The Other Woman (43 page)

****

RITCHIE

Rival and I part ways the moment we reach the hotel lobby. She gets into her Mazda and I get into my Jeep. Since we’re going in the same direction in peak-hour traffic, we expect to cross paths on the road home, and we do.

I’m high up in my Jeep, so I get a good view of her. When we get to a red traffic light, I roll down my window and say, “I like it when you’re loud.”

Her face turns red

“Turns me on, baby.”

“I can be louder,” she says, her brows wriggling.

“Yeeeaaaah?”

Slowly she bobs her head. “Next time.”

“You’re so on.” I grin.

I eye her exposed thighs. “Nice,” I say, darting my chin toward them. “Pull your skirt higher.”

Her eyes scud before she hitches her skirt up a little.

“More.”

She shakes her head.

“More!” I demand. “Wanna see your panties.”

Reluctantly she hitches it further until I see a flash of black panties.

“Now touch yourself.”

“Fuck off!” she says with a chuckle, and hastily pulls down her skirt, her eyes darting around.

I laugh. “I wanna do this again, baby.”

She cocks her head and looks at me. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

She throws her head back and laughs.

Someone behind me sits on his horn. “Move, you facking idiot!”

The light has
just
turned green, so there is no need for the arsehole behind me to be so rude. I shoot my middle finger up at him though my open window.

“Fack you, you stupid fuck-knuckle!”

I spin around to snarl at the man who dares talk to me like that. “Listen cockhead, I…” I stop when I see, to my absolute surprise, it’s not a man, but an old woman behind the wheel of a lime-green Valiant, which is probably as old as she is. The old bird’s around seventy, with lots of wrinkles, a floral dress that has a high-lace collar, and gray hair that is scraped back and piled tightly on top of her head. Her glasses are horn-rimmed, and she yells and curses at me with a lit cigarette in her mouth. Driving, Miss Daisy?

Also in the car shaking their fists and hurling obscenities at me are her older sisters, all probably in their seventies. They must be triplets – they’re all around the same age, have their hair piled on top of their head, are wearing floral dresses, and have cigarettes dangling from their wrinkled lips.

“Chill, nanas!” I yell, after I get over my surprise.

The driver sticks her head out the window and yells, “Fack you, you arsewipe! I’m not your facking nana!”

“What did he say?” an old woman from the back seat asks.

“The wanker called me ‘nana.’"

“Nana?” one of them shouts. “You think we look old enough to be your facking nana, you facktard?”

When I look at them in my rearview mirror, all of them are showing me their middle fingers.

Rival and I look at each other with jaws hanging, while other motorists around us fall around laughing, obviously enjoying the fact that I’m being bullied by four old women with creative but highly disturbing vocabulary.

Shaking my head, I drive on. I’m being punked for sure. What is this world coming to when calling someone
nana
can evoke such rampant profanity and abuse?

Of course at the next red traffic light, the old birds pull right up behind me, almost kissing my Jeep’s bumper, to Rival’s amusement.

“Facking nana, hey? You need glasses, you bloody grot. Nana, ha! Why don’t you come over here and say it to me face?”

“Jayzus!” I mutter as I look at the haze of cigarette smoke in the car. “You’re lucky Girly isn’t here.”

“Bloody useless cunt. Bet you’re as useless as an arsehole on an elbow, you are.”

“You all should stop smoking,” I yell out my window. “It’ll stunt your growth!”

A tirade of abuse follows.

“I have a song for you,” Rival says, shouting over the abuse.

“What song?” I ask trying my best to ignore the mad bitches behind me.

Rival turns up the music. I laugh when I hear “Ice Ice Baby” playing.

“You actually got the song?”

She nods.

“You and your fancy German automobile,” the old bat yells. “Whodya think ya—”

“German?” I frown at Rival. “I’m driving a Jeep – it’s fucking American.”

She just laughs. “Cataracts, maybe.”

“You know what my favorite part is?” I say to Rival, shouting over the abuse.

“What?”

“
Word to your mother
.”

She claps her hands and laughs.

“My band members and I used to
fight
to say those words. All of us wanted to say it.”

As I watch Rival laugh, I feel a powerful stirring inside of me. A feeling that overrides all sense and sensibility.

“Facking foreigners. Go back to your facking country and learn how to drive, you fuckmuppet.”

“What?” Rival says. “What are you thinking? Think aloud.”

“I’m thinking…I’m thinking, I...I…”

“There’s a refugee boat leaving Sydney harbor soon – take it back to your country, dingbat!”

I get so mad at the abuse, I stick my head out of my window and yell, "Will you be quiet, Nana? I’m trying to tell my goddamn girlfriend that I love her, and you keep butting in!” The words just tumble out of my mouth.

Shocked, I turn my neck to look at Rival. Both her hands are clamped over her mouth.

“Busted.” I shrug helplessly. “I love you, Rival. I’m in love with you. There, it’s all out, baby.”

“Come and say that to my face,” she says in a shaky voice.

“It’s a green light – move your piece of shit, Fuckstick!”

Suddenly, everyone around us, the Valiant-driving-bat-shit-crazy nanas, the snaking line of cars, the road workers on the shoulder of the road – everyone and everything fades, and it’s just Rival and me alone in the whole world smiling with abject love for each other.

My love for Rival causes to do something foolish. Something that will only serve to fuel the bullying – I switch off my Jeep, get out of my car, and race over to Rival. Poking my head through the window, I give her a kiss.

“I love you, Ritchie,” she says between kisses. “I really do. I love you.”

Thrilled at her words, I move back and hold out my hand. “Take my hand. Whatever happens, baby, we handle it together, okay?”

