2nd Runner Up

 

Edinburgh’s Obscura by Joanne Odgen. Judges' comment:  “A story with a great twist at the end. What starts of as an utterly predictable tale of adultery is turned on its head by the last sentence. Following the main protagonist, the reader is skillfully misguided until the last moment.”

Joanne Ogden is a graduate in French Language and Literature now living in Gloucestershire with her husband and two teenage daughters. She has a passion for stories, both reading and writing them. Being a newcomer to writing, she is delighted to have been awarded runner up prize for the Peirene Press Short Story Competition, in addition to having won or been shortlisted for several other writing prizes including the Meridian Writing Competition and the CheerReader Winter Humorous Story Competition.

 

Edinburgh’s Obscura

Joanne Odgen

 

“Do you mind if I hog the bathroom? I’m longing for a soak. You know what I’m like with hotels.” I made a show of unwrapping and unfurling the courtesy virgin bathrobe and slippers.
“No, you go ahead. I’ll catch up on the paper.”
“I bet you will,” I muttered under my breath, the words safely swallowed by the steam rising from the tub. With the bath filled to capacity, I returned to the bedroom. Swathed in a fluffy white bath-sheet, I circled the bed, ostensibly to retrieve my moisturiser from the suitcase. Patrick’s eyes flicked up briefly as the edge of my towel brushed his knee. Not so much ‘come to bed’ eyes, more ‘can’t you fit through that gap’ eyes. There was a time when a combination of hotel room, fresh white sheets and a scantily clad wife would have led to a missed dinner reservation. Nowadays, Patrick always reserved a table for 6.30; eating late played havoc with his digestion.
Feeling quite the Bond girl, I set the trap. While Patrick sat puzzling over the crossword, his technophobe wife was bugging their hotel room. Well, perhaps I was getting a little carried away with all the subterfuge. I had purchased an ipod, which the pre-pubescent boy behind the counter assured me could record a conversation across a room. I slid it to voice memo mode, positioned it as high as I dared and pressed record.
“Right, I’m off for a wallow.”
Outwardly, I was humming and splashing, but my ears were straining to hear the call. I willed him to call her. How else was I to set eyes on my adversary? I had first stumbled across their affair thanks to an undeleted email. Lipstick on the collar and the heady scent of perfume are clichés of a past generation of cheats. Today, it’s all about texts and emails. Thirty-one years of marriage, two children, one redundancy and an incontinent Labrador later, you think you know somebody. The treachery propelled me. Like a stray bullet I ricocheted off the walls of our marital home, unable to settle on a target.
The espionage was simple. From what I could make out, they only met up when he travelled to the Edinburgh office. Hence, one evening over dinner, when he mentioned an upcoming Scotland trip, I invited myself along before the first forkful of cottage pie reached his lying lips.
“Remember the Camera Obscura?” Patrick was in a whimsical mood this evening. Normally I instigated the reminiscing. Slathering on the salve of good times helped to ease the sting caused by a bristling empty nest. “That quirky museum was a real find.” The conversation moved on to the children’s distress at the lonely fate of Greyfriar’s Bobby, but it was mention of the Camera Obscura which struck a chord with me.
Although the recording was muffled, I could discern Patrick’s words. Their plan was to meet outside Edinburgh Castle. Maybe go for a quiet lunch. No, I would be out of the way. I had plans to spend the day at Holyrood Palace. He detailed my interest in Mary, Queen of Scots, explaining that I had just finished reading her biography. What a lousy adulterer! The reading matter of wives is hardly pillow talk for mistresses.
It was twenty-four years since our family trip to Edinburgh. I counted them out as I climbed the stairs to the Camera Obscura’s rooftop chamber. Twenty-four years - time was a trickster. With the skill of a con artist, he had diverted my attention with school uniforms and arguments about homework, while his unseen accomplice had snatched my children and pushed my husband towards retirement. By the time I noticed the crime, my beautiful babies had become women with jobs and my husband had metamorphosed into a grey-haired philanderer.
Our guide explained the scientific principles of the giant pinhole camera. My attention only focused when the lights were dimmed and an image of Edinburgh appeared on the large white table. The picture was slowly rotated and the talk was of lenses and 360 degree panoramas. While the guide placed some folded paper on the table to form a makeshift bridge, over which the projected pedestrians trooped, I searched for Patrick. I spotted him and then I saw her. Despite the evidence, I hadn’t truly believed the betrayal until now. She was pretty, not a femme fatale, just a woman wrapped in a winter coat. She was young, no more than thirty-five. His arm was draped around her shoulders. The camera never lies. Reaching to the table, I squashed them both with my ring finger. The guide stared, momentarily stuttering his patter.
“I’ve booked a table for 6.30 tonight.” Patrick was attentive that evening. He has a conscience, I concluded as I applied a thick layer of makeup over the cracks. The waiter guided us to our table and Patrick’s hand slipped into mine, his fingers encircling my wedding band.
The table was set for three. She was seated in the corner. As we approached, she made to stand and then stopped midway. Sliding back into her chair, she curled a strand of errant hair behind her ear and smiled. Patrick spoke first.
“There’s no easy way to do this. I thought it would be best if you two met and we could talk. Love, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter.”