Could life get any better than this?
That was the foolish question floating through my mind as I stretched across the king-size bed of a five-star hotel suite in the state capital, one arm resting lazily above my head, one foot brushing against the cool cotton sheet.
The room smelled of expensive soap, room service, perfume, and the faint scent of rain outside the tall windows. The city lights glittered below me. Somewhere far beneath, cars moved like little sparks through the wet streets, carrying ordinary people home to ordinary lives.
I was not thinking about ordinary lives.
I was thinking about power.
About attention.
About the way people looked at me now when I walked into Parliament House.
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
8:56 p.m.
Almost time.
I yawned and turned onto my side. It had been a long day, though not the kind of long day that earns sympathy. A limousine had collected me before dawn for a seven o’clock flight to the capital. Another car had taken me from the airport to Parliament House. I had attended a Shadow Cabinet meeting where I was not important enough to speak freely, but important enough to sit in the room. I had smiled at journalists in the hallway, accepted compliments from men who used to ignore me, and watched younger staffers step aside when I passed.
After that, I had been whisked back to the hotel for a quick meal with Mike Harding.
Mike.
Deputy Opposition Leader.
Chief Whip.
Former Australian Rules football hero.
Television commentator.
Used car king.
Political survivor.
My mentor.
My sponsor.
My lover.
He was lying across the foot of the bed now, naked under the sheet, half asleep and pleased with himself in that heavy, satisfied way he had after he believed he had been impressive. A half-empty glass of whisky sat near his side of the bed. His tie was looped over a chair. His shirt lay crumpled on the carpet.
The sight should have embarrassed me.
It did not.
Not then.
At that point in my life, shame had become something I postponed.
I had learned to do that over the past four years. Put shame in a box. Close the lid. Open the laptop. Smile at my husband. Ask about the children. Pretend to be the woman I had once been.
The clock ticked to 8:57.
It was nearly time for my nightly call home.
The loving wife act.
That was what I privately called it, and even now, remembering those words makes me feel sick.
Every night when I traveled for politics, I called Dave. Sometimes by Zoom, sometimes by phone. In the beginning, the children joined in because my trips still felt new then. Dennis would wander into view pretending not to care, and Jenny would wave from behind her father’s shoulder while asking if the hotel had a pool.
But time changes routines.
Two years into the travel schedule, the kids were older and less interested. Dennis was seventeen, all long limbs, sarcasm, and silent judgment. Jenny was sixteen, clever, aloof, and already developing that teenage ability to make a mother feel unnecessary with one raised eyebrow.
Most nights now, it was just Dave.
My husband.
David Brown.
Successful businessman.
Loyal father.
Patient man.
The person I had underestimated more completely than anyone else in my life.
I should introduce myself properly.
My name is Camille Brown.
At the time of the story I am about to tell, I was forty-two years old, married to David Brown for almost twenty-two years, and the mother of two children who, until that night, still had some reason to believe their mother was merely ambitious, busy, and distracted rather than selfish, careless, and cruel.
I married young.
Too young, some people said at the time, though they said it with smiles because Dave was handsome, steady, and already building the kind of future that made parents relax. I was nineteen when I married him. He was twenty-four, working in construction supply and already talking about starting his own company.
He did.
And he succeeded.
Dave was not flashy. He was not the kind of man who needed applause. He built quietly. First a small equipment hire business. Then commercial contracts. Then property. Then a chain of logistics and building supply companies that made more money than I truly understood in those early years.
We had Dennis first.
Then Jenny.
I became a stay-at-home mother. Not because Dave demanded it. He never did. It was a choice we made together because he traveled for work and the children needed stability. I told myself I was happy. And for many years, maybe I was.
I packed lunches.
Organized school uniforms.
Hosted birthday parties.
Volunteered at fundraisers.
Learned which teacher preferred email and which preferred a face-to-face chat.
I knew every detail of our children’s lives, every allergy form, every sports fixture, every friend’s parent, every dentist appointment.
But somewhere around the time Jenny started high school, I began to feel invisible.
That is the word people like me always use when trying to explain why we did something shameful.
Invisible.
As if invisibility justifies betrayal.
Dave never treated me badly. That is the part that makes my excuses worse. He supported me when I said I wanted to study. He paid for my Certificate IV in public relations. He encouraged me when I was nervous about returning to work after years at home. When I got a job in the public relations department of the local hospital, he bought me a leather briefcase and left a card on the kitchen bench.
Proud of you. Go show them who you are.
At the time, I cried when I read it.
Later, I betrayed him with the man who helped me climb.
That man was Mike Harding.
I first met him after he was shot.
That sounds dramatic, and it was.
Mike had been leaving a bar one night when someone fired at him in the car park. He survived, though only just. No one was ever arrested. The police claimed to be investigating leads, but everyone knew the truth. Mike had collected enemies the way other men collected ties.
He had been a national football star in his younger days, a commentator after retirement, then a used car dealer who became rich enough to buy influence and charming enough to turn influence into votes. Twelve years earlier, he had won a seat in Parliament. His party formed government, and he became Minister for Sport, which surprised no one because it was the most obvious appointment in the country.
From there, he climbed.
He knew how to flatter, threaten, promise, and survive scandal. By the time I met him, he was already a force inside the party, famous enough for cameras and dangerous enough for enemies.
When he was brought into my hospital, I was the PR officer assigned to handle press updates.
I stood in front of cameras and said he was stable, recovering, grateful for public support, and eager to return to service.
Mike noticed me.
At first, that felt like luck.
He asked for me by name after a press briefing. Told me I had poise. Said I understood timing. Said I had “the kind of face voters trust and the kind of voice reporters listen to.”
I laughed because I thought he was being generous.
He was not generous.
He was recruiting.
First, he hired me into his campaign team.
Then he got me a senior communications position.
Then he encouraged me to stand for a local seat, and when I hesitated, he found donors, consultants, photographers, volunteers, and party insiders to make sure I could not easily fail.
Dave funded everything I needed at home.
Mike funded my rise in public.
That was the split I refused to see.
Dave made my life possible.
Mike made me feel powerful.
I won the seat.
My party did not win government, so I became a backbencher. But because Mike was Deputy Opposition Leader and Chief Whip, and because I was useful to him in more ways than one, I became his special assistant. That qualified me to attend Shadow Cabinet meetings, though I sat at the back, just close enough to feel included and just far enough to remember I still needed Mike.
Camille Brown, MP.
Special Assistant to the Deputy Opposition Leader.
Rising star.
Mother.
Wife.
Liar.
The affair began gradually, or so I told myself.