Swimming in the Rubicon

Alex watched, hopelessness creeping over her again, as Thierry immersed himself in his screen. If only he wasn't so damned handsome. If only she hadn't been so susceptible to his looks.

She grabbed her empty mug and took it to the kitchen, an excuse to walk past him and glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, he was absorbed in his socials, the conversation one she expected. She shuddered gently: it was that girl again, the nineteen-year-old. Alex crept up the stairs to the bathroom and, feeling sick, shut herself in.

What was wrong with her? She stared uncomprehending in the mirror. She kept herself in shape, her tits hadn't sagged yet, she wasn't a world beater but she was pretty enough, even for forty, she was educated, intelligent, witty, caring. And yet, he was more interested in someone who was little more than a kid. Hell, he was more interested in someone who, last year, had been his student at high school.

He had even taken her back to Bordeaux last summer, once she'd graduated, lying to Alex that he had family business. Their eldest had found the details after he'd left the tab open on the computer, and Alex had had to explain to her daughter that Papa was just giving the young woman some extra tutorial. And if her daughter had believed that then she was dumber than a box of rocks.

The row that followed had been volcanic. He had tried to tell her that nothing was happening and that he had only been a holiday guide for her, and she'd made a conscious decision to believe him, in the end. No, that was wrong: she had decided to blatantly lie to herself, eyes wide open, and stay for the sake of... She couldn't really remember now why she'd stayed, actually. It wasn't for the kids -- she was already a single mother in all but name, Thierry taking no interest in their upbringing. So why had she stayed?

The cold truth was, as she knew very well, that she stayed in a desperate, pointless hope that the gorgeous man she'd married in her twenties he would finally pay her some attention, after a decade of declining interest. Or failing that, that he would pay their children some attention. Their eldest was only four years younger than his slut, barely a child any more, whilst their youngest was already pretending to be older than he was, developing his gangster swagger in the corridors of his middle school. In ten years they would all be grown and gone, and what would be left? It was enough to make her turn to drink.

She didn't go back downstairs that evening, and he didn't join her in the marital bed. These days he usually slept in the guest room, his excuse that he had to rise early to get to the gym and he didn't want to wake her.

* * *

The next day was weekend studies at the university, and after Alex made breakfast for the children and reassured herself that they would at least glance at their assignments before heading off to see friends, she gathered her materials and headed into the city. The first lesson was Ethics and Methodology, a favourite of hers. The group was lively, a pleasure to teach usually, but today she was listless, empty.

Ellen caught her as the students filed out, sticking her head around the door for her regular good-natured grumble about the administration.

"Uh-oh! What's wrong?" She said as soon as she caught sight of Alex's face.

"Nothing," said Alex, forcing herself to smile.

"Sweetie, never kid a kidder!"

"No, really," said Alex before she slumped, her shoulders betraying her inability to go on with the lie.

"Let me guess," said Ellen, gliding her athletic form over to a seat across the desk from Alex, "it's either 'a', your youngest has been caught playing hooky, or 'b', it's that husband of yours. So, give."

Ellen studied Alex's forlorn face.

"Ah, 'b', then."

Alex nodded. Ellen breathed out heavily.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Alex leant forward. Ellen nodded and leant forward as well, two conspirators deep in a plot.

"I haven't had sex in more than a year."

Ellen shuddered. Alex had met her husband, once, a British guy with 'that' accent. He was tall and cheerful, though no Adonis, and she could guess that he and Ellen had a pretty solid relationship, both in and out of bed. It wasn't fair.

"When?" said Ellen.

"New Years," said Alex, "and it was like he was performing jury duty, or filing his taxes."

"I'm so sorry." Alex could see Ellen meant it, "maybe you'd like to go for a drink in the week, talk, cry on my shoulder?"

A knock on the classroom door made Alex look up. It was the first of her students for her next class, and Ellen glanced at her watch.

"Shit!" she said, "I have Business Spanish. Let me know about the drink."

Alex smiled weakly as Ellen bounced out of the room, and then she turned to the next class, yet another in the ceaseless road that led only to death and oblivion. Yep, she had it bad.

* * *

Ellen waved Alex over to the corner table she'd grabbed, and she saw that Ellen had already sourced a bottle and a couple of glasses. The bar was fairly lively, but not too crammed. Alex slid in opposite her friend and began to apologise for being late but Ellen shook her head.

