The Other Woman (26 page)

Next, Scarlett’s laptop. I copy every single file on her laptop onto a memory stick, including her deleted files, and ones from her recycle bin. After that, I wrap the laptop in a garbage bag, throw more garbage around it, and stuff it in Ritchie’s rubbish bin. It is a small laptop, so it is easy to dispose of.

Stage two of my plan to bring down Scarlett is in full swing.

****

RIVAL

Full of glee, I sit in my bedroom just after lunch and peruse the files from Scarlett’s laptop. It’s wonderful, as if I’m privy to her thoughts, reading her diary.

Scarlett may be smart, a shrewd
thing
(not a person, a thing), but she is careless in many ways, which is to my advantage. She has a file called
PW
. No guess as to what it contains. When I open the file, I smile. It has passwords to her Hotmail account, a blog she wrote, her Facebook account, her twitter account – everything! Feeling smug, I close the file and peruse more files.

Photos seemed to be her thing. Most of them of her – salacious, borderline porn star poses. Someone’s head-over-heels in love with herself. (Bet she calls her own name when she comes.)

But what catches my attention are photos of her with guys.
Different
guys!

What have we here? Excited, I quickly flip through photos, and when I see photos of her having sex with guys, I shake my head. There are photos of her performing fellatio on different guys, pictures of her with her ankles around their necks and with her straddling them naked. She looks heavily made-up, and she smiles seductively at the camera. The shots are so professional looking, I have to double check that I haven’t logged onto a porn website.

Wow! These highly incriminating photos should never ever be seen by anyone other than Scarlett and the participants. After a while, I am bored enough to want to click out of them, when something catches my eye.

In one of the photographs, she is wearing a string of pearls.
My
pearls – the one Bradley gave me when he won his first big case!

I jerk upright. This could only mean that these photos had to have been taken
after
she and Bradley got together. How the hell could that be? Isn’t she supposed to be nuts about Bradley?

I slam back in my chair, my eyes wide. Scarlett is cheating on Bradley!

After I get over my shock, I peruse more files. When I come across a file called
Book,
my interest piques and I click on it.

The Taken Man:
how to steal the man of your dreams when he belongs to someone else, among other random tips in Seduction.

I have an IQ of one hundred and sixty-six. To Forrest Gump, that would make me ‘awfully clever,’ to others, I’d be a fucking genius!

Well, what do you know, she’s writing a book. I remember her once mentioning something about it. Can’t remember much of the conversation though. I read on, and as I do, my eyes widen.
Rival Murdoch has the figure for a Dove Commercial.
What a bitch!

She’s actually documented, step-by-step, how she stole Bradley from me, how she changed my medication, and how she planted the drugs in my purse. I’m stunned. Now I understand everything. I was not sleeping-walking and taking drugs while I was doing so, I was not suffering memory loss, I was not going mad. Everything is crystal clear now, and relief cascades over me.

What a manipulating, calculating, heartless bitch!

I hop out of bed and pace, furious one minute, elated the next. I will go straight to the cops and hand them this book. After reading how she switched my medication, she will be charged with attempted murder without fail. I smile when I think of her behind bars. I should call Arena and tell he all about it. Now I have proof. I pick up my phone, but when I look at the time, I decide not to call Arena right away. Instead, I read on.

Steven Caulker:

Some women are good at cooking. Some at sewing. Some are great make-up artists.

I am adept at wooing and stealing men from other women. Most of the time, men are so easy to ensnare that it becomes a bore. So I seek out rock-solid relationships and place bets with myself, not on whether or not I can destroy the relationship, but on how long it will take.

Of course, most of the time, I win. Boring.

So the ones I enjoy most are the break-ups that take a while.

My first encounter? Steven Caulker, Jeanie Caulker’s father. I was seventeen. He was forty-five, but incredibly sexy even though he had a daughter my age. He ran regularly and blogged about it; he wrote about his progress, his difficulties with pacing himself, his problematic knees, time constraints. Anonymously, I followed his blog, liked his posts, and even commented on them.

He was really nice, and always responded to my comments.

He worked out in the same gym I attended, wore modern threads, and he smelled nice. Not like old people.

Now Cassandra Caulker, Jeanie’s mother, she was a different story. She wore pearls, coral lipstick, and had a French manicure. Always groomed, with a straight back and a quiet air of superiority.

“Hello, Scarlett, don’t you look nice?” she once said in a patronizing manner.

Is that a question or a statement? I wondered.

It didn’t matter; it would have pissed me off either way. But the point is, right away I knew she didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual; I disliked her on the spot, disliked her haughty demeanor.

I would show her, I told myself. She and her fancy life, her perfect home, and her perfect marriage would all come tumbling down.

