A Demon named Othello | A Modern Tale of Jealousy

by philipaholt

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy!

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on.

-William Shakespeare

The whole trouble began with a wrinkled business card. Margaret frowned as she pulled the battered bit of paper out of the back pocket of John's jeans, before tossing them into the washing machine. It was a just a business card. John always had a few of them in various pockets of his clothes, leftovers from contract meetings, and networking events. But Margaret couldn't help but notice the voluptuous woman on the front. Margaret raised an eyebrow at the flowing stylized script.

Viktoria Lamont. Entrepreneur. Hartford, Connecticut

She quickly skimmed the email address and phone number before flipping the card over.

So enchanting to meet you. text me soon. xx Viky

Margaret felt the first twinge of discomfort, something she couldn't name, or didn't want to admit. It wasn't unusual for women to …proposition…her husband from time to time. She'd seen it happen. He was still terribly fit, even for a man in his early forties, and other women were bound to notice. She'd tease him about it, enjoying his sarcasm and discomfort, satisfied and confident. He was her husband after all and uninterested in other woman.

Perhaps she was too confident. The thought niggled her. Margaret bit her lip. It was all nonsense, really. She ought to throw out the business card, Margaret told herself, but she didn't. She slipped the card into the back of her planner, telling herself she'd ask John about it later and they'd have a good laugh. But she didn't actually ask him and the little niggle grew with each passing day.

"I'm driving a haul next week."

Margaret glanced over the top of her book she'd been reading, as John readied himself for bed. "Where?"

"Hartford."

Margaret's hand jerked and she ripped the corner of the page she was turning. "How long?"

"Couple days," John said over his shoulder, ducking into their washroom. "I'll stay overnight, swing down to New York City and pick up another load before heading back."

"Why are you staying the night?" She swallowed, smoothing the ripped corner of her book. It wasn't unusual for John to drive a short haul, once or twice a year. He liked to keep up his skills with the large semi-trucks.

He grunted, but didn't answer.

"So can I come?" she called. Her voice shook a tiny bit. Whenever John went away, he always invited her along. Of course she never went; she had her work at the college and the children needed her at home. But in almost thirteen years of marriage, he'd never missed a chance to teasingly invite her along, even when he knew the answer was no. Ever since her miscarriage two months ago, things between them had been a little strained and somewhat distant, but still—this was John.

Her John.

Come on, Maggie, play hookie with me.

Had he forgotten to ask? Or could it be that he didn't want her this time? Margaret shook herself as John reappeared, and climbed into bed.

"Did you hear me, love?"

"I heard you." He leaned in and kissed her forehead, not really looking at her. "We both know you can't."

"But you didn't ask me."

He shrugged, "The answer's still 'no' isn't it?"

She nodded stiffly and settled back onto her pillow, staring into the darkness after John switched off the light.

It probably was a mere coincidence. Just because he had a business card from some fit woman in Hartford, Connecticut, didn't mean he was going to Hartford to meet said woman. But how would Margaret know? He could've called her, or texted, or emailed and she wouldn't know, would she?

Margaret twisted her rings on her left hand, a new terrible suspicion worming its way into her troubled mind. She waited until he was asleep before slipping out of bed and stealing his mobile from the chest of drawers. She bought it for him for his birthday four months ago, after his terrible old flip phone from the stone age had finally died. John hated the newer technology, grumbling about all the extra bells and whistles which he didn't need or want.

"It's a goddamn phone," he'd grumbled. "Why the hell do I need to set up email and Internet?"

He hadn't bothered to do much with it, not even updating the address book, telling her to do it for him, if she cared so damn much. He only ever called six people, and he'd memorized those numbers years ago. At the time, she'd seen it as a sign of trust. He didn't care what she saw on his phone or in his email and never had.

Margaret's breath caught in her throat, and her stomach lurched. He'd installed a passcode.

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at his phone when it buzzed. He knew he shouldn't look now, not when Margaret was fussing about the kitchen table, making sure the boys were eating their oatmeal, and trying to force bits of toast down little three-year-old Hannah's mouth. He thumbed his phone open and quickly glanced at the text. He couldn't help the small grin of anticipation that twitched over his face as he looked at the image that quickly followed.