"You've got three kids," she said, "it's a miracle you're here at all."

"Didn't Martin mind you coming out?"

"He practically pushed me out of the door," Ellen laughed, "I expect he'll spend the evening watching porn, lucky me!"

Alex looked confused.

"He'll get some ideas, and when I get home..."

"Aah..."

Ellen grinned then remembered why they were there.

"Oh, sorry, that was tasteless of me."

"No! No!" Alex hurried to set her friend at ease, "I know misery loves company, but that's not fair on you."

"Still," said Ellen, pouring Alex a glass, "you're going to earn a hangover and unburden yourself. That's why we're here."

Alex sighed. She'd been keeping it in so long she wasn't sure what would happen if she opened the floodgates, a mental image of her sobbing, snotty and make-up streaming down her cheeks flashing across her mind.

"I'm not the kind of person Thierry is interested in," Alex said finally, after taking a deep breath, and it felt somehow liberating to say it at last.

"That much was obvious," said Ellen, before she continued, confidently, "he's gay, isn't he? Or asexual?"

"No, actually, he is straight," said Alex, and Ellen looked mildly surprised, which was flattering once Alex thought about it, the suggestion being, 'how could a straight man not be frantic to get her panties off and her legs spread?' even if, perhaps, he might have a bit on the side.

"The issue, actually, is that he..." and here Alex paused, whilst Ellen leant towards her, her eyes widening as she guessed she was about to get to the heart of the matter.

"Fuck!" said Alex, throwing it out the only way she knew how, "he's got a thing going with a nineteen-year-old."

Ellen's jaw dropped.

"She was in his Phys-Ed class until she graduated," Alex continued, painfully, "and yes, I do actually believe he waited. His job is the one thing he wouldn't dream of jeopardizing. But once she was of age, and he wasn't in a position of responsibility, he pounced and she rolled over like a cat having her tummy tickled. He thinks I don't know, and I'm letting him go on thinking that, for now."

"That's just awful," said Ellen. She reached across the table and took Alex's hands in her own, stroking her softly with her thumbs.

"Forget it, buddy!" Ellen said, stiffening and suddenly hostile, and it took Alex a moment to realise she was looking past her at a single man at the next table. He was wearing a soupy grin as he looked at the women holding hands, clearly thinking that two and two made five.

"The thing is," Ellen softened a touch, then continued at him, "the only time we really like having a guy in our bed is when we're going to peg him with our foot-long black strap-on. But if you think you're that guy..."

The man was suddenly fascinated by the contents of his glass, and Ellen turned back to Alex.

"Why are so many men such assholes?" She smiled.

"But not all of them," said Alex gently, "I mean, you're married to a nice guy."

Ellen nodded.

"And..." Alex stopped.

"And?" Ellen arched her eyebrows.

"Well, it's been years since there was really anything with Thierry, but..."

"Shit!" said Ellen after Alex clammed up, "it's like squeezing blood out of a stone with you! Spit it out and stop leaving your bestie in suspense."

"You remember I went to that teaching conference a couple of years ago?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, I... had a one-night stand there." It finally came out in a rush and Ellen grinned a wicked, filthy grin.

"Details!" she demanded, brooking no opposition.

"Look, don't get the wrong idea..."

"It would be hard not to," Ellen interrupted.

"No, I don't mean about the sex," Alex emphasized, "it's just that I like English guys. It's a thing."

"You think I don't know?" Ellen shrugged, "I married one."

"So anyway," Alex went on, "there was an English guy there, and we were kind of thrown together by accident in a workshop, and he was pretty charming, and we went for a drink in the hotel bar afterwards..."

"And one thing led to another. I know how it works. So, was he any good?"

"He was... enthusiastic, and," here Alex searched for the word, "committed to the moment. While we were in bed, nothing else mattered."

"Nice! Size? Performance?"

"Average, I suppose," and then Alex paused, this time with a slight smile as she remembered, "and he performed... repeatedly."

"You dark horse!" Ellen chuckled, "who'd've guessed that British guys with stamina were your thing. And you married to a French guy, too."

"Lust across the divide!"

"Any chance of an encore?"

"Not unless I fancy flying to Sheffield," said Alex, but there was something about the way she said it.

"You've thought about it, though?"

