After five years of marriage, my husband had matured into a quiet, home-loving man and that suited me perfectly. Although our jobs meant that we had a bit of 'socialising' to do, his idea of heaven was to spend an evening curled up on our large couch, enjoying a couple of beers and watching the sports channel while I sat in the armchair marking my pupils' work for an hour or two. Occasionally, I'd come across a real 'howler' to share with him and, despite claiming that he was poorly educated, he always understood what I found funny about it and laughed with me.
Once my work was completed, I'd go to the kitchen to make him a light snack of some kind; nothing complicated, just a sandwich or some cheese and crackers, grab myself a mug of tea, and snuggle up beside him. I'm not a great sports enthusiast, but I know he loved it all – football, cricket, golf, tennis or whatever and he'd normally ask me if I wanted to watch something else. I very rarely did, and I'd become pretty good at judging how involved he was in whatever he was watching before suggesting any change.
His only 'vice,' if you can call it that, was his Friday night game of Whist. I've never been much good at cards, to be perfectly honest, so it was rare for me to be asked to play. Normally, it was Geoffrey (that's my husband), Bob and Marjorie – (a couple in their early forties who lived no more than a couple of hundred yards away), and Calvin – the owner of a local plumbing company who did a lot of business with the building supplies company my husband runs for a medium-sized national chain.
Each week the game would be held in a different house since the hosts supplied the food and drinks (two out of every four at Bob & Marje's), which meant that I had three weeks out of every four to relax and watch whatever I wanted on the TV. Usually it would be an old Western movie. Don't ask me why, I just love all the Randolph Scott, John Wayne and Audie Murphy vehicles – possibly it's because they're uncomplicated, often sweetly romantic between all the gunfire, and usually have a morally justifiable ending.
When it was held at our house, I concentrated on making and serving the food, keeping them all supplied with beer, wine or whatever, and generally keeping out of the way. I was, however, always a bit wary of finding myself alone with Calvin because a couple of times – usually when the drinks had been flowing a bit freely – he'd made a pass at me. It wasn't anything serious, but he liked to appear in the kitchen to 'help' me with the refreshments when they took a break from the game. He had a way of making comments about my appearance that just about managed to fall short of lewdness – but only just! Now, I can cope with that – most females learn how to deal with things like that from an early age, especially if they're reasonably attractive. And that's how I'd describe myself – not great, but not bad.
At the time I'm writing about, I was just becoming aware of the horrors of an approaching 30; we'd been married for five years and I worked at keeping in decent shape. I'm only five foot three and I have a slim build: that is to say I have to wear a well-padded bra to look like an adequate B-cup, but that goes okay with a thin waist and slender hips all kept under control by regular visits to the gym. My legs are okay, but nothing special. What I do have is a pretty face – the kind that people often describe as 'sweet' and (my only real vanity) long, full-bodied blonde hair.
I'm not much of a flirt (Hey, everyone flirts a little bit, don't they – it's human nature), but I enjoy receiving compliments about my appearance, even though they often make me blush; the comments from Calvin, however, were sometimes a bit more than just 'flirtatious' and they often made me uncomfortable.
I used to dread his appearance in the kitchen when I was cutting sandwiches or taking some home-made pasties, sausage-rolls or quiche out of the oven, because he had a knack for making his entrance just as I was bending over and producing some comment about my backside. "Oh, yes! I can't wait to get my mouth on that... and the food looks okay, too!" was what passed for humour in his mind; or, "I think I'd need to borrow your oven gloves to handle something as hot as that!"
At first I just ignored him, or tried to laugh it off, but the remarks became increasingly personal and much more sexual until I had to tell him, as politely as I could, that I didn't appreciate them. Did it make a difference? No, it didn't. In fact, if anything, it made them worse. "If you ever need a bun in the oven... I'm available if Geoff's not up to it!" was one of the milder ones. I think it helped me to understand why he'd been married and divorced twice already.
I told my husband about it and about the way it made me feel, but he just told me not to be such a prude. Calvin, he said, was harmless and it was only a bit of banter. Apparently, I needed to 'loosen up' and stop 'making a mountain out of a molehill.' That was all very well, but the next time they were at our house, Calvin actually crept up behind me in the kitchen and grabbed a quick feel of my own 'molehills!'
Of course, I wriggled free and, in a quietly rasping voice (I didn't want to create a scene in front of everyone) told him never to touch me again. Later, when I told Geoffrey about it, he just laughed! I couldn't believe it! His friend had grabbed hold of my tits and my husband just bloody-well laughed!
"It's just the way Calvin is," he said, "He's a single man and he has a bit of a 'thing' about you. He keeps telling the other blokes at work that I've got a really fit-looking wife – it's a standing joke. He goes on about how they never had teachers like you when he was at school. Y'know... jokes about how he'd love to be in detention with you... about doing it wrong and being made to do it again... you know the kind of thing. He's probably frustrated; he split up with his girlfriend recently so I think he's probably porn-hunting on the Internet most nights at the moment."
"So I'm supposed to just let him grope me and not do anything about it?" I demanded, feeling my normally well-controlled temper beginning to bubble dangerously just below the surface.
"I didn't say that," Geoffrey responded, "Look... I'll have a word with him and make sure it doesn't happen again... okay?"
"You'd better!" I insisted, "Because if it does, I won't be here on your card nights. I'll go round to Mum's house until I'm sure they've all gone home."
It was a niggling irritation that continued to fester for a while, but Geoffrey must have had a word because Calvin did stop his visits to the kitchen. In fact, there were a couple of times during the following months when he wasn't able to make it to the card nights at all as he seemed to be in a new relationship.
For that, I was grateful. It wasn't that I didn't like him, he was normally okay when he hadn't been drinking. iI fact, he's a very good-looking and extremely fit man – the kind you wouldn't expect to see without a pretty girl hanging onto his arm for very long – but the simple fact is that I get quite enough sexual innuendo in the staff room at school and I don't appreciate it in my own home in my 'down time.'
The only unfortunate thing about his absence was that I had to partner my husband in the whist games and, as I've said, I'm not very good – certainly not in the same class as the very competitive Bob and Marje.
The beginning of 'the argument' came in the middle of October. It was a grey and miserable Friday that was followed by a cold and rainy night. I'd been held up at school to talk to a parent concerned that her daughter was being loaded down with too much homework, and then by another who suspected her son was being bullied. By the time I got home and warmed up the meal I'd prepared the night before, I was in a considerable rush to get everything done.
When the evening game was at Calvin's house Marjorie usually brought the food and Calvin made up for it by providing plenty of liquid refreshment. I suppose I'd half-assumed that, since he now had a girlfriend, there wouldn't be any need to do that, but I'd been told over the breakfast table that the relationship had ended. Then during the afternoon I'd had a text message from my husband saying that Marje had a nasty cold (no surprise as half my pupils were absent with whatever nasty bug was doing the rounds) which, of course, meant that I'd be doing all the food and taking part in the game. Not only that but, as Calvin lived a couple of miles away, I'd be doing the driving as well.
So I'll admit that I wasn't in the best of moods. It wasn't helped by the fact that I had to stop on my way home to get some bits and pieces from the supermarket – and that there were huge queues at the checkout – nor was it improved when I discovered that, although I'd put the washing in the machine before leaving that morning, I'd somehow forgotten to set it going. I'd been expecting to sling a pair of jeans and a sweater in the dryer, but that clearly wasn't going to happen. In the end, not wanting to wear anything the least bit revealing in Calvin's company, the best I could find was an old denim skirt that buttoned down the front, but came to slightly below knee-level, worn with a loose and chunky sweater that was about as feminine as Gabby Hayes.
