Three Gins, Two Waiters, One Night

Some couples therapy ends on a therapist's couch. Ours ended in a disabled loo off Mill Road, with me finally seeing exactly who I'd married.

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So there I was, watching Justin gag on Polish cock while his brother - or cousin, or whatever the fuck they were - worked his tongue around my arsehole in the disabled loo of The Punter.

How did London's most tedious media couple end up here?

Justin's fucking Cambridge reunion. His twentieth. Trinity, obviously. Where else would he have gone? I'd been dragged along like his BAFTA from 2019, something shiny to display while his rowing mates compared pension portfolios and pretended they hadn't all got fat.

Three hours of "remember when Bunty shat himself at formal hall" and I was ready to drown myself in the Cam. The only thing making it bearable was the Polish waitstaff at dinner. Specifically, the two who kept bringing our overpriced small plates and looking at Justin like they wanted to eat him instead.

"Stop staring," I'd muttered over my fourth gin. We were at that new place on Mill Road. You know the type - exposed brick, Edison bulbs, sixteen quid for three scallops.

"I'm not staring." But he was. At the taller one with the neck tattoo. Some Slavic script I couldn't read.

"His mate keeps looking at me," I said. Just to see what would happen.

Justin's hand tightened on his wine glass. Twenty years of marriage and I could still surprise him. Though not in bed. We hadn't fucked since my forty-third birthday, and that was only because we were coked off our faces at Tess Daly's party.

The shorter one - Piotr - came to clear our plates. Justin was in the loo, probably checking Grindr.

"Your husband," the waiter said. Just that. Your husband. Like it explained everything.

"Yeah, he's a cunt." I wasn't trying to be charming. "But you already knew that."

He almost smiled. "My cousin thinks he's handsome."

"Your cousin has shit taste." I finished my gin. "Though I suppose you're both used to serving wankers. How long you been in Cambridge?"

"Two years. Since Brexit fucked everything." His English was better than most of our production assistants. "You're from London."

Not a question. We reeked of it. My six hundred quid highlights. Justin's Paul Smith shirt. The way we'd complained about the wine list being provincial.

"BBC," I said. Like that explained our particular brand of awful.

"I know who you are." He lowered his voice. "You're on that morning show. With the cooking."

Christ. The one thing I'd sworn I'd never do. Daytime TV. Demonstrating spiralizers to housewives while pretending to give a shit about gluten-free alternatives.

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"My housemate watches every day. She's obsessed with that chef. The fit one."

Of course she was. Everyone loved Marcus. Pretty boy with his perfect quiff and his 'cheeky' innuendos about sausages.

Justin came back from the loo, pupils dilated. He'd definitely taken something. His Cambridge mates always had coke. Bankers' habit from the nineties they'd never shaken.

"We should get the bill," he said. But his eyes were on neck-tattoo waiter.

"They're cousins," I told him. "Not brothers."

"Who?"

"The boys you want to fuck."

He went very still. We didn't usually acknowledge it this directly. His thing for men. My thing for not caring anymore.

"Meg..."

"Oh, stop. I'm not starting a row. I'm just bored." I waved for the bill. "And these two are pretty. Seems a waste."

Piotr brought the card machine. His cousin lurked by the bar, pretending to polish glasses.

"Is there..." Justin cleared his throat. "Is there a staff bathroom?"

Bold. Even for him. Usually he at least pretended subtlety.

"Why?" The waiter's face was carefully neutral.

"Our hotel's a trek. My wife needs to..." He gestured vaguely at me.

"I need to piss," I said flatly. "And probably throw up. The scallops were off."

They weren't. But the waiter's cousin suddenly appeared. "I'll show you. Both of you. The customer toilet has a broken lock."

We followed them through the kitchen. Past the other staff who didn't look up. Down a corridor that smelled of industrial disinfectant and old grease. To a disabled loo that definitely wasn't up to code.

"This locks," the cousin said. Neck tattoo. Barbed wire around his throat like every tragic boy from Eastern Europe. "Take your time."

And then we were all in there. Four adults crammed into a space meant for wheelchairs. The cousins looked at each other. Some silent Polish communication. Then the shorter one kissed me.

He tasted of cigarettes and energy drinks. His tongue was everywhere at once. Too eager. I thought of that Italian story I'd read online last week, about the woman in the restaurant bathroom. How she'd directed the waiter. Piano, cazzo. But I didn't know the Polish for slow down.

Justin was already on his knees. All those years of pretending to be straight and he drops faster than an intern offered a permanent contract. Neck tattoo had his cock out. Uncut, pale, bigger than Justin's. My husband's wedding ring visible as he gripped the boy's thighs.

"Your wife," Piotr said against my mouth. "She likes to watch?"

"Apparently." I'd never actually seen Justin with a man before. We'd had threesomes, but always with women. Easier to pretend. Now there was no pretending. He was gagging on cock like he'd been doing it his whole life. Which he probably had, just not in front of me.

The cousin's hands were under my dress now. Black tights, of course. January in Cambridge. He fumbled with them, then just tore a hole. The ripping sound was loud in the small space. My sixty quid Wolfords, destroyed. He pushed through the tear, fingers finding my knickers underneath. Pushed them aside. M&S three-pack. Nothing special because who plans to get fingered in a disabled loo?

"Turn around," he said.

