Connubial Call

At first, she didn’t even realize what had happened.

She was lying in her favourite spot, the one right next to the big pohutakawa tree - handy for shade on those rare occasions when the sun got just a little too hot. School had just let out, and she could feel the bass from teenager’s cheap cars as they cruised by on their endless, fruitless circuit of the waterfront. Somewhere in the distance a couple of kids were having a high-pitched argument. She rolled over, only half-listening to them debate the finer points of sand castle ownership, when it happened again.

Ping-ping-ping ping ping-ping. Ping-ping-ping ping ping-ping.

What she had at first thought was her imagination was almost certainly, she realized, a ringtone. A cheap nasty ringtone which sounded like it belonged somewhere in the early nineties, but a ringtone nonetheless. Not only that, but it was a ringtone coming from her bag.

She sat up, blinked, then swore under her breath as her eyes adjusted. It wasn’t even her bag. It was Ronnie’s, and she didn’t know how the hell she managed to grab it off the bench instead of her slightly bluer, slightly smaller and very much nicer clutch. She’d left in a hurry, she supposed, and she’d come to the beach to unwind after yet another stressful merger marathon. Like Ronnie always says, stress can do strange things to a mind.

Ping-ping-ping ping ping-ping. Ping-ping-ping ping ping-ping.

Later, she would think how she probably wouldn’t have answered that call if she’d had a clear head. But something – lack of sleep, perhaps, or pressure because of her new position at work - wasn’t quite right, and lying out there in the sun hadn’t helped any, so before she’d really thought about it all, she’d reached right into the bag and pulled out the phone.

“Finally,” said a woman, before she’d even had time to say anything. “I’ve been calling you! She’s left the house, right? The coast is clear?”

“What. . .who is this?”

“Damn it,” said the voice. There was a click, and then all she could hear was dial tone.

She regarded the phone for a moment. Color – red hot burning color – was slowly pooling in her cheeks. She could feel it spreading across her face as her rage mounted. Finally, when it felt like her whole body was on fire, she drew her arm back and flung the phone across the beach and into the shallow breakers.

“BASTARD!”

An elderly couple walking past gave her sympathetic looks, but she barely registered them. She grabbed her towel and the bag – his bag – and walked stiffly to her car. It was really his car, she thought, as she jammed the keys into the ignition. They’d gone to the car lot together, of course, but he managed to come up with some kind of problem with every single car she liked the look of. Too hard to get parts. Weak gearbox. Poor safety ratings. Not enough bloody stupid cup holders. Finally, she’d given up and allowed herself to be led over to an older model with all the sex appeal of a cardboard box.

“It was as cheap as a bloody box too,” she snarled to herself as she flew through an orange light. “Cheap BASTARD.”

From furnishings to food, Ronnie loved a bargain. She used to like that about him; she used to think there was something masculine about the way he took control at the mall or grocery store, but after the first year of their marriage, the constant cost cutting had started to seem more miserly than manly.

In fact, manly would probably be the last word people would use to describe Ronnie. Other blokes played footie or cricket, but the closest Ronnie ever came to any kind of sport was channel surfing. Other blokes liked riding over-sized motorbikes or taking apart cars, but good old Ronnie made her take her car down to the shop, even for a simple oil change.

Frankly, she was surprised he had the balls to have an affair.

Thanks to rush hour, it took her a little over thirty minutes to get home. By the time she drew into their driveway, the rage was starting to subside, and sadness was beginning to creep in. She pushed it away though; she wanted to hang on to every ounce of that white-hot anger, at least until she was through confronting her husband.

She threw the front door open and didn’t even wince as it slammed into the wall. “RONNIE?!! Are you home?!!”

“SURPRISE!!!”

She almost reeled with shock as dozens of her friends materialized from beyond door frames and behind couches. Her husband, perhaps misreading the expression on her face, grinned and hugged her. “I knew the gig was up when you took my secret phone and answered your sister’s call. I know it’s not much of a surprise party, but I tried my best. Congratulations on your promotion, sweetheart.”

It was much later in the night - after the last guests had said their goodbyes and driven away into the cool, still night - that she could finally look him in the eye. “Look, Ronnie.” She said. “I think we need to talk.”