"A lot," said Alex, and Ellen sensed that the next layer of the onion had just been peeled off, "but it just isn't feasible. And anyway, that would be like asking for a commitment, which I'm not doing."

"So, with another guy, then," said Ellen, and it was very definitely a statement, not a question. Alex's eyes unfocussed into the middle distance as Ellen refilled their glasses.

"Martin wouldn't help, would he?" Alex asked tentatively.

"He might," said Ellen with a warm smile, "well, I'm sure he would, actually. I'll ask him if you really want."

Alex nodded, her mind made up at that moment. She didn't want her marriage to end, not yet, if only for the sake of the kids. Later perhaps, when they were at college, and the house was paid off.... But she wasn't going to put up with a sexless marriage any longer, that was for sure. She could even ignore the creepy cheating if he at least fucked her, too, but as that seemed beyond him, well, she'd have to take care of her own needs, wouldn't she? So, Martin could ask around amongst his British friends, discreetly, and perhaps, discreetly, something could be arranged.

"Come on," said Ellen, suddenly all impish energy, "the pool table's free. I'm going to whoop your sorry ass."

* * *

Alex grabbed her cup from the holder and virtually inhaled the coffee, half of it gone in just a few seconds. It felt very much like her last vice, and where had all the others disappeared to so quickly? The partying, the drinking, spring break and the clubs? She'd blinked and they were gone: what had been her whole life back then was now, in a different perspective, just a moment, the lifespan of a mayfly.

It was Saturday again, another round of weekend lectures, and as she crawled forward another few feet before she ground to a halt, she asked the same question everyone else was asking: why was the traffic was so impossible? But at least it gave her a chance to think. And over the last few days there was really only one thing to think about: was she really going to do it?

After Ellen had dropped her home in the Uber she'd been single-minded. She'd given Thierry a last chance, leaning seductively (or was it drunkenly?) against the doorway that led from the family room to the kitchen, asking him about his day as he'd scrambled some midnight eggs, and his disinterested, monosyllabic answers had confirmed her newly-made resolution. He'd barely glanced at her as he carried his plate up to the guest room, and considering that even Ellen had been polite enough to complement her on her outfit and make-up, it was pretty bad form that her husband couldn't be bothered to notice.

She had sent Ellen the message to set the wheels in motion at half-past midnight, and at nine the next morning she got the message back that it would be so. She'd trembled a little, partly in excitement, but partly also in fear. The one time she had strayed, back at the conference, had been unplanned, but this was cold, premeditated. It was deserved, too, but that wasn't the point -- even though Thierry had heinously transgressed their vows that didn't mean that two wrongs made a right. Of course, it also didn't mean she had to hang round until she died, simply on the off-chance.

Alex made it to campus with only eight minutes to spare, and she virtually sprinted up to the second floor, unlocking the room for the waiting line of sophomores who filed in as she dashed to the desk and hauled her laptop out of her backpack. She opened it and the lecture notes gave her pause -- Ethics and Methodology. For an instant she contemplated going off message, using her own (anonymized) situation as a case study and asking the assembled attentive faces what they thought she should do. And then she imagined the overheard conversations afterwards, and the whole thing getting to the Dean's ears... She stuck to the curriculum, instead.

One look at Ellen's face when they met up in the cafeteria told her everything was set. Her friend had a playful grin, and steered them away from some colleagues who tried to wave them over, finding instead a free table outside beneath the flowering magnolia. Alex's heart was thumping as they sat with their iced teas, and Ellen looked so damned smug.

"So, Martin's in. Jumped at the chance when I told him."

"Wh..." Alex managed, confusion in her mind and conducting her expression.

"Like you wanted," said Ellen, her tone morphing into 'explaining things to dumb people', "he said it's the best way he's ever heard of taking one for the team."

"Your Martin?" Alex managed. Ellen nodded.

"Your Martin and me?" And now Alex dropped her horrified voice to barely above a whisper, casting her glance around at the uncaring bustle of the campus.

"I could never," Alex finally stuttered after a pause, "I mean, he's your husband, and..."

The light of comprehension finally dawned on Ellen and she drew in a deep breath.

"This is awkward," she began, "I guess, when you do something for long enough, it gets like you think everyone already knows and you don't have to say anything."

Ellen paused and Alex waited, her head gently revolving, for her friend to get to the point -- if there was one amidst the weirdness.