She grabs my hand and clutches it to her chest. “It’s gonna be a rocky climb, Ritchie; you sure you wanna brave this?”

“Absolutely sure.” I kiss her again. “I don’t want to live without you. So baby, hold my hand, don’t look down, and maybe we’ll be okay. How ’bout it?”

“That sounds wonderful,” she says, dragging me down for another kiss.

“Oh boo-hoo! Look at those wankers. Bloody tool, move your facking piece of shit.”

“Yeah, facking tossers with your public displays of affection. Get a room, will ya?”

I resist the urge to dance all the way toward my Jeep. With a smile, I move my piece of shit, too in love with Rival to get mad at Nana and her dittos.

I’m in deep shit, I know. I’ve fallen for the wrong woman. I’m in love with my friend’s wife. My friend who confides in me, who trusts me, who trusts me enough to call me when he is arrested, who lied so that my two daughters cannot be taken away from me, who pulled strings to help Girly obtain permanent residence in Australia –the same friend who I have on
tape
confessing to his
wife
that he is in love with Rival. I don’t care – I’ll take a grenade for her.

“Facking dipshit! Go back to Germany.”

"Germany?”

I stick my head out of the window and yell, “NANA, I’m from South Africa. NANA!”

For a few moments, there is complete silence around us, probably because I used the N word. Well, that’s good – that shuts them up.

Alas, it doesn’t last.

“Take your blue arse back to Africa, you facking monkey!”

“Yeah, you big, ugly baboon. You guys suck at cricket, anyway!”

“And rugby. You chicks play like Sheilas.”

That does it – that is just below the belt. I stick my head out of the window and yell, “Hey, I’m not ugly. I’m
good
looking!”

“Says who, fuckwit? Your mother?”

“Yeah…but chicks too!” I point at Rival. “Ask her. She told me I’m…beautiful.”

I’m relieved when Rival’s head bobs.

“Yeah, well, bet that gangbanger carries a white walking stick,” one of the old birds yell.

“Gangbanger?!” A look of horror masks Rival’s face. “I’m not a gangbang—”

“Bet the ganga needs a guide dog and a white walking stick,” the driver scoffs.

With a long sigh, I draw my head back into my Jeep and roll up my window, still smarting at their audacity to call me ugly and resigning myself to the fact that I will never win with Miss Daisy and her dittos.

Main thing is, Rival loves me. I smile, wishing I had a can of spray paint. I would graffiti every wall with the words,
Rival loves Ritchie.

****

SCARLETT

Scarlett:
I am happy to announce, no, make that thrilled to announce that my husband, the brilliant, and quixotic Bradley Murdoch, has taken the first step toward becoming Prime Minister of Australia and has been elected leader of the Liberal Party! #BradleyMurdochforPrimeMinister

Bradley Murdoch:
All thanks to you, my love. Without your support and loyalty, my victory wouldn’t be possible. You truly are the wind beneath my wings. I loved you yesterday, I love you now, and I will love you forever.

Scarlett:
Aw, stop! You’re making me tear, darling. But I love you. Kisses and hugs.

Bradley:
What an amazing first lady you are going to make. I think women the world over are going to admire you, and emulate you. You and Sydney’s Opera House – both beautiful icons of Australia. (
Smiley face with hearts.)

Scarlett:
I’m turning scarlet with embarrassment my love.

Jenna Hartley and 75 others likes this.

Yes, it’s been such an exciting and eventful couple of weeks for Bradley and me that I haven’t once looked at my book sales on amazon and anguished over it. With my daddy pulling strings the way he did, Bradley has taken one giant step for mankind, and I am on my way to becoming one of the most famous women, not to mention fashion icon, in Australia.

I’ve recorded every single episode of
The Good Wife
so I can learn how
not
to be a boring and repressed politician’s wife. I intend to look sexier than Alicia Florek, and be warned, I will not be wearing any of her dreary suits or severe hair styles. She’s really stuck up, and clearly inhibited. Bet she’s lousy at blow jobs. Bet a woman wrote her character, because men, trust me, will not find someone as
curbed
sexy or appealing. If a man wrote her character, he would conjure up someone with huge tits, a gigantic arse, and a miniscule brain – i.e., Pamela Anderson. A young Pamela, not the geriatric one who desperately flashes at anyone in her path.

My silent reverie is interrupted by Bradley barging into the lounge. I take a sip of my Cosmopolitan as I watch him hunt around, opening drawers and cupboards and lifting up cushions.

“Looking for something?” I ask in a syrupy voice.

After a cursory glance at me, and without bothering to answer, he continues his search.

“Looking for this, darling husband?” I ask as I pull out his secret phone charger.

“Yeah!” He lunges at it, then gasps at the sight of it in two pieces.

“What the hell, Scarlett? You cut it?” His distress makes me want to throw my drink at him and bash him over the head with a Royal Doulton decanter.

“You need to stop seeing that whore, that slut. She is going to ruin—”

“Don’t you call her that,” he says through clenched teeth. “She’s not like that, you understand? She’s decent.”

“I’m your wife,” I remind him. “I made you. Without me, you are a nothing.”

“Listen,
counterfeit
Annie. Keep this close – you are my wife in name only. I will take you to Kirribilli House, but you have no control over who I see,
when
I see, and how I spend my time. You understand, you piece of trash?”

“Well—”

He takes out his secret phone and flings it onto the table. “Rival is part of my life,” he says in a defiant tone. "I refuse to give her up. Get it?”

Give her up? Does that mean they’re together? Give her up…

“I made a mistake,” he continues. “You are a mistake that’s getting in the way of my real wife and me. I love her. Always—”