"Who's that you're texting?" Margaret leaned over his shoulder to look.

John hit the home button before she could see, and shrugged noncommittally. "A contractor." The word tasted wrong in his mouth. It wasn't a lie. Not exactly.

"In Hartford?" she asked.

John squirmed a little, but kept his face blank, "Yes."

"When do you leave?"

He stood, glancing at his watch, "I should go now." He grabbed his phone and keys, kissed the four little black heads, warned them to behave while he was gone, and headed out the door, wondering if this tomfool scheme was even worth the trouble. But it was too late now.

Margaret felt sick. She pressed a hand against her stomach, and tried to take long, deep breaths. The cold blue lighting in the university washroom was making her head pound. John hadn't kissed her goodbye when he left. In hindsight, she would always claim that small detail pushed her to take the next step. She'd always been good with computers, and she decided to use those skills now. Part of her wished she hadn't.

She'd done her bit of online research and easily found Viktoria Lamont, Entrepreneur. She was a photographer and painter based out of Hartford. Her website CV was the main cause of Margaret's current nausea. Former exotic dancer and entertainer. There were other bits about a scholarship to a prodigious art school, a few photography awards, but Margaret skipped over these and went straight to the woman's online portfolio. Most people would likely call the photographs and other work 'artistic' and 'realistic portrayal of the human figure' and even 'tasteful nudity'.

"Bloody pornography," Margaret hissed, her face going cold. After the first five or six images, she closed the window and raced to the washroom.

John had the business card of a stripper turned pornographic photographer. Margaret swallowed, swore, and turned, retching into the toilet. "Contractor, my ass," she gasped, and retched again, her stomach determinedly returning what little breakfast she'd managed to choke down. She'd seen him flinch when she tried to read his text, seen him toss the mobile down like it bit him. And why did he all of a sudden have a bloody passcode on his bloody phone when he never bothered with it before, thank you very much? This stripper-woman had told him to text her and he'd done it. "I'll rip his bloody balls off."

It took her almost a week to calm down, talking herself out of her irrational fears. This was John-bloody-Thornton. He wouldn't… would he? Couldn't be guilty of what the dark whispering part of her mind told her he might be doing. But really nothing more could be done—besides checking his email and his work email. It turned up nothing, impossible man—until John returned from Hartland. She would need proof before she said anything more.

When he did get back, she couldn't bring herself to ask him anything at all. She simply watched him, growing more and more uneasy. Did he notice? The tension between them grew steadily as the days passed. Her appetite dwindled and she had trouble sleeping. John seemed more focused and yet distracted at home, his phone (still locked) always within reach. He certainly used the bloody thing more, but always shoved it into his pocket or pushed it aside when she spoke to him.

Then her polaroids started disappearing.

"Where's my picture?" she demanded one evening.

John looked up from his phone, setting it aside, "What picture?"

She held up her shoe-box of photographs . "The one I took of you and the children. At Christmas?"

"I took it to the office."

Margaret frowned, her stomach churning, like it did most of the time since she'd discovered that bloody business card "Why?"

"You've got dozens of pictures of us," he replied, clearing his throat. "Take another one—"

"Why did you take it without asking?"

He paused, glancing at his phone, "Why do you care?" It was as much as an evasion of her hidden accusation as it was a challenge. Say what you mean, Maggie.

But she didn't and neither did he.

John was tired of almost lying to his wife every other day. He sighed as he slipped the stack of polaroids into an envelope, sealing it shut. He didn't like stealing her pictures without asking first, but if he asked, then she would ask, and she was already too close to the truth for comfort. She was too damn smart for her own good. All he needed was a little more time, then it would be over.

The text came just as they were headed to bed. Margaret watched John's forehead twitch a little as he read it, throwing the phone aside. He looked…pleased? Relieved? She couldn't quite tell. When had his face become so difficult to decipher?

"I have to go out of town tomorrow."

"Really?" Margaret slowly lowered the stack of tests she'd been marking. "Since when?"

"Something came up."

"And you're just going to run off and see to it then?"

