Chapter 1

Jon slips up to the bar and smiles at me, looking confident and smooth and cocksure in lime green pants and a Jersey Boy pullover two sizes too small. He’s wearing one of those trilby hats made popular by the Kings of Leon.

He imagines he looks eccentric and artistic and slightly mysterious and my gut instinct tells me he wears a variation of the same outfit every night of the week.

And you wonder why you sleep alone.

I never got his name, I never asked and he never offered and so I’ll call him Jon because he looks like a younger version of Jon Cryer from CBS’ Two and a Half Men. That’s not exactly an insult, but it’s not exactly a compliment either.

The first words out of Jon’s mouth are so mind-numbingly banal I almost groan aloud.

“I lost my phone number,’ he says, his watery blue eyes crawling down my cleavage as his smile broadens into a lecherous grin: “can I borrow yours?’

It’s the worst pick-up line I’ve heard this month, triggering a deeply buried instinct to punish this poser if only for his catastrophic lack of originality.

I laugh politely and hit him with the “cock shrivelling’ response; “sorry, darling, married.’

I show him my ring just to rub it in. I’d show him the entire finger but I want to keep this civil.

Jon stares down at my counterfeit wedding band and I can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, the sudden stiffening of his shoulders. He probably downed two pints in quick succession just to get this far. I realise his friends are likely watching from across the bar, waiting for Jon to either crash or score.

I’m afraid it’s going to have to be the latter, darling.

His response comes too late to sound entirely natural, nodding and clearing his throat, he says, “yeah, but that doesn’t mean you’re happily married….’ He’s trying to keep his tone light but I can tell it’s an uphill struggle.

“Very happily married, thank you,’ I purr, “would you mind?’ I turn my back on him and signal the bartender for a refill and I can almost hear the thin whine of deflating ego behind me.

“Fair play,’ my would-be seducer mutters as he slopes off. I’m right about his friends watching from across the bar, their laughter is caustic and cruel as Jon slinks back to their table with his libido tucked firmly between his legs.

I don’t blame the poor sap for trying. There’s a mirror at the back of the bar and my reflection says it all, five foot nine, Amazonian physique, eyes sea green and skin tanned the colour of wild Spanish summers, I am what they politely refer to as pure Milf from head to foot.

I’m not boasting when I say I could have any man I wanted, and yet I don’t want any man, by some perverse quirk of character I find I’m only interested in the one kind, the married kind, the kind that take the vows and walk the plank and now imagine themselves happy and settled.

I am a dedicated home wrecker. I want what other women have and yet as soon as I have it I find I don’t want it anymore and that’s really the most peculiar part of my affliction, I’m not interested in the men themselves, they’re discarded as soon as the juice of fidelity has been extracted, it’s the act of betrayal that interests me, the challenge of stealing another woman’s possession away from her, if only for a night, and then returning it the next morning, soiled and forever tarnished.

It’s all about control.

Controlling the image, the effect you have on others, that’s the definitive party trick and one I’ve mastered to a fine degree. Society is ultimately shallow as a child’s paddling pool and it doesn’t take a mental giant to figure out that celebrity is next to godliness, that looks are more important than content, that a good makeup kit is indistinguishable from alchemy, or as an old and dear friend of mine used to say: “ugly better be rich, hon, because beauty’s always a bitch”.

My name is Judith Chambers. I am a thirty-four year old lady of leisure by day.

By night I am a predator.

A dedicated bitch.

That’s something I’m not going to deny.

I’ve been in the bar just over an hour and already I’ve been hit upon by four males, one dyke, and one person of indeterminate gender, and my response is the same each time - not interested, no thank you… enjoy the view, it’s all you’re leaving with.

Tonight I’m in the process of catching far larger fish.

I’m waiting for Alan Forrester, an infinitely resourceful Private Investigator of long acquaintance. God alone knows how the man is able to dredge up so much muck on people, he should have worked for the tabloids, he has a knack for finding the most inconsequential detail, “secrets of the trade” he’s always telling me, “you pay, I provide.”

He used to be a police detective and I believe he still maintains contact with the force. He puts his experience to good use, providing intelligence services for people like me, people with niche interests and money to spend and a pathological need for discretion.

But tonight he’s half an hour late and that’s just not like Alan. I’m growing impatient and pissed off. I’m about to give him a call and a piece of my mind when my cell phone starts vibrating through the thick padding of my bag.

I extract the phone.

“Where the hell are you, Alan?’ I snap.

“Been and gone,’ Alan’s voice snuffles out of the phone. He sounds like he has a cold.

“What do you mean “been and gone”?’ I demand. “Been where? Gone where?’

Alan sniffs: “I was in the bar about ten minutes ago….’

Now I’m growing furious. “So what happened? You didn’t see me? I’ve been waiting over an hour.’

