to kill it. Squash it.”

  A few seconds passed before the message sank in.

  “You mean squash it while it’s lying on my stomach?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You can’t do that! Joanne, what if you missed?” His eyes and voice pleaded with her, but she had made up her mind.

  She was already standing over him, staring at the sheet-covered mound, concentrating on the exact spot she must hit to end his agony.

  As she raised both hands, for extra impact, he panicked and lifted his arm to stop her. His sudden movement prompted an immediate reaction from the spider. It happened almost simultaneously.

  As her hand came down on his stomach, the spider was on the move. He screamed with fright as he felt the hairy legs on his chest. There was a sharp bite near his heart.

  Lifting his shoulders up and gasping for air, he held a hand out to her. A short struggle to breathe, a choking sound was followed by his body collapsing back onto the bed.

  His face looked strangely calm in a way it never had in life. Although she knew it was no use, she ran from the house and yelled out for someone to fetch the doctor. Later on, she’d have difficulty recalling the exact order of events. It was like that dissociation feeling she’d read about, when people are there without being there. It happens all the time when you’re doing routine things like driving a regular route. You may not recall anything about the actual trip or whether you ran a red light or not. But that feeling of being absent whilst present is also possible in traumatic circumstances such as she experienced. She’d read that it’s a way for the mind to protect itself from the shock of the events. There had been so much commotion that she could only remember standing next to the doctor by the bed.

  “You know, I warned him about all his drinking,” said the doctor after examining the body. “His heart couldn’t take it, not in this climate. I’m sorry Joanne.”

  “We might have saved him, if only I could have got you here sooner.”

  “Now, now, Joanne, don’t go blaming yourself. You did everything you could. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “You’re sure it was a heart attack?”

  “Of course. He’d had a poor heart for ages. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, he kept saying there was a spider – a tarantula between the sheets.”

  “Tarantula? Really? How odd. Still, that might account for the small bite on the left side of his chest.”

  “But that didn’t kill him then?”

  “Of course not. People think tarantulas are deadly, but most of them aren’t, except for one found in parts of southern Italy.”

  “Oh yes. Pepie, our houseboy told me that. He keeps one as a pet, but it’s perfectly harmless. You can pick it up but you have to be careful not to drop it. They’re very delicate creatures I’m told.”

  After the doctor left, Joanne sat on the verandah and looked out on her beautiful garden. She smiled serenely. From across the grass, Pepie returned her smile.

  But he says he loves me

  I wasn’t going to stop dating him because he seemed too bossy. He was tall, dark and handsome and I wanted him to be The One. My mother said, ‘I don’t think he’s right for you’ and my best friend said, ‘I think he’s trouble with a capital T’. But what did they know? He made me feel special.

  In the beginning, when we were together, it was like we were the only two people in the whole world. Nobody had ever known love like this. I was dizzy with excitement, a slave to his scent and he was besotted with me. Wasn’t he?

  That’s how I now remember it. But memory, I’ve learnt is unreliable. Each time we remember something, we remember it differently. I read an article in a respected journal about memory and recall and I was unsettled by the idea that every time we remember, we remember from our perspective of the now, not the perspective of the past.

  So, memory changes according to where we are in our lives and how we feel about ourselves. We can rework our own life story, without even knowing that we’re doing it. It’s not like we’re actively and consciously retelling events to suit ourselves, just that each time we look back and reflect, we’re in a different place and we see the past through the lens of our present.

  So, here’s my story as I remember it.

  We met at a party in the late summer. It was one of those magical nights with stars shining and a warm breeze moving through my hair and teasing my skirt. I was with a group of friends on the balcony. I’d seen him earlier in the evening, but he’d been talking to another girl and I thought he was taken. I was laughing at a friend’s joke when he walked up to me and without a word, reached out and gently tucked some strands of my hair behind my ear.

  ‘There, that’s better. I was looking at you and I couldn’t help myself. I think your hair looks better behind your ears.’

  Self-consciously, I raised my hand to my other ear and tucked errant strands behind it.

  ‘I’m Seth.’

  ‘Uh, hello, I’m Karina.’

  From that moment on, introductions over, we seemed to develop a bubble around ourselves, as if we were the only ones in the place. We talked and talked for hours. I listened while he talked. Then he listened while I talked. I’d never had a man listen so intently to me before. It was uplifting. I
t was empowering. I felt wonderful.

  We were in a hurry to marry and when he lifted my veil almost exactly as I had imagined it, I was over the moon. Then he kissed me with great tenderness. My eyes welled up in a mix of love and happiness. Could any girl want more?

  We were happy. I was happy, wasn’t I? Well, ‘happy’ might not be quite the right word. I learnt that our relationship was a strong and passionate one, but one also very fragile. Ours was a dangerous love.

  Most of the time, I felt excited, edgy, exhilarated, distracted, disorganised, disappointed, even despairing. I was in a permanent state of thrill and fear of falling, as if I was all the time at the top of a ski run. But that was what I had wanted, wasn’t it? It was what a lot of my friends wanted. They used to say to me that at least I was living.

  But daily life with a volatile man is exhausting. You are always on the look-out for things you haven’t done, things you have done that you shouldn’t have done and a hundred other little anxieties. He was demanding and could be fierce if things didn’t suit him, but when he was loving, I wouldn’t have traded my place for anything in the world. The good times were just that good.

  I knew about his infidelities. You’d have to be living under a rock not to have seen or heard enough to confirm that Seth was a ladies’ man. Mostly, I’d learned to live with it and if my mother’s words came back to haunt me, I’d bat them away as quickly as they’d lodged in my consciousness.

  To give Seth his credit, he was usually discreet about his women. But what happened next was public and I reacted. In many ways, we both acted uncharacteristically, but that’s part of being human.

  I was used to women flirting with him and him flirting back outrageously, but when I passed a couple of women at a party and overheard one say, ‘Look at that. She might as well just straddle him here and now’, I turned around and saw a pretty young woman gazing up at Seth, nodding effusively, her body language unmistakable. I felt that tight pinch of jealousy. He was leaning towards her and in a too-familiar way, wiped what? a morsel of food? From the side of her lips. That was confirmation enough.