The day Patrick breathed his last, a part of me died too. It
was a Sunday night and he'd been fading fast over the fortnight. Even Martin
had enough decency to stay away except for quiet visits with groups of our
friends.
In the last fortnight, John, Patrick's cousin and a dear
family friend, had been unusually hostile to me and had confronted me after
rumours about me and Martin started circulating. He had confronted me head on
outside Patrick's bedroom. The condemnation in his eyes almost killed me but I
couldn't protest without revealing Patrick's plan.
For some reason, Patrick sensed the tension despite the haze
from the painkillers and had taken the effort to briefly explain the situation.
John was the only other person privy to our arrangements and was thankfully
able to help silence the cauldron of gossip and rumour that was boiling over.
On hindsight, Patrick was his usual astute self, solving potential problems
before I ever did.
The day we buried Patrick, another part of me died silently.
After barely hanging onto life through agonised gasps of
breath, moments of lucid consciousness interspersed between long periods of
fitful drugged sleep, Patrick seemed to improve slightly that Saturday evening.
We'd called John when Patrick asked for him. To his credit, John dropped
everything and appeared on our doorstep shortly. Patrick had a few minutes of
quiet chat with John during which John nodded several times while I stepped
aside to give them some privacy.
Patrick was exhausted when he finished the short chat with
John and John had walked away with tears in his eyes but determination etched on
his jaw. I hadn't known it but John had recorded that conversation as
instructed by Patrick when they had discussed our deal with Martin earlier.
I cuddled with Patrick, perched awkwardly on the side of the
bed. He slept somewhat better that night. He seemed slightly better the next morning
and able to talk to the children for a short while. I recorded the touching
moment on my mobile, feeling that it was perhaps one of the last times I'd ever
see that. Patrick had another long period of drugged sleep and I'd dozed off in
exhaustion when he woke up. When I finally stirred, his hand was feebly
caressing my hair and my mobile was loosely in his other hand. He struggled to
keep off the chains of drugged unconsciousness and spoke haltingly in a
whisper, "Nichola...love you..live well my love."
He barely had time to hand me my phone before he slipped
away. An hour later, he gasped his last breath and the heart monitor went into
a flat beep. He never regained consciousness and left us.
The funeral was a quiet event and thankfully Martin had the
decency to keep his distance from me and the family for a month after the
funeral. John's quiet animosity towards Martin was hardly noticeable to others
but was quite apparent to me. After the funeral and reading of the will, he
took me aside and reassured me of his help should the need arise and he briefly
referred to certain precautions and arrangements Patrick had made before his
death. I was too numb to really take all of that in. It was only much later,
after my marriage with Martin had disintegrated that I understood the true
weight of what John referred to.
****
How it fell apart
I had woken up to the screaming tabloid headlines three days
ago proclaiming the slut that I was for betraying Patrick. It was of course
ironic that the person I'd betrayed Patrick with was the one making accusations
and painting himself as a repentant sinner. I'd prepared myself somewhat for
such a situation, having learnt what type of man Martin really was, knowledge
that was confirmed by the years of intimate bullying that he subjected me to.
When he married me a year after Patrick had passed away,
there were rumours of an affair while Patrick lay on his deathbed. They were quelled
by Martin's stable of papers and team of expensive lawyers. However, the
suspicion and "eyewitness" accounts that prompted those rumours never
went away. John had kept quiet, I found out later, based on Patrick's
instructions. It was a move that later proved advantageous since Martin never
found out about the evidence and precautionary measures that Patrick took
against his scheming friend.
The first three years of marriage were fine. In truth, I
don't remember much of those years since I was preoccupied with taking care of
my kids and growing my career.
Martin treated me like a queen in front of everyone and
still regarded me as a favoured fuck toy behind closed doors. He loved parading
me around at parties and events in sexy outfits with a proprietary arm around
me, something that was clear in photos from that time. I guess I was lucky he
didn't drape his hands or arms around my tits or pussy in public. When we were
alone, he always demanded that I dress only in stockings and my heels, giving
him easy access to my tits and pussy. He loved to fuck me roughly, bent over a
desk or more often sprawled on the lounge or bed with my Louboutins waving
crazily in the air while he pounded away between my legs. He was insatiable and
increasingly indifferent to my pleasure. I merely saw these sessions as part of
the routine of the job of being Martin’s wife. While he had access to the body
that more mature gents and young schoolboys across the UK fantasized about, he
was completely shut out from my heart.