"Can't be helped."

Hartford again?" Margaret asked, throwing down the name like a challenge.

John frowned a little, his shoulders stiffening, the tension in the room suddenly thick and tangible. But then he shrugged. "New contract."

"Requiring your personal touch?"

"Something like that," he flicked off the lights. "Shouldn't take more than a day or two."

It was simple enough. Whatever guilt Margaret might feel about trying to break into his phone was shoved aside. He was lying to her (in theory), not the other way round. A few white lies on her part were nothing compared to what he was doing (in theory) behind her back. She'd tried all sorts of different variations of numbers, one at a time, scattered across the days, eliminating possibilities one by one. Now that he was leaving again to see that woman (in theory) Margaret was desperate. She only had one set of numbers left and she didn't really want to try. But what else could she do? Her fingers trembled as she entered the six numbers slowly: 0-1-0-6-0-9

The date of their anniversary.

The phone opened. Margaret opened his texts and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. There was only one conversation and she recognised the number. How could she not? There were only two texts (the rest, she assumed, had been deleted.) But the two were enough.

Can't wait for you to see for yourself. finally!

You won't be sorry, handsome ;-)

Margaret felt another wave of nausea tear over her at her husband's reply. Can I come tomorrow?

"This is stupid, Margaret. Mad and mental and bloody stupid."

She'd followed him, like a love-sick irrational little girl, she'd bloody followed him. Her stomach rolled and Margaret was tempted to turn around, but something kept her foot on the gas pedal. She pulled indecorously into the Depot lot, jumped out of the car (forgetting to shut off the engine), and marched into his office.

"Maggie, what—"

"Give me your mobile. Now." She snatched it from his hand before he could say anything else, ignoring his startle swearing, and opened it, pulling up his texts. "You want to explain why the bloody hell Viktoria Lamont is texting you? And why you've been lying to me about it?"

John stared at her a moment, eyes wide, and then he sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fuck."

Margaret dropped the mobile, turned on her heel, and almost ran from the building. Or she tried to, at any rate, but John snatched her hand before she could take one more step.

"Let go," she growled.

"Maggie, stop."

"Don't you 'Maggie' me, John Thornton—" she broke off and snatched up the rubbish bin, her stomach heaving.

"Maggie? The fuck—" he gathered her hair gently, holding it out of the way as her stomach emptied itself. "Are you sick?"

Margaret shuddered and slumped against the wall, pushing his hands away. "Is she really worth it?"

"Who?"

"Viktoria Lamont."

"Viktoria? What do you mean is she worth—" John made a face, looking for all the world like she'd dumped a bucket of ice water down his back. "Wait, what exactly do you think I've been doing?"

"Lying, for one."

"Not telling you what I'm doing isn't exactly lying."

Margaret glared at him. "Not telling me you're flirting around with some random woman is—"

"Flirting with—what the hell are you talking about?" John demanded, his face turning hard.

"I found her business card in your jeans, and then you make plans to visit Hartford for your new 'contract' or whatever that means. And today I broke into your phone and saw all those texts, and the pictures—did you send those to her?"

"Maggie." John snapped, taking her face gently in his hands. "I'm not flirting with anyone," He let go and grabbed a large cream coloured envelope from his desk. He held it out. "I hired Viktoria Lamont. For this."

Margaret slipped a high resolution print from the envelope and gasped. It was a detailed painting of a yellow rose. Her eyes roved over the colours, the strokes, everything. "This is—it's beautiful. What is this?"

"It's a print of an original painting by Viktoria Lamont."

"You hired her to...paint this?"

"Yes."

"So you're not—not—"

"Sleeping with her?" John growled, irritation making his voice sharp. "Maggie, I literally have everything I've ever wanted. Did you really think I'm stupid enough to fuck that up by cheating on you?"

Her eyes snapped up, "You hired a former stripper and had her business card in your bloody pocket. Then you got all secretive and evasive and you locked me out of your phone. What was I supposed to think?"

"I was trying to surprise you."

"Well, you did a bloody bad job of it. A stripper, John?"

"Viktoria is a friend of Fan's from art school. I didn't know she was a stripper, and who the hell cares?"

