Rachel returned to the marital bed with renewed vigour, but the rules had been changed.
"You can have me on condition that we have an open marriage."
"Like Carol and Steve?"
"Exactly."
"We play away from home as much as we like?"
"Yes. If either one of us fancies somebody else, we're free to indulge our fancy."
"One night stands only?"
"Of course. Anything more would pose a real threat to our marriage and I wouldn't like that to happen."
"Neither would I." Paul hesitated. "Erm...do we....er...tell each other? You know, talk about who we were with and what they were like and how we felt - that sort of thing."
Rachel frowned. "I'm not sure about that." She had no intention of telling him about Matt Hudson.
"It adds to the spice. And it means there's no secrets to come between us."
Rachel nodded. "That's true. We'll try it and see how it goes. If either of us feels uncomfortable talking about it, we can change the rules."
"Agreed."
"I also want more financial independence. Instead of pooling our incomes, as we always have, I'd like my own bank account."
Paul looked doubtful. He thought, perhaps, it was all going too far. "That means changing our whole way of working our financial affairs."
"I consider changing our moral attitudes to be more difficult and dangerous," said Rachel softly. "We could ruin everything, but I want to give it a try. We owe it to the ten years we've both put into this marriage."
Paul shrugged. "Whatever you want."
Rachel smiled a little sadly. She realised that the monogamous marriage had been blown away forever, but she was sure both Paul and herself could find a new kind of happiness with each other.
A few days later she was sitting in the lounge bar of a London hotel waiting for Paul. She looked at her watch. He was late. She looked up and caught the eye of a large man sitting at the bar. He had been there for some time and made no attempt to hide his interest in the solitary woman.
He raised his glass to her and Rachel gave a small nod of her head in acknowledgement. She had no intention of giving him the come-on, the movement being an involuntary response to his gesture. Too late she realised that the man interpreted her nod as a coded invitation. He rose from his stool and strolled towards her.
Paul entered the hotel bar with a light step. The general lighting was low, but each table had its own illumination. It was a pleasant ambience, with the configuration of the seats being a series of S shapes made out of a wooden frame topped by a trough full of flowers. The low, round tables were placed in the inside curves of the S, the troughs providing separation. Two thickly padded stools were set on the outside of the tables, whilst the main seating on the wooden S frame had deep and comfortable cushions.
Paul saw Rachel almost immediately. An attractive young woman sitting by herself enjoying a quiet drink. He found her extremely desirable and knew she would have that effect on many men. There was one now, heading in her direction, drink in hand. A big man, broad shouldered, with a swaggering walk. He smiled and gestured towards an empty stool at the woman's table. She nodded; he sat.
They began to talk - or, at least, he did. She smiled a little, shook her head, laughed. Paul was intrigued by the big man's technique; his own chat-up line had always been deficient. He had a facility for words, but written on paper (or rather, a word processor) and nursed an ambition to be a successful novelist. So far he had authored five books, all of which had been firmly rejected numerous times. Meanwhile, he made a good living by writing scripts for a long running TV soap, 'Cottingly'. It was on three times a week and employed four writers plus a script editor who made sure the storylines were kept going and jelled together.
Once a month there was a story conference held in the London headquarters of the TV production company. The writers and producers gathered together to kick ideas around and decide who was going to be responsible for a particular story line. The trip was always welcome as Paul spent nearly all his time at home, locked away in a small study, trying to find inspiration and keep his writing fresh.
When in London he always stayed at this hotel; it was central, comfortable and reasonably priced. Whilst not being a slave to drink, he made it a habit to get one in immediately he returned from the meeting. Tonight he was in for a special treat. Being a writer and a student of human nature, he was fascinated by seeing such an obvious attempt at a pick-up. Would the big man succeed?
Without getting a drink, Paul crossed the bar area and sat on the cushioned seat in the adjacent S bend. With only a few flowers between them, he was clearly able to hear the conversation.
"Over here for a conference." The big man had an American accent. "I'm in plastics."
"Really? How interesting." Rachel sounded as if she couldn't have cared less. "And what part of the U.S. are you from?"
"Atlanta."
"Ah, yes. The home of Coca Cola."
"Yeh." The man moved from stool to cushioned seat. "You know about that, huh?"
"I visited for a while."
"That's great. Say, your glass is empty. Let me get a refill."
"Oh no, thanks. One is my limit so early in the evening. There's a lot of drinking time to go before bedtime."
"Yeh." He moved closer still; one more move and he would be on her lap. "You a resident of this city, ma'am?"
"Do I look as old as that?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Do I look old enough to be designated as a 'ma'am'?"
"You sure don't." The American sounded enthusiastic. "Why, you're the best looking da....wom....lady in this bar."
Paul tried hard not to laugh.
The da....wom....lady looked around. "That's not saying a lot, is it? I'm the only one."
"No, I mean it." Now he sounded sincere. He was moving in for the kill. "You are dazzling."
"Thank you. No, I'm not."
He was lost. "Beg pardon?"
