Temptation

Megan Riggey

Yet another morning waking up to spend the whole day looking after him. You roll over, grimacing at his snoring face with the wrinkled forehead and upturned top lip that will soon be grunting at you to make breakfast. Long gone are the days after you got married when he’d get up earlier to spontaneously bring you breakfast in bed. But now, the duvet is wrinkled, stretching over the large gut that shows no signs of the washboard abs that used to give you butterflies whenever you caught a glimpse of them. His dishevelled hair spreads across the pillow like an unruly collection of black wires that blend in with his five o’clock shadow that has been neglected for countless days.

You start to cry-not an over the top, sobbing episode, just evidence of years’ worth of misery slowly trickling down your puffy face. There isn’t even anything particular to cry about. Perhaps you’re just bored, every day being the same old thing. You consider resting your head in the crook of his neck like you used to, the warm place that used to make you feel so safe but the droplets of sweat collecting between the subtle folds of the skin repulse you.

Your scrutinising eyes and self-pity are distracted by your phone lighting up on the bedside table, a text from an unknown number. Hesitantly, you swipe right to unlock your phone and read it:

Miss Schedar, I don’t need you to travel far. I assume you need no explanation of who this is. Please meet me beside the lake in Jakson’s Park in precisely an hour so that our relationship can further flower.

Strange, must be a wrong number, you think.

You mentally note the last three digits of the number, 091, then hastily delete the text just in case your husband sees it and thinks that something untoward is going on; he can be so possessive, especially with someone sending texts like that.

You lay for a while, thinking about how much you’d love for someone to put so much effort into anything for you, even if it was just a text with a slightly forced rhyme in it. Now you’re awake, you think that you may as well get up. You drag yourself out of bed one leg at a time, throwing the rest of the covers over his body, trying not to wince at the sight of him. You wander downstairs, relishing the peacefulness after another disturbed night of his incessant snoring and go into the kitchen, pulling open the drawer below 18

the sink, tenderly running the tip of your index finger along the spine of the hidden A5 black book that contains each and every secret thought you’ve had this year. You don’t know what you’d do if he ever found them but it’s your only way of escaping the monotony - your only way of not speaking out and saying something you’d probably regret; your only way of putting some colour into the black and white days that repeat in an endless cycle.

“Nikki? Nik!” he bellows down the staircase, the loud voice only slightly muffled by morning grogginess.

“Yes?” you return, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible. “Get breakfast on the go, will you?”

Of course, dear, whatever you want, dear, would you like me to eat it for you as well, dear?

“Sure! What sauce do you want on the bacon?” A slight pause is followed by an exasperated, “You make it every day! You know! Why do you always ask?” Because heaven forbid if I get it wrong, you think.

“Okay, so brown?”

“Yes!”

He flops down at the table, as always making the back of the chair creak. A slight smirk plays on your lips as you can’t help but imagine how hilarious it would be if one day the chair just gave way and he ended up in a heap on the floor.

His nostrils flare.

“I can’t eat this.”

“Why?”

“Covered in oil, the bread’s drippier than you are!”

He pushes the plate forward, retreating to the fridge to pull out the leftovers of the Chinese takeaway he insisted on having last night instead of your homemade lasagne. Arms full of the polystyrene and aluminium foil containers, he belches, gives you a disappointed look and stomps up the stairs, most probably into the office where he pretends to work but in fact scrolls up and down eBay all day. He thinks you don’t know, ha. 19

You scrape the perfectly good bacon sandwiches into the bin. It’s been a while since he’s been that rude… Washing up, you stare down at the cheap wedding ring that more often than not leaves a green hue around your finger. The “jewels” fell out many years ago but they used to be your favourite part, reminding you of the way it felt when you first met him, or more specifically, the diary entry you wrote after you first met him in the pub you used to work in.

As you know, work has been especially boring lately - Jessica going on maternity leave, Tom leaving due to stress (hardly surprising). Working in a pub is no fun without my friends, as I said before! But today was different. Oh so different! This man walked in and, I kid you not, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t a Greek God in a former life.

He. Was. Something. Else.

So naturally when he waltzed over the bar I practically jumped at the opportunity to serve him. I played it cool, trying to linger at the pump for as long as possible to drink his chiselled features in. Men and their looks! And us girls can be so shallow sometimes… But, he was so polite too, looked right at me when he said thank you as well!

I hope I see him tomorrow, I’ll be asking for extra hours if he becomes a regular! N x

You realise how naïve you were; of course it was too good to be true, and of course he was bound to morph into the blob you can hear breathing heavily after the mountainous journey of walking up the stairs. You feel yourself biting the raw skin on the inside of your cheek, the habit that always occurs when you’re trying to act strong.

Your self-pity is interrupted by another text from 091. You did not appear; two people becoming close, Miss Schedar, is nothing to fear. Please make time in your undoubtedly busy schedule to meet me in said place tomorrow at 8, do not be late.