"I care! Didn't you read her CV?"

"No."

"But surely you saw her website?"

"I saw it. And?"

"And you didn't think the copious amounts of nude women plastered all over it would bother me a little?" Margaret threw him a dirty look. "I supposed you enjoyed that bit, yeah?"

"It's art, Maggie. Like Michelangelo's David or Botticelli's Venus."

"Well she's not Michelangelo or Botticelli, thanks very much. Just a former stripper who photographs naked people, which is far more akin to pornography than a David or a Venus."

"I hired her to recreate a painting," John rolled his eyes, "not to shoot porn. Have you even seen actual porn?"

"I—not on purpose—" she hissed. "Wait—have you?" He gave her a flat look. Margaret's mouth fell open and she smacked his arm. "John Seamus Thornton—"

"I'm a man in the 21st century. You really think I haven't seen porn at some point in my life?"

"I—I wasn't—I don't—God—never mind." Margaret spluttered. John started to chuckle and she shoved him again. "Oh, shut up. This is your fault, you know."

"It's really not."

"I'm sorry I ruined your surprise," Margaret blushed, fingering the edge of the picture.

John sat on the edge of his desk, and folded his arms. "Look closer."

Her eyes returned to the picture. After a minute, she let out another gasp. Cleverly hidden within the rose painting were small detailed silhouettes; Fred, her mother, her father, Edith, Aunt Shaw, Jack, George, Lucas, Hannah—and even John. It was the most obvious thing, once you knew they were there, and yet at a glance, the painting still masqueraded as a rose. It would explain why so many of her polaroids had gone missing.

"Why the rose?"

"Remember that painting your mom made for you? The one you lost?"

Margaret nodded.

"Its' almost Mother's day and—I wanted you to have something special," he explained. "Especially after—"

The miscarriage. Shame burned on Margaret's cheeks.

"Fanny suggested Viktoria paint something. I was going to Hartford today to pick it up." John took her hand, his face serious. "Maggie, I would never hurt you."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, John." She turned and buried her face in his chest. "I don't know what got into me. I just saw her card and I—"

"You were jealous," he interrupted softly. He pulled her close, until her body was pressed flush against his. "I get it."

"Are you cross with me?"

"I'm a little pissed you didn't just ask, but I'm also flattered."

"I'm sorry, I just—" Margaret sighed. "You were trying to do something nice and I jumped to the worst possible conclusion. God, it's not like me. It's not like us at all and—"

"Maggie, look at me."

She reluctantly complied, blushing again, "I don't know why I thought—"

"When was your last period?"

"That's not funny," she snapped, trying to pull away. "Do not make this into a you're-a-woman joke."

"I'm serious." John tugged her back, "You only get jealous like this when you're pregnant."

"When I'm—" Margaret gaped at him, shaking her head firmly. "No, I don't. I—"

"You wanted me to fire my secretary when you were pregnant with Jack."

"Because she was sleeping with everyone in the office."

"You changed obstetricians with George. Twice."

"Nurses shouldn't be showing that much cleavage in a health care practice."

"Remember Mr Bell's party? Right before Lucas was born?"

"Anne Latimer plastered herself all over you like she was a ruddy pole dancer."

"And what about Jack's swim instructor when you were pregnant with Hannah?"

"She asked you on a bloody date. Right in front of me." Margaret raised her chin defiantly, even as her mind did the rapid calculation of her last cycle. She'd told John she wasn't certain she wanted more babies, not after the miscarriage and he'd agreed. They were always careful. She frowned. But there was that nasty cold and fever she'd had...it was possible it threw off her cycle just enough to—

"Well?"

She counted on her fingers again. "Bloody hell."

John gave her an I-told-you-so look.

"If I am pregnant, then this whole thing really is your fault."

"I love you," John grinned, a grumbling laugh vibrating through her as he gathered her into another hug. "Even when you're jealous."

Margaret squeaked a little, "Really?"

"Really." John let his eyes wonder slowly over her body, a hungry glint darkening his eyes. "And since you're already here," he brushed his fingers down her neck. "Play hookie with me?"