This is a first submission to the site so all comments are welcome. I hope for constructive and appreciative but have more realistic expectations :). This is a long one. If, like me on occasions, you are looking for a 'quick fix' this is not for you. I would be pleased if fans of the longer format would cast critical eyes over what I've done and point out my strengths, if any, and shortcomings, which I am sure are legion.
*****
I sighed a satisfied sigh and rested my hands on my hips above the waist band of my jogging pants as I looked down at the black plastic bin liners which filled at least half of the spare room. They contained all of my, soon to be, ex-husband's clothes and other belongings. The house was beginning to feel as if it was, at last, mine alone. The rain on the windows provided a soothing backdrop as I pondered what to do next.
'A glass of wine and a long soak, I think.'
I smiled - you can talk to yourself when here is no one in the house - and wiped my hands on the T-shirt I had put on to do the cleaning. I felt myself frown, however, when I grazed the side of my breasts and thought about how long it had been since they had been touched by any hand but my own. It had been months. Maybe add that new vibrator to the list of evening relaxations.
I shook my head to get myself moving again and laughed as I remembered the events of the day. I recalled how livid I had been, shaking with anger, when, in my morning shower, my hand felt something strange on the surface of the soap I habitually used; something firm and slippery can always entertain. I had squinted open my eyes and through the steam and water recognised the unmistakable shape of a useless condom.
The waves of nausea which came over me as I realised what I had been stroking against myself and then the cold, hard determination to take action once I had scrubbed myself clean. The next image was that of the shock on Dave's face as I burst into his room and flung the used prophylactic at him. He had squirmed and shuffled away from me on the bed as if trying to escape a snake attack. The tousled head of his slut girlfriend emerged from under the covers; that was a morning blow job neither he nor the little tart would ever forget.
The marriage was declared over some six months previously. At the time it had been a relatively amicable decision, I remembered. The boredom, and then the bitterness, had been there for a long time. I had been surprised that when I tentatively broached the subject - I was feeling guilty about the enjoyment I had been getting from the brief affair with the office stud - Dave had admitted what I had long suspected: that he too had been playing away. Being able to lay everything out on the table and mutually reach a logical conclusion had a cathartic effect. We had agreed they would always be friends and, in fact, sealed the deal with the best sex they had had for years.
The problems built up over the succeeding months. The property market was at the bottom of it. It was agreed I would keep the house and I had arranged for the deeds and mortgage to be transferred to my name alone in a matter of weeks. Dave was to move out and get a place of his own. That was the plan. We had divided the kitchen cupboards and the fridge and begun separate lives almost immediately. I stuck to the TV and DVD player in the master bedroom - we had got it to watch porn in happier days - so Dave used the front room most evenings. We had slipped easily into a routine of cordial separateness. Polite greetings as we passed in the common areas, sharing left-overs when one cooked. I had been amazed at how tidy Dave could be when he had sole responsibility for his own mess. He took his washing to his mother's once a week.
The bitterness had rebuilt slowly. I accepted, at first, that he should wait for the right place to come along - given the state of the property market and all. I had tolerated being occasionally woken as he stumbled drunk into the house after a night out with the lads. I had tolerated the noise from the front room when he held the occasional lads' night in. The stink of someone else's perfume on his clothes left in a pile on the bathroom floor irritated, particularly as my own love life was far from satisfactory. I had never been one for one-night stands and neither of the two men I had hooked up with since the separation had lasted beyond the first date.
Our first fight after the separation happened when he broke the 'no lovers in the house' rule and I found a still half-drunk woman in the shower when I went for my bath one Sunday morning. She did not stay for the breakfast I found Dave preparing in the kitchen. I called my solicitor the next morning and asked her to expedite the divorce proceedings. The second tiff was a knock-down-drag-out ding-dong and was sparked when Dave arrived back at the house driving an upmarket sports car. The bastard had spent his house deposit on a boy toy. I had given him a month to get out and was fully prepared to change the locks If he did not.
The condom incident was a week later. That was the final straw. I screamed like a banshee and forced both of them out of the house into a suitably savage rain storm and Dave's new car. It had taken the rest of the day to get rid of the the smell of the bacon which had slowly burned in the pan as I raved at them.
I had collapsed in tears after they eventually left, but soon pulled myself together and got to work. The emergency locksmith had cost an arm and a leg it being Sunday, but the new keys on the hall table were worth every penny. I had emailed the solicitor to let her know what had happened and given Dave's mother's address for the service of papers. The rest of the day had been spent packing his stuff, none too gently. And now it was finished. I sighed again. The prospect of being enveloped in warm water, slowly stewing as the alcohol took hold, would be the perfect prequel to a marathon masturbation session.
The front doorbell rang just as I closed the taps from running my bath. I had been on my way to the kitchen to get the first glass of wine and tensed as I detoured to the door. With my hand on the latch I gave myself a moment to compose a mouthful of coherent abuse. Dave was not getting back in, not tonight, and not ever if I could help it.
'What?'
The rest of the prepared sentence - nay, speech -froze in my throat as I saw Steve's face grinning at me and I felt momentarily guilty for my aggressive tone. Steve was Dave's best mate and I had always liked and got on with him. In fact, I thought, not seeing him was one of the few things I would miss now Dave was permanently out of my life. He had a box of beer cans in his arms, but stopped mid-step as he realised I was not backing away and opening the door for him to come in.
'Er, Dave invited us over. For the match.'
Looking over his shoulder Susan saw that there were three or four more men coming down the path. Two had more beer and one carried a bottle of vodka. They were all wearing replica football shirts and she remembered Dave had said something about an international match and inviting a few people over.
'Dave's moved to his mother's, Steve. It was rather sudden. I imagine he forgot to mention it to you.'
I smiled inwardly but kept my tone neutral. Let Dave give them his version later. They were his friends after all. I noticed Jason, one of Dave's workmates, at the back of the group and got some satisfaction from seeing how wet he was getting. Jason is a prick of the first order. He had drunkenly propositioned me at each of the three Xmas parties I had been to whilst Dave worked for his current company. He is one of those people who refuse to take 'fuck off and die' as an answer.
'Well, yes, sorry to disturb you. But...'
Steve hesitated. Clearly he sensed my growing anger.
'... Would you mind if we came in whilst we arrange another taxi. We'd planned to make a night of it and it's pissing down out here.'
I reluctantly stepped back from the door determined not to be painted as the bad guy when they discussed the evening with Dave.
'Please try not to drip on the carpet. You can put your beer in the kitchen. Would you mind sitting in there whilst you make arrangements. You are all rather wet.'
That last was superfluous. They were dripping onto the carpet as they passed through the hall. It was obviously raining harder than I thought.
'I'll get you boys some towels.'
When I got back with a bag of Dave's towels (never mind, he'll be able to wash them I thought, wickedly) the kitchen was overflowing. The lads had piled their beer by the back door; it looked like a sculpture with the vodka providing the centrepiece. Steve was backed against the door obviously having a frustrating conversation with a taxi firm. I took in the three bedraggled hunks and the weasely Jason who were semi-slumped over the table. They were definitely better looking than I remember Dave's friends being. Two were dark, well-muscled and, as they started to stand when I came in, well over six feet. The third who also rose damply from his seat was also tall but slimmer than the other two and blond. I passed him the bag making sure I caught the still seated Jason with a corner as I swung it.
Steve clicked off his phone and swore before turning back to the room.
'Sorry, Susan, I didn't hear you come in. We're screwed.'
'Sorry.'