The first thing I did was get close to Jeanie. She was not somebody I wanted to hang out with. Not with her pasty skin, her uneven, corn-yellow teeth, her unruly red hair that hadn't flirted with a flat-iron…nothing about her chubby size-fourteen self appealed to me.

But since she was Step One of my plan, I friended her on Facebook, liked all her posts, commented on them, and slowly embedded myself into her group of nerdy, fugly outcasts.

Hanging out with them was painful and a drag, but it had to be done.

When I learned from Jeanie that her mother was going away with her girlfriends for the weekend, my ears pricked.

“What about your dad?” I asked in a casual voice.

“Oh, he’ll be around,” she said. “He usually goes for a morning run around seven, then goes off to do other stuff.”

“I’ll come over,” I said. “Keep you company.”

She didn’t answer.

“I’ll bring vodka,” I whispered.

She broke into a huge smile.

“I love your house, Mrs. Caulker,” I gushed that Friday afternoon. “Who’s your interior decorator?”

She beamed. “You’re looking at her,” she said with a smug smile.

That was all I needed to entrench myself into Cassandra Caulker’s good books.

“Jeanie, make sure Scarlett is comfortable now,” Cassandra said, to my delight, before she left for her weekend away.

The next morning, I woke around seven. As I lay in bed next to Jeanie, who was asleep, I

heard stirrings from Mr. Caulker downstairs.

After I heard the front door open and close, I crept out of bed and made my way into Steven’s bedroom, where I hung around. Twenty-five minutes later, I heard the front door open and close again. I dashed into his bathroom and left the door slightly ajar. Quickly, I stripped down to my G-string.

Anything more would have scared him.

With my back to the door, I stood in front of the mirror, toothbrush in hand.

As expected, he barged into the bathroom without knocking. Clearly he wasn’t expecting me.

I spun around and looked at his naked body with huge eyes.

“Jesus Christ!” he said.

“Oh, Mr. Caulker!” I gasped, placing my hands on my boobs. “Sorry, I…I thought you had gone out and...and I just snuck in to get some toothpaste. I’m allergic to mint, and Jeanie’s toothpaste, it has…”I smiled and looked at him from under my lashes. “Sorry.”

He stood like a wax dummy while my eyes moved slowly and appreciatively from his lips to his chest, over his stomach, and finally to his limp penis, where they lingered. “Gosh, you look…good for a man with grown kids,” I said in a breathless voice as I dropped my hands from around my boobs. “Really good.”

He quickly regained his composure, grabbed a towel off the rail, and wound it around his waist. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

With a coy smile on my face, I sashayed towards him. “Scarlett.”

“This is all a misunderstanding, Scarlett,” he said, his eyes on my breasts.

“Sure. No big deal.” My smile was sweet.

He patted the top of his head with his palm, a dazed look on his face.

“How was your run?”

“Not…bad.”

“I like to run too, but my boobs, they always get in the way. Bounce and jiggle all over.” As I spoke, I slowly moved my hand over my thigh, my mound, up to my stomach, and cupped a breast. As I did, his eyes followed every movement of my hand.

“You know what I fantasize about?”

He shook his head, his eyes wide open.

“That someone would hold my boobs for me while I run. Like this.” I turned around, shifted closer to him, and with my back to his chest, I brought both his hands around to cup my breasts. “Like this,” I whispered as I inched my arse into his semi-tumescent cock.

To my delight, his hands squeezed my boobs, and I felt him burgeoning against me.

Quickly, I turned around and stepped back. “One of my fantasies.”

His breathing turned raspy.

“You have a good day now, Mr. Caulker,” I said. Then with a smile, I leaned in, pressed my breasts against his bare chest, and brushed his lips with mine. His lips were a little dry, but nothing a little lip balm wouldn’t fix.

With a small laugh, I sashayed out of the bathroom.

Steven Caulker didn’t leave the house like he was supposed to, and for the rest of the day, his eyes followed me around.

He bought us pizza for dinner, and as I handed him his, I whispered, “I’ll see you tonight.”

By 6 p.m., Jeanie was passed out from the vodka I had given her. As expected.

Dressed in a just a tiny pair of night shorts and a lacy bra, I made my way to Steven. He was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. Waiting for me?

With a smile, I locked the door behind me, walked up and stood right in front of him.

“Scarlett,” he breathed as he struggled to sit up. “We can’t do this.”

“Okay,” I said. “I just wanna talk. That’s all.”

He didn’t say anything, so I sat on the bed across from him, my legs crossed.

“You need to go,” he said, his eyes on my crotch.

“Sure,” I replied as I slowly licked my lips. “Been thinking of you all day. Especially when I showered. Did you think of me when you showered?” Like a big cat on The Discovery Channel stalking its prey, I slinked slowly toward him.

