It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead by Julie Frayn

to
child." Jem smirked. "Maybe you gave it to him.”
    A sharp intake of gravel breath scratched
through the receiver. “How dare you? My family has no mental illness. None. And
neither did Gerald.”
    Althea had an old fashioned phone. The
crack of her slamming it a thousand kilometers away rung in Jem’s ear.
    Way to go Jemima. When will you learn to
nod and smile?
    it
isn’t cheating if he’s dead
    Jem jolted awake. The remnants of a bizarre
dream of Gerald and Finn, both dressed in shining armour and jousting to win
her love, flashed through her mind before disappearing in the dim night. She
groped for the clock and pulled it towards her. Twelve-forty. She'd managed
another twenty minutes of sleep.
    She lay back down and rubbed her palms down
her legs until they calmed under the duvet cover. She took a deep breath and
closed her eyes. A moment later she was shocked out of temporary comfort by another
restless leg jolt and a vision of Gerald’s face slowly morphing into Joseph.
    “What the hell?” She groaned and turned on
her side, punched her pillow, and stuffed it under her neck. She shifted and
twitched and bounced her head against the pillow again and again.
    Enough of that crap.
    She felt her way downstairs in the dark. By
the glow of the under-counter lights she poured a full tumbler of wine, grabbed
a chocolate chunk cookie from the pantry, and sank into the sofa. She turned on
the television and scanned the program guide. Even with three hundred channels
of digital cable there was nothing but shit on after midnight.
    A thousand thoughts battled for attention
in her muddled brain. Gerald’s mangled body. Joseph’s sunken cheeks and
haunting stare. Finn’s lips on hers, the smell of his cologne and his sweat.
    She found little more comfort than she had in
her bed, still restless, her body twitchy. Her tank top shifted and bunched up
around her braless breasts. She tugged it down and lay back.
    Maybe she’d fall asleep right there in the
living room. Numb her mind with reruns and bad shows. For the rest of her damn life.
    There was a quiet knock at the door. She
sat up fast. Blood rushed to her head. She hit the wine glass with one flailing
hand and grabbed it before it tipped over. A few red drops hit the oak coffee
table, like blood spatter on an alley floor.
    At the entry, she flipped on the porch
light. Finn’s fine form was illuminated on the other side of the sheer curtain.
The joy of the night before returned and hastened her heartbeat. She swung the
inner door open and leered at him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re six days early.”
    He pulled open the screen, swept her into his
arms and consumed her in a ravenous kiss. Her feet didn’t even touch the ground.
    When he set her down and let go of her lips,
he rested his forehead against hers. “Yeah. I think that weekly thing is out
the window.”
    He picked her up and carried her up the
stairs, her head resting on his shoulder. He hesitated on the last step.
    He’d never been anywhere but the main floor
in all these years. She nuzzled her nose into his neck and inhaled his cologne
and the musk of his sweat. “Door on the left,” she whispered in his ear.
    He went left through the open door and laid
her atop her overstuffed down quilt, still askew from her fitful attempts at
sleep. With one knee on the bed and one foot on the floor he took off his suit
jacket and hung it on the bedpost, loosened his tie and pulled it over his
head. He stared at her while he unbuttoned his shirt.
    She couldn’t take her eyes off him. At the
edge of her peripheral vision was a familiar frame. Its presence was a spectre observing
her, witnessing her about to have sex with this beautiful man. It held a posed
picture of her and Gerald. Their engagement picture taken a month before they
bought the house. She was so young. So in love. So naïve.
    She should turn it to face the wall. Shove
it in a drawer. Hide it in the closet. But she didn’t want to do anything