“Oh, I saw you alright,’ Alan says, “you’re dressed like a billboard sign, Judith, I said low-key…is that your idea of low key?’

“I am dressed low-key,’ I bristle, “believe me, this is positively demur, you uptight little wretch. I’m really growing tired of all this cloak-and-dagger rubbish, Alan; I’ve just wasted an hour….’

Alan interrupts me: “There a coffee shop to your left as you come out of the bar,’ he informs me, “meet me there in ten minutes.’

“Have you got something for me?’ I ask.

“Coffee shop, ten minutes, and wear a coat.’

Alan Forrester has the eternal look of a paranoid beagle, corrugated skin, sallow and hanging in loose folds, his eyes rheumatic and heavily lidded, his nose beaten into a shapeless pulp by too many youthful brawls. He drinks heavily, smokes almost non-stop, and has suffered three heart attacks in the last five years.

He is not a well man.

“You look like a monkey in a formaldehyde bottle,’ I tell him as I join him in the café.

“You ought to give something up for lent.’

I wince at the bronchial sound of his laughter. “You’re a fitness Nazi,’ he accuses me, “sit down, I didn’t call you out here to talk about my health….’

I settle opposite him. “Don’t leave me waiting like that again,’ I tell him, “I’m really rather pissed off with you at the moment.’

“That won’t last,’ he promises me as he lays a plastic office folder flat on the table.

“I’ve got your little fix right here.’

I stare at him disapprovingly: “It’s not a fix …’ I start to say.

“Whatever,’ Alan grunts, “I just don’t understand why you can’t visit me at the office like everyone else.’

“You don’t have an office, Alan,’ I remind him, “you have a broom cupboard at the back of a crack den and your neighbours are all prostitutes and gangsters, so no thank you, meeting like this suits me fine.’

“You’re a snob, Judith.’

“And you’re a slob, Alan, so what do you have for me?’

Alan pats the office folder and then almost reluctantly slides it across to me. “His name is Jared Anderton,’ he says as I flick the folder open.

I stare down at a portrait photo of a man in his late thirties, prematurely greying, good looking, good-natured smile, nothing particularly outstanding about him, but then again I’m not after them for their looks.

“And who’s Jared Anderton?’ I ask.

“Your next challenge,’ Alan winks at me, “Jared Anderton is a confirmed monogamist, just the way you like “em, married three years, engaged two years prior to that, never had an affair in all that time, never even looked at another woman, the silly sap still buys his missus flowers twice a week, I mean who the fuck buys flowers for their missus every week?’

“Jared Anderton, apparently,’

I flick through the pages of information Alan has collected in his little dossier.

“You’ve done your homework this time,’ I whistle with admiration, “you could write the man’s biography from all this.’

“Yeah well,’ Alan shrugs modestly, “technology’s making it easier these days…still, you have to know what to look for.’

“What’s she like?’

Alan glances at me sharply. “You mean his wife?’

I nod. “Mrs Anderton. Tell me about her.’

“She’s pretty, she’s young, she works in charity, she reads erotica, that 50 Shades crap, and shed loads of romance, bit of a dreamer I guess, and what else can I say, she’s in love….’

“How much in love?’

“Let’s just say it would kill her if Jared had an affair, I mean it would fuck her right up,’ He sniffs, his eyes cold and hard as he studies me. “But that’s what you want, right?’

I nod and smile. “Yes,’ I say, “I would very much like to knock Mrs Anderton off her little domestic pedestal.’

“You’re a sick bitch, Judith, allow me the pleasure of telling you that every once in a while.’

I shrug. “I need to hear it every once in a while.’ I snap the folder closed. “How do I make contact with this Jared Anderton?’

“You’ll have to join his local gym, that’s the only downtime he gets, three nights a week; the details are in the folder.’

“You’re worth your weight in gold.’ I pass Alan an envelope under the table and his policeman’s fingers quickly make it disappear.

“Ta, love,’ he grunts as he gets up from the table. Just before he leaves he bends down and pecks me on the cheek and says, “get help, Judith, before it’s too late.’

I wander the streets for a while after my meeting with Alan, his dossier tucked firmly under my arm. I could drop the file into a bin and forget the whole thing and Jared Anderton and his wife would carry on window shopping through life, never suspecting how close they’d come to matrimonial Armageddon.

But I do not drop the dossier into a bin. I very much want to ruin the Anderton’s marriage, it’s been over a month since my last kill and the wolf must be fed, it is a pathological hunger with me, a craving that grows more acute with each passing day.

I’m like an addict in need of a fix, I must destroy something sacred; I must desecrate and defile it and leave it in ruins and Alan once famously said of my obsession, “face it, Judith, every now and again you need to take a giant sized dump on someone else’s lawn.’