“Bet you thought of my tits as you stroked yourself.” Slowly I unclasped my bra and freed my boobs.

He swallowed hard.

I climbed over and straddled him. “Bet you thought of my arse as you jerked off,” I said as I ground my crotch against his erection. “Your cock is hard, Mr. Caulker. Did you realize that?”

With a muffled groan, he spun me around so that he was over me. Within minutes we were having sex.

Seduction of Steven Caulker complete.

Warning: do your homework before you put too much energy into roping in a man.

You spend all your time and effort and win, only to find out:

a) He’s broke

b) He plans to walk away from his wife and kids with nothing, expecting you to start at the bottom with him.

c) He’s ill – one s.o.b had a blood coagulating disorder, and couldn’t do so many things, it drove me crazy. I had to dump him within six weeks. He went back to his wife, but things were never the same between them
.

I did get a Mazda worth seven grand from him though. I spun my parents some yarn about me winning money from one of those scratch and win games. They believed me, and by the time I turned eighteen, I had my own set of wheels.

My advice when it comes to married men with children: keep him as a Side Bitch. If they ever want to leave their wives for you, run.

So at the very initial stages, get what you can out of them. Do not leave it for the last minute. I advise making a list of all that you want so that you know what to ask for at the very onset.

****

RIVAL

I pause with my reading. Wow! I know the Caulkers; they’re nice, church-going people. Mrs. Caulker was a tuck-shop volunteer and an avid fund raiser for breast cancer. Mr. Caulker is a decent man, so I am stunned that something like this has transpired. If this gets out, it would be nothing short of scandalous.

The rest of the day is spent reading, mainly with my jaw hanging. Now and then I yell out, “Wow!” or “You’re kidding me!” Scarlett’s book is utterly fascinating, and I can’t stop reading.

Beven and Cassie
:

Cassie, my younger sister, hates me for no reason, and never misses a chance to stick a dagger into my back. Or my front, for that matter.

Okay, maybe I should fess up -- she’s probably holding a grudge. I hate it when women do that. Just because I slept with Bevan once didn’t mean she had to be mad at me forever. In all fairness, it was before they were married. He was still officially single, and…it just happened.

Okay, fine, so it didn’t just happen. But she was so smug about bagging him and getting married. I hated that she bragged. For months leading up to it, all I heard was my wedding this, and my wedding that – she was rubbing it in my face, making a statement that she was getting married before me, her older sister, to a man who was successful and faithful.

But what made me want to fuck Bevan? Cassie did not ask me to be a bridesmaid.

Dina, my other sister, was a bridesmaid. Tim, her husband, was a best man. But I was excluded. Me.

I heard the twittering, saw the way heads jerked away when I entered the room, the pitying looks I got from people when they realized that I was not part of the bridal party, and I silently fumed.

(You want to fuck with Scarlett, I suggest you put on a crash helmet, because when I retaliate, you’re going to end up with a concussion. Count on it.)

Okay, so maybe my timing was wrong; maybe I shouldn’t have shown Cassie the photos the morning of the wedding. The ones of Bevan and me fucking.

Hours of make-up ruined – her face was blotchy, her nose reindeer-like. Her bottom lip trembled, and mascara ran down her face and gave her perfect panda eyes, even after the make-up artist cleaned up her face.

“Have you been watching The Notebook again?” I asked when I saw her.

As for her hair – let’s just thank the gay guy who invented a wedding veil – it covered a multitude of sins. She really was the ugliest bride I had ever seen.

But I collapsed into fits of giggles when she blamed the pollen in her flowers for her “hay fever.” Who knew that Cassie could be such a creative liar? Only she, Bevan, and I knew their dirty little secret – her future husband had seduced her sister. I felt powerful knowing that at any time, I could tell on Bevan. I think Cassie feared I would, and she appeared stressed her about it – her eyes followed me everywhere, and she looked like rigor mortis had set in when I jumped up from my seat and offered an impromptu toast to the newlyweds.

The fact that she could still proceed with her nuptials meant that she was willing to forgive Bevan.

Have to admit, I didn’t expect that. There I was, gearing up for the moment when everyone learned that the wedding had been called off. Well, shit happens, I guess.

In spite of that little blip, I had a great time at the wedding. I feasted on that gargantuan buffet, drank a whole bottle of Cristal, did the "Macarena" with the other drunks at the wedding (even though I seldom dance), and even boogied to Katy Perry’s mass-oriented, insipid songs. And when the bridal couple opened the dance to "Nothing on You" by Bruno Mars, a song chosen by the groom himself, I sang along, then applauded the loudest. In fact, I was one of the last people to leave the wedding reception, as I didn’t want to miss a thing.

Moral of the entertaining snippet – don’t fuck with Scarlett. Don’t even give me an I-would-like-to-fuck-with-you look. I will cut you.