"We're in a lifestyle," said Ellen, hoping Alex would catch her drift, but there was no comprehension.

Ellen sighed, "we're swingers. We go to clubs and hook up with friendly strangers, if we feel like it."

It was Alex's turn for her jaw to drop. Ellen slipped on her sunglasses and took a sip of her tea, studying the passing under-grads as her friend processed that startling piece of information.

"Sorry, for some reason I just thought you knew," she said after thirty seconds of silence that felt like an hour.

"I... don't know where to begin," said Alex.

"Ask away. Like Martin says, in for a penny, in for a pound."

"Ok, I want to get this right, you and Martin have sex," and here Alex began to whisper again, "with strangers."

Ellen nodded.

"What if... oh, I don't know, what if he falls in love with some other woman?"

"We talk to each other," said Ellen, "and it's just sex, both of us are there and can see what's happening, and any woman he goes with is there with her own partner. It's low risk."

"And you...?"

"Yeah, I sometimes find myself in a corner with a guy."

"Isn't it icky? I mean, I just can't imagine..."

"Like I say, just sex. It's fun, and everyone is pretty cheerful and well-adjusted. Well hung, sometimes, too," and Ellen seemed to regain some of her mischievous air.

"Forgive me," said Alex, finally achieving a little equilibrium, "it's just so out-of-the-blue."

"No, forgive me," said Ellen, smiling, "I just guessed I'd told you sometime back when we started, and you'd remembered and guessed I could help."

"How long have you been...?"

"Nearly three years."

"And is it every weekend?" Alex was becoming fascinated now, her social sciences background taking over.

"No, it depends, but at most once a month, and sometimes we don't do anything for three or four months, and we live like a conventional couple, not outraging the neighbors or scandalizing public decency."

"And Martin's ok if you...?"

"Hell, yeah! He watches."

"And like, there's clubs? Or people's houses?"

"There's a couple of discreet clubs. We didn't like the first one we tried. It felt a bit seedy. But the other one is very nice. Welcoming owners -- they're a couple -- and a pro-barman mixing the drinks. The place is laid out a bit like a spa, and if it wasn't for the, well, you know, you'd think you were at the country club or something."

"Well," said Alex, leaning back and looking into the middle-distance, "this is a lot to process. And so, when I asked about Martin helping, you thought...?"

"I thought you were asking because you casually like my British husband with the accent and the firm ass."

"Yeah," and now Ellen mentioned it Alex did remember noticing that his ass was pretty tight for a middle-aged man, like he did a lot of cycling or something, "actually, I was hoping he knew some single English guys or something."

Ellen nodded, "so I'll let him down gently."

"No," said Alex, perhaps just a little too quickly, "let me think about it. Sleep on it. Maybe I'll let you know after the weekend."

And with that she grabbed her drink and looked away. Ellen smiled, her friend clearly a fish nibbling on the hook. She wanted to reach out and take her hand, reassure her that it would all be ok, but this was her journey, to make or not make. Softly, softly, as the old saying goes.

* * *

Alex lay staring at the ceiling, seething as she thought about Thierry. She had picked up the kids from their extra-curriculars -- orchestra, soccer and art club -- and they'd hustled into the house and through to the kitchen, as they always did. Thierry was sitting at the island, with his laptop open as ever, and they'd tried to engage with him. He'd been ever more distant recently, and had shut them down with his heavily accented third person, "sorry, Papa is busy," gathered up his things, and retreated to the home office.

The kids were more resigned than disappointed by that and Alex had spent the rest of the early evening with them, happy at least that they could find fun in each other around the dinner table. She'd then helped with homework as Thierry ghosted through to the kitchen a couple of times, aloof and self-interested, and then the kids had retreated to their own rooms finally leaving Alex some time to think. She'd taken one look at her pile of marking and reached for the wine, and then discontentedly flicked through the tv channels until she yawned.

She tried to fight down her fury at Thierry but it wasn't easy. So instead, she tried to remember a time when he'd been a real partner to her. She thought back to when they'd met, in her romantic Junior Year Abroad, when she'd made what seemed like the mad decision to head to the south of France rather than Cambridge. It had been a whim, the stupid product of a night with girlfriends watching Audrey Tatou in Priceless, and the thought that she might, too, find her Jean.