Short Story Sunday: All About Ashley

When Helen turned the key in the lock, she knew something was wrong. The air had shifted in a way that let her know someone had been in her house. She pulled the key out of the door and listened, silencing the grocery packet bouncing against her hip. Nothing answered the call of her ears.

She scanned the foyer as she closed the door behind her, looking for clues that would justify her feeling of dread. Her eyes fell across the furniture in the den and darted to the kitchen. There was only a glass in the sink that hadn’t been there when she left this morning. She detected a whiff of something cloying but couldn’t place the scent. Perhaps Tiffany was trying out some new body spray, the way teenagers do. No, that still wasn’t it.

The silence loomed over her as she placed the groceries in the fridge. Every move she made amplified her sense of foreboding as it echoed off the tiles. There. Something from upstairs, like a thud on the carpet. Her body stiffened and she had to concentrate to shake it, to get her muscles to obey her need to confirm what she thought she heard. The scent grew stronger as she ascended the stairs. The closer she got to the source, the more it smelt like toilet spray. Another thud, like a shoe being kicked off, drew her eyes to the main bedroom. The door was ajar.

Helen stood on the landing. She knew what was behind the door; she’d suspected it for months. Still, nothing prepared her for Philip’s brazenness. She had tolerated the affair while it was happening only on his credit card statements. Now it was happening in her bed, and the accompanying grunts and gasps were almost too much to bear.

Rather than feeling horror, she felt numb. At least it wasn’t an intruder. Well, not the kind that would try to kill her for her smartphone. This sort of intruder, as she knew from countless boozy lunches with Candice and Nadine, caused much more damage and it was unlikely that the insurance would pay for pain and suffering. She decided then that she would make Philip pay; he could afford it.

When the headboard started thumping against the wall, Helen opted to return to the kitchen. She knew that if her mother were alive she’d tell her to break open a packet of shortbread and make strong tea. “By the time you’ve dunked a few of those biscuits, everything will make more sense.” Her mother was referring to deciding what to wear to a dinner party or how to handle a challenge at work. What she’d never explained was how to deal with a philanderer under your own roof.

The shortbread was nothing more than a box, its contents having been vacated by Timmy and Frank the previous day. She opted for Tennis biscuits, but reminded herself not to dunk them too long. Few things annoyed her as much as cookie glut at the bottom of her mug. The noises upstairs became louder. As Helen waited for the kettle, she thought back to a conversation she once had with her father.

“Dad, what’s that on your collar?” It looked bronze and glittery and had the imprint of lips.

“A woman got excited and gave me a hug. Don’t tell your mother.”

Helen had always been obedient. When she tried to stray, she got hidings, so being docile and pleasant kept her out of the line of fire.

“But she will see. Mum does the laundry.”

“Shut up.” The sheepish grin turned into a snarl. “I said, don’t tell your mother.”

She felt sick as she got out of the car and followed him to the house. Her mother was home and asked the usual questions about Helen’s school day, but she couldn’t meet her eye.

“I’ve got to change for Drama class. Dad said he’s taking me.”

She closed the door to her room and tried to pluck the memory of the conversation from her mind as easily as she peeled off her school socks. She bundled her uniform, the witness to her father’s deception, and took it to the bathroom. Normally, she wouldn’t give it another thought when she placed clothes in the laundry basket, but today she stopped. There was the white shirt with the bronze imprint on the collar. She felt ill again and threw her clothes on top: out of sight, out of mind. Later, at the Drama class, she punched Dylan for being annoying. When her teacher took her to task, she explained that she was acting.

Philip was calling her name. He must have believed that they were alone.

“Ashley, Ashley, Ashley.”

Ashley’s reply sounded like a player in the Wimbledon Women’s Final.

Helen made her decision. As a child she’d been sent to Drama classes because she was considered too shy and because she allowed others to walk all over her as she tried to keep the peace. Nobody bothered to find out why that was. They assumed the problem lay with her, and not with how her family had trained her to walk on eggshells since she was old enough to understand. She kicked open the bedroom door and waited. On the bed was a heaving mess of limbs.

“Philip,” she said, recalling what the Drama teacher had said about breathing and projection.

They froze, then slipped apart and under the sheets. His face looked oiled, like a TV wrestler. Her lips were smudged across her cheek in the same cheater’s bronze.

“I think you and Ashley better get dressed and get out.”

“Sure, when we’ve finished. Close the door behind you.”

Her numbness dissolved to hatred. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

He threw back the sheets. “This boy isn’t finished yet and I’m going to give him what he wants. You can stay and watch, or you can close the door as you leave.”

Ashley simpered.

Helen stepped out, leaving the door ajar. Wimbledon resumed behind her, louder this time. She knew what she had to do.

Philip was not the only one with secrets. As she watched the neighbourhood roll past from the back of the police van, she thought about the day she discovered the existence of Ashley, Marlene, Liza, Frances and Rebecca. Her husband was not smart enough to cover his tracks, and as the credit card statements arrived, so she got an understanding of the extent of his betrayal. She had wanted to kill him, but that wasn’t exactly legal, so she took up shooting at the local range. For self-defence, she told herself, Candice and Nadine. One couldn’t be too careful these days.

As they booked her into her cell, she thought back to what had transpired.

“Ashley, Ashley, Ashley.”

Helen burst into the room. “Let that be the last name you ever say.” She fired two shots at him, one in the chest and one in the groin. Ashley was silenced with a bullet in the throat.

What a pity she wouldn’t have time to order a new bed before the kids got home.

“Ma’am, your father is here.”

She smoothed the orange jumpsuit and sat opposite him. His face was tight.

“Why did you do it, Helen? You were always such a good girl. When you became a mother, I told Eve, I said, ‘Our Helen will raise her children well’. And then you did this. Why, in heaven’s name?”

“It’s a funny story, Dad. I know we don’t have much time, but do you remember Ashley Davis who worked with you about thirty years ago?”

His face lined. “Yes, but what does she have to do with this?”

“You remember how she wore bronze lipstick?”

“I don’t...”

“The same bronze lipstick that was on your collar? The same bronze lipstick you told me not to tell Mum about?”

“This isn’t the place.”

She laughed and gestured at the room. “There is no other place, Dad. Philip was in our bed with a woman called Ashley Hartung. And when I saw them, suddenly he was you and I was Mum. And I did what every woman dreams of doing when she finds out that her husband is a cad.”

“So you’re blaming this on me and one stupid mistake I made years ago?”

“Dad, this is about what people like you and Ashley represent.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You’re scaring me, Helen.”

“Good thing there’s Plexiglas between us, then.”

He replaced the receiver and called for the guard, leaving her to stare at her reflection.

Helen’s mouth tasted of regret. She should have had this conversation years ago.