Cole sat on the landing with his back to the outside of the bedroom door, tears streaming down his cheeks. Part of him had always known it would be like this—that a monster was caged inside him, and that Clementine must never, ever find out. He had sensed that if he let it loose, it would smash through the foundations of his whole world and leave it to crumble.
But he’d told himself it would just be one night. He wouldn’t even get too wild—no flogging, no biting, no electro play. Clementine wouldn’t know it had happened, and Isla wouldn’t know it had been him. Those dark desires would be out of his system, and he’d be able to focus all his energies on being a good husband and, soon, a good father. This could even help them conceive. Once the fantasy was over, he could enjoy regular sex again, which might make him more fertile.
He’d been a fucking fool.
He tried the door again. Still locked. He could maybe break it down, but that would terrify Clementine even more. He banged the back of his skull against the door, thump, thump, thump, as though he could give the monster a concussion.
A flame of anger grew in his chest. This was all Oscar’s fault.
Last week, Oscar had turned up at the gym unexpectedly. Cole had hoped he was there for a membership. Oscar didn’t seem to be the type, but many of Cole’s customers were like that: they signed up because they wanted to get fit but then didn’t want to do any actual exercise, apparently thinking the membership alone would get the job done.
Oscar had glanced around at the empty gym, then asked Cole a bizarre question: ‘Have you heard of the Monty Hall problem?’
‘The what?’
‘It goes like this. You’re on a game show, and there are three doors. One has a million dollars behind it, but you don’t know which one. You pick door number two, but the host opens door number three instead, showing you there’s no money there. Then he asks if you want to stick with door number two, or switch to door number one. What would you do?’
Money was so tight right now that even a hypothetical cash prize left Cole salivating. ‘If the guy’s trying to convince me to switch,’ he said, ‘I guess I’d stick with door number two.’
‘No—you’re supposed to switch,’ Oscar said. ‘That way you have a two-in-three chance of winning.’
‘Isn’t it fifty-fifty?’
‘No, it’s two in three. Scientists proved it.’
‘That doesn’t sound right.’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter. That’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.’
‘Thank God,’ Cole said, with a nervous laugh.
But as Oscar laid out the plans for the following weekend, putting forward his proposal, Cole’s relief vanished.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
Oscar kept his voice low. ‘Felicity and Dom are already on board. I think Isla will go for it. I just need you to talk to Clementine.’
‘You want to …’ Cole wondered if this was the point at which he was supposed to punch Oscar in the face. That would be the honourable thing to do. ‘You want to have sex with my wife?’
‘No,’ Oscar said. ‘But you want to have sex with mine.’
Now Cole definitely wanted to punch him: not because it wasn’t true, but because he wished it wasn’t. He’d thought about Isla a lot over the past year. He loved Clementine deeply, but the more difficult things became—with the failing business, the fertility treatments, the empty nursery—the more he fantasised about a completely different life. A parallel universe, where he and Isla had got together in high school and he’d ended up somewhere other than here.
‘And here’s the thing,’ Oscar said. ‘I reckon she’s keen on you, too.’
Cole found himself looking around, as though this might be a prank. Someone could be recording him for social media. ‘I would never cheat on Clementine,’ he said, trying out the words, feeling them in his mouth and throat.
Oscar ignored this. ‘Look. I’m not interested in your wife. I want Felicity.’
‘You do?’ Cole was startled by how bluntly Oscar admitted this.
‘More than anything,’ he said, in a way that sounded either romantic or crazy. As he explained more details of the plan—the house with the three bedrooms, the lights going out, the women each choosing a room—Cole felt like he, too, might be going crazy.
‘Felicity will tell me in advance which room she’s going to pick,’ Oscar said. ‘I want you to steer clear of that room so I can have it. That gives you a two-in-three chance of sleeping with Isla.’
To Cole, the maths still didn’t sound right. But before he could say so, a customer walked in.
‘Just consider it,’ Oscar said, and vanished like a wraith.
That night, Cole couldn’t sleep. Oscar’s proposal was unthinkable, but here Cole was, thinking about it. Maybe Clementine would enjoy this? Cole had noticed how she always chose the seat opposite Dom’s, and listened so closely when he talked, even though he had such a big voice that you couldn’t help but hear. Cole hadn’t worried about it, knowing she would never cheat. But if he gave her permission …
A horribly tempting thought entered his mind: if Dom slept with my wife, would I still feel like I owed him?
There was something else, too. Cole’s own dark desire, like a tumour deep within his heart. Things he longed to try, but not on his delicate wife.
Isla was kind of wild. She’d let Dom film her that one time, hadn’t she?
Cole was too cowardly to try to talk Clementine into the partner swapping, as Oscar had requested. But after a few nights, he’d sent Oscar a message: two in three aren’t good enough odds.
Oscar’s reply was immediate. Hang on.
Five minutes later there was another message. Sorted. Felicity will make sure Isla picks the right room.
Just like that, it was too late to back out. He felt like he’d already been unfaithful, even though the event hadn’t happened yet.
The next day Cole put on a hat and sunglasses and went to a sex shop, where he bought the handcuffs. He lingered a while, looking at the gags, plugs and needles, but told himself: no.
In that bedroom on Saturday night, he listened to the way the woman breathed when he touched her. He concentrated on the feel of her silky skin, and the underwear that was nothing like anything Clementine owned. He believed she was Isla, so he put her on a leash and let himself off it.
Now he was alone outside a closed bedroom door. He could faintly hear his wife crying. If only he’d told her what he wanted to try. Now she’d found out the wrong way, and there was no going back.
‘Fucking Oscar,’ Cole muttered. He wanted to kill the bastard.