I wish I was as sought after as this Miss Schedar, you think.

The day carries on as normal- cook; clean; repeat, interspersed with grunts from upstairs at choice moments. But the normal tedium is laced with something else, just a little hint, a tiny butterfly, of... excitement? Flattery?

Anxiety? 091 is desperate for the woman that they think you are and despite the fact that you aren’t her, the feeling of being wanted is something that has become so foreign to you that you don’t quite know how to handle it.

You crawl into bed much later than him; he gets so exhausted now, most probably due to his weight. You can already feel the warmth beneath the covers radiating off him. His snoring isn’t too bad yet but you know that it will just build up like the crescendo of a full orchestra, although it certainly isn’t a pleasant sound. You decide that your phone is too exposed on the bedside table so you tuck it beneath the second pillow, just in case there’s another text from 091, not that there probably will be. Not when they realise you’re just boring old Nikki Abbott. You bet this Miss Schedar is some really interesting, well-known woman, just like the kind of woman you used to dream of being. Just like the kind of woman you might have been if you didn’t marry the layabout that’s gradually taking up more and more of the bed.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You pull your phone back out from beneath the pillows and decide to research her; if she’s that in demand surely people must know her. You type Schedar into Google; surely not many people can have such an obscure last name. Nothing of use comes up. Just some article about a star saying it’s “the southernmost star of Cassiopeia’s famed Chair. Schedar is also the brightest, though not by much and not all of the time” and “Schedar has a curious history”. Funnily enough, the description of the star sounds remarkably similar to the image you have of this woman, a woman with a lively, bright personality that is most likely hiding curious elements of her past that probably describe why she’s so in demand from 091. How infuriatingly elusive she is. You turn your phone back off. Otherwise you could quite easily stay up all night, scanning the next page of the search results just in case you’ve missed anything.

Theories about her and the whole situation are chasing around in your mind and despite the fact that time has somehow propelled forward to 1 in the morning, you can’t even begin to feel tired. But then you remember who you’re going to be sleeping next to, the world’s worst snorer - so you let the sweet numbness of sleep wash over you and extinguish the feeling of being wanted as more than just a source of food and housework.

You wake up much later than usual, although still to the sound of snoring. You pull your phone out from beneath the second pillow and turn it on to check that the clock in your room is correct, that you have actually been allowed to sleep in until nearly 8:30 without being sent downstairs to start the routine, beginning with breakfast. As soon as the Apple logo disappears from your screen, you see that your phone is swamped with texts, all from 091.

7:30 Miss Schedar, please do not neglect to meet me this morning. Without our meetings, my life is very boring. Beside the lake in Jakson’s Park as you know, I will be beside myself if you do not show.

8:00 I am hoping you are just going to be a few minutes late, but I am willing, for you, to wait.

8:07 I will wait for five more minutes, then I will leave, we are meant to be in each other’s life, I truly believe.

8:12 Fair enough if this is the way you wish to be, but don’t think you’ve heard the last of me.

You don’t feel the butterflies you felt yesterday. You feel dread, like a ball knotted in your stomach, covering you in a sheath of cool perspiration and making your heartbeat skip occasionally. If this man, 091, is so desperate to see this woman that he thinks you are, then what will he do next? What length will he go to? He sounds like he’s bordering on insanity.

You glance over to your husband, and for all that he is, and for all of his characteristics that you’ve grown to despise, at least he’s predictable.

You could tell someone what he’d be doing at any point of the day. He certainly wouldn’t be obsessively texting a wrong number to meet him so early in the morning.

You don’t love him.

You sometimes ask yourself why you even bother holding onto him or why you keep letting him hold onto you.

But you know that if you had a life like Miss Schedar you’d probably miss slopping the bacon into the pan.

You would probably miss cringing at his old, holey underwear in the washing basket.

You would probably miss the covers already being warm each night when you crawl into bed.

You would probably even miss, deep down, the snoring because secretly you never have liked silence in the small hours of night.

You know that you’ve changed.

You know that the routine is probably making you insane, slowly niggling away at any understanding you have of how to live life for yourself.

You know that it’s too late for your life to have a purpose without him in it. Another text comes through: Look, I know we aren’t together, but it’s a

bit brutal to just ignore me.

He must be angry. He’s finally given up on the rhyme scheme, you think, slightly amused at 091’s transparency.

You block 091, rapidly tapping yes when your phone checks you are sure you want to do so.

You move in towards your husband, gently resting your head upon his flabby shoulder and realise that, yes, you don’t love him but you feel comfortable and safe. Women so ingrained in tedium, women so settled in their unsatisfactory situations, could never handle a life being treated like Miss Schedar.

Good luck to her, you think, as you pull yourself out of bed, one leg at a time, to go downstairs and write in your book whilst the hobs heat up.