I slowly back away from the laptop. Wow, Scarlett could take such delight in doing this to her own sister? Wow!

I look at the time. It’s midnight, and I
need
to sleep, but I just can’t put down this book. I want to read more. Just one more page…

Dina:

My wedding was going to be just spectacular. I had planned it for years. Even had a dress in mind, the color of the bridesmaid’s dresses, the kind of tux my groom was to wear, and the venue.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I sound like Kim Khardashian, but don’t envy her. Even though her IQ is probably the same as the birth weight of baby North, she is smart. Think about it – one day she’s Paris Hilton’s bitch, and the next, she is one of the most famous faces in the world.

Don’t agree with me? Well, do paparazzi fight over themselves to get a photo of your baby? No? I didn't think so.

Did your third husband get on his knees and propose to you in a stadium full of people while an orchestra played in the background, even though he didn’t hit it first? No?

Did your man slip a fifteen-carat diamond ring on your finger? No?

Is your bambino named after a star? A real star, a meteor? No? So chill, listen, and learn from bubble butt. And me.

Back to my wedding. I had it all figured out. The question was, when and where did I blow my trumpet? I sought impact, because after I become first lady, I planned to record my life on video – a camera would follow me around 24-7. One day a movie would be made about Australia’s First Lady (me), and I would like them to use mostly real-life footage. Therefore, everything I do had to have impact with a camera rolling.

The answer came when I called my mother.

“Dina’s got big news. She’s having a huge anniversary party at the Lonsdale Hilton and has invited the world. You and Bradley are coming, right?”

Immediately I knew what the big new was. Her fertility treatments had probably worked, and she wanted to announce that she was knocked up and dispel all myths that Dan, her husband, was not shooting blanks or suffering with erectile dysfunction.

The Lonsdale Hilton – what a magnificent venue. Just perfect for my plans. I hurtled into action.

The moment Bradley and I arrived at the venue, and I saw the cameras rolling, I flashed my ring at everybody and screamed, “We’re getting married!”

Guests clustered around me and oohed! and ahhed! at the five-carat solitaire on my finger.

“I’m so excited, and you’re invited to the wedding too!” I gushed and hugged everyone around.

Dina stood with her face like thunder while I handed out wedding invites to more than a hundred important people.

Behind Dina stood my sister, Cassie, rubbing Dina’s back and uttering words of comfort to her.

By the time Dina and her lily-livered husband, Dan, announced their pregnancy, hardly anyone was paying attention to their underwhelming news.

Her party was an epic fail, and I never knew that stealing someone’s thunder could be so much fun.

On our way home, Bradley said, “Honey, Dina and Dan didn’t look too happy today. Do you think it was a good idea to announce our wedding at their anniversary?”

I nestled into my handsome husband, who had made me the envy of every woman at the party. “They were fine with it.”

“Well, they didn’t congratulate me,” he said in a pensive voice, pushing me away. Oh fuck, now he was going to get all serious. And sober.

“Oh really? They congratulated me,” I lied. “How about…” I turned my body to look at him, “I call her tomorrow and apologize, and we take them to dinner?” As I spoke, I ran my hand over his crotch and reached into his pants.

I smiled at his sharp intake of breath as I grabbed hold of his shaft.

“Did I tell you you look sexy tonight?” I asked in a coy voice.

“N…o…”

“Totally suuuuckable,” I said as I undid the zip of his pants. I didn’t care that the limo driver was watching. It would be better if he was.

The moral of the story? Don’t fuck with…? That’s right. You’re learning. Good girl.

I read with my hand clamped to my mouth. Scarlett is evil. I’ll bet if she ever tries to donate blood, they would turn her down when they saw the black sludge oozing through her veins. Evil personified – that’s what she is.

At 6:25a.m., I finish reading Scarlett’s book. I just couldn’t put it down.

Scarlett said, “This is the kind of book women all over the world will want to read.” She is right about that. It’s a dirty and evil read, but oh, so riveting. She will sell a number of copies for sure. Imagine if this book got into the wrong hands?

Suddenly, I bolt upright in bed, my brain racing. What if
I
publish it?

I jump out of bed and pace. What if I…what if I change names and places and publish it? Like it was my own? Steal it from her?

But hang on, what about the cops? I can’t publish it if I want to go to the cops, now can I?

And if I did go to the cops, I’d have to explain how I got hold of this book. That would be theft.

But if I say nothing about this book, Scarlett would get away with murder.
Almost
murder.

My brain is tired, my eyelids are heavy, yet my conflict rages.

Finally, around midday, I fall asleep, having made the decision to publish Scarlett’s book. She stole my life, I will steal her book, her dreams. It’s a daunting task, but I will do it.

Somehow.