I did. Faced the disabled rail. The metal was cold under my palms. In the mirror, I could see Justin. Tears streaming down his face as neck tattoo fucked his throat. He always cried during sex. Some childhood trauma he'd never properly explained. His therapist said it was healthy.

Fingers inside me now through the torn tights, knickers shoved to one side. Too dry.

"Your husband," the boy said behind me. "He doesn't fuck you."

"Not for years."

"Everyone prefers Tomasz." Matter of fact. "He has bigger dick."

So that was neck tattoo's name. Tomasz. He spat on his hand. Then his cock was pushing through the hole in my tights, shoving my knickers aside, inside me. It hurt. Good.

In the mirror, Justin was standing now. Bent over the sink. Tomasz behind him, working his cock into my husband's arse. Justin's face - that same expression he wore when begging the BBC commissioners for more funding.

"He takes it well," Tomasz said. "Practice, yes?"

I laughed. Couldn't help it. The sound bounced off the tiles. Piotr thrust harder, mistaking my laughter for pleasure.

"Your wife is tight," he told Justin. "When did you last fuck her?"

Justin couldn't answer. His mouth was open, little ah-ah-ah sounds escaping as Tomasz found his rhythm.

My phone buzzed in my bag. Probably my agent. Or the nanny wondering when we'd be back. We'd left the kids with Justin's mother in Grantchester.

"Don't stop," I said when he slowed down. Not because it felt good. It didn't. But because stopping would mean acknowledging what we were doing.

Justin came first. His come splattered the sink. Tomasz pulled out and finished on Justin's back. Very porn. Very practical.

Piotr was still fucking me. Mechanical now. Like he was thinking about something else. His student visa expiring. His shift tomorrow. Whether this would be worth the fifty quid Justin would slip him on the way out.

I faked an orgasm to speed things up. Not even a good fake. Just some moaning and clenching. He didn't notice. Men never do when they're close. He pulled out and came on my arse. Thanks, internet porn.

We cleaned up in silence. Paper towels and avoided eye contact. The bathroom stank of sex and shame and industrial cleaning products. Justin's hands shook as he buttoned his trousers.

"That was..." Tomasz started.

"Finished," I said. "That was finished."

Justin slipped them each a fifty. Then thought better of it and added another. Guilt money. Shut-up money.

Back through the kitchen. The staff still not looking. Out into the restaurant where normal people were eating overpriced food and complaining about the weather. My knickers were in my bag. My makeup was fucked. Anyone looking would know exactly what we'd done.

"We should go," Justin said. His voice was carefully controlled. Media training kicking in. "The Parkers are expecting us."

The Parkers. More rowing cunts.

Outside, it was pissing down. Proper Cambridge rain that soaked through everything. We stood under the awning, waiting for an Uber that would take too long because it was shift change and a Friday night.

"So," I said. "That happened."

Justin looked at me. Really looked. For the first time in years. "Why?"

"Why what? Why did I fuck a waiter while you got railed by his cousin? Or why did we think a weekend in Cambridge would fix us?"

"I've been thinking about leaving."

"The BBC?"

"You."

Oh. Well. There it was. Twenty years of marriage dissolved in a minicab that was definitely going the long way round to add to the fare.

"When?"

"After the BAFTAs. Didn't want to fuck up your campaign."

Thoughtful to the end. We'd stay together for my potential award.

"Will you see him again? Tomasz?"

"No." He looked out the window. "I don't even like him. Just wanted..."

"To be wanted."

"Yes."

The driver was pretending not to listen. Probably had a podcast about this. Confessions of an Uber Driver.

Back at the hotel - some boutique place Justin had chosen for the Instagram potential - I showered for twenty minutes. Trying to wash off the evening. The smell of Piotr. The memory of watching my husband suck cock like his life depended on it.

When I came out, Justin was on the balcony. Smoking. He'd quit years ago. Or pretended to.

"The kids," I said.

"We'll work it out. Everyone does."

"I'm keeping the house."

"I assumed."

"And the place in Tuscany."

"Meg..."

"You owe me that much. For the rowing cunts. For the Polish boys. For twenty years of pretending your cock worked for anyone without a Y chromosome."

He took another drag. "Fair."

My phone rang. My agent. Working late, as always.

"Darling!" Her voice like cut glass. "Brilliant news about the documentary. Channel 4 wants a series. Three parts. Your baby. Full creative control."

I made the right noises. Success. Finally. The thing I'd killed my marriage for. Except I hadn't killed it. It had been dead for years.

"We'll celebrate Monday," she continued. "Lunch at Groucho's. Just us girls."

I hung up. Told Justin about the commission. He congratulated me. Genuinely pleased. Because that's who we were. Two people who could fuck strangers in a toilet then celebrate each other's success.

"I'll sleep on the sofa," he offered.

"Don't be stupid. It's a big bed."

We lay there in the dark. Not touching. Not talking. Just existing in the same space one last time. Tomorrow we'd drive back to London. Face the kids. Start the process of uncoupling. Tonight we were still technically married.

"Meg?"

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry."

"For which bit?"

"All of it. Everything. Being gay. Being a coward. Making you into this."

"You didn't make me into anything. I chose this."

"The boys..."

"Were just boys. Tomorrow they'll serve other unhappy couples."

He rolled over. His back to me. The familiar landscape of twenty years. I knew every mole. Every scar. Every place he didn't like being touched. Tomorrow it would belong to someone else.

I thought about Piotr. His housemate watching morning telly. Me pretending to care about spiralizers while my marriage rotted from the inside.