I would smile and play slut wife but my heart was full and
closed. There was only room for my kids and Patrick.
There were times when I thought of Patrick as I went about
the day and at times Martin seemed to sense that and was furious. This got
worse as the years went by and my kids grew up. He was jealous of the time and
love I spent on them. He even accused me of spending so much time and lavishing
them with love such that he was neglected. David was a particular target of his
ire. In fact, the first time he treated me with some violence was when we
argued over David's accommodation. While David was going up to university,
Martin suggested that he live in separate quarters. This was a suggestion I
flatly refused. It was bad enough that he was to be away for much of the week
in campus housing but to deprive him of family time even on the weekends, it
was terrible.
This began a period where Martin’s frustration and anger
began showing itself. He would grip my arms so hard it left bruises and
sometimes, when having sex, he would slap my breasts and grip my throat so hard
that I ended up with red patches for a day or so. Things came to a head when we
had a little argument over David in a restaurant and Martin, accustomed to
getting his way, treated me violently in public.
Those photos of him gripping my throat and speaking nastily
to me were taken by the staff and customers in the restaurant and made the headlines.
I decided I had enough and wasn't going to lie and protect
the bastard. I'd put up with his perverse behaviour and increasingly perverted
suggestions in relation to sex through the years. He made me do things I can’t
admit to in public just to show his control over me. Since my children were
largely grown up and he had condemned himself by behaving in such a manner in
public, I took the opportunity to ask for a divorce. Martin's reaction was
predictably over the top, he accused me of betraying him and withholding love
from him. And when public opinion was against him after the restaurant attack
pictures went 'live', he decided to attack me. Hence, the engineered days of
public shame aimed at lifestyle guru Nichola ran by his group of papers. I kept
quiet through the furore and only sought to escape London.
There was some truth in all the lurid headlines and details
revealed in the papers. After all, I had had those fuck sessions with Martin.
No one knew of Martin’s arrangement with Patrick and I
didn't want my husband's name to be affected by revelation of the truth. The biggest
bit of truth that was concealed from everyone was which husband I had betrayed
through the years. While most would think I'd betrayed Patrick, the truth was
I'd betrayed Martin all the years I'd been married to him because Patrick never
left my heart and all Martin had was the body he had purchased with his money
and schemes. He never knew the real reason why he was never able to father a
child on me: I'd discreetly gone for Nexplanon implants because I couldn't bear
the idea of having his kids and therefore having that unbreakable bond with him
that I have with Patrick.
I'm driving away to an uncertain future it seems, but at least
I'm free at last.
Epilogue
In a living room
somewhere in the UK
"Not again, that Nichola woman is in the papers again,
love."
"I thought you liked her!"
"I liked her lifestyle and cookery programmes, not the
scandal!"
~Sound of a snort ~
"Besides, you're the one who gapes at her, should I get
you a bib darling before you drip all over the morning papers? They've got some
racy description of her cheating behaviour with that newspaper tycoon. Ohh look,
‘Nichola had secret rendezvous with second husband while first husband lay
dying'. Nasty business that one."
~Sound of disgusted laugh~
"She likes doing it in only stockings and heels
apparently. Ohh is that you fantasizing about her?"
“Shut up! It’s just a morning thing. Besides, she's hot, a
real MILF!"
"Ohh, they're talking about her on the telly."
"Details have emerged today that Martin Sach , media
tycoon and estranged husband of lifestyle guru, Nichola Parsons, had struck a
deal with her first husband, after trapping him in debt arising from games he played with
Nichola’s late husband Patrick Hays. An unnamed source has revealed details of
the deal and released an audio recording of discussions that show the late Mr
Hay's deathbed testimony regarding his knowledge and consent with regards to
the deal. Mr Martin Sach could not be reached for comments on the latest
scandal to hit the estranged celebrity couple after photos of a violent
confrontation were released three weeks earlier..."
"Wow, the plot thickens! You never know what these
celebrities get up to these days. Well, ordinary people like us should just
enjoy the drama and the headlines!"
Thank you for reading
if you did make it this far. No prizes for guessing the celebrity that Nichola
is based on. Feedback is welcome and I will respond where possible. Watch for
more posts!
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