Page 1 of Such A Good Girl

ONE

ASHLEY

Cook. Clean. Scrub.Repeat.

When had my life become so utterly mundane?

The young couple across the street embraced on the driveway, her thighs wrapping around his waist as their lips clashed. Excitement poured from their bodies, while I scrubbed the dishes, bubbles the only thing caressing my skin. A physical pain ate away at my stomach, watching the way the man’s fingers slid along her spine before grabbing a handful of her ass.

How long had it been since Jerry had held me like that? Not since we got married, at any rate. It was like that wedding band was a metal collar, choking the life out of me day by day.

I’d give anything for Jerry to look at me with desire. To see me as more than a glorified housekeeper. Once upon a time I’d been hot. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, I thought I still was. Sure older, a few more lines creasing the corners of my eyes, but I looked after myself. I plucked the stray greys and kept my hair and clothes on trend. I had only gained a single figure amount of pounds since we met. Hell, Jerry didn’t give a fuck. He ordered take out on top of the meals I cooked, and the burger wrappers on the floor of the car told me exactly why his trouserscut deeply into his stomach. Nevertheless, I craved his touch. I begged for it. Debased myself for the potential of attention.

Pathetic.

Sometimes it still dumbfounded me how I’d fallen so hard for Jerry. Hard enough to uproot my whole life and move across the country for him. To let his career goals be our entire focus for the first five years of our marriage. And for what? So he could come home, kick his shoes off in the hallway, scarf down the meal I made without a second glance and go game with his buddies.

After the dishes, I did laundry. After the laundry, cooked dinner. The same as every other day.

With thirty minutes to go before Jerry would be home, that same insidious thought popped into my head that I’d given into far too often.

Maybe tonight would be different?

My idiocy not lost on me, I went to our bedroom and opened the drawer that contained my lacy underwear. Pretty silky delicacies designed to be ripped off of gasping women. Instead, they languished in the drawer, like I languished in my home.

Satin glides over my fingertips. Tiny scraps of fabric designed to titillate and tantalise. Half of them still had the tags on, bought in a moment of misguided hope, but rarely did I have the self-worth to wear them.

Still, I craved Jerry’s touch. Fleeting memories of his hands so desperate for my skin against them, of harried kisses and can’t-wait-for-the-bedroom sex. Being pressed against a wall and taken before our clothes were even off. Back then, I hadn’t needed to resort to underwear that cost an eye watering amount.

Back then, I’d been enough.

Stripping off, I slid a pretty pink set on, loving the expensive feel of them against my body. The French lace knickers sat prettily over my ass, the half cup bra displaying me perfectly. I pinched at a stretch mark on my inner thigh, wishing I was asperfect as the women on his phone. I’d seen him whacking off to them many a night, when he was too tired or too busy to pay me any attention.

If only I’d stayed in my home state, with people who could support me, I could have walked out. At Thirty-Two I wasn’t old, even if some days I swore I was past it. There surely had to be more to life than being an unpaid, undesired maid for Jerry? Someone out there would want me.

Right?

I didn’t believe it.

The gentle rumble of tyres outside let me know Jerry had arrived, and I steeled the space around my fragile heart with determination. Pulling on some heels, I clipped downstairs, hoping for desire, but prepared for failure.

My pulse raced as I waited at the foot of the stairs, his keys scraping at they turned in the lock. Unsure of myself, I put a hand on my hip, before removing it, trying to figure out how to appeal most to him.

The door opened.

Eyes rolled.

My heart sank.

‘Fuck sake, Ash, could we not do this?’

He’d barely even glanced at me. Tempering down the upset, I brushed off the rejection, trying to pretend like it didn’t yank my soul out of my ass every time.

‘Yeah. Sorry. I thought…’ My voice shrunk, filled with broken edges. I hated it. Hated my weakness. I had to stop trying. He didn’t want me. Other women deserved desire. Better women. I had to face the fact that sex and passion died in my early twenties.

RIP to me.

Sniffing back the pain, I skulked upstairs. The pink set hit the trash can with force as I stripped it off. No point keepingit. If it didn’t do the job, why torture myself with the reminder? Tears fell unbidden. I barely even noticed them, such was their frequency.

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