I was bleary-eyed after work, half six, New Year's morning. Marlene had been out late with the girls from the Army camp, where she worked part-time. Most of the girls were married to soldiers posted to Afghanistan. I was working the night shift New Year's Eve, but I didn't mind, at least I had Christmas Day off, when our twins were home.
I was low on petrol, having left my wallet in the bedroom. Marlene had thrown her coat and handbag across the breakfast counter when she rolled in during the early hours. The bag was gaped open, revealing her purse. Now, I never open her purse, I mean never, on pain of death, ever. We have joint accounts, of course, sharing household and living expenses, we had for twenty years, but cash? Well, cash is more ... personal.
The reason the tank was empty though was her bloody fault. Yup, the post-Christmas sales. She'd done them all. Oh, she particularly treasured those leather boots, the ones she nervously said were a "bargain". Yeah, I knew exactly how much we saved on them, but not the actual cost. She definitely owed me big time.
Fifty quid would fill the car. Twenty would furnish a necessary top up. I lifted the fat purse from the bag. I thought it was possibly full of loose change that I could use for car-parking meters. What do girls keep in their bloody purses, anyway?
I was on virgin territory here.
Yup, change aplenty inside, plus a key ring with two keys, a Yale and a Chubb. What? They looked like the standard keys for Squaddie accommodation adjacent to the Army camp. I'd seen the type before; prior to my current job, I did a bit of building maintenance in those flats. Now, tell me, why would she have a set?
In the next purse compartment was a flash slim pink mobile phone.
Mmm. We both had plain cheap mobiles, without internet or camera, used basically to contact the kids. I opened it up. The phone directory of that mobile was full of entries I never recognised but then I didn't know all of Marlene's acquaintances, did I? I opened the image library next and whistled. Lots of pictures of a fit young man, many of them showing him stripped to the waist, all rippling muscles. Muscles on bloody muscles. The latest photo looked like a Skype screenshot, the tanned NCO in desert tunic, topped by Father Christmas hat, big happy proud-of-myself grin on his face.
Damn! He'd stolen my girl, Marlene, my wife of twenty years, mother of my twins, the woman I worshipped. I dropped the purse and phone on the counter. Loose change spilled out, including a tightly-wrapped plastic bag.
Intrigued, I unravelled and opened it. A pregnancy test, which read positive.