Perhaps I do.

But I think he understates the case.

What I really want is to destroy every fucking faery tale I ever believed in.

I guess you could say I have daddy issues.

It is Thursday night and every Thursday night I attend private dance classes with a young Cuban instructor called Angelo Baptiste. I use these classes as a means to distract me from my unnatural cravings, and I will confess that these hour-long sessions are the nearest I get to normalcy, a relationship, a sense of spending time with another human being without feeling the need to destroy him.

Angelo has been a dancer all his life, he tells me he first started dancing in his mother’s womb, that he danced his way into the world and that someday he will dance his way back out again, his feet covered in blisters and open sores, but could any man declare himself happier?

He is versed in all the great dance forms, the Cha-cha, the Danzón and Mambo, the Bolero, Rumba and Salsa, and when we move together it as though, just for a moment, I can leave behind my life of labyrinthine plots and circuitous schemes, and allow myself to be carried along in the bosom of the moment.

Tonight we dance with the studio lights turned down low, and as the music surges our movements become more intimate, my hips grinding back against Angelo’s pelvis, his hands caressing my belly as our feet move in perfect harmony.

Angelo once told me that dance is the mother of all languages and that sex is the oldest dance of all.

“Lose yourself,’ he whispers in my ear and deliberately lets his hand fall to my mound, I arch my back, my arms rising, my hands circling his neck, and now my buttocks swells against the hard angles of his body, my breasts high and proud. Angelo’s hips undulate as he draws me backwards into his arms, our movements perfectly synchronised, there is no space between us; we have become a single indivisible organism that falls and rises, rises and falls….

He undresses me and yet hardly seems to touch me at all, shedding his own skin at the same time, and naked we coil like serpents around the same invisible limb, his lips burning against my breasts, my throat, my mouth, his hands exploring every inch of my body.

The music ends at the very instant he enters me. I gasp into the sudden silence, my fingers digging into the muscular swell of his buttocks, face buried in the curve of his throat and he continues to make small circular motions with his hips, cock buried to the hilt, and still we dance, micro movements now, soft and unhurried, swaying to the sound of our own heartbeats and I am unprepared for the moment he pulls back, or the savage instant he thrusts home again, a gasp ripped from my throat as Angelo pulls me to the ground and crushes me beneath his weight and every thrust deeper than the one before, my fingers caressing his arms, his tongue flicking serpent-like against my swollen nipples.

I rise towards the alpha moment, kissing his eyelids, his lips, the prominence of his Adam’s apple, and his cock sinks towards the centre of my belly, awakening every nerve ending along the way, triggering the urge to hold on to him, to hold him inside me as I grind my pelvis against his, and my gasps are indistinguishable from sobs, my pleasure inseparable from pain.

As Angelo climaxes I pull back, I must watch his face, I must read his eyes, but they are closed and he looks so peaceful, even in the throes of passion he looks gentle as a saint, and in that moment I want him so desperately and at the same time my heart is twisted by a dark bitterness because I know I can’t have him, that Angelo is the one man I can never tame, he exists beyond my personal time and space, and I hate him for the very same reasons I love him.

I push him away from me. “I have to go,’ I say rather more sharply than I intend.

He nods and sighs and prepares to get up.

“You could always ask me to stay,’ I stare at him defiantly.

He brushes his thick black hair away from his face and smiles sadly: “But you know I won’t.’

“Yes,’ I say bitterly, “I know you won’t.’

“You seem offended.’

“Do I? Not at all. Why would I be?’

“Next week then?’

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

That night I sit in my Chelsea flat and make a careful study of the dossier Alan gave me. I listen to Rachmaninov’s piano concerto No 3 and sip a fine Veuve Clicquot, unconsciously tapping my fingers in time to the piano recital as I search for a credible chink in the Anderton’s matrimonial armour.

I am studying my prey.

Dissecting their habits.

Strand by strand I am weaving their fate.

Jared Anderton was born in Wembley, the fourth child of a GP father and a housewife mother. He studied English and Spanish at the University of London, travelled through most of his twenties, trawling the coastlines of the world in search of perfect surfing country. He met Samantha on a tourist bus in South Africa where she’d been involved with a UNICEF inoculation program, and on and on it goes, pages and pages of personal information that help build a portrait of the man I intend to seduce.

Alan has been deliciously thorough and has included screenshots from the couple’s individual Facebook and Twitter accounts. I find these extremely useful, offering as they do an unguarded glimpse into the Andertons’ thinking process.

Jared and Samantha Anderton - a match made in heaven, blissfully unaware that a dark wind blows from Chelsea, that wheels are turning in the night, that right now plots are being hatched and schemes unravelled, and you might well ask why I do it, why I invest so much energy in the destruction of someone else’s marriage, and the answer will always be the same.

Because I can.