Textual Relations

“Hello, Michael.”

That’s how it started, a text greeting from an unknown number on a late damp autumn night.

He had been about to shut down his laptop. Helen had gone upstairs to bed, as usual, around an hour ago. She would read for a while then fall asleep with her book. He’d join her later, untangle her fingers from the pages and place the book face down on her bedside cabinet. He’d slide into bed beside her and the next thing would be the 6 am alarm when it all started over again.

Ping. No one contacted him at night. Ever.

“You looked sexy in your suit today xxx”

That was silly and a little spooky. Sexy? Really? He stabbed at the screen. “Who’s this?”

Pranks bored him, as did texting; it took too long to prod at the tiny screen keyboard with big fingers. He flipped the laptop lid shut, put the phone to silent and headed up to the bedroom. Helen’s deep and regular breathing greeted him at the top of the stairs.

After dealing with the book laying on her chest, he went to the bathroom and clicked the door shut. He put the phone by the sink and heard Helen turn in her sleep. The phone screen lit up.

“I know you feel the same as I do, Mikey xxx.”

He stiffened. The name Mikey sounded infantile, yet the message was tantalising: Mikey, the diminutive. A term of endearment?

Helen and he were a successful team. Their children were at university, they had paid off the mortgage and he had been accepted to the golf club. His phone vibrated.

“This will be our secret xxx.”

A secret. His finger hovered and circled the screen. He should stop this nonsense. A but gnawed at his rationale. After twenty-five years of comfortable marriage, the idea that someone found him sexy drew him in. A frisson of something he hadn’t felt for years sparked. A secret.

His finger hovered. Helen was asleep, a moment more wouldn’t hurt. He stabbed at the screen. “What do you want?”

The reply came within seconds, “I want you, Mikey xxx.”

He was being reeled in like a hungry fish and he wanted to feed on her words. He had read about husbands who did this kind of thing, sending sexy messages and photos to other women. He never thought it would happen to him. He was normal. Sure he looked at other women, what red-blooded man didn’t? Sometimes he might say something to a pretty girl, such as the young vixen next door. Compliments. It was only ever a bit of fun.

This Text Lady’s messages lit a spark in his chest, his stomach burnt with a forgotten passion. Someone wanted him. He wasn’t being unfaithful, it was only texting, it wasn’t real.

He typed, telling the Text Lady he wanted to know more. It was a game and there’s no harm in that. A bit of fun. He put the phone down.

Outside the wind gusted and autumnal leaves scraped along the street. The first drops of rain spotted on the windows. It was as if the Text Lady were throwing tiny pebbles against the pane, trying to get his attention. The phone vibrated and he grabbed at it, banging his wedding ring on the enamel sink.

“We meet tomorrow, Mikey. Good night sexy man xxx.”

Sexy man? The bed groaned beyond the bathroom door.

Who could this Text Lady be? Katie, his manager’s secretary? She was young, single and flirty. She batted her eyelids while they shared innuendos and playfully tapped his arm whenever they brushed up together. Maybe she wanted a father figure?

Perhaps it was his manager, Lucilla? That was an exciting prospect. She liked being in charge, as did the Text Lady.

His mind whirled, flicking through a mental card index of women he knew. Not the largest file in the world.

Helen’s sister, Fiona? She was a younger brassier version of Helen and having marital difficulties. Fiona was too strong-willed for her sensitive husband. She was a good possibility for the Text Lady.

Michael sat at his office desk the day after the texts, glancing at his phone. 4.30 pm and nothing yet from the Text Lady. Lucilla had called him into her office that morning. His anticipation had evaporated the moment he saw her. She told him she wanted to discuss his accessing inappropriate internet sites on his work computer from home at night.

“Don’t think IT can’t monitor your activity just because you’re not in the office.” Her eyes snared him.

He skulked out of her office on a written warning.

His expectancy crescendoed again when Katie had asked him to meet her in an empty office. With his eyes fixed on her breasts, she had told him she didn’t care for his lewd comments and invasion of her body space. If it continued, she would take it up with Lucilla.

4.34 pm: Ping.

He jumped. His chest fluttered. This was it. A text message lit his screen. It was Fiona and she was using her own phone. The pretence was over. He opened the message.

“I need to see you urgently. 5 pm. Coffee bar. Bank Street.”

He typed, “See you there,” grabbed his coat, flew out of the office and was in the coffee bar by quarter to five. This was wrong and worse, it was Helen’s sister. But, some things can’t be helped; emotions charge and the world turns. Desire is like an erupting geyser that can’t be capped. Besides, it would be their secret, no one would be hurt. He tapped restless feet on the floorboards and drummed his fingers on the table.

Fiona entered dead on five, auburn hair and coat tails flowing. Her mahogany-brown eyes fixed on his. His stomach twisted and tightened, she was like a matriarchal lioness. His cheeks burned red as Fiona approached. She sat opposite, dropping her cream leather handbag on the table between them. The initial flash of disappointment at her detached manner disappeared as he realised she couldn’t show her feelings in public. This was their secret.

“I need to be quick, Michael.”

She was good, displaying none of the passion of her texts. No Mikey, no sexy man.

“I’ve asked you here because of something that can no longer be ignored.”

The Text Lady, straight to the point. His head felt light.

She looked away as if searching for the right words.“I feel terrible for Helen, she doesn’t deserve this.” Was that a catch in her voice, an emotional tear in her eye?

Michael saw it all now. How difficult it must have been for her. This sensual woman, full of passion, desire and ardour has had to live a life of restraint. Now it’s burst out. He strained back a smile, fighting back the tide lapping at his chest.

“I assume you know why we’re here,” she said.

He nodded, his eyes bored into her passive stare, trying to remain calm. “The texts,” he said and breathed in hard, calm on the surface, bubbling inside. “I guessed it was you, who else could it be?”

“It was certainly my idea,” she said, leaning forward, a long slim manicured hand on her chin. “But it wasn’t me.”

Michael stopped breathing. He sat back hard against the chair. “Excuse me?”

His phone pinged. New message from Text Lady flashed up on the screen. He looked at it a moment not understanding, then up, down at the screen and back to Fiona. Fiona’s eyes were angled away. He followed her stare to the corner of the café. A woman glared back, a phone in her hand. She sat with two younger ladies: Helen. Beside her, Katie and the young neighbour.

“We need to talk about your behaviour.” Